Acts Of Infidelity - Mel And Chris - Part 1 free porn video

Melanie contacted me three months ago and asked whether I would be prepared to something that might help save her marriage. Describing herself as a housewife in her forties, she has been married for twenty-five years and has two children, both currently at University.

A year before she wrote to me, Melanie had an affair with the husband of one of her closest friends. It lasted only a few months and as you will see, did not end well.

She and her husband Chris had spent the previous nine months trying to restore enough trust to hold their relationship together. For reasons you will also see, this had been very difficult but despite numerous setbacks including a over a month living apart, they have persevered and are once again living under the same roof.

Although things can never be the way they were before she cheated, the two might be close to finding a tolerable way of living together.

Both accept some responsibility for what happened, but Melanie takes the lion’s share. She was the one who actually slept with someone else and did so many times. As a result, she believes she bears the greater burden of guilt so must make the most strenuous efforts to heal the wound she opened.

The publishing of her story online at her husband’s insistence is part of this process as well as being an aspect of the way they intend to live their lives from now on. I will let Melanie’s story explain this.

Apart from being the public confession of her infidelity and a statement of her sincere regret, both of them believe that having all the sordid details published for the world to see will be cathartic for their relationship.

It might also play a role in the type of future that, thanks to their counsellor, is already helping them find a way forward.

The words are mine and I have embellished the sex scenes unashamedly for publication, but the story is hers. Some of the names have been changed but, at her husband’s insistence, all the places are real and most importantly, Melanie’s name is real.

What happens to Melanie in this story happened to a woman called Melanie in real life.

It is possible that someone they know will read this story and recognise her. This risk is one of the reasons why its publishing is such a key part of their new marriage contract. It is a risk Melanie says she is prepared to take to save her marriage to the man she now understands she really loves.

If writing an erotic story can help save a marriage, I can hardly refuse, can I?

*

It’s so easy to let things get out of hand. All it takes is self-pity, an unexpected opportunity and a little alcohol to ease the way and before you know it, you’re in a place you never expected to be with a life in front of you that you never expected to have.

Let’s get the most important part out right at the beginning.

I first cheated on my husband Chris last year, just before midnight on Saturday 8th July 2017. At that moment and for the first time since my marriage, another man’s erect penis entered my vagina and I ceased to be a faithful wife.

Over the next few months that same erect penis penetrated my body in many places, many more times but for what little it’s worth, I have only had one lover outside my marriage.

But of course, that is one too many.

Let’s make it equally clear that I have no reason to believe that my husband has ever cheated on me, before or since that night. Nothing Chris did justifies my taking a lover and putting our marriage and family so selfishly at risk. I did it on my own.

Like virginity, fidelity is a one-way street. Once my body had once been penetrated by another man, I could never again be the honest, faithful wife I was before. Whatever happens between Chris and me now, both he and I will always know that I’m a cheat.

I did not intend to do it when I left home with my daughter earlier that evening for her school’s Leavers’ Ball but when, four hours later an unfamiliar cock entered me I was a full and willing participant, as I was for the entire sixteen weeks of passionate affair that followed.

Had it not ended the way it did, the affair might still be going on.

By way of confession, penance and in the hope of saving what remains of my marriage, I asked Jenny to turn my selfishness and lack of judgement into a story so that the world can see what kind of wife I am.

But most importantly, I hope my husband will read it and understand how very sorry I am. I hope he will be able to forgive me in his heart the way he says he does with his words.

*

I’ve always been known as Mel. It’s short for Melanie but I’ve never been called that, apart from when I’m being told off! As a girl I was something of a tomboy and the name Mel just seemed to fit me better so it has stuck with me all my life.

A year after the events of this story take place, I am forty-eight years old. That’s quite a confession for a woman to make but I promised myself I’d be as honest as possible in the hope that seeing the truth published will be more cathartic for my husband Chris and me, and that truth will be more erotic than fiction for my readers.

I know I find it so.

Until these events took place, I had a really nice life; I just didn’t realise how lucky I was until I came close to losing it. I’m still not sure things can ever be the same again.

I live in a large, expensive house in a fashionable suburb of a city in the English Midlands. I’m married to Chris who is actually a few years older than me, although thanks to his slim, athletic build and despite his greying hair, he does not look it. We have both been into fitness for years and for a long time belonged to a local health club, but with Chris being away so much his membership was hardly good value for money and we let it lapse.

My husband has a senior position in, shall we say the petrochemicals industry. Unfortunately this means he often has to go abroad, sometimes for a week, sometimes a month or more. At the time this story takes place, he was supervising a large construction project in a Middle Eastern country and was working there for three weeks out of every four.

The drawbacks of this lifestyle are obvious. Separation, loneliness and of course, frustration for both of us.

The reward is equally obvious; he earns a great deal of money; more than enough for me not to have to work and to have a lifestyle most women would dream of.

When Chris was home, we had a very active sex life indeed. Regular periods of absence made both the heart and the libido grow stronger so when we were in the same house together (and when privacy permitted) it was rare to go more than one day without making love. Chris has a large cock and is a good, thoughtful lover though after so many years of marriage, neither of us could surprise the other in bed.

Until it all happened of course.

We have two good looking children; let’s call them Hannah and Katie. Both went to private school and are currently at University. When these events took place Katie, my younger child was still living at home so for years I had been unable to visit or stay with Chris when he was away, as some of the other company wives did.

Anyway, he was often sent to places that weren’t safe for me to go.

Even before University, our children were fairly independent and went out with their friends a lot. I had plenty of time to spend as I would like – usually at my part-time, voluntary job, seeing my friends, in the gym or, as the movie would have it, just being ‘home alone’.

For the benefit of male readers (I know you want to know), I’d better tell you a bit about me physically.

I’m quite tall for a woman and am usually blonde, especially just after I’ve been to the hairdresser. That’s another confession for the list. I’m quite slim and visit the gym at least five times a week, preferring classes to simply running on treadmills or lifting weights.

I keep assuring myself I’m not an exercise addict; my figure is slim rather than skinny and I do have womanly curves, as the celebrity magazines put it. My boobs are and always have been quite small – indeed until I had children I didn’t need to wear a bra. Sadly all that that has changed now.

Oh yes, as a result of a drunken evening on holiday in Bangkok with my husband ten few years ago, I also have a small tattoo of a butterfly on my lower belly, on the right-hand side, just below the panty line where my knickers or bikini bottoms usually cover it. Chris has the mirror image of it in a similar place on his left-hand side so when we make love in the missionary position, the two butterflies press together… romantic isn’t it?

Well we thought so at the time.

Our marriage had been a happy one though Chris’ latest promotion and the resulting increase in his absence from home were putting a strain on our relationship.

In the months before I first cheated, Chris had been away for all but a handful of weeks. His project had run into both geological and political difficulties which only someone as senior as him could hope to resolve. I had therefore been on my own for most of the year.

I had been forced to go through Hannah’s A-Level exams and the trauma of University entrance without his support two years ago and had just gone through the same with Katie. The other Mums were a big help but parents get very competitive when it comes to their children’s achievements so there was a limit to the support I could expect from them.

There was also the bedroom problem. Chris and I had always enjoyed an active and fairly adventurous sex life. Though by no means the twice-nightly rabbits we had been in our early years together, it was still rare for a week to pass when we did not make love at least a couple of times.

Over the years we had experimented with positions, role-playing and fantasies with some success. Katie had actually been conceived while I was fantasising about being fucked by one of our close friends, though not the one who eventually did have the honour of being my only real adulterous lover.

Our libidos were still quite high for a couple married as long as we had been so when Chris was away, sexual frustration could often be added to the list of issues being a single Mum involved. When it became really bad, I resorted to the small collection of toys that I kept along with Chris’ favourite sexy lingerie in an old but firmly locked suitcase in the back of my walk-in closet.

They are still there!

I had to choose my moments of private stimulation carefully. The noise of a vibrator is very distinctive even if muffled, as I have heard many times coming from through the walls of both my daughters’ bedrooms over the years. As I know well, the sounds of them being fucked by their boyfriends is even more distinctive. Thank God their father hasn’t had the privilege of hearing that yet.

But back to my confession.

During therapy afterwards, the relationship counsellor told Chris and me that nearly a third of all British women between twenty and thirty-five have cheated at least once. Most of those infidelities are never discovered and the women go on to have normal relationships with their original husbands or partners.

I was a little late in joining them in the role of cheating wife. It remains to be seen whether I’m going to have a normal marriage ever again. The jury is still very much out on that; this story is part of the process Chris and I are going through to try and respite some trust.

The man I had my rather delayed affair with is called Neil. I’d better tell you about him.

Every married woman has a Neil in their lives; I don’t mean the man she is unfaithful with, I mean the man she feels she might like to be unfaithful with if she ever was but knows she never would.

Female readers will know what I mean.

The Neil in every woman’s life is often someone at work. With the perversity of women’s minds, it is often either her Boss or someone significantly below her in the hierarchy such as a good-looking young courier or a creative artist.

If there are no good options at work, the role is often taken by the husband or partner of a close friend; someone she finds physically attractive and gets on with well. He is usually good-looking but is always charming.

In short, he’s the man outside your marriage who makes you feel most special.

Perhaps he flirts with you a little in a light, harmless way but in doing so makes you feel more attractive than you have for years. Perhaps he compliments you on your choice of clothes or your hair from time to time, again probably without an ulterior motive but in a way that makes you feel like a real woman again after so many years of marriage.

There is usually nothing overt about it. He will seldom touch you; you secretly wish he would but know you would be frightened if he did. He will kiss you goodbye at the end of the evening in the perfectly normal way that good friends do but you get a small thrill from it anyway.

Most married woman have at least one man in her life that makes her feel this way. A man she looks forward to seeing but would never dream of meeting on her own. He features in her unspoken fantasies, she wonders what it would be like to kiss him properly, to walk down the beach at sunset holding his hand; to lie under him in bed.

Most married women are content to enjoy the illicit but fundamentally harmless thrill without taking it too far.

It appears I’m not like most women.

Neil and I had known each other for upwards of ten years. Their oldest daughter Sophie is the same age as our youngest; Chris and I had been introduced to him and his wife Alison through mutual friends. Since then we had been to the same dinner parties and other social events many times. We seldom went out together as a group of four but we had seen enough of each other for me to develop the kind of crush on Neil that I’ve just described.

Physically imposing, Neil is tall and well-built, goes to the gym at least three times a week and competes in half marathons two or three times a year. He’s successful at work too, lives in a large, expensive house and drives a large SUV rather more impressive than my own.

I would have admired him from a distance just for these achievements, but what pushed him into the ‘special’ category was that, on the many occasions I had sat next to him at the dinner table, he had paid me closer and more sincere attention than any of our other male friends ever had.

Flirting was light and only part of the attraction; what Neil did was ask questions and, unlike most men of my acquaintance, actually listen to the answers. He actually showed genuine interest in the people he talked to.

As a middle aged married woman, I can tell you that a man like that is rare. An hour’s conversation with him made me feel interesting and attractive in a way I seldom felt those days, especially with an absent husband who was unable to pay me any kind of attention at all.

The summer in which all this happened was one in which my husband had been away on business more than usual. Being our youngest’s last term at school, with the pressure of exams followed by end of term and end of schooldays parties both for the kids and for us their parents, my family and social life had been hectic.

Effectively a single Mum, I was by now well used to going to dinner parties without a partner and to other events on my own or with another couple. By now my friends were used to me being a ‘third wheel’ too. When it was possible, I would be paired around the table with any unaccompanied male who was also invited but never in the expectation that I was on the lookout for another part-time partner.

Indeed more often than not, the single male would be placed across the table from me with more familiar companions on my left and right. Neil was frequently put in the role of dinner-table-escort, a position he filled exceptionally well and which I looked forward to.

He was playing that role at the Leavers’ Ball that my younger daughter’s school was throwing for those students who had just finished their A-Level examinations and who would shortly be departing for the next stage in their young lives, be it University like Katie, work or travel.

As parents we envied their choices, often complaining that the option simply to go and see the world was not open to us, despite our supposedly more privileged youth.

From the same event thrown for my older daughter Hannah two years previously, I knew what to expect that evening. The girls would be dressed immaculately in excessively short cocktail dresses with heels high enough to break an ankle. Their hair would be in expensively-coiffed into spectacular formations and there would be enough make-up in the room to camouflage an elephant.

They would be happy, they would be sad. They would laugh and cry; they would dance, they would talk.

I also knew that several of them would get spectacularly drunk and be sick.

From the goings-on at my older daughter’s Ball and tearful conversations with her in the following days, I also knew that a small but significant number of virginities would be lost that night. The penetrations would mostly be between drunk students in a variety of bedrooms afterwards but a few would take place in the woodland that surrounded the hall in which the Ball was being held.

Indeed, as I was to discover myself, the venue seemed designed to provide a wealth of concealed spots in which such activities could take place.

Chris being away on one of his longer absences, I was attending the event only with my daughter. Her exams had finished only a few days ago and we were both exhausted; Katie with the pressure of study, me with the stress of having a highly-strung teenage girl at my side constantly.

Though well used to my husband’s absences, this time I was more than usually resentful. Having been the sole supporter of Hannah during her exams, Leavers’ Ball and unplanned defloration, I did not want to have to bear the burden of Katie’s final weeks on my own too.

I did not understand why Chris couldn’t have arranged the trip for a time that allowed him to support his family at this difficult period.

During the uncharacteristic rows that immediately preceded his departure, I had even accused him of deliberately leaving me in sole charge of our high-maintenance daughter while he relaxed in the ex-pat bars. Deep down I knew this wasn’t true but at the time my anger and resentment had made me a bitter woman.

As a result and equally uncharacteristically, I had denied my husband not only the hour of energetic, pre-departure sex which was normal in our marriage but had also kept him at a distance physically for the previous three weeks.

This sexual starvation was deliberate; intended to let him know how strongly I felt and how deep my resentment. In this I know I succeeded but the unintended consequence was that when his taxi to the airport rolled out of the driveway, I had also put myself into a state of extreme sexual frustration.

Not even the half hour I immediately spent in bed with my toys could do more than take the edge off my needs.

Not knowing what was to come next in my life, I considered the next ten days to be some of the most stressful I had known up till then. Always an emotional girl, the pressures of Katie’s A-Level exams with the consequences they had for her future meant she and I spent two evenings out of three in tears.

With no physical outlet for this stress thanks to my foolish, self-imposed, sex-free period, I cursed my husband’s absence daily. As the sexless period entered its fifth week – the longest I had spent without sex since Chris and I had got together all those years ago – my physical exhaustion and sexual frustration had reached new heights.

I had expected the stresses to come to and end once my daughter’s final exam had taken place and indeed, when Katie came home late one afternoon with a broad smile on her pretty young face, one aspect of the stress did indeed come to an end.

There were no more late-night tears over work.

Unfortunately for my other, more physical problem, with no exams to take or study for, Katie was around the house a great deal more than before. The opportunities available for me to compensate for my husband’s absence from my bed with my toys became much less frequent. Consequently, as one source of stress reduced, another grew stronger. Chris would not be back for a few weeks at least to provide what I so badly needed.

Fortunately there was less and less time to think about this because as the Leavers’ Ball approached, the stress of exams was rapidly replaced by the new but no less difficult stress all girls suffer in these circumstances; what to wear, how to look and who to go with.

Money could be used to help with the first two issues, but no amount of cash could compensate for either having a date for the Ball or not having one; for deciding which groups of friends you wanted to be part of and whether they would want you to a part of their group.

For several days Katie and I concentrated on the first of these, shopping endlessly for cocktail dresses that would show off her rather immature figure to best effect. Hours on social media helped her ascertain what some of her friends would be wearing – some ideas sounded very ill-advised – and in the end we settled on an extremely short sleeveless scarlet number that showed off her long slim legs so well that we hoped no-one would notice she had no boobs at all.

Add to this a pair of dangerously high heels and some good quality costume jewellery and you had a superb ensemble but at a price that, that despite all that has happened, I still haven’t had the nerve to tell Chris.

Given all the time we had taken to find something suitable for Katie, there was no time to seek out anything new for me so my own outfit for the evening was to be my trusty Little Black Dress. This was very short and close-fitting too to show off my own legs, but I had to admit that in the leg department, I was likely to be out-classed by my own daughter.

On the day itself, the plan was for three of Katie’s friends to come to our large house to put the final touches to their outfits and have a pre-Ball cocktail. We would all then go to the event in a hired minibus where the other parents and partners would be ready to greet them.

This is when things began to go wrong.

In the first place, there was far too much for one Mum to do to get four teenage girls ready for an event as socially important as this. I was literally running up and down the stairs for two hours fetching different but essentials items; safety pins, hair grips, ribbons and the like.

Secondly, all this was accompanied by the need to serve mojitos to all four prima-donnas as they dressed and talked hysterically about who was partnering who and who hoped to end the evening in whose arms. What I did not realise was that the premade drinks were being significantly fortified using a half bottle of vodka which had previously been hidden under Katie’s bed. The result was that all four girls and their harassed dress-maid were well on the way to being drunk before they had even left the house.

The third problem was that, with all this fuss going on, I had far too little time to get myself ready. Indeed, with only ten minutes to go before the minibus was due to arrive, I was piling my daughter’s hair high on her head into the fashionable style she had demanded but which to me looked like an untidy bird’s nest.

As a result, my own preparations had to be lightning-fast. Assisted by a third cocktail that unknown to me had been liberally spiked, I quickly pulled on my tight dress and tried to make myself look nice.

Though it did indeed show off my legs in a way even I found pleasing, I must have put on a few pounds since I had last worn it because to my horror, a very distinct visible panty line showed through the fabric around my upper thighs and waist.

I cursed my lack of foresight liberally, knowing that this dress was the only one I had available. I most certainly could not go to such a glamorous affair committing such a style gaffe but what was the alternative? For a moment, the idea of going without knickers at all occurred to me; I had done so a handful of times in the past with some success but always when wearing tights.

The evening was far too warm even to contemplate hosiery and was likely to get even warmer once the dancing started so fake-tanned, bare legs were the order of the day. However undesirable an obvious VPL was, my dress was short. A school Ball was not the place for a woman my age to be caught commando so some form of underwear was essential.

Eventually I remembered my secret thongs.

Despite their undeniable usefulness in these circumstances, I had never liked wearing thongs for any length of time. Since childbirth and despite recovery from one unfortunate consequence of that, my anus has been extremely sensitve. Having a strap between my buttocks chafes badly after an hour or so. The most I did those days was to wear one as part of the sexy lingerie collection I had acquired to please my husband (and myself) on special occasions.

There were two thongs – one scarlet, one black - in this collection which was, like my toys, securely locked in a case in my closet. With no time to buy an alternative, the best I could do was retrieve the most comfortable, scarlet thong and pull it on under my dress.

Fifteen hurried minutes later the minibus pulled up and my preparations had to cease immediately. Descending the stairs I ushered the already-tipsy gaggle of girls into the vehicle, grabbed my evening bag, slipped on my own black heels and joined them on their way to the Ball.

*

The room in which we entered was high ceilinged, lavishly decorated and very noisy. Delighted shrieks of teenage girls filled every corner as they saw, admired, loved, hated and criticised the dresses of their friends and enemies as they arrived.

Those with partners were envied; those without were on the lookout for one.

Katie and the other girls passed through the doors with me in tow, along with a large group which had arrived by bus. Every arriving teen was given a glass of champagne, photographed then quickly absorbed into the melee leaving their parents or other adult escorts to fend for themselves.

I found myself abandoned within twenty minutes of arriving, sipping a second glass of champagne and trying to pretend the seating plan was the most interesting thing I had seen in years.

“Looks like I’m next to you again,” a voice behind me said cheerfully. “You never did have much luck Mel.”

I turned to find Neil and his wife Alison standing close by me, trying to locate their own table on the rather confusing plan. We kissed our hellos then ambled through to the large dining room chatting happily. As we found our table and greeted all the other diners I found that I had indeed been placed next to Neil and alongside another man I recognised as a fellow parent but who I had not met before.

I remember feeling a little unsteady on my heels even this early in the evening, but I want to make it clear here and now that I am not trying to excuse what happened by putting the blame on alcohol. Without the help of booze, it is less likely that I would have succumbed to temptation that night and Neil’s cock might not have entered my vagina in the way it did, but no amount of tipsiness at the party can excuse the many weeks of affair that followed.

I accept full responsibility for my part in that.

The preliminaries over, we drank a champagne toast to our school-leaving kids then settled at the table. The atmosphere was warm and friendly, becoming even friendlier as the wine to accompany the starters was passed round. My new neighbour politely filled my glass but after fifteen minutes’ chat it soon became apparent that he and I had little in common and that he intended to devote the majority of his efforts that evening to the attempted seduction of the mousy-haired woman on his other side.

I silently and ironically wished him luck. I knew her slightly; a recent and damaged divorcee. I also knew from the gossip that despite expressing a low opinion of men to anyone who would listen, she wasn’t entirely unreceptive to their charms and was believed to have woken up in the wrong bed on more than one occasion.

I planned to watch the attempted seduction with amusement, not knowing that the girl in greatest danger that night was me.

Whatever else he might be, in company Neil is a real charmer. Seeing the difficulties, I was having conversing with the man to my right, he apologised to his companion and turned his attention almost exclusively to me.

Given the venue, the conversation inevitably started with the exchange of information about what our daughters were going to do next in their lives; University for Katie, travel for his daughter Sophie. From there we moved on to what our respective plans were for the summer; where we would go on holiday, where we had been in the past and had loved.

By now the starters had been cleared away. Freed from table mess, Neil had turned his whole body towards me, much to the irritation of the lady on his left. Naturally I had turned towards him too so his tuxedo covered legs were pressed against my rather over-accessible bare thighs for the entire time it took to serve the main course.

The warmth of his thighs against mine sent a thrill through me; I made no attempt to move away. Naturally our glasses were refilled once the food arrived, this time with the kind of heavy, rich red wine that I loved but cannot handle in large quantities.

After another unsuccessful attempt to engage the man on my right in conversation, I ate my meal in silence for a while before Neil spotted my isolation and came to the rescue again. We chatted throughout the main course, Neil keeping my glass full, this time moving onto the problems teenage girls had with their parents and the difficulty of keeping a romantic relationship going with a spouse when the house was so full of hormones.

This naturally led to us standing up to try and to see how dinner was going for the girls. Once we had located them in the crowd, apart from being even more obviously tipsy than I felt, they looked very happy. When we sat back down for dessert, our thighs were pressed close together again; neither of us made any attempt to move away, indeed Neil’s hand strayed casually to my bare knee where it rested.

His eyes sparkled as the slightly risqué subject was pursued between courses. With another top-up of wine, throughout the dessert, I did not notice his hand moving almost imperceptibly up my thigh.

Once coffee had been served and more champagne toasts drunk, the table broke up and the band began to play. For a while I danced in front of the stage with Katie and her friends, several of whom were clearly very much the worse for drink. Then I danced with a group of other Mums I knew well. It was fun; a great way to let off steam. As I danced I exchanged broad smiles with Neil who was with his wife Alison in the corner of the floor.

After an hour of hot, sweaty exertions, the slow dances began. Having no romantic partner, I returned to our table to have a long drink of water and cool down. As I sat in the darkness, I could see Katie on the dance floor in the arms of as young man I immediately recognised as a first-team footballer she had had a crush on for at least two years.

In the past I had found the usual teenage unposted letters hidden in her room, covered in pink hearts. But unlike so many of her crushes, this one had endured into a more mature and more sexual attraction. The boy had seemed to have the typical teenage predilection for large boobs, so Katie’s flat chest had limited her appeal for him and until that night her success had been limited to the occasional snog after a party.

Now, as his arms encircled her body and they kissed openly on the dance floor, it looked like he had finally learned to appreciate a more boyish figure after all. I poured another glass of red wine and watched their two bodies pressed closed together, feeling more and more envious.

“They make a good couple,” Neil’s voice, once again coming from behind, brought me back from my reverie. “Have they been together long?”

“About two hours,” I smiled. “Katie’s fancied him for years though.”

“Good luck to them both,” he said, sitting on the chair facing mine, filling his glass again and topping up mine.

The band was so loud that we had to lean very close together for either of us to hear; so close in fact that Neil’s left knee was between mine. His hand fell to my thigh as we talked above the music, stroking my bare skin almost absently but all the time moving upwards.

“You don’t fancy doing the same out there with Alison?” I teased, nodding to the young smooching couple.

Neil pulled a face and squeezed my leg.

“Nah! You know what Alison’s like. Besides she’s otherwise occupied.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sophie is being sick in the Ladies’ Room,” he grunted. “Ali is looking after her.”

“I’m so sorry. Should I help?”

“I’ve been told to butt out and not to let anyone know.”

“You’ve told me,” I grinned.

He gripped my hand playfully.

“You don’t count Mel!”

“That’s no way to make a girl feel special!” I joked, pretending to turn away.

Neil gripped my leg between his and held my hand tightly to prevent me moving them leaned really close to whisper in my ear.

“I’d like to make you feel very special, Melanie.”

There was a long pause as we stared into each other’s eyes, neither knowing what to say or do. What might have happened then I will never know because at that moment the music came to an end and, to rapturous applause, the MC announced the imminent commencement of the firework display.

“Fancy watching?” Neil asked.

“What about Alison and Sophie?”

“They’ll call when they want me,” he said, patting his breast pocket. “Till then I’m to let them get on with it in private. Coming?”

Neil smiled offering me his hand. I took it, still unsure what if anything had just happened between us then followed him out through the French windows and into the hall’s extensive grounds where a large crowd of teenagers were gathered together in a knot in the middle of the viewing area.

There was no room for anyone else.

“I don’t fancy being crushed against a crowd of vomiting kids, do you?” Neil pulled another face.

“No,” I agreed. “Is there another viewpoint?”

“I saw a few couples going off in that direction,” he pointed to a narrow but well-defined path through the ornamental shrubbery. “Shall we see?”

The fireworks had not started so we strolled along the garden paths away from the main building. I slipped my arm through his as friends do and for a while all seemed normal as we walked away from the noisy crowd and into the darker recesses of the garden.

If Neil had seen other couples going this way, they were now well-hidden because once we rounded the corner of the building, there was no-one else to be seen. The well-tended bushes were tall and intimidating despite the bright moonlight, efficiently separating us from the main group of excited guests.

Eventually the path came to an end at what appeared to be an old, brick-built stable block with a small patio in front of the doorway. When we reached it, Neil slipped his arm around my waist and turned me towards the direction we had just come, moving close behind me, his body pressed against my back, his hands on my waist.

“Look!”

A moment later the sky was filled with one of the best pyrotechnic displays I had ever seen at as private do. The ‘oohs and ahhs’ from the spectators were loud and, although completely invisible to us, were clearly close by.

A big fan of fireworks since childhood, my attention was fixed firmly on the brightly coloured, constantly-changing panorama in the sky, so I did not notice that I had started leaning back against Neil’s powerful chest or that his hands had fallen from my waist to my sides and had started to stroke my hips and buttocks.

The display was long as well as imaginative. I watched excitedly, barely noticing that Neil had started to nuzzle the back of my head or that his hot breath kept finding the nape of my neck. It was only when his hands slipped from my bottom to my sides then rose to cup my boobs that I realised something was going on.

I turned my head towards him, a look of puzzlement on my face.

He kissed me lightly on the lips. For a second, I recoiled in shock.

Had my friend’s husband really just pressed his lips onto mine?

Then he kissed me again, a little harder. This time there could be no mistaking it; Neil had deliberately kissed me on the lips.

“What are you doing?” I asked, turning full to face him.

To my surprise, I heard no trace of reprimand in my voice.

“I’m kissing you, Mel,” he said softly.

Then his lips touched mine again, this time for much longer and I felt the tip of his tongue sliding between my lips, brushing against my teeth.

“Neil, please don’t...” I protested weakly but there was no conviction in my words.

“Don’t you like it? I thought you wanted to feel special...”

His lips returned to mine in the darkness. He kissed me slowly and sensitively. I froze, unable to respond but equally unable to move away. He kissed me again, the tip of his tongue dancing over my tightly’ closed lips. A warm glow began to grow within me; a glow of excitement I recognised but had not felt for many years.

The feeling of deep unease began to grow but not because of what Neil was doing; rather it was driven by what I began to fear I might do myself.

“Neil please! We’d better go back,” I mumbled into his mouth.

“Do you want to go back Mel?”

“N.. Not really!” I relied, horrified at what I had just said.

“Neither do I,” he smiled. “Its just a bit of fun after all.”

“Fun?”

“If anyone needs a bit of fun Mel, I reckon it’s you!”

And then it all began. Without another word I began to kiss him back. Like two teens outside a school disco, we were in each other’s arms, our lips pressed firmly together. Within seconds, Neil’s tongue had parted my teeth and had plunged deeply into my mouth, seeking and finding my own.

As our tongues writhed over and around each other, my arms rose instinctively around his neck and I felt the touch of his hands on my body. Apart from my husband’s, they were first male hands to touch me sexually since my wedding and they felt… so good!

Though every cell in my brain was screaming at me that this must stop; that it was so, so wrong, for the first time in twenty years I felt exciting; I felt sexy; I felt desirable again. As Neil’s confident hands began to explore my back, my sides then my buttocks I felt decades younger and like a real, wanted, desired woman again.

I should have had the traditional battle between good and evil going on inside my head but right then, the overwhelming impact on my mind was coming from between my thighs as my hands flew to Neil’s body; to his face, his hair and his bulging groin.

In return, Neil’s hands were on my waist, on my back and on my buttocks as we kissed frantically, our tongues writhing around each other until a small stream of saliva began to drip down my chin. Then his hands were on my tiny boobs, crushing them cruelly through my dress and bra.

It hurt so much; I loved it even more!

One of my hands fell to his bulge and I massaged it, my other fumbling between our bodies with his belt. I felt my dress being raised and instinctively lifted my right leg, looping it around Neil’s left, making room for his probing, exploring fingers.

In an instant, his hand was on my vulva. Finding his way barred by my scarlet thong, he paused then, with only a moment’s hesitation, simply ripped it away. I winced as the strap between my legs was pulled wire-tight, digging deep into my vulva, slit and cleft before giving way and parting, the ruined garment becoming no more than a red band around my waist.

Then, with no tights or knickers to impede his access, Neil began to finger me in earnest, his long, searching finger deep in my vagina, twisting left and right, forcing themselves further into me with every flick of his thick, strong wrist.

A second finger joined the first, stretching me painfully; tighter than I had felt in a long time. The angle was awkward but the pain was exquisite. His fingers were rough, they hurt too but again, I loved the pain, moaning into his mouth, thrusting my tongue as hard as I could between his lips.

My knees began to give way and I fell against his strong body, my boobs crushed against his chest. A moment later my vagina had been deserted and his hands were under my buttocks, lifting me bodily from the ground and carrying me forward.

Before I knew what was happening, I was pressed up against the wall of the stables, my dress was under my armpits, his right hand was under my buttocks, my arms were around his neck and my legs were wrapped around his waist as his left fumbled frantically with his belt and zipper.

Then I felt it; the unmistakeable feeling of a man’s long, thick erect cock brushing against the underside of my thighs. As Neil’s left hand joined his right under my buttocks, I reached down and grasped the thick, heavy pole of muscle that was pointed straight towards my most private place.

He stabbed wildly at my vulva in his passion, first hitting the back of my thigh, then painfully hard against my clitoris before he controlled himself enough to find the right opening.

I reached down in self-protection, gasping as my hand closed around Neil’s long, hard shaft. Without hesitation, but with a tightness in my chest I was to remember long afterwards, I directed it towards my turgid, dripping flesh.

Then, for the first time in twenty-five years, I felt the indescribable excitement of a man’s new, unfamiliar cock entering my body. I felt my eyes bulging and my body opening as Neil thrust himself clumsily forwards and upwards, slipping easily between my lips and half way into my vagina.

“Oh God!” I gasped.

For a split second we paused, as if realising what we had done but it was too late; he was inside me. There could be no going back now. A voice which sounded like mine grunted.

“Do it! Please...”

Immediately Neil drove his amazing cock into me.

“Ahhhggghhh!”

I squealed aloud as the long, thick shaft was forced deep into my vagina, my chest aching as if a white-hot spear had been thrust upwards into my most delicate parts. Instinctively I raised my knees, trusting in the strong hands that cupped my buttocks and spread my legs to open myself to his thrusts.

I gasped again as he somehow found an extra half inch of penetration, forcing his way even deeper into my body until I felt the heart of his thighs pressed against my buttocks and the pressure of his smooth end high in my belly.

I was panting with excitement and could hear Neil grunting too.

I felt his strong hands beneath my bottom, taking my weight and lifting me bodily. I felt an emptiness in my loins as his cock was drawn back until only his head was inside me. Then he lowered me down bodily onto his cock, driving himself upwards with his strong legs until it was buried deep inside me again.

Oh God! It felt so good! So wicked and yet…

Suddenly, without ceremony, before I could begin to comprehend the amazing feeling of his body in mine, Neil began to fuck me hard – faster and faster as if there was no tomorrow, forcing my back against the brickwork, hammering his body into mine with a wild passion that almost made me scream.

‘Slap slap slap!’

Our bodies collided noisily in the cool night air. I felt his shaft rubbing against my labia, his pubic hair grinding against my clitoris.

I bit my lip to stifle my cries as my excitement mounted and mounted. Half aware of the extreme danger of discovery I remembered to my horror how noisy my orgasms made me and fought hard to prevent myself climaxing despite the wet slapping sounds of his flesh slapping against mine the wonderful, exhilarating deep penetration of his cock within me.

Although it seemed like an age and changed my life, my first every infidelity was over in a handful of minutes. Before the full impact of the pleasure had fully reached my brain, I felt Neil’s fingers gripping the underside of my thighs painfully hard as his face contorted horribly and he began to cum.

Great spasms racked his body and he shook violently as he began to ejaculate inside me, his powerful thrusts becoming short, sharp uncontrolled stabs into my vagina. He grunted and I quickly pressed my hand over his mouth to keep him quiet.

I felt relieved as his cock quickly softened and plopped messily out of my body and I shuddered as a trickle of something warm dripped down the underside of my buttocks and onto the car’s bonnet.

I hadn’t climaxed but it had been so, so good.

Neil slowly lowered me to the ground until my heels touched the floor. My dress was still bunched under my armpits leaving my messy private parts on display for the benefit of any spectators there might have been.

He stepped back, a stunned look on his face as if he was as surprised as I was at what had taken place. His trousers and pants were clumsily still around his knees. He looked ridiculous, but I suppose I looked no better.

“Neil….” I gasped. “What….what just happened?”

He looked across at me, taking my hand as I tottered unsteadily, unstable in my heels. My legs had half-turned to jelly and I held on to him for balance as I tried to recover a little dignity by pulling my dress back down over my hips.

The ruined thong around my waist tangled in the dress; I pulled it down my legs and away, screwing the torn red fabric into a ball then looked for somewhere to hid it.

“Here!” Neil offered his hand.

I silently placed my ruined panties in his palm. He Neil slipped them into his trouser pocket.

“Are you okay?” he asked anxiously.

“I couldn’t reply, my head still spinning from the combination of alcohol, lust and post coital comedown.

“Mel!” he insisted. “Please! Are you okay?”

“I’m… I’m okay,” was all I could say though my fight-or-flight instinct was telling me to get away quickly.

“I… I need to go to the ladies’ room.”

“Yes… Yes of course,” Neil stammered, seeing my distress. “Take my arm.”

I took his strong arm and he led me, still rather unstable on my feet, back along the path towards the ballroom. But before we had gone more than a few steps I broke away from him.

“No! Wait!” I exclaimed suddenly, stopping abruptly.

“What’s the matter?” he hissed in alarm.

“We can’t go inside like this!” I hissed. “We can’t go in together for God’s sake! What would that look like? You go on ahead!”

“But…”

“Just go Neil!” I hissed.

Reluctantly but obediently, Neil did as I had told him, looking back over his shoulder three times before disappearing into the lobby.

Once he had entered the building, for the benefit of prying eyes obviously alone, I slipped as silently as I could around the back of the hotel into the staff entrance. To my relief, there was no-one to see as I took off my heels and padded down the corridor to the staff toilet where I closed the door firmly and locked it.

Safe for a moment, I breathed out heavily.

What in God’s name had I done? And had anyone seen me do it?

I thought hard. As far as I knew, nobody had seen me either with Neil, in the car park, or on my way back to the hotel.

As far as I knew.

Raising my dress to avoid any more stains, I sat down on the toilet and began to pee as I fumbled in my handbag. Pulling out my compact mirror, I inspected myself carefully, a feeling of nausea growing within me as I looked anxiously into the accusing glass.

And saw me! Admittedly a rather red faced me with slightly ruffled hair but still just me.

What had I expected to see? A slut of a woman with guilt written over her face? I don’t know. I certainly felt like a slut. I had just had sex in a public car park with my best friend’s husband; what else did I need to do to qualify as one?

What was worse was that it had been a truly exhilarating experience. Okay, it had been short and crude; I had come nowhere near to climax but my arousal had been incredibly intense. Something deep inside me had just been reminded what really passionate sex could be like - indeed used to be like with my husband before familiarity dulled my senses and routine replaced lust.

I took some toilet tissue in my hand and reached between my legs. There was sticky stuff all over my inner thighs and a trickle down the back of my left leg. I mopped it up as best I could, marvelling at the volume of semen Neil had produced, much more than I had ever received from Chris.

Why in God’s name had I done it? Like most women, I had fantasised about having wild, lust-driven sex with another man but I had never dreamed it would happen in real life.

Even in my fantasies, cheating hadn’t been as crude and dangerous as this. There were a thousand ways I could have cheated on my husband less riskily than in a knee trembler against the wall in a public car park!

And with my best friend’s husband too? Was I completely insane?

Had we been seen? Would there be consequences beyond the obvious?

As I anxiously re-joined the party, constantly on the lookout for signs that we had been observed in our fucking, the answer to that question became increasingly clear and very quickly too.

Firstly, thanks to Neil’s destruction of my thong, I now had no underwear beneath my dress. Apart from having to take extreme care in my deportment to avoid flashing my bare vulva, twice I had to run to the toilets to mop up trickles of semen that had leaked from my vagina and were running down the inside of my bare thigh.

The first had actually reached the back of my knee before I realised what was happening. Eventually I had to shove a tissue into me to prevent further difficulties. It was rough and uncomfortable.

Secondly, I had bitten Neil so hard that I had given him a love bite on his neck. This I hadn’t done since I was in school. The mark was fresh so wasn’t too obvious but it was above his collar line and recognisable for what it was. He had to wear his evening scarf draped around his neck despite the hot weather.

For the rest of the night we avoided each other like the plague, each taking care not to be seen in the other’s company. Once we literally bumped into each other as I left the Ladies Room for the third and last time having plugged the leak between my thighs, so to speak. The look we exchanged was something between lust, pleading and sheer terror.

Eventually the evening came to an end. As Katie and I went home together in the back of our taxi she was full of excitement and giggles. Unseen by me, her new dance partner had asked her to go out with him on an ongoing basis. From the flushed look on her face and her dishevelled appearance I suspected they had got a great deal closer to each other than I had seen with my own eyes but I was too wrapped up in my own problems to worry about hers.

Fortunately, full of her new romance, my daughter did not ask me a single question about my evening. Normally this selfishness would have annoyed me but that night I thanked my lucky stars for teenage love.

I helped her undress, unpicked the grips in her tousled hair and tucked Katie’s happy, fresh, tipsy young body in her bed. Then I undressed, removed the soiled tissue from my vagina, washed myself down there with a flannel, pulled on my least sex pyjamas and dragged my middle-aged, aching, guilty self into bed, knowing that sleep would come hard.

It came very hard indeed.

I lay there in the darkness, trying to come to terms with the knowledge that for the first time in my life I had cheated on my husband. It had been hurried, crude, dirty, tawdry but even then I could not deny that it had been more exciting than I had believed possible.

It had been foolish in the extreme and an act of betrayal too but as the bed and the room span slowly round, the memories that stuck most firmly in my mind were of the raw physical pleasure and the sheer joy at feeling young and attractive again.

I had forgotten how it felt to be desired sexually in that crude, feral way. I had forgotten how good it was; how exciting it was to feel familiar hands on my body in unfamiliar ways; how incredible it had felt to feel a strange new penis penetrate my body and even to cum inside me, however messy it was afterwards.

Then the guilt took over. The betrayal, the squalid surroundings; the shameful, knee-trembling way in which I had simply thrown away my honour and fidelity forever.

I began to drift into what would inevitably be only a troubled, uneasy sleep. My body remembered only excitement and pleasure, my mind full of guilt, fear and remorse.

However good or bad it was, it had happened. There was no going back. What was done couldn’t be undone. My body had willingly accepted the erect cock of a man who was not my husband. It had penetrated me, brought pleasure both physically and emotionally; it had delivered its heavy load of sperm-filled semen at the mouth of my womb...

Suddenly I sat bolt upright in bed.

Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus!

It had delivered sperm filled semen to the mouth of my womb – and I wasn’t on the pill.

Chis has had a vasectomy so between us, the subject of birth control never comes up. I hadn’t even thought about protection; it had all happened so quickly that neither Neil nor I had even thought to use a condom.

Oh Jesus Christ, help!

I spent the rest of the night awake, my mind filled with horrible images of what might be taking place inside me in the darkness.

And deading what the morning might bring.