Clare And James Part One That Time Clare Told James About Her Affair
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My Brief Affair With Clare, The Office Girl. free porn video
I'd just finished helping the warehouse guys unload a batch of new fridges from the van. It had been mauling work and I had taken a moment to get my breath. It's then I noticed her watching me. That was the first time I saw Clare.
I smiled. There was a moment between us. I went to my workstation to take a drink from the bottle of water I kept there.
Clare followed me and said, "Should a good looking manager-boy like you be helping the grunts?"
Her eyes twinkled as she looked me over. It was if she liked what she saw but was still unsure whether to indulge herself, make the purchase, brave the possibility of buyer-remorse.
In that first encounter, I saw Clare's sensual ease at being herself in her body. It was as if a whimsical god had created the world for her alone and we others were NPCs, vehicles through which the drama of her life could unfold.
"Saves on gym fees," I said weakly. I was already smitten.
I was twenty-two and had recently landed a position as a trainee manager in an electrical warehouse in a small northern town here in the UK. I was a week into the job when I discovered Clare. She worked in accounts and was just nineteen.
Beautiful more than pretty, she had shoulder length chestnut hair that she always wore down; her large eyes were grey and flecked with green; her mouth was disproportionately full, with sensuous lips that she did not have to enhance with colour as they always looked flushed. Her nose was almost Roman, though splashed with freckles; her skin had the warm hue of caramel, courtesy of last summer's holiday on the Med. Barely five-one, she looked a size ten, and I thought her a real tidy little package.
And even though I found her stunning, I judged her skirt way too short for the workplace. But I can't blame her showing off her legs; they were exceptional. I would try to catch a glimpse of them whenever I visited her office.
While we chatted about who we were, her eyes hunted down my soul. In hindsight, I now know she was appraising my character. My looks had immediately appealed to her, and now she was wondering if I were emotionally competent.
Dan, the warehouse foreman, noticed the way I stared at Clare when she brought order sheets down to the loading bay. She would sashay her way through the warehouse with her head held high, the hem of skirt set swirling by the roll of her hips.
"She never used to bring the sheets down, you know — not until you came on the scene. It was always Alice. The guys owe you a pint or two." Dan said, smiling lecherously as we watched her go back upstairs.
When she had completed her errand, our eyes would invariably follow her progress back to the short run of wooden steps that led up to the office, both of us anticipating viewing more of her legs as she mounted them, and if we were lucky, there would be the flash of panty haze beneath lycra. When she'd gone, Dan always gave me a knowing wink, and I would think of what he'd had said about her once:
"Five-foot of trouble in a mini-skirt."
It was Dan who told me Clare was married. What a blow! Not that I let that put me off. Clare was becoming a bit of an issue for me.
At first, I thought he was winding me up; she looked so young and fresh-faced — much too young to be wed. I had never noticed her ring finger as she invariably carried folders or other paperwork. Later that day I visited accounts on some pretext, determined to see if she wore that sad, bright band.
Gutted! Bunched gold, silver and stones on her finger: friendship, engagement, and wedding. The rings that Carol, my girlfriend at the time, wanted me to give her. I'd already buckled: the concession of an unadorned silver friendship ring.
On another occasion, I'd gone up to accounts to see Cath, Clare's supervisor, about an issue with a large shipment. But my mind was on Clare, and I kept looking over at where she sat, trying to get a glimpse her legs, wondering if she was wearing tights or not. I had to get closer before I saw the fine denier, those nude-look ones. Her head turned slightly, and she noticed me gawping and smiled for me in that maddingly self-satisfied way of hers.
Holding my gaze, she twirled her chair around to face me full-on while ostentatiously crossing her legs at the knee to show an expanse of under-thigh. Then she just sat there eyeing me while ever-so-slightly pivoting her chair from side to side. Something passed between us as and I knew we were on.
In the days that followed I would go to the staff kitchen to make a brew, which meant I had to walk past the accounts office window to get there. Previously, I had eaten sandwiches and poured tea from a flask brought from home. Clare would see me pass her window, and one day she followed me through to the small scullery. When she entered, she said she had come to make hot drinks for the other girls.
The staff kitchen was tiny, and her signals were blatant — and I would argue there is no man alive who would have refused what she offered me that day in April. Even I, a man deeply in love with my girlfriend of the time, could not resist the insistence of Clare's eyes.
Our first kiss. I was standing waiting for the kettle to boil. The area was narrow, and Clare's breast brushed my back as she eased herself past me to take cups from a cupboard. I turned to face her and looked her in the eyes. God! The way she returned my gaze. It was a look that told me all I needed to know. I reached for her, placing both my palms on her hips and drew her to me. My cock was already hard when I pressed myself against her.
"Is this what you're after, Clare?" I said. I was expecting her to wriggle free, but she didn't.
"I thought you'd never get the hint," she said, a full-on sexy grin on her face beaming up at me.
She went up on her toes, and we kissed as her arms went around me, pulling herself to me. Her gluttonous tongue was outrageous in my mouth. No teasing, no tentativeness, she just slid it past my lips and let it curl and probe where it would. Even though we might have been interrupted at any moment, I put my hand up the back of her skirt and massaged her buttock cheeks through her tights, feeling the micro-mesh slipping over her silky panties and the curve of her cheeks.
I was tempted to pull her tights and knickers down there and then but restrained myself. Any number of people could have walked in on us. I certainly didn't want to get in my boss's bad books for uncouth behaviour. He was a stolid upright chap and would have gone ballistic to see his staff in such a wanton embrace.
Meeting up like that went on for maybe a week, the pair of us visiting the kitchen and bumping into each other as if by chance. Then it was me groping her as if she might disappear in a puff of smoke. But it was driving me mad to be kissing her while my hand ferreted inside her panties, leaving me with moist fingers, and her with a craving to be fucked.
We had to do something.
The next Monday, she said she would be walking to the shops at lunchtime, said I could pick her up in my car if I wanted to, that perhaps we could go somewhere. Neither of us wanted anyone to know we were having a fling so it would have to be as if I were passing her by chance, a colleague giving another a co-worker a lift. Nothing wrong with that.
Picking her up on the high street was not the greatest of plans. The traffic was heavy, and when I pulled over to let her in the car, the guy behind sounded his horn and gave me the finger as he passed. Pedestrians who had stopped to look at the cause of the commotion stood and stared.
Clare slid into the passenger seat while I watched the hem of her skirt ride high giving me a glimpse of panty-haze beneath sheer denier. I asked her if she wanted to drive up to Hanbury Woods, told her I knew a spot. But she said no, she certainly didn't want to go to Hanbury Woods, that she knew a better place. And so we were soon on King's Road with Clare telling me where to turn. It was only a ten-minute drive from our works to the terraced house that she shared with her husband.
She told me to park a little way up the street from her front door while she went to check that her husband wasn't home, as sometimes he came back for lunch, but she said if he wasn't there by now there was no chance he might turn up later. I told myself, never say never, and it added to the thrill of things, the one that only subterfuge in love brings.
She went inside while I waited nervously in my motor, half-expecting her to find her hubby was home for lunch, which meant I would be left twiddling my thumbs in the car for half an hour. But a few moments later she popped her head out the door and beckoned me.
When I arrived at the front step, her arm reached for me from behind the slightly opened front door. She took my hand and pulled me over the threshold with a determined tug. We fell into each other's arms as the front door slammed closed behind us. We kissed by the door like it was out very first time.
The certainty that she was about to give herself to me overwhelmed me with its dazzling reality. It was the feeling you get when something momentous is occurring in your life. I once saw a friend nearly killed. He fell while climbing.
Time slowed as I'd watched him plummet, a moment of stark truth, waking me momentarily from nineteen years of dreaming. My mind repeating the words, "he's dead, he's dead." He wasn't though, the drifted snow broke his fall.
Standing with Clare in her house was like that moment of aliveness on the mountainside — but at the opposite end of the emotional spectrum. I had swallowed the red pill. It was enlightenment. My senses became acutely attuned, almost raw. We kissed and kissed, and a stillness welled up in me, a timeless thing. Her soft and lovely actualness in my arms threw me higher than I'd ever climbed with ropes.
Her words from a place far away, "We don't have a lot of time."
A moment of gazing, anticipating, finally certainty, and a smile I can only describe as coy. I had never seen Clare do demure. She took my hand and led me through to the back living room.
Odds of furniture from IKEA. An oversized telly, absurdly large for the room, and her husband's hi-fi and the spines of pretentious twelve-inch albums beneath. The wedding photo of Clare and her hubby Jerry on the restored Victorian mantle that housed a real flame gas fire. Breakfast dishes on a coffee table. The room snatched me from my seventh heaven. I plummeted back to the mundane, landed with a jolt.
But Clare was the angel imprisoned here, and I was frantic to undress her. My need for her became passion unhindered, carnality as white-knuckle.
April, the air still chilly. She had turned on the fire, but it had not yet warmed the room. In my mind I still see her standing half undressed beside the leather sofa. Her top and skirt were gone, and I eyed her bare breasts, saw their youthful uplift, nipples stiffened — either by the cold air or excitement. Her tights and panties I'd pulled to her knees. Her high suede boots prevented them from falling further.
All the same, she spread her legs as wide as her panties and tights allowed, and I rubbed her cunt with the flat of my palm until she moaned out loud. Then I fingered her with three fingers. She made sounds as if she'd never been touched there before; sound like disbelief, sounds like astonished discovery.
The speed and degree of her arousal shocked me. Her breathing frantic, her cunt seeped, was unctuous. She gasped and moaned and then said she wanted to be fucked properly, repeated her demand over and in a breathy chant in my ear.
But every time I tried to remove my fingers from her cunt, she held them hard in place and told me, "Stay just there, like that — yes!"
I prised myself from her, and she moaned like a woman bereaved. Barely able to organise words, I did not understand her at first. Then I did: did I have condoms?
While I retrieved a packet from my jacket pocket, she took off her boots and removed the tangle of her tights and panties and then lay on the sofa. She spread her legs, displaying the raw gash of her sex. I found the sight of her presenting herself in such a way utterly provocative, an almost goading of me. It was if she were saying are you man enough for this — for me. She watched every move I made while she gently touched herself.
I did not bother to take off my shirt or socks, just my jeans. My cock led the way, and she took it in hand and guided me into her. Sinking into her was like an unwary walker stumbling into quicksand. My mind started racing. I could not stop thinking, over and over telling myself this is really happening. I was overwhelmed by the actuality of her beauty and presence, still not quite believing a girl so lovely could be giving herself to me so readily.
Little by little as my pace increased, my body overruled my mind, and our sex became bestial. Locked as one we heaved and rolled. My hips became captured by her scissoring thighs. She lay beneath me with knees brought way back, calves behind me interlaced, heel balls bruising my spine. When I felt the explosion building in my depths, I could not contain myself. When she sensed me about to climax, she went for my throat like a tigress, her teeth snapping at my neck as if as if to avert a foreseen disappointment.
Oh, how put-out she was that I had cum so soon; a sort of, "oh, is that all you have?"
She was such a beautiful young creature. The only man I could imagine lasting longer his first time with Clare would be a gay guy fucking her under duress. At the age I am now, with all the dulling middle-age brings, I doubt I would last any longer than I did back then.
I told her not to be pissed at me, that I would be ready to go again in ten minutes. But she said we did not have time and that if we did not hurry, we would be late back at work. And so we dressed briskly, in silence.
As we drove back to the warehouse, I asked Clare if she didn't love her husband anymore. Why else would she be doing this? She told me she loved her husband very much but that they had an arrangement which meant each could take a lover. She said that she and her husband had agreed to be honest with each other because their love was deep and real. Neither feared another could come between them.
I asked her if she had told her husband about me. She said she wasn't stupid, would never mention one of her 'adventures', as she called it, while it was on-going. She said that she usually gave it a couple of months.
"How does he take it?" I said.
"It sort turns him on — but I can see it also bothers him too.
"And what about his women?"
"What women?"
"His lovers."
"Like I said: What women?"
"How do you know he hasn't?"
"I just know him. He may be good looking but he ain't no Casanova."
It made me wonder if she would still agree with their relationship being open if her husband was a womaniser. Probably not.
Clare said I should call and pick her up the next day at eight in the morning, which was half an hour after her husband left the house, which was forty-five minutes before we were due at work ourselves. When I sheepishly rang her doorbell the next day, the front door immediately opened. She took my arm and brusquely pulled me inside, saying something about not wanting the neighbours to see me.
She had on a satin nightgown, cut low in the classic Grecian style. As she led me into the back sitting-room, I watched how its silky fabric clung to her legs and buttocks as she walked. Her house was more homely that morning, the gas fire long lit had warmed the room. The aroma of an earlier cooked breakfast and coffee hung in the air.
We stood in the back room again and kissed while I savoured the sumptuousness of her buttocks beneath the clinging gown, the material sliding here-and-there as my hand roamed. I gathered the fabric in my hands and was astonished by its density, lifting it from her hips and up over her body. She broke from our kiss to raise her arms high to allow the silky garment to slip over her head.
Free of it, she shook her head with vigour, sending her long hair whipping wildly and then let it settle back in place, lastly brushing wayward strands from her eyes. I resumed kissing her while pulling her naked flesh against me. I relished the moment, chiselling into my memory. I have always found having a naked woman in my arms for the first time exquisitely piquant, especially when I am still fully clothed. No matter how confident and sexually savvy a woman is, in that first moment of nakedness her feminine vulnerability becomes transparent. I found Clare's openness soul-touching.
I knew the moment was unique. I loved the way this beautiful young woman now pressed her whole body against mine, responding to my kiss with subtle bodily movements, fluid and sensual. And I thought of her loser of a husband and wondered what kind of idiot he must be to sanction his wife's infidelity. What an arse!
I lowered my head and took each nipple in turn, my mouth returning from one to the other. My finger plied the crack of her arse and then rubbed her clit. I went on my knees and licked the bush of her pubes while she stood with legs parted. And then it was up straight again to fill her mouth with my curled tongue.
I asked her if we could go upstairs to her bed. She indignantly refused, saying she would never betray Jerry by taking another man into their marital bed.
Again, I had to make do with fucking her on the sofa. I stripped off all my clothes while she lay naked on the couch, her legs spread and arched, her fingers lazily touching herself, now and then delving her moist cunt.
What can I say! It was sex. You don't want to hear clichés or lies.
Afterwards, she went upstairs to dress for work while I pulled on my clothes and went to the downstairs bathroom to dispose of the condom. She appeared ten minutes later in her work clothes; blouse and cardigan; short skirt, tights and boots. I remember sitting and looking at her while she made a few final touches to her makeup in the mirror that hung over the mantelpiece, thinking how beautiful she was. I found myself admiring her no-nonsense attitude to shagging. She had seen me, liked what she saw, and decided to have me.
I saw her three more times for sex. The last time we made love she told me it would have to be the end of our affair, that it was time for us to stop before someone's feelings became irreversibly stirred. She thanked me for our moments together.
But it was too late for me, by now I had begun to fall in love with her. If she had asked me to, I would have left Carol to be with her. I told her it couldn't end just like that. She said it would have to, and she would make sure that it did.
Eventually, I had to accept that for her our affair had run its course. I don't think she had tired of me; her affection for me was evident in every glance she gave me. But Clare loved her husband and did not want to lose him. I still remember the last time we made love. She had taken a few days holiday that was due to her.
The first day, I visited her at lunchtime in her home. She knew I was coming and had dressed up special for me in a little black mini-dress and heels, looking as if she were going out for a night on the town. I undressed her slowly. It was as if her clothes were gift wrapping, herself my farewell present.
That last time, something special to remember me by, she said. She gave me a blow job, which was something Carol rarely did for me. I remember Clare licking my cock in long passes. When she sensed my climax approaching, she tried to dodge the bullet but had left it too late and ended up with cum in her hair. On her feet fast, her fingers tentative among icky strands while looking in the mirror over the fireplace.
With horror in her eyes, she cried out "Oh fuck! I only just washed it."
Then suddenly she was laughing, falling back down to me and holding me with all her strength, forcing me to kiss her.
Afterwards, we lay naked in front of the gas fire on the duvet she had spread on the floor for our lovemaking. For fifteen minutes we lay in each other's arms, and I felt a tremendous sadness. When it was time for us to separate, for me to get back to work, she smiled a thank you smile and then kissed me. I thought of her husband, how he was the luckiest man alive to have a wife like her. But I knew I would not be able to share her with anyone else if she were my wife.
Soon after my brief affair with Clare ended, I got moved to another branch of the company.
A year later I was out for the night with Carol when I saw Clare in a town centre bar. She wore the same black dress she had worn for me the last time we made love. She was with three people sat at a table, two blokes and a female. The younger of the two men I guessed was Jerry, her husband, an average looking guy about my age. The others were probably her sister and her husband.
The girl had the same fetching, dark looks as Clare, but was perhaps two or three years older. Clare was laughing at some remark the other girl had made when she saw me from across the room. I caught her eye just as her face became animated by laughter, and she held my gaze and smiled the sweetest smile. And then distracted by her friends, she turned away.
I don't know why but I pointed Clare out to Carol.
"You see the girl over there, the one laughing? Carol followed the direction of my gaze, and I saw her scrutinising Clare and the others. "She used to work at Frampton's when I was there last year."
"Which one is she?" she asked. "They look like sisters."
"The younger one is Clare."
"Her in the black dress?"
"Yeah."
"Aren't you going over to say hello."
"I hardly knew her.
"She looks nice."
"Yeah, she was," I said, my heart nearly breaking.
By then Clare and her friends were getting ready to leave the bar. I watched them stand, the girls fussing with their handbags, finally, they moved towards the exit. I expected her to turn and smile, maybe wave, but Clare never once looked my way. As they walked out the door, her husband took her hand in his. And then she was gone.
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