Not That Sort of Girl

She lay in the dark and she felt like crap.

Correction. She should have felt like crap. Instead... well, maybe she felt like crap because she didn't feel like crap. But no, that's stupid, and it doesn't even make sense. She felt guilty. But she also felt indignant at the thought of that. Guilty for having a bit of fun? Because that's all it was. A bit of fun that maybe went further than it should have, but which also ended a lot sooner than it would have before...

Before...

Finish the sentence, Wendy. The words tumbled across her mind as quickly as she could phrase them. Before-she-got-married.

And how long had she been married?

Eighteen years.

Which was long enough for her to get used to the idea, and long enough for her to know that what she'd done this evening was not the kind of behavior that a respectable woman should indulge in.

But was she respectable any more? Because she'd acted like a dirty slut.

And she felt her heart rate quicken just enough to wonder, is that such a bad thing to be? Yes. Of course it is. She'd never been called a slut in her life, and at forty years of age... okay, forty-two... she had no intention of starting now.

A dirty, filthy slut.

Beside her, Trey slept peacefully and she wondered what he would say if he knew. Not that he was a saint. He'd admitted that, if he wasn't married, there was a woman who worked at the medical center who he'd have gladly pursued for as long as it took. But that was the difference, wasn't it. "If he wasn't married." Which may or may not have translated into "if I thought I could get away with it," but that wasn't really the point. The fact was, marriage was the ring fence that kept his dreams and desires in check, and the only argument Wendy had to that was...

Well, I've never dreamed about it, so you shouldn't either." In fact, until it happened, she'd never desired it either. It just happened.

It's not as if she even liked blowjobs. At high school, she'd told herself she wasn't that kind of girl. At college she'd convinced herself she wasn't that kind of girl. And, by the time she got married, even her husband knew, she wasn't that kind of girl. Never had been, never would be. No sirree, and thank you very much.

Yeah, she'd given one or two when she was at college, but only because her boyfriend... alright, a couple of boyfriends... had made it pretty clear that their continued togetherness was somehow index-linked to her willingness to occasionally put a cock in her mouth. And she'd given her husband one as well, but only because she was too tired to fuck, and she wasn't getting any place with a handjob. So she closed her eyes, held her breath, and thankfully it was over about two minutes later.

She licked her lips tentatively. Even after washing her face and cleaning her teeth, she thought she could still taste his meat in her mouth. "His" meaning Glenn's. Glenn being the guy she had met on the bus. Whose conversation whiled away the hour they'd spent stuck in traffic by the First Avenue Bridge, and who she met again on the street a few minutes after she got off the bus, and about thirty seconds after she realized that she'd left her shopping in the overhead rack. He'd seen it, grabbed it, then leaped off at the next stop, then raced back to return it just before she started to panic.

So she offered to buy him a drink.

She wasn't in any hurry to get home. Trey, her husband, was working late this week, wouldn't be home until just after midnight. Wendy, on the other hand, had nothing to do beyond watch On-Demand and browse around on e-Bay. And shed be home in plenty of time to do that.

One drink. Except one drink always turns into two, and then someone mentions food, so you order from the bar, and then the bar fills up and the noise level creeps up, so you have to lean closer across the table, just to hear and be heard. And then your knees touch beneath it, and he jerks back with an apology, but when his leg returns to the same place later, yours is still there, almost like it was waiting to be brushed, and this time he's not so fast to move away.

And you've not mentioned the fact that you're married. In fact, if you really think about it, you realize you've done most of your eating, and all of your drinking, with your left hand tucked out of sight. Maybe he noticed but maybe he didn't, so at some point around the fourth glass of wine, you surreptitiously slip your wedding band off, and you did it just in time because now he's sitting beside you, because the people at the next table needed another chair. There was room on the bench for both of you, provided you didn't mind squeezing a little. And you don't mind, because he feels good sitting there, and he smells good as well, and when he brushes your hand with his, you wonder, was he checking for jewelry? Or was it really just a brush?

Glenn was younger than her, though she didn't tell him that. He was in better shape, as well, although she didn't even tell herself that. In High School, he said, he'd played basketball well, but his studies got in the way of it, and now he worked in IT. But he worked out most mornings, and some evenings too.

Wendy almost asked if she was keeping him from his weights-and-whatever now, but she knew the answer was no, because he wouldn't still be here if she was. Wouldn't have brushed her hand again either, and when her fingers twined around his just a little, he wouldn't have squeezed them, then leaned in for a kiss.

Just a kiss. Not much more than a peck. Yes, on the lips. No, without tongue. So they talked some more, and they kissed some more, and when she turned her body towards his and her nipples flattened against his chest, she was surprised at how hard they felt.

She wondered if he'd noticed. Probably. She was wearing what she called her hippy dress today, and it never looked good if she was wearing a bra. So she wasn't. After all, it wasn't as if her tits were so big that gravity had too much effect on them, and she'd never really considered any other disadvantages. Such as, impaling two rock hard acorns into the chest of a man she had only just met.

He didn't seem to mind. In fact, she had a sneaking suspicion that the hand that just dropped from her shoulder to her arm was, in fact, trying to cop a better feel, and that's an expression... not to mention a situation... that she hadn't been in since college.

She shifted herself in his arms, shielding his hand from any curious glances from around the bar, and was rewarded with a firm squeeze and a gentle caress. Another memory pushed forward in her mind, making out with a guy in his dad's Studebaker, and the inevitable countdown between the moment his paw first groped at her tit, and the one where he'd take her hand, and place it on his cock. She could have set her watch by it.

Glenn was more subtle. He didn't have a Studebaker. Well, he may have; she didn't ask. But he did have an apartment not far from the bar, in a neighborhood that, she realized with a shock, was actually visible from her back yard. Which meant they were practically neighbors. Which meant she really shouldn't be doing this, and she certainly couldn't go home with him.

"I can't," she said, in such a way that he knew there was no point in asking "well, another time maybe?" But he raised her left hand to his lips to be kissed, and she saw his eyes flicker across her fingers, clocking the tan line left by her ring, because that's when he told her, "well, I guess I'd better go," and she gathered her bags and said "I'll walk out with you," because there was so much more that she wanted to say, but she knew she couldn't. Or shouldn't.

"I'm sorry" would sound so false and dumb, and "I really didn't mean this to happen" or worse. So they stood out on the street for a while, as the summer sun dipped below the looming skyline. And then she took his hand and pulled him into the alley alongside the bar.

Past the bins and the emergency exit, to a little patch of darkness where a dozen shadows met. He pushed her against the wall and kissed her, only now the gentle curiosity of their smooching in the bar had been chased out by a fiery passion, and the hands that grasped her ass were far from the tender caresses that had teased her breast.

"He is not," a voice in her head insisted loudly, "going to fuck you in an alleyway," and Wendy agreed. In that respect too, she was not that sort of girl. In the bedroom with the lights out for sure, and the covers pulled up tight unless it was too warm.

So what sort of girl was she, then? What sort of girl did he think she was? But that was a question that maybe she should answer herself... and she didn't have an answer. One who goes so far, then stops the show; then starts it again, only to call another halt? He was the one who was ready to leave; she was the one who dragged him into the alley. And why did she do that?

Because...

She...

Finish the sentence

Because....

I...

She broke the kiss, and broke contact too, slipping to the side, away from the furnace that she could feel through his pants, and the straining, aching hardness that sent shockwaves through her body. He looked at her, and she saw uncertainty in his eyes, jostling with the lust that she knew that she'd ignited. Her hand went to his waistband, unbuttoned his pants then unzipped them a little.

His cock was in her hand.

It felt good. It felt different. Different to her husband's, different to old boyfriends'. Longer? Maybe. Thicker? Maybe again. Both of things, but neither of them really, because sometimes it's not what he's got that matters. It's what you intend to do with it. And she'd fallen to her knees before she even asked herself that question, let alone got around to answering it.

She saw his head move, first left, the right, checking that no-one was in the alley with them, and she angled his cock to her parted lips.

"You don't have to," he said.

"I know," she replied.

"You're married," he said.

"I know that as well," she answered.

"I want you," he said.

"You've got me," she whispered, and she took him, deep and then deeper, pushing back memories of the last times she'd done this, and focussing only on now. On how good he felt, spreading her jaw like it was putty; how good he tasted, electric jolts of flavor overpowering every nerve end in her tongue, gum and palette; and how desperately, urgently, she needed this. To feel him long and strong inside her mouth, to feel her teeth grazing flesh that throbbed red hot beneath them, to feel her tongue pressed flat but fighting to rise, lashing the intruder and drawing fresh sensations from its flesh.

He was leaning back against the wall, his hips gently moving to the rhythm of her head. She grasped his hips and urged them to rock faster, holding herself still as he slipped back and forth, pushing a little bit deeper every time. She felt her gag reflex twitch, and leaned back for a moment, calming its panic, licking his cock head while she caught her breath, then she plunged him back, as deep as she could, her lips scrabbling up his shaft until the lower one touched his balls.

He was in her throat, and she focussed hard, tracing the tiny muscles that lay there and urging them to contract, then release; contract, release. Milking his cock end with her throat. His moans were constant, his breath fighting to lip out between his groans of pleasure. Then she took his hips again, and showed him what she wanted.

She wanted him to fuck her face.

And he did, plunging deep, pulling out almost to the point of no return, then driving himself back in. She heard herself gasping, muffled in her throat but so loud around his cock, and his hands were on the back of her head now, twisting her hair as he held her stock-still,fucking her, fucking her, faster and faster... then he whipped himself out and his cum sprayed her face, lobbing great globs thick and viscous on her cheeks, on her chin, in her eyes, in her hair.

She reached for him, pulled him back into her mouth, sucking as hard as he had fucked her, draining his balls as his hardness subsided, then she rose and laughingly, traced fingers across her face, scooping and spooning cum into her mouth, as he stood there shellshocked, his cock hanging soft till she tucked it back into his pants herself, drew up his zip, did up the button.

She dabbed her face with a Kleenex, and laughed as he took another from her fist and helped her wipe up the splashes she'd missed. She mopped what she could from her hair and her dress, then kissed him and whispered, "see you around."

She knew she wouldn't, and so did he, but she felt him watching as she walked back down the alley; turned at the corner and gave him a wave, and then hailed the cab that had just rolled into view. She could have walked, but she wanted to get home. She wanted to shower, she wanted to sit, she wanted to get her dress into the laundry hamper.

And she wanted to be there when her husband got home, grumpy and sleepy and loyal and loving, so she could kiss him goodnight and tell him she loved him. And then lie in bed beside him, staring into the dark, wondering whether she could ever do to him what she had done to a stranger tonight.

Somehow, she didn't think so, but it wasn't, as she'd always thought, because she was not that kind of girl.

It was because he was not that kind of man.