My latest offering to the world of erotic fiction 'The Megan Affair - Part One', has been receiving some excellent reviews on Amazon. So you can get a taster of the tensions that make up the first part of this serialisation, I am offering the following sample to draw you in!
I'm currently working on the second part of this series, which will be released around the end of July.
The injury had mollified my mood, albeit involuntarily, John took me to the bathroom, where he cleaned and dressed my wound. I absolutely hated his generosity, but at the time I had no choice. We didn't have any bandages in the house, so he cut up an old towel and taped it tightly around my arm with some duct tape that he had bought years ago, with the misguided intention of fixing something.
"Are you okay Sarah?" He looked me in the eye for the first time that night, I slouched back against the bath, as I noticed a suggestion of guilt pass over his face.
"Of course I'm not okay." I said quietly, staring back at him.
"My husband is fucking a girl young enough to be his child, I've just trashed my own house, and now I've cut my fucking arm open!" I managed to stay calm during the first part of the sentence, before the anger began to swell again as my energy returned.
"What part of my life is okay John?" I raised my voice as much as my faint-headed state would allow.
John didn't answer, he sat on the closed toilet lid and rightly accepted that silence was the only appropriate response.
He looked at the floor and I looked away from him, neither of us could bear the sight of one another. I became more clear-headed, but my arm still throbbed intently, it was only the pain that prevented me from losing my temper even further. If I'd had the energy, I probably would have smashed the bathroom up as well. Although I'm not a violent woman, I find that there are certain instances in life when you cease to be the person you normally are.
I had loved him, and I knew that he loved me; but I think that even before he'd found himself a young floozy, I doubt we were 'in love' anymore. I guess our marriage had evolved into a partnership of support, friendship and respect; well, I respected him at least. In spite of all his apologies and protestations, it was clear that he no longer respected me; if he had, he wouldn't have done what he did.
But, John was about to leave and I never wanted to see him again, although I did want him to think of me, I wanted him to remember what we had, and what he threw away. A moment's inspiration told me exactly how to get inside his head.
"John..." I snapped at him, from my slouched position between the sink and bath.
"Ooohh!" He lifted his sobbing head out of his hands and looked directly at me. "Yeah?" "Will you fuck me?" I said matter-of-factly, in the same tone I would use to ask him to pass me the salt.
"Huh?" I had his attention, I don't think he could believe what he had just heard.
"I said, will you fuck me John?" I repeated calmly, holding eye contact with him and resisting the temptation to blink.
"Sarah are you..."
"Yes I'm fucking serious John!" I found the energy and anger within me to raise my voice again.
"I'm...oh... fuck." John stammered, I could see that his mind was a warren of confusion.
"John, it's a simple question." His hesitancy was not my concern, I was fully aware that I held pole position in the argument, and I intended to capitalise on it. I don't get angry very often, but when I do I find it brings with it an aroused and inflamed sexual appetite, this episode with John was no exception.
"I think under the circumstances, you owe me that much at least." I stared at him and awaited a response, I guessed by his unease that he must have made a vow of fidelity to his little slut. The idea of him cheating on her flooded my threadbare panties.
"I can't Sarah. It's not fair." I fought the weakness and pulled myself up, gripping the side of the sink with my good arm, as the bad one hung limply by my side.
"John, don't tell me what's fair. Fair has no place in this house anymore!" I called out, as I walked wobblingly to open the window, before stopping directly in front of him. I felt his nervy breath on the top of my head, as the cool breeze made me feel a little more awake.
My anger with him gradually homogenised into a needy resolve to fuck the bastard. I wanted to do it for all three of our sakes: for my satisfaction, his guilt and her anger. In my mind it was the only reasonable thing to do. As he stood muttering nervously to himself, I dropped to my knees, still a little unsteady, I gripped his legs for support, John's knees buckled immediately from his apprehensive attitude towards the unfolding situation.
"John!" I snapped, and he subserviently stood properly. What happened from there on began as a vengeful need for malevolence, yet transpired to be the means to fulfil one of my basic needs. Sure, I wanted to hurt her and make him guilty on two counts; but my biggest concern at that precise moment was the growing rate of moisture between my legs.
The fact he didn't wear a belt made it easy to get inside his trousers. John was the only man I knew who would wear a shirt tucked into his jeans without a belt; I wonder what I ever saw in him. After fumbling unsuccessfully for a few seconds, I lost my temper and ripped them open, briefly raising my eyebrows in satisfaction of ruining his jeans.
"No...Sarah...I can't..." He sighed unconvincingly to himself, as I pulled them down to his ankles and noticed that he had new briefs on.
"Shut up John! You owe me this." He didn't argue, he couldn't argue. He was beginning to get the hang of this 'silence at appropriate moments' thing.
The growing mound in John's pants made my mouth water, the anger and adrenaline probably helped, but I've never been the type of woman who could turn down a good hard cock. Although he never had much intelligence or style and turned out to be a complete bastard, John had the perfect cock. It was monolithically long and thick, it was delicious in every interpretable sense of the word. I swayed erratically on my knees before him, his dick looked even more satisfying to me then as it was no longer exclusively mine.
"No..." His protestations decreased in volume, as he dutifully stepped out of his old jeans and immaculate briefs. His fuckrod stood upright and ready for action, the last few inches had disappeared under the base of his blood stained shirt. A somewhat contradictory response from someone who persistently attempted to spurn the advances from the woman whose blood covered his shirt.
"No...Ohhh...Arrhhh...Sar..." He tried, he tried to tell me to stop, but as I dropped my cavernous throat around his succulent cock, he knew he couldn't say no. John's shaft was immense, yet my oral talents were accommodating, many times he had told me that I was the only woman who could fit it all in. And John loved a woman who could fit it all in. I bet his little slut can't, oh he's going to enjoy this!
I stood up from my kneeling position and bent my waist bent to an almost perfect right angle, with my neck strained back; that way I could take more of his cock in me as I unkinked my windpipe. Before returning to work on him I glanced fleetingly into his eyes, I saw a voiceless man who was completely lost in his own life.
John neither protested against, nor encouraged my actions. As I spread my lips and slid inch after inch of his heroic cock between them, the eroticism of the situation overcame me, I could no longer keep my free hand out of my own tatty trousers. Angry sex can be one of the most paradoxical emotional actions; I wanted to kill the fucker, yet at the same time to give him the best orgasm he had ever had.