First Tango in Paris

A personal note:

Firstly, a heartfelt thank you to everyone who has reached out to let me know how much they enjoy my stories. In a world where cruel is the new currency, that means a lot. Thank you. Second, I appreciate all the feedback, good and bad. Critics are to writers as dogs are to lampposts, so to those of you who didn't piss on me, also thank you. There's a difference between critique and criticism, after all. And finally: to the Christian Baptists having great sex, I applaud you; for the insights on the mating habits of the bonobo apes I thank you too (); and to those who want to know if there's more to come or where each story sits in the chronology of my life, an apology. My day job takes planning and scheduling and thinking things through from top to bottom and back to front. If I do that here, then the wonderful escape that is my erotic tale-telling ceases to be so. Truth is, when I start writing here I don't know where each story will end. Be assured that the stories are mine, and like the Star Wars universe, you'll either work out whether Andor is before or after The Mandalorian or you won't. Either way, does it really matter? Just sit back and enjoy the show. There may be prequels, sequels, 'sequentials' and 'neverentials'. It's all harmless sexy fun from 'Linda's back catalogue'. Love to all xx

Now, where were we...

When you've been with the same man for over a decade, trying out another isn't like slipping on a new coat. For the happily married woman, a brand new lover is like shedding one skin for another.

So, no, it's not as easy as accepting the proffered 'hall pass' or 'playing an away fixture'. It's not to be entered into lightly, irreverently or casually. It's not dealing another hand from the deck.

Cuckolding - let's call it by its name - is the final bet. Either it's going to blow your mind or bankrupt you. I've read and seen enough to know the real risks.

'You'll do it, though. Won't you?'

He might have added "please". He probably begged. If you've never seen what six foot plus of pleading husband looks like, let me tell you it isn't especially pretty.

He was naked on a tub chair in the corner of our hotel suite. His hair was matted from an hour between my thighs. His face shone a little scarlet. His cock remained rigid, despite his crossed legs. And his foot bounced like it was made of taut elastic. All while I sat at the dressing table in my black lace underwear dabbing my ruby lips on a tissue.

'I'm going for a drink. Maybe a little light dinner.' I picked up my necklace, looped it around my neck, waited for him to pad dutifully over and close the clasp. Which he did, of course.

I fingered the two carat diamond and then let it nestle between my breasts. 'After dinner, who knows?'

I studied him in the mirror.

You might expect me to say he looked pathetic, or embarrassed. Ashamed, maybe. But he didn't. He looked eager, for sure. And he was still a good looking man. Hair a little greyer than when we met, a pound or two heavier (who isn't?). But by common consent - by which I mean friends and neighbours - he was handsome enough.

He opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it.

If what he was thinking was obvious, then my mind was a maelstrom of mixed emotions.

Let's get one thing clear. I love my husband.

Sure he's an idiot - that comes with the chromosomes - and he's irritating. And I didn't sign up to be his PA, manager and guardian as well as his doting wife. But he's also generous, kind, thoughtful and patient. He works damn hard and he spoils me rotten. He pulls more than his weight around the neighbourhood. He wouldn't hurt a fly, but wouldn't see a bad word said about a friend or colleague either. He has what I am proud to say are old fashioned qualities that the world could maybe do with a little more of. Gentlemanly masculinity. Not the toxic kind.

I didn't go out of my way to please him, but I didn't deliberately disappoint him either. I tolerated his little foibles just the same way he tolerated mine.

But what he wanted me to do? That was crossing the Rubicon.

He had made his desires known explicitly perhaps ten years ago. We'd had a holiday, met a couple, it led to some hot fantasies and close shaves. Separately, I met the husband for dinner. We ate, we drank, we laughed like drains. We kissed in his hotel lobby and looked back over our shoulders when we were both out of sight.

It was hard to say how my husband felt about that night. Disappointed? Relieved? He fucked me so hard I thought his lungs would burst. Egged me on to tell him every minor detail. Came again and again as I described another man's tongue inside my mouth. I fear he would have died from orgasm if that tongue had probed any other orifice.

So, yes, I knew from then I had a cuckold on my hands. Perhaps I always knew it.

And I'll tell you something, it intrigued me more than bothered me. What kind of man would rather see his wife impaled on some young - or even old - stud, than fuck her himself? What wiring derives pleasure from most men's mortal pain? I could tell you I researched it, but I'd be lying. All I do know is that I subscribe to the Oscar Wilde school of sex: 'It doesn't matter what you do, just don't do it in the street and scare the horses.'

For the next ten years after our near-miss, I knew that every time I was away from home, I came back to a pent up ball of sexual energy. And I was happy to play along. Yes, there had been other men there. Yes, many of them had been attractive, I'm sure one or two were hung like Seabiscuit. Yes, I might have masturbated thinking about them - I knew he sure had! Of course, we had the kids to navigate, so sex was never as spontaneous or energetic at home as we would have liked.

Away in hotels on the other hand? Different story.

We were never going to play that 'strangers' game, sitting at the bar pretending not to know one another. Neither of us can act. But we could sit in the corner together and decide who I found attractive. I'd say who he did too, but it was never about other women. Just the men.

Then up in the room he'd tell me how the tall business exec would have me, while he did the same. I humoured him. He was a good and considerate lover. You can't fault a man whose biggest talent is cunnilingus!

I don't think I ever really played along committedly, and maybe that bothered him. But he never seemed to care. He'd play my lines as well as his own: 'he'll finger you like this', 'his big cock will stretch your tight cunt', 'you'll moan when he cums so deep inside you.' I found a few moans and agreements were normally enough to tip him over the edge. For birthdays and anniversaries I'd blow him and let him hold my head like he was angling me for someone else. I'd act up a little too: 'where will you sit while he eats my cunt?' You know how men love that word. If your old man is ever taking too long, I find a use or two of 'cunt' will normally bring proceedings to a hasty close!

And now here we were.

In a hotel in Paris for our 15th wedding anniversary.

Downstairs in the bar, any time soon, would be a man we had met at a restaurant across town a couple of days earlier. He was a friend of some friends of ours who had volunteered to play tour host for half a day, and had made it his mission to show us the best of the capital. Two days later, he was coming for dinner with us.

Only, my husband had hit upon his master plan.

I was going alone.

I stood up and turned around. And watched as my husband's mouth opened and his tongue went south while his cock went due north, and then some!

'Well?'

He gulped like Nemo floundering on the dentist's tray. Either he wanted to say something, or he was having some kind of respiratory seizure. 'Come along now, you can do it.' I turned one leg across the other and placed my hands on my hips. I might have thrust my breasts upward just a fraction to tease him.

'You... you look... incredible.' And reader, I really think for once I did.

At 41 years of age I didn't kid myself that I had the pert young body of a teenager. Truth is, I never had that even then. Well, maybe then, but for a year, eighteen months at most. Now, I was Rubenesque and proud of it. Five foot seven without heels, 36F breasts that arrived places before I did, good hips and shapely legs from years of dance and ballet. I never think of myself as pretty, but with long blonde highlights and tits like mine, good old plain goes a long way, let me tell you.

Wrap me in Agent Provocateur black lace and nylons, and I think most red-blooded men would react the way my husband was. 'You think he'll approve?'

He moved towards me. 'Ah, ah!' I waggled my finger like his old school mistress. My God, I was leaning into this way more than intended. 'You've had your fun.' He swallowed hard. 'Now pick out the dress you want me to wear.'

He hurdled the bed like an athlete and then stopped short by the closet. He turned around. 'How much do you want to show?'

'You choose. This is your idea, after all.'

He picked out a black velvet dress with a plunging neckline. As the French would say, 'Quelle surprise.'

'Go ahead then put it on me.'

He dropped to his haunches and held it ready for me to step into. 'And keep that cock well away from the material. We don't want any accidents.' Where had this new woman come from?!

He whimpered and moaned as he pulled the dress up, then zipped me slowly closed. I slipped into my Jimmy Choo heels and took a last look in the mirror. It had been a long time since I felt and looked this sexy. Too long. Even if my 'décolletage' was bordering on advertising!

I turned around. 'Last chance.'

He nodded.

'Then all that remains is to wish me luck.'

He opened his mouth to say it, but couldn't find the words.

I turned my back, collected my purse and left to the sound of him slumping backwards onto the bed, where no doubt he would masturbate like a thirteen year old finding one of his dad's 'photographic' magazines...

I gotta admit, all the way down in the elevator I was a whisker from stopping short and going back up to join him. What the hell was I doing? And why? But each time I reached out for a floor button, I caught a glimpse of that diamond nestling between the girls and felt a tiny jolt of excitement. It's what he wanted. But this was also for me. I wanted it, too.

The sensation of desire is intoxicating. To be loved is one thing, to be desired is something else altogether. And it's too easy in long-term relationships to confuse the two. Or to think that making love is the same as feeling wanted. And knowing that I'd left one man who wanted me, entrusted into the care of another who had made it pretty clear he might want me too. Well, that was a sensational feeling. A powerful feeling.

And I was quite sure that Paul wanted me.

He wasn't just the usual gallic charming. He'd been touching me at every opportunity for two whole days of hosting: a guiding hand onto the boat; a helping hand up the stairs in the Louvre; a casual arm around my waist collecting railway tickets, and his kiss on both cheeks always accompanied by a clutch of one arm or the other, a lingering hold. Once or twice a playful pat on my butt too, and I can't say I didn't encourage it. And all without reference to my husband.

He was also painfully attractive. Mid-fifties, long grey hair, chiselled features, perfect teeth. He had the brightest blue eyes of any man or woman I ever met. I would say twinkling if the word weren't so lame. He was in decent shape too.

That night, he was stood at the bar making conversation with two young women who hung on his every word. He looked ten years younger than his age. Dark jeans, white shirt, black blazer. He laughed a lot while he listened, and a more attentive man I don't think it's possible to imagine. Something about his gaze held you captivated. If I were single, I would have run a mile. But being married, I knew his type well enough. Enough to know that he would be no more interested in commitment than I was in astrophysics. Perfect for both of us.

He said something to his companions when I arrived that left them looking enviously at me.

'You are amazing,' he said, kissing me on both cheeks. 'Absolutely stunning.'

I loved the lack of pretence. 'You don't look too shabby yourself.'

'I booked a table in the restaurant here,' he said. 'But we can always go out. I just thought, here is easier. And Steve?' He gazed over my shoulder expectantly.

Now came the hard part. 'He's not feeling too well. Do you mind?' My God, was I coquettish? I might as well have asked him to book a room...

He, on the other hand, hesitated. 'Then, it will be just the two of us?'

I bit my lip. Nodded.

'Ok.' Was it me, or did he seem disappointed?

'Is that... is that ok with you?' I asked. 'We could always grab a quick drink at the bar and maybe tomorrow...'

He laughed. 'No! Of course it's ok. It's just...'

'Go on.'

'Your husband is seriously happy that the two of us dine together?'

I nodded. If he only knew the half of it. 'He trusts me to do the right thing.' Was that a clear enough hint? Fuck. I was so far out of my comfort zone. How would someone normally do this? Have dinner, then wait for the moment to casually ask him if he had booked a room? Suggest I'd never seen a Paris apartment before? What? How? I suddenly felt a complete idiot.

'You're ok?'

I smiled. 'I don't want this to be uncomfortable. I want us to be good together.' Oh shit.

He waited a beat. 'Did your husband want you to come alone?'

I nodded again, sheepishly.

'And does he imagine we will just have dinner?'

I shook my head. Felt a tiny pinprick up and down my spine.

'He thinks we might-'

I flushed. 'I'm sorry if this is completely inappropriate-'

Paul took my hand. 'Madame, this is France. We are the country of mistresses and the Marquis de Sade. Are you asking me, a warm-blooded, single, divorced Frenchman if I would be inclined to take you to bed?'

Oh fuck.

'Your silence speaks volumes.' I had never seen a man's smile so wide. 'Do you even want dinner?'

I shook my head again.

'Then I will go and book a room, while you go order a bottle of your favourite champagne on my account.'

He left me there at the bar with the two young women and barman who had stopped looking at me, and were looking at one another. I had never felt so cheap. But also never felt so thrilled. A man I barely knew was at that moment organising somewhere to fuck me. It was electrifying. And these three gathered together either side of the bar knew exactly what was going on, and I think it thrilled them too. I ordered Bollinger, and two glasses.

Reader, you'll remember your first time, no doubt. Maybe you remember each new lover.

But let me tell you, the first time you prepare to be with another man with the blessing of the one you love? That's like a hit of barbiturates direct to the frontal lobes. You are awake. Awake like Neo after the red pill. Awake like you have never been awake in your life before. Awake like every cell in your body is alive and attentive and you are connected to the world in ways you never believed possible.

When Paul collected me from the bar, clutching that brass room key, I felt a golden glow of anticipation.

I wanted to be fucked. Really, really fucked.

In the elevator I literally threw myself on the man and let his hands explore at will. I pushed him against the wall, thrust my tongue into his mouth. Barely bothered to breathe.

I trailed him out down the corridor like a cheap whore to the bedroom door, and inside I threw the bottle and glasses on the bed. He could fuck me on broken glass for all I cared. I wanted this man inside me, unlike any man before or since. Maybe because Paul was fucking the both of us, me and my husband. I wasn't just a woman. I was a conduit. A channel through which three people would be pleasured.

He stood at the foot of the bed. And opened his mouth to speak.

I put a finger to his lips, turned and lifted my hair.

I've never felt a zip move so slowly, as though every tooth was relenting in turn. Each giving up permission independently. Unlocking me.

When the dress fell, he moved immediately to the clasp on my bra. Paused. Then unhooked and reached around in one swift, delicate movement so that his hands replaced the cups as my bra too slipped to the floor.

There I was, topless. With another man's hands on my breasts.

I watched myself in the mirror. This wasn't me. This was 'her'. And she was free to do whatever she damned well pleased. Her husband insisted on it.

The hands squeezed and stroked in unison. Feeling, folding, teasing - my nipples sliding between his fingers, between thumb and finger. God, he was going to make me cum just from the feel of his rough hands. I wondered fleetingly where my husband's hands were right then. Around his cock, I imagined. Jerking furiously for the umpteenth time. How long had it been since he held me like this?

The right hand trailed down my stomach and hovered above my panties. Any second now this man was going to find out how much I wanted him. I was soaking.

He hesitated. 'You're sure?'

I reached down and pushed his hand inside the thin fabric, then moaned as he fingered my clit. I prayed he was going to throw me on the bed quickly. I don't believe I've ever wanted a cock inside me so badly. There would be plenty of time for foreplay later. I just needed the deed done and dusted. Before I changed my mind, maybe...

He didn't disappoint. The moment he felt the damp, the throbbing clit, the slick lips, he stopped. Then span me around, and pushed me roughly forward over the end of the bed.

'Your husband is a fool,' he said, as his belt buckle rattled and the buttons on his fly popped.

'Never mind my husband. Just fuck his wife.'

He gripped my hips, yanked my panties down and pushed against me. Oh good God he was big. Not huge. But I am tight. Even after children. An unnaturally narrow vagina, my gynaecologist tells me. And Paul was filling it. Fuck he was filling it. I came the moment his waist hit my ass. The thrill of the new. The breaking of the sanctity of marriage. My married cunt wrapped around another man. Practically a stranger.

He thrust hard, and slow. So deep. So powerful. Not rough, not angry. Hard like an athlete. Like a professional lover. His hands roved up, gripped my breasts, pulled my face down towards the bed. I arched my back to allow him all the way in. So, so deep. I felt him every centimetre as he probed my cervix. My husband had never been this deep. No man had been so deep.

I don't want a huge cock inside me. No woman does. Only men are obsessed with fire hoses and elephant's trunks. Women know a good size cock is preferable to the pain of accommodation. But length is different. A good length is biologically perfect. I'm no fertility expert, but the less your little swimmers have to kick, the more energy they have to knock on the door of our eggs.

And Paul was long. Perfectly long.

I could feel him nudging my cervix. Stiff, long strokes. It felt sensational. Better than my husband. So much better. So much harder. My husband was hardest in my hand talking about other men. Paul was hard inside me. He eased back and forth like he was riding a rocking horse. In and out, in and out. Slow, rhythmic, just hard enough to give me time to think.

To think about my husband, two floors up. Lying on our bed? Sitting in that tub chair? Soaking in the bath? Scanning Pornhub, flicking through images of me on his phone? Rubbing himself raw with zero idea whether my mouth was full of frog's legs or Frog cock... I laughed, aloud.

'What's so funny?'

'You, fucking me so perfectly. Satisfying me because my husband wants you to.'

He upped his pace a little. 'He doesn't fuck you perfectly?'

Was it wrong to admit it? He knew I was with another man. Was it disloyal to let that lover know he was superior to his benefactor? It was one thing for me to know it. Another altogether to admit it. 'You're better,' I murmured.

He slapped my ass. 'Tell me properly.'

'He doesn't fuck me like this.'

He slapped my ass a little harder. 'How much better?'

I pushed back hard so he impaled me. Moaned. 'Soooo much better.'

He stopped, pulled out. Flipped my legs up on the bed, yanked my panties all the way off and then flipped me over.

I crawled back towards the headboard, shoved the unopened champagne and glasses off the bed and spread my legs. I lifted them for him, so he could balance them on his shoulders. I was still wearing my Jimmy Choos. He gripped my ankles and spread me a little wider. Fuck, I was completely exposed. And for the first time I could see his cock. C'est magnifique!

He rubbed it up and down my clit.

'What's he doing up there?' He nodded towards the ceiling.

'You know what he's doing.'

Paul laughed. 'He's masturbating himself. When he could be fucking you?'

'Aha.'

'You want me to take some photographs?'

Oh fuck. Did I? I've never done that. Not ever. That boudoir nonsense was always lame before the internet. Now? 'I don't think so.'

He eased back inside me, and I swear I came again.

'Call him then.'

Really? Call my husband while I was on my back and another man was making me cum, over and over. So much better. So much wetter!

Paul pulled out, lowered my legs, climbed off the bed and reached for my purse.

He opened it and removed my phone. Then he climbed back on the bed, handed it to me, and went right back to where he had been, sliding back in like I was made for him. He kissed each ankle in turn.

'Call him,' he said.

I looked at the phone, scrolled the contacts. Found my husband. Felt a surge as Paul's cock plunged deeper.

My finger hovered over the little telephone icon. Then I pushed it. Heard the dial tone.

'Hello? Linda? Everything ok?'

Moisture flooded through my cunt. I moaned. 'Aha.'

To be continued...? xx