to.
‘So what are you wearing?’
‘Come and find out.’ She smiles at me, heavy-lidded, in the mirror. I walk over behind her, Mr Dick already doing his wake-up stretches under my uncomfortable goddamn boxers. ‘Inappropriate Behaviour’ while working is strictly forbidden even if it is with one’s spouse; there’ve been more than enough embarrassing headlines in the press about waste-of-money politicians and public employees gadding about when they should be doing something worthy and abstemious. The fact that this could get me into terrible trouble adds a distinct spice to the occasion. Standing behind her, I watch in the mirror as she lifts her hands and rubs lazily at her breasts, slipping the shoulder straps of her dress to reveal more of those delectable twin slopes – so pale they make me think of snow, so smooth I want to ski down them into the ravine between.
‘Show me,’ I whisper, and my voice is thickening. ‘Get them out and play with them.’
With a languorous smile she obeys, scooping each orb from dress and bra to prop them on the rumpled fabric, circling her nipples with her fingertips. The blushing points harden under the attention. I reach round and assist her, tweaking and flicking the stiff nubs until she surrenders them to me with the sigh I know very well. At the same time I press her to the marble slab, my awakening cock nuzzling up against the cushions of her bum. I enjoy watching us in the mirror; it’s almost like being in our own movie. I can see my hands looking coarse and dark on her cream-coloured skin, catch every flash and flicker of her eyes as my touch sets off cascades of reactions in her body. At this time of the month she’s quick to arouse, already primed. I feel her cheeks squirming back against my pressure. She’s ready for it.
‘As you were,’ I whisper. ‘Keep playing with those.’ As she takes over again I step back so that I can look at that wriggling ass, at her taut legs and her bunched calves, straining on the spike heels of shoes that exactly match the colour of her dress. Sheer blue stockings complete the ensemble. I lift her skirt, and stare. It must have taken some careful work with a mirror: she’s not wearing any panties, but written in blue felt-tip down the last couple of inches of her spine is the neat instruction FUCK, with an arrow pointing down into the crack of her behind. And across her bum cheeks is the broken word CUM SLUT.
Well, that puts lead in my pencil: six inches of solid graphite. My cock bounces out into my hand as I unzip. ‘How did you get here?’ I ask.
‘Black cab.’
‘With no knickers on?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘It’s a very short skirt,’ I muse, lifting her right leg right up to open her wide as I seek entry. My stiffy goes in like a hot knife into her butter. ‘Do … hh … Do you think the taxi-driver noticed?’
‘He might have,’ Penny gasps. ‘He was looking.’
That is enough for me: she knows how to push all my kink buttons. I’m in and I’m thrusting, pushing her forward over the sink, plunging the depths of her lubricious hole. Her four-inch heel skids about on the marble benchtop. I know better than to try and take it slow, or to reach for her clit. She doesn’t care about coming, she just wants me to come. That’s why she’s put so much effort into this. She grips the curve of the sink and shuts her eyes, lips open in an O of sympathy for her impaled sex.
God, she feels good. Tight, yet so welcoming.
And as I pound away, as my whole body clenches toward ejaculation, I look past her face in the mirror and see another behind us both. A woman’s. She stands on the upright back of the French settee, her bare toes gripping the gilding and her arms stretched behind her to touch the wall, like a Rolls Royce hood ornament: the Spirit of Ecstasy. I know she can’t really be there, that there’s no way anyone could be in the room with us. It’s an optical illusion conjured by my horny mind as it catches in the fire of orgasm. A wraith-woman moulded from shadows, dressed in only a veil through which her delicate body glows, her hair a cloudy nimbus floating about her head. But that’s all I glimpse, because just then my climax shakes me and I’m pumping my cum into my wife’s hot cunny, and the whole room goes nova.
When I come back down to myself there’s no one but us two in the mirror. And no one else in the room, of course.
Penny fishes a pair of knickers from her handbag almost before I’m out of her, then goes to lie down on her side on the couch. Thirty minutes letting gravity help the little swimmers on their way, that’s the rule. She smiles at me when I go over and kiss her temple, but the smile is wan. ‘That was lovely,’ she says. ‘Thank you, Richard.’
It was great, I want to say. Didn’t you enjoy it? You don’t look like you did. It was great … but weird. Where in my head had that girl come from?
‘You OK, Pen?
‘Of course.’ I can see it in her eyes, which don’t really focus on me. They’re like empty wells but at the bottom gleam burning coals: the hope that this time it will take.
Like I say, sometimes it’s a bit disheartening.
* * *
Christ, if she actually caught me going on like this she’d kill me. I’m supposed to be 100 per cent supportive. It’s not as if I actually have to do that much except get my leg over with clockwork regularity and provide the seed. I’m supposed to enjoy that bit, aren’t I? And of course I do. Penny’s invested in a whole range of fancy underwear and some kinky little costumes – a French maid, a pirate lass, a naughty nurse – so that my co-operation can be guaranteed. I’m getting more sex now than in years. Every other day throughout her cycle, to be precise, with a week off when the red flag of yet another failure paints her pantyliners: mornings preferred because there’s a higher sperm load, and if I’m always in a bit of a rush before work that’s not a problem; there’s no need to linger and coming back for seconds is not encouraged.
* * *
I’m in a taxi on the way home, thinking about our little assignation as I look out at the deserted streets, and wondering when was the last time we had sex just for the fun of it. I’m not complaining; I’ve no right to complain. Penny has made it her business to find out everything that turns me on and she applies it with ruthless efficiency and not the tiniest smidgen of shame. She’s lifted from me the onus of actually giving her pleasure and made it clear I only need to think about my own orgasm; that’s enough to satisfy her. Isn’t that what every overworked man wants?
Well, maybe.
And I can’t help suspecting that the second that blue cross shows up on the plastic wand, all the feathers and fishnets are going straight in the bin. Luckily Mr Dick isn’t much interested in the long view. He just goes ‘Stockings? Wow! Count me in!’
The streets slip past with unfamiliar swiftness: small shops and tree-lined avenues. It’s the dead time of the night and anything that does close down has done. The entrance to my local Underground station is barred with a metal grille, but the illuminated sign warns me I’m nearly home. I shake myself from my reverie as we pull up outside my apartment block. It’s only a year old and it gleams darkly against the sodium glow of the sky. It won an architectural award, did Mavin Wood Towers. It’s a nice place to live. They had to cut the wood down to build it, of course.
Then the taxi-driver switches on the interior light and all the cab windows turn to mirrors, and I see her in the reflection. She’s in the seat next to me, her feet drawn up on the upholstery: the girl from the bathroom mirror. She’s very pretty but completely colourless, like she’s been sculpted in
