Anyway, I digress. Not too much as it turns out. It all began with Ben. Gorgeous, virile, can go at it all night, Ben Brannigan. Or rather he would go at it all night when we finally got the chance. His family were religious, you see, and he believed in saving himself for marriage. Trouble is, he somehow got the impression that I was too. No, I didn’t lie. Not really. I just mumbled something when he asked if I was still a virgin and he took it for demure embarrassment.

I got my chance to try his wares when his family invited us for the weekend. We were to go to his uncle’s house in the country.

‘What does your uncle do?’ I asked Ben, as we drove to Oxfordshire. ‘He’s in the Church.’

My heart sank. No way would we be allowed to share a bedroom in a priest’s house. ‘I hope we get a chance to be alone, darling,’ I said, stroking Ben’s thigh. He nearly crashed when I squeezed his crotch.
‘Charity! Stop that. Do you want us both to go to hell?’
‘No, but a nice little hotel in Woodstock would be lovely.’
‘I see what you’re doing. You’re testing me to see if I can keep my hands off you. Stop it, you little minx.’
God, I wanted him there and then, but something about his expression told me that he wasn’t very pleased with me. I sulked for the rest of the journey.
We arrived just before dinner. The house was wonderful. The sort of Georgian pile I’d always dreamed of living in.
‘Charity, this is my mother, my father, and this is my uncle Jack. Everyone, this is Charity.’ I could tell from his mother’s shocked glance at me in my short skirt that things were not going to go according to plan.
Uncle Jack, who stood in front of the mantelpiece of his magnificent drawing room, wasn’t what I was expecting. For a start he was dressed in black chinos and a black turtle-neck sweater. He was also quite young. Not our age (Ben and I were both twenty-eight) but not much older than forty. He also eyed my mini-skirt but I couldn’t work out what he was thinking. He had one of those inscrutable faces. The type men have when they’re hanging from a big tap thingy in an upturned ship, willing to sacrifice themselves so that c-list actors can go on to star in soap operas. For some reason my panties felt abit moist.
Ben’s friend, Vince, arrived just before dinner. They’d been at university together. He was a beautiful young man and I would have introduced him to one of my friends had he not been so moody. He didn’t seem to like me at all, only giving me a cursory nod.
Dinner was excruciating and I didn’t help. I blurted out ‘So, Uncle Jack, do you think Jesus and Mary Magdalene really got it on?’ He smiled and I almost melted. Ben glared at me and his mother looked like she was going to faint. His dad merely squeezed my knee under the table. Or he might have been trying to pat the dog. He was so drunk on Uncle Jack’s vintage wine, I wasn’t entirely sure.
‘So you’ve read The Da Vinci Code, Charity?’ asked Uncle Jack. His expression suggested he knew I only ever read Heat magazine.
‘Er…no, but everyone knows what it’s about. It’s like one of those cultural thingies… icons… that transcends boundaries. Like everyone knows that The Poseidon Adventure is about an upside down ship.’ I don’t know why I kept coming back to that!
‘Is it really, Charity?’ asked Uncle Jack.
‘Yes. For goodness’ sake, don’t you know? Gene Hackman…the tortured priest…that girl from Dynasty who fancied him…the one before Emma Samms…not that Emma Samms fancied Hackman…well she might have. I don’t really know her. I mean the one who played Fallon before Emma…’ My voice faded to nothing when I realised he was taking the piss and also changing the subject.
‘Oh I did like Dynasty,’ Mrs Brannigan said. ‘All those shoulder pads.’
‘Yes, me too, well the re-runs on digital telly,’ I nodded eagerly. Our eyes met and we smiled. For the rest of dinner, Ben’s mother and I chatted about our favourite Alexis Colby schemes. By dessert we were the best of friends.
‘I need to speak to you about something, Ben,’ said Vince. They went to the library. Uncle Jack and Mr Brannigan disappeared, and Mrs Brannigan went to powder her nose. I was left alone, the pleasure of chatting to Mrs Brannigan fading as I realised I’d been abandoned.
I wandered around the drawing room, imagining myself as some Jane Austen heroine, ‘taking a turn’. When that got boring, I slipped out into the hallway and went in search of the library, sure that Ben and Vince would be finished. As I grew nearer I could hear raised voices. One raised voice actually. Uncle Jack’s.
‘You can’t possibly marry that girl, Ben! It’s time to face up to facts. She won’t make you happy.’
Feeling like I’d been slapped, I ran out into the garden. How dare he decide what was best for Ben? The sanctimonious git! I sat outside for half an hour, not wanting to return to the house.
‘Charity?’ It was Mrs Brannigan. She found me sitting in an arbour at the bottom of the garden, looking back up towards the house. It really was beautiful. ‘Are you alright, dear?’
‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks. I think I’d like to go to bed now if that’s okay with you. It’s been a long day.’
‘Of course, I’ll show you to your room.’ She took my arm, seeming to realise I was upset. ‘I’m sorry we all left you to your own devices. Ben and his uncle had things to discuss.’
‘Yes, I know,’ I said tightly.
‘You were a bit of a surprise to us, actually.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘But you’re a nice girl, I can tell.’ I didn’t know about that, but didn’t want to disillusion her. We carried on into the house and up the stairs.
‘Thank you, you’re very kind.’ And she was. So much so that I felt like crying. ‘Erm, Mrs Brannigan. Which is Ben’s bedroom? Just out of interest.’
She pointed to the door next to mine, smiling, but quite sadly.
‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything,’ I said. ‘I respect your house rules.’
‘Actually, Charity, it was Ben’s idea for you to have separate rooms. We’re not that stuffy, honestly.’
She left me at my door and went off to find her husband, whom we could hear singing sea shanties in the kitchen. I liked them. And what she’d said was true. They weren’t nearly as stuffy as I thought when I first arrived. But Uncle Jack. He was another matter.
Drastic action was called for. I had to convince Ben that he and I were meant for each other, but to be honest, as I took the pair of fluffy handcuffs out of my suitcase, I was beginning to wonder. He’d practically ignored me all night, huddled away with Vince. His uncle had swayed him far too easily for my liking. I decided I’d just show him what he’d be missing, then dump him.
I waited till I heard everyone come to bed, then I went downstairs to the kitchen and found a Muller Fruit Corner in the fridge. Cherry. My favourite. I crept back upstairs -yoghurt and handcuffs all ready – and went into Ben’s room.
He was lying with his back to the door, but he’d kicked off his blankets, wearing just apair of boxers. The body I’d been longing to see and touch was mine for the taking. I slipped out of my clothes and tiptoed to the bed. Taking one of his hands, I clipped a handcuff around his wrist. He didn’t even wake up, so I rolled him gently onto his back and, throwing the yoghurt onto the bedside table, set about attaching the other cuff to the bedpost. My bare breast brushed his mouth as I stretched over him, sending a spasm of pleasure through my body. I heard him mumble ‘Oh, dear God.’
I closed my eyes, then found his mouth, thrusting my tongue between his lips. He kissed me back, bringing his own tongue up to meet mine. I trailed kisses down his chest, gently biting into one of his nipples, then downwards, to where his erection burst out of his boxers. I slid them down and took his penis in my mouth, completely forgetting I’d brought the yoghurt. I preferred natural, lapping up the salt taste. He groaned again, pushing my head against his cock with his free hand. My own centre throbbed and it was all I could do not to thrust straight down onto him. I wanted him – and me – to savour the moment.
I stopped and whispered, ‘You’re in my power. You have to do whatever I say.’
‘Yes,’ he replied, his voice husky. ‘Yes. Whatever you say.’
Moving back up the bed, I sat with my knees either side of his face, the bristles on his cheek tingling my inner thigh.
‘Lick my pussy.’ His tongue darted upwards, finding my clit, swirling, probing. His hand, straining from the handcuff grasped my breast, pinching my nipples between his fingers, while his tongue drove me to madness. It was all I could do not to scream out as my groin pulsated to an early orgasm. He lapped that up hungrily, his tongue pressing against my throbbing clit, prolonging the pleasure beyond all reasonable bounds.
I needed to kiss him, to taste myself on his mouth. ‘Tell me you want me,’ I demanded, my lips pressed against his.
‘I want you.’
I slid my body down his torso, leaving a damp trail on his chest and belly, and eased myself down onto his prick. We rocked together, slowly at first, building the intensity until our bodies crashed together in a beautiful porn action. I cried out as he filled me to completion, bucking against his thrusting hips. I came again, but he didn’t.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Give it to me.’ He was holding back, I could tell. I rucked him harder, forcing him to submission, finally feeling him cumming into me.
That was when I opened my eyes, because I wanted to see the pleasure on his face. He was barely visible by the light from the moon, shining through the window, but it most certainly wasn’t Ben.
‘Jack!’ I jumped off him as though I’d been stung. He groaned, more in pain than ecstasy, clearly not expecting sudden movement. I couldn’t bring myself to call him Uncle Jack. Not then. ‘Oh my God! Why didn’t you say anything? You…you rapist!’
‘Excuse me, Charity, but you’re the one who came into my bedroom and handcuffed me to the bed, then gave me a blowjob. At least that’s how the pohce would see it.’ There was amusement in his voice, alongside the happy exhaustion of his orgasm.
‘You can’t go the pohce. Oh God, I’m in such trouble.’ I threw on my nightie. ‘But you’re not Ben and you let me think you were.’ I remembered my earlier anger. ‘Oh I get it. I’m all right for a quick fuck for you, to ease your celibacy for a while, but not good enough for your nephew. The Pope will probably send a hit squad to kill me for defrocking one of their priests. I’d better go quickly. Tonight.’
‘Do you think you could undo the handcuffs first?’
I blushed. I was also off my guard, because I didn’t see what was coming next. As soon as I’d detached the cuffs from the bedpost he snatched the key from my hand and clipped one cuff around my wrist, leaving us bound together.
‘What are you doing? Let me go or I’ll scream.’ It was an empty threat. I’d have been too embarrassed for anyone to find us.
‘Let’s talk,’ he said. I must admit to being disappointed. I thought he was going to pin me to the bed and ravish me. I’d have said no, of course. Except the memory of his probing tongue wouldn’t go away, so maybe I wouldn’t have.
He pulled the blankets up over us. He lay on his side, I sat up until I realised that was too uncomfortable, with the handcuffs. So I reluctantly lay next to him.
‘About what?’
‘About you and Ben.’
‘Yes, I know. You don’t think I’m good enough. I heard you.’
‘No, I said you weren’t right for him.’
‘It’s the same thing. And now, well, you probably think I’mevenmore of aslut.’
‘What I think about you is not up for discussion at the moment. Though I do believe that you’re a good girl who only tries very hard to be bad. You want marriage, kids, the whole kit and caboodle.’ I hated him for understanding me so well. Hated him, but desperately wanted him to kiss me again. ‘But Ben is never going to give that to you.’
‘No, because you won’t let him.’
‘I have my reasons. Actually, now I have different reasons, but we’ll discuss those later. Ben is gay, Charity. He and Vince are in love.’
I was going to argue with him, but what he said made sense in too many ways.
‘So now what are we going to do?’ I asked.
‘Me? I’m going to open that yoghurt, smear it all over your body then lick it off.’
‘Well if you insist,’ I said.
The following morning we watched Ben and Vince ride off into the sunset together. Well, it was raining and they were in Ben’s car, but you get the idea. Ben’s parents had left some time earlier, so it was just Jack and me.
‘What about us?’ I asked. He stood behind me, with his arms around my waist, making me feel very safe and protected. ‘You’ll be unfrocked and the Pope will send out a hit squad forme.’
‘The word is defrocked. The Pope doesn’t care what I do.’ I felt his mouth on my neck. ‘I’m Church of England. Now, let’s go and see if we can find any more yoghurt in the fridge.’

I can see him out there, working. In his T-shirt and tight jeans, laying bricks, one on top of the other, on the wall of that new house being built right next to ours. His hair is flopping over his forehead. His short-sleeved T-shirt is as tight as his blue jeans, emphasizing the rippling of his muscles every time he moves. So graceful, yet so masculine; occasionally looking in this direction, expecting to see me looking out, as I’m doing right now. I’m shameless, I suppose, though also absolutely helpless. Having visions of him finally getting the message and coming over here to open the back door, slip inside, and then…

Oh, dear, what am I thinking?

God, yes, it’s so hot. My clothes are sticking to my skin. I can feel my blouse clinging to my breasts, exciting the nipples. My husband, John, is out front, inspecting his garden, a Sunday-morning ritual, whiling away a few minutes until it’s time to leave. But I’m not looking at John. I’m looking at that other man, the real man. The sweat trickles between my breasts, my nipples harden and tingle, when he moves and I see his muscles rippling. That shortsleeved T-shirt, those tight blue jeans, the impressive bulge at the crotch…

No, this is ridiculous. It’s pathetic and disgusting. A woman like me shouldn’t be thinking of such things. Particularly since that young man’s half my age. Though almost certainly more experienced. Looking like that, he would have to be. He’s probably had more women than I’ve had hot breakfasts. He probably knows things that I can’t even imagine, given John’s vocation and sexual inhibitions, our lack of electricity in bed.

Am I just frustrated at the thought of what I might be missing? Is that why I’ve been watching that young man for the past two weeks, ever since that construction team turned up on the plot next door? Is that why I’ve found myself pondering what it would be like if he sensed what I was thinking and decided to take his chances, walk over here, open the kitchen door and march in, to…?

No. It’s perfectly ridiculous. I’m standing here, slightly stunned by the heat, feeling languorous, dreamily sensual, having all sorts of crazy thoughts, these perverted sexual fantasies. I should be ashamed of myself. A woman in my position. And the thought that he might look over, see me looking at him, and decide to do something about it, is clearly preposterous. It’s just not going to happen.

Oh, God, I’m wrong! He’s obviously seen me standing here, looking at him, as I’ve been doing every day for the past fortnight. But this time, having seen me, he’s smiling and putting down his trowel. Yes, he’s definitely seen me. Now he’s hitching up his jeans, emphasizing his bulging manhood, letting his hand slide across it, drawing attention to it, grinning crookedly as he stares directly at me, letting me know that he knows what I want.

Or am I simply imagining this?

No, I’m not He’s left the building site and is strolling casually towards me, grinning, heading deliberately, at a leisurely pace, for the door of my kitchen, at the rear of the house.

Oh, God, what have I done?

John’s still out front, still tending to his stupid garden, but he could walk in any moment… Walk in just as that young man opens the unlocked back door to…

Lord, what am I thinking? It must be the summer heat, this almost foreign humidity, making me feel all sensual and dreamy, encouraging these licentious, dirty thoughts, this debased wishful thinking.

Yes, that explains it. I’m a middle-aged, childless housewife, a decent, Christian woman, not particularly attractive, but I often find myself wanting to be someone else, a woman who has wild sexual experiences and suffers no guilt. Then I see that young man, so physical, so handsome, like the young Marlon Brando in his T-shirt and jeans, confident in his amoral, animalistic sexuality, and I imagine what it would be like to do it with him: to briefly feel like a younger, more desirable woman. So, yes, there’s a lot of wishful thinking. That’s what we have here.

But, oh God, it’s more than that. It must be more than wishful thinking. Because that young man’s actually opening the back door. I’m frightened that he will, but equally frightened that he won’t, concerned that he might change his mind and go back to the laying of bricks, leaving me here, still frustrated. Yet mostly, I’ll admit, I’m frightened…surely with good cause.

My husband is outside, at the front of the house, tending his garden, and this young man is about to come in and… Oh, God, I can’t bear this. I should stop him, but I can’t. The heat has rendered me helpless. I’m drowsy. Too hot. My clothes are sticking to my breasts, exciting my stiffening nipples as he steps inside. Suddenly, there he is, silhouetted in the doorway, tall and broad, long legs outspread, sweat trickling over the muscles in his arms – pure maleness rampant. He stares steadily at me, looking me up and down, not saying a word, then, satisfied that he’s doing the right thing, he grins and steps all the way in, closing the door quietly behind him, shutting out the bright sunlight.

So there he stands, in my neat country kitchen, surrounded by pots and pans, looking out of place in his working man’s clothing. With his short-sleeved white Tshirt and tight blue jeans, muscles rippling, crotch emphasised, he looks just like the young Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire. Like free porn incarnate.

My heart starts racing. I can hardly breathe. When I open my lips to say something, perhaps ask him to leave, he places his index finger to his lips – those thick, slightly brutal, sensual lips that I’ve thought about, dreamt about, for the past two weeks.

‘Don’t say a word, lady,’ he says. ‘You don’t have to say anything. I know just what you want.’ I don’t say a word.

He walks across the kitchen and then stops right in front of me. He has a crooked grin, like the young Marlon Brando’s grin, and his lips, like Marlon’s lips, are full, almost feminine, making me wet between the legs at the very thought of what they might do to me. He doesn’t say a word. He just holds that challenging grin. Then he slowly slides his hand around the back of my neck, takes hold of my hair, jerks my head back, looks me straight in the eyes, grinning, calmly taking my measure, then mashes his lips down on mine.

I feel his tongue in my mouth, licking my teeth and gums, filling my mouth with saliva, as he kisses me, passionately, almost brutally. Then I helplessly, shamelessly, respond in kind, kissing him back, pressing myself into him, writhing in his embrace, rubbing my burning belly against his groin, his hot, masculine hardness. His hand leaves my head, moving down to my spine, the fingers outspread, his strong arm locked around me. His other hand, his free hand, is cupping my rear, squeezing my buttocks, fingering the asshole crack. And as my legs start to tremble, threatening to give way beneath me, he pulls me tighter to him, grinding his hips, deliberately letting me feel his hard…thing…pressing into my belly.

‘Do you like that?’ he whispers, removing his lips from mine, leaning his head back to look at me, his gaze steady and mocking. ‘No,’ he adds before I can answer. ‘You don’t have to reply. I can see by the look on your face that it’s what you’ve been wanting.’ He grins as he says it, pulling me even tighter to him, then he slowly moves his hips from left to right, rubbing his belly against mine, letting me feel his heat and hardness, as he strokes and squeezes my buttocks, still fingering the crack, where, in truth, to my eternal shame, I’ve never been touched before.

I’m so excited, I can hardly breathe. My heart’s racing and I’m trembling all over, too weak to resist, filled with a desire that’s only increased by my dread of being caught. John is out front, still tending his stupid garden, but he could walk in any moment and see us like this. The very thought of it, though terrifying, is also exciting. Yes, come in, I find myself thinking. Catch me in the act, John, darling. It might do you some good. But I automatically push the young man away from me, offering token resistance despite what I’m feeling.

‘Get out of here,’ I say without conviction.

‘You want me to leave?’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘right now.’

‘No,’ he says, ‘I don’t think so.’

‘I think so.’

‘No, you don’t.’

Grinning, he slides his hand around my neck, gently stroking and pressing, then lets his fingers trail down the front of my throat, to the swelling of my bosom, then under the open collar of my blouse. He cups my breast in his hand, squeezes it, kneads the nipple, sending waves of excitement quivering through me. Then he unbuttons the blouse with his other hand, slides it down my arms as if peeling a banana, and lets it fall to the floor. ‘Nice tits,’ he says. Then he lowers his head to kiss each breast in turn, while I tremble, eyes closing, becoming senseless with desire, aware only of his lips on my skin, his hands sliding down my spine, the heat and hardness of his…thing…as he presses his belly against mine, his hips moving languorously. ‘Mmmm,’ he murmurs. ‘Nice.’

‘Yes,’ I gasp. ‘Oh, yes!’ Encouraged, he unclips my bra, lets it fall to the floor, to join the discarded blouse, then bends down to kiss and lick my naked breasts, sucking on one nipple, then the other, as if preparing to eat them. My breasts come alive, the nipples almost on fire, waves of heat radiating out from them, to travel up to my bone-dry throat and then down to my belly.

That fire spreads below, making my pussy wet and receptive, excited beyond control, with everything inside me crying out to be penetrated and filled, ravished and consumed. I want to feel his throbbing hardness, his – Oh, say it…his dick – inside me. Nothing else matters. With a shock of disbelief, I slide my hands around him, fingers outspread, to stroke his sweat-slicked spine, dig my nails into his skin, squeeze his firm, though quivering, buttocks, pulling him into me with greedy desperation, wanting to feel the rapid growth of his cock beneath his zipped-up blue jeans.

Now his cock feels as hard as a steel rod and I’m helplessly groaning. ‘Yeah, baby,’ he whispers. Just like Marlon in A Streetcar Named Desire. God help me, I’m dying here. Lord, yes…desire. I’m consumed by desire. I’m reaching down to feel his cock, wanting to cup it in my hand, to squeeze it and feel it pulsating. And when I do, when I feel it, a real cock in my real hand, even though it’s still covered with the coarse material of the blue jeans, it feels like a small, hot-blooded animal.

‘Try this for size,’ he says. Before I can unzip him, he pushes me backwards, down onto the kitchen table, causing cups and plates to rattle, then he tugs my dress up over my hips and gropes between my spreading, slippery thighs. He strokes and squeezes me there, pressing down on my pubes with the palm of his hand, rubbing his hand to and fro, massaging me, driving me crazy, then he slips a finger under my knickers and dips it into my wet pussy. That’s one of those words that John would never let me utter. Another word like ‘cock’. He’d never let me use words that might have made us excited. Crude words. Sexy words. Words deemed to be erotic or pornographic. So I could never say… Fuck! I could never say fuck. And of course I could never use the word… Cunt!

Lord Almighty, I’ve finally done it – described my cunt as a ‘cunt’. And, even sweeter, young Marlon, my nameless stud who looks like Brando, is moving his finger in and out of my wet cunt, first a finger, then a thumb, to make me writhe and moan, a slave to whatever he might desire. Then he takes hold of my clit and plays with it while I gasp and groan helplessly.

‘God, yes, fuck me!’ I cry out. ‘In my cunt! Fill my cunt with your cock!’ He rips my knickers off, unzips himself, takes out his cock, hard, engorged and pulsing, then puts the tip of it to me – down there, where I’m wet, warm and soft – making me open out like one of John’s flowers, offering honey to the bee. Then I feel his cock moving up inside me, in my cunt, and he’s fucking me. Yes, he’s fucking me. I can use that word at last. And just using it excites me all the more, encouraging me to raise my hips up off the table, opening my legs farther, my feet meeting on the blade of his curved spine, locking him to me. ‘Don’t stop, Marlon,’ I moan, forgetting who he is, imagining for a moment that he’s actually the real item. ‘God, just do it to me. Do what you want to me. Anything!

Any way! Just do it and do it really quick, before my husband comes in. Do anything you want, show me everything you know, and don’t stop until you hear the front door opening. Oh, Christ, oh my Lord, oh my master, I’m all yours for the taking. Fuck me blind. Fuck me rigid. God, I want you, I need you, I love you. Anything you want.

Anything!’

He’s thrusting in and out, first violently, then more slowly, in deep, languid motions, moving this way, then that, touching me here and there, filling up my insides in a way that I haven’t known before…because John is so useless. Ah, God, that’s beautiful. Ah, Jesus, give me more. Belly slapping on belly, groin to groin, as he squeezes my tits, bites my neck and puts his tongue in my mouth. Just keep doing it, don’t stop, keep going for now and all time, till death do us part.

What…?

God, no! He’s pulling out. Straightening up to look down at me. He’s grinning and letting me see what he’s got and it’s something to see. I’ve never seen a real cock close up like this before. I mean, I’ve never looked at John’s. When we do it, we’re always under the blankets and John does it furtively. Him and his damned religion. His puritan thinking. Pretending he’s not really doing it, even when he’s hard at it, though in his inexperienced, woefully inept way, held back by his many inhibitions.

No such inhibitions with Marlon. He’s looking down at me, grinning, as he curls his fingers around his cock, pumps it gently, teasing me, then leans forward to put his hand

behind my head and tug me upright. I slide off the table, onto my knees, and there it is right in front of me. He’s still holding it, thrusting it at my lips, letting me know what he wants. I’ve never done blowjob (it would shock John if I tried) but right now I want to make a meal of it and so I open my lips. I’m taking it in, sucking it, licking it, trying to swallow it, and he’s holding my head with his free hand to ease it backwards and forwards. It’s so thick and smooth, so hot and hard. I feel its tip at the back of my throat and almost swoon from the feeling.

‘Yes, baby,’ he drawls, withdrawing, ‘that was nice. Now let’s try it this way.’

He slides his hands over my shoulders and down to my breasts. After squeezing my tits, he cups his hands under my armpits and raises me off my knees. When I’m standing upright, breathing heavily, feeling dizzy, wet as a swamp down below, he flips me over to press me face down on the table.

I spread my hands out to grip the sides of the table, my feet on the floor, my ass in the air. I think he wants to enter me from the rear, but he needs to prepare me. ‘Where’s the butter?’ he asks.

Instantly, I think of Marlon Brando again. This time the mature Brando of Last Tango in Paris. The infamous butter scene. Marlon and Maria, one on top of the other, him slipping his buttery finger in before penetrating her with the real thing, though still wearing his pants. God, no, I can’t! It’s too awful to contemplate! On the other hand…

How will one learn if one doesn’t experiment? I mean, John would never attempt it. He might secretly think about it, licking his puritan lips, but I doubt that he’d have the nerve to try it. Poor John, so religious, so inhibited, that neither of us has ever had a good time between the sheets, never mind stretched out on the kitchen table, as I am right now.

‘The butter’s in the jar behind my head,’ I hear myself whispering. ‘But I don’t think…’

‘Be quiet,’ he says. As he stretches out over my spine, trying to reach the butter-jar, the tip of his cock slides along my ass cheeks as if trying to get in before its time. It’s hot. It’s hard. My buttocks twitch in response. I hear the butter-jar rattling, feel his chest on my shoulder-blades, then he straightens up again, breathing heavily, until he’s standing behind me. I close my eyes and clench my teeth and hear a groaning that can only come from me. He pushes into me, slow and hard, and at first it feels too tight, but then, as I shiver with pain and pleasure, he pushes in all the way.

My thoughts scatter and spin. Oh, God, this can’t be true. I can’t really be doing this. I’ve often thought about it, wondering what it would be like, but it’s not the kind of thing that a decent, Christian woman dwells upon. I think I’m going to die. Now I’m nothing but sensation. I turn my face to the side and look out through the front window to see John bending over some flowers, sniffing them lovingly. He loves those flowers, I’m convinced, even more than he loves me. He loves me in his own way, but doesn’t know how to please me, because he wouldn’t want to believe what it is that I truly need. He’s a Christian, a puritan, and that makes him strictly limited. I’m deprived because he thinks it would be depraved to do what I dream about.

God, he’s just turned to look back at the front door. He can’t come in now! Yet the fear of that thought only makes me more excited so I clutch the sides of the table even tighter, groaning with delight.

‘Don’t stop now!’ I cry out.

Thank God, he doesn’t stop. He just moves ever faster, thrusting ever more violently, breathing harshly and grunting like an ape having a romp in the jungle. I’m feeling really horny now. Like an animal in heat. I couldn’t stop him now if I tried, but I’ve no intention of trying. He’s standing right behind me, thrusting in and out, a stallion. Leaning forward, he runs his fingers through my hair, then slips his thumb between my lips and starts moving it in and out, just like his cock in my cunt, making me feel that I’m sucking a cock. Instantly, I have visions of two men at me at the same time, one behind me, the other in front, and as his thumb moves in and out, as I hungrily lick and suck, imagining the thumb to be bigger and harder than it actually is, he continues to attack my rear passage with the real thing. He’s reducing me to a pulp, protoplasm, pure sensation, turning me into an animal that knows nothing but physical need, wanting only to satisfy its base instincts, wallowing in the mud.

‘Yes!’ I beg. ‘Yes!’

Then I see John again. He’s wiping dirt from his hands as he glances at the house. That means he’s about to come back in and tell me it’s time for us to leave. The very thought of it fills me with panic and the panic excites me more.

‘Don’t stop!’ I cry out in desperation. ‘Oh, God, don’t stop now!’

He doesn’t stop. Instead, he pulls out of my rear passage and flips me onto my back, preparing to slip into me that way. But he doesn’t get the chance. I’m now awash in my own juices. When I see him standing there, his huge cock thrusting arrogantly out of his unzipped jeans, I simply have to taste it again. So I slide off the table and fall onto my knees to slip my lips over his rigid tool and start gobbling frantically.

‘Oh, boy,’ he says, ‘that’s your husband out there. And I think he’s about to come back in. Christ, I’ve got to get out of here!’

‘Not yet!’ I cry, releasing his cock from my mouth, then I stand up and fall back onto the table, spreading my legs. ‘Oh, please God, just finish it!’ As I frantically reach up to pull him down upon me, the fear of being caught by my husband lances through me, making it all the more exciting. Young Marlon falls upon me, all muscle and bone. He’s biting my neck and his tongue is in my mouth and then I’m licking his ears, nose and throat as my legs lock around his rocking hips and my feet drum frantically on his buttocks. His belly smacks on my belly, his cock fills me up again. We move together, one on top of the other, my groin rising to meet his groin as he presses down upon me and pushes brutally into me. I’m sobbing and groaning, whispering, ‘Fuck me! Don’t stop!’ as my husband, that dear man, that innocent buffoon, commences the short walk to the front door, about to enter the house

‘Now!’ I shriek. ‘Come now!

Marlon comes like Niagara Falls, like a dam breaking loose, and I come at the same time, spasm piling on spasm, everything pouring out as it’s never done before, satisfying me for the first time in my life. A sexual Nirvana, heavensent, a dream come true. And we both shudder convulsively and collapse into each other. And I’m just returning to earth, getting my senses back, when I hear the front door opening and realise that John, my dear husband, is entering the house.

Luckily, he’s entering through the front door, two rooms away from here. Marlon pulls out on the instant, tucks his wilting cock back in, whispers, ‘You’re terrific,’ zips himself up as he hurries to the back door. I roll off the table, sexually satisfied, feeling terrific, depraved on account of being deprived throughout the long years of marriage. Marlon leaves by the back door. I adjust my rumpled clothing. I quickly comb my hair and touch up my lipstick (always modestly, respectably, applied), then rearrange the crockery on the table, until everything looks normal again. Which, of course, it is. Because none of that happened. It’s only what I wanted to happen. What I often desperately wish and dream might happen. I’m looking through the back window and can see that young man out there, a vision of pure masculinity in his Tshirt and blue jeans. He’s certainly not Marlon Brando. In fact, he looks quite ordinary as he lazily lays the bricks of that new house. He looks common, a bit of rough trade, but that’s what makes him sexy.

John has just made his way from the living room, through the dining room, and is now standing in the kitchen doorway, smiling lovingly at me. He has a kind face, but he’s prematurely bald, has a burgeoning pot belly, and wears a black suit and clerical collar. He’s the one who’ll be giving the sermon and it’s rarely exciting.

‘Time for church, dear,’ he says. ‘I’ll just fix my hair and put on my hat,’ I reply. ‘I’ll meet you outside, darling.’

‘Excellent,’ he says.

When he leaves the kitchen, I look through the back window and see young Marlon Brando out there, laying brick upon brick in the rising heat. He knows I’m watching him. He sometimes smiles in my direction. Some day, if I get up the nerve, I just might invite him in for a drink – a glass of lemonade or a cup of tea, maybe something stronger. And if I ever get up the nerve to do that, who knows what might happen?

But right now, alas, I have to pin up my hair, cover it with my broad, respectable hat, then put my arm through the arm of my dear husband, so loving, so boring, and let him

walk me to church, this sunny Sunday morning. I’m a decent, Christian woman, after all, and we’re the kind who have to keep up appearances. All the rest is a daydream.