Boss Wife Sex Story

The boss wife sex story I lived through was not the version anyone would guess, because the dinner was real and the invitation was genuine and Marcus had in fact asked me to go.

Boss wife sex story

“She’s doing something with lamb.

Vivian met me at the door in a shirt borrowed off her husband and a glass of wine she had clearly started some hours before. The dossier was open on the counter. The lamb was in the oven.

At half seven Marcus called. I heard her side of it from the kitchen — “No. Yes. Yes. The one with the yellow — no. I’ll sort it.” She came back with her mouth set and put the phone face-down beside the hob and said, “He says hello.”

“How’s Berlin?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Say that again,” she said.

I said it again.

She folded her glasses and looked at me.

“It’s coming off the hinge. He keeps forgetting.”

The window was fine. I stood in front of it with my hand against the frame feeling very stupid, and then I heard the glasses go down on the counter and her footsteps, and she said from the doorway, “You know it’s not the window.”

I had her against the wall in the hall before we got as far as the window. Her shirt was buttoned to the throat and it took both of us and a fair amount of patience and one button that popped off and skittered across the tiles. She got my belt open with one hand while she was still kissing me and put her hand straight down inside and closed it around me and said, “There,” like a woman who had made a decision hours ago.

She was not in the least tentative. She pulled her skirt up herself and hooked one leg round the back of my knee and I got my hand between her thighs and she was already wet and she pushed down onto my fingers and said, “Don’t tease me, I’ve had an awful week,” and I got inside her standing up against the hall wall with her hands locked behind my neck and her heel drumming on the skirting board.

She got my cock out of my trousers in the hall and worked it with her hand while her tongue was in my mouth, and then she slid down the wall and knelt on the tiles and took me in her mouth, and she was not gentle about it and she was not slow about it, and she had one hand braced on the wall behind me for balance and the other working the base of me and she kept looking up, which finished me faster than anything she was doing with her mouth.

I pulled her up and got her shirt open properly and her breasts were in my hands and her nipples were hard under my thumbs and she made a low, pleased noise and pushed her chest into my palms and said, “Good — yes, that,” and then got my belt the rest of the way open and dragged my trousers down over my hips with both hands while she kissed me.

She got her own skirt up and her underwear off one leg and put my hand between her thighs and pushed it flat against her, and she was hot and slick and she moved my hand herself, circling, setting the pace, and then she took my wrist and pulled it away and said, “In — now,” and reached down and put me inside her herself, slowly, standing up against the wall with one leg hooked round the back of my knee.

She fucked me standing up against that wall with her arms locked behind my neck and her heel drumming on the skirting board and her breath catching every time I hit it right, and she got faster and harder and said, “Don’t be careful — I don’t want careful,” and I stopped being careful and held her hips and drove up into her and she took it with her teeth in my shoulder and her hand fisted in my hair.

She laughed, once, hard, with her mouth against my shoulder, and then went quiet and pulled me down onto the floor at the end of the bed because the bed was further than the floor and she did not want to wait for it. She got on top and rode me with the dossier still open on the counter and her shirt hanging off one shoulder and her hips working slow and then not slow, and she had one hand braced on my chest and the other knotted in my hair, and she said my name twice and then nothing at all for a while.

At the top of the stairs she kept her hand over her own mouth, not for the reason I assumed, and afterwards she said, “The bloody neighbours.” Which is the single least romantic sentence of my life and also the one I remember.

She took me in her mouth after that, without being asked, kneeling up over me on the floor with her skirt round her waist, and she was thorough and unhurried and watched me fall apart and did not let me finish there — she came back up and got me inside her again and finished with both hands planted on my chest and her head back and her teeth shut, and it took a long time and she did not once look away.

Go home before he calls again.”

She was not done with me. She got up off the floor and walked out of the room without a word and I heard a tap run and stop, and then she called from the hallway, “Come here,” in the same voice she used about the window.

She stood me at the end of the bed and got my shirt the rest of the way off and pushed me down on the edge of the mattress sitting up, and then she got on her knees on the carpet between my feet and took me in her mouth with one hand at the base and her other hand flat on my chest, exactly the way she had handled the dossier — thoroughly, and in no hurry at all, and with the unmistakable sense that she was correcting something.

She did that until I had to say her name, and then she stopped, and stood up, and got on the bed on her hands and knees facing away from me and said, “Well. Go on, then.”

I got behind her and she was wet and ready and I went in with one hand on her hip and the other holding the base of her spine flat, pushing her down, and she took a fistful of the duvet in both hands and said, “That’s it — harder, it’s fine, harder,” and I gave it to her hard with the bed creaking under us and her shirt hanging off one shoulder and one shoe still on.

She came with her face down in the duvet and her hips pushing back and no sound at all, which was somehow worse than noise, and then she collapsed flat and pulled me down on top of her and kept me there with her hand over mine on the duvet until I had finished.

Before she got her clothes back on she rolled me over onto my back and finished me with her mouth, unhurried, one hand cupping me and the other flat on my stomach, and stopped every time I got close, three times, until I told her to stop playing and she laughed against my skin and did not stop after that.

She got my cock out in the hall and worked it in her hand while her tongue was in my mouth, and then she slid down the wall and knelt on the tiles and took me in her mouth with one hand braced on the wall behind me and the other cupping me, and she kept looking up.

I pulled her up and got her shirt open and her breasts were in my hands and her nipples were hard under my thumbs and she made a low, pleased noise and pressed her chest into my palms.

She got her skirt up and her underwear off one leg and put my hand flat between her thighs and moved it herself, circling, setting the pace, and then took my wrist and pulled it away and reached down and put me inside her herself, slowly, standing up against the wall with one leg hooked round the back of my knee.

She fucked me standing up with her arms locked behind my neck and her heel drumming on the skirting board, and she got faster and said, “Don’t be careful — I don’t want careful,” and I held her hips and drove up into her and she took it with her teeth in my shoulder.

She reached back and found my hand and put it on her breast, and her nipple was hard under my palm, and she pushed her hips back into me and said, “Harder — I said harder,” and I held her waist and gave it to her until her knees went.

Marcus emailed me on the Monday to say, “Good dinner apparently,” and that was all it ever was, and she never once mentioned the window again, and I have never been able to look at a window in that house since. More office stories.