Putty In Her Hands

Putty In Her
Hands

R.J. Butler

© 2014 R.J.
Butler

Smashwords
Edition

Table of Contents

Part One

Part Two

Note from the
Author

A word of
warning:

This book includes
explicit descriptions of sex which may offend.

PART
ONE

We were in the taxi heading
home, three in the morning, feeling worse for wear and incredibly
randy. The whole party had seemed randy and on the point of an
orgy. People I knew, usually the epitome of respectability, had
that look in their eye, circling round the party looking for
someone to fuck. A friend of ours, Rebecca, had tried to entice me
into the toilet; her blouse already unbuttoned beyond decency,
revealing a hint of pink bra, her motivation all too apparent. I
had to resist. Her husband wasn’t too far away and this was not
really her sort of thing. Nor mine. Something had gotten into her
and I knew she would regret it and would make things awkward
between us all. Even my wife, Emily, bless her, had lost the power
of speech and had a wild and frankly frightening look in her eye.
Everyone, bar myself, seemed to be affected. It was time, I
decided, to go home.

In the taxi home, Emily managed
to recover the ability to speak and think. Someone had spiked the
drinks, she said. I agreed. It wasn’t natural.
How are you
feeling
? she asked. Now that she mentioned it, I was
experiencing some movement down my nether regions. But with our
taxi driver humming the tune of
Take My Breath Away
, I
merely shrugged my shoulders and said,
Ok, I guess
. But she
knew by the way I looked at her what was really on my mind, and
with each passing moment, I felt increasingly horny. Emily spotted
the bulge in my trousers. She smiled and looked away as if to watch
the world racing pass the window. But with her eyes fixed outside,
she gently moved her hand and rested it on my lap. The presence of
her hand there sent a shockwave through me, and my cock surged at
her touch and I couldn’t help but let slip a slight groan. I tried
to cover it up with a cough while the driver fiddled with the knob
on his car radio.

As the music got louder, an
anonymous dance track, and the closer we got to home, the more
risqué Emily became, unzipping my fly and slipping her hand in. She
rubbed the end of my knob through the material of my pants
producing a stream of pre-cum that soaked my underwear. I was
desperate for her to stop and desperate for her to carry on. My
cock was now as stiff as it’s ever been, unnaturally so, I felt –
someone had definitely spiked those drinks.

Thank goodness, the taxi swung
into our road.
Number twenty-eight, please
, I managed to
croak, and the car came to an abrupt halt.

Having paid the driver off,
giving him an unnecessarily large tip such was my haste to be shot
of him, I staggered back to the house barely able to walk, Emily
giggling in my wake. Now we had to face Ruth, our sixteen-year-old
babysitter.

How had things been, we asked
her, were the children OK, did they get off to sleep? All this,
while I held my coat strategically in front of me, hiding my
protrusion. Ruth is a would-be Goth – dyed black hair and a nose
stud and even a ring through her lower lip, but polite, shy and
good with Lola, our three-year-old daughter and tolerated by
Joshua, our ten-year-old son. Having paid her, it was my job to
walk Ruth home. Fortunately only a few houses down the street, no
more than a two-minute walk, the cold soon put pay to my arousal
while Ruth exclaimed about a new Goth band she’d discovered. She
walks in that slouchy way that teenagers do and having seen her to
her door and thanked her, I found myself walking home in the same
manner.

Then, remembering how horny I’d
felt, I picked up speed. Emily would be waiting for me, hopefully
playing with herself, getting herself ready. There is nothing quite
like drunken sex to chase away every last inhibition. I was almost
running by the time I got back home. I rushed in and charged into
the living room, throwing off my jacket.

Shit.

Lying on the settee, not
playing with herself, not moaning in anticipation, was my wife –
fast asleep.

*

The next morning, I was still
dozing when Emily said my name in a tone that I didn’t like, the
way she stretched out the ‘n’.

Robinnn... You would never have
an affair, would you?

What? Me? What made you say
that all of a sudden?
I was fully awake now. The alarm clock on
my bedside table showed half nine. I was amazed Lola hadn’t been up
to see us yet. Outside, it was a lovely day; the June sun streaming
through the muslin curtains.

Nothing. Just wondering.

I’m too lazy to have an
affair. All that hassle,
I said.
The stress; it’d be too
much for someone like me.

I sidled across the warm bed,
falling into the Grand Canyon that’s emerged in the middle of our
mattress, and slid my arms round her, pressing myself into the
contours of her body. She smelt warm.
Anyway
, I added in a
tone that even to me sounded nauseating.
With a wife like you,
my darling, why would any man stray?

Robin Collingbourne, you are
such a charmer.

I know,
I said with mock
self-satisfaction, turning onto my back. But, nonetheless, her
question had taken me by surprise and niggled at me. Did she
suspect something; had I given her cause to? But I am not. I don’t
need to have an affair. I’ve been happily married to Emily for
fifteen years and totally faithful; we have two vaguely
well-adjusted children and Ginger, my maladjusted cat; and live in
a fine town house in a middle-class ghetto of London. If asked are
you happy, or at least content, I’d answer in the affirmative.
Certainly not the sort of man looking for an affair.

I felt Emily’s hand crawl down
my stomach and slide beneath the elastic of my pyjama bottoms. She
smiled a devious smile at me as her fingers wrapped round the base
of my cock, which stirred into life.
Well, what have we
here?
she purred.
I don’t know what they put in those drinks
last night but I’m still feeling so horny. Do you fancy a
little…?

Emily, Lola might come
in,
I said, conscious of my hardening cock.

She’ll knock. Anyway, she’ll be
watching TV.

I nodded and grunted, unable to
speak. She disappeared beneath the duvet and I held my breath in
anticipation. I lifted my ass as she pulled my pyjama bottoms down
to my knees. My muscles tightened as I felt her tongue gently lick
the head of my knob in little circular motions. My shoulders
dropped as a wave of pleasure descended over me.
God, you have
such a gorgeous cock,
I heard her say, her voice muffled by the
duvet.
Soo big, So fucking hard. I’m such a lucky girl.
Her
mouth fell onto my cock, greedily devouring me.

Boy, this is a nice way to
wake up.
I felt her fingers massage my balls as her tongue ran
up and down the underside of my shaft. The duvet moved up and down
as her head bobbed with her sucking. After a few seconds, she
re-emerged, her hair ruffled and her make-up smudged. In her
drunkenness last night, she had gone to bed with it still on. She
looked fantastic; the smeared lipstick made her look filthy, like a
woman in search of some hard, unforgiving sex.

She lay on top of me, smelling
of morning warmth, while I took my cock and edged it closer to her
entrance. We both knew the children were awake, so we couldn’t
afford to spend too long on such niceties as foreplay.
Go
on,
she breathed as she lowered herself to the tip of my stiff
cock.
Stuff it in.

Slowly, I pushed through her
drenched lips.
God, you’re wet.

Take me then. Fucking stuff it
in.

I thrust myself inside her,
causing her to squeal as my cock penetrated her gorgeously wet
pussy. She fell on me, kissing me hard, urgently. The taste of her
lipstick and faint aroma of the previous night’s perfume
electrified me, causing me to pump harder still.

Oh God, yes,
she said,
sitting up as I thrust, holding onto her hips.

She was wearing a tee-shirt, a
pale yellow one, but no bra which meant that as she jerked up and
down in time with my thrusts, her wonderfully enormous tits bounced
round beneath her shirt. I love feeling her tits beneath the thin
material and pulling back the shirt to emphasise the shape and
size, and the shadow of her erect nipples through the fabric.
Slowly, Emily lifted her tee-shirt so I could see the bottom of her
breasts but not yet the nipples. The more I thrust, the higher she
inched the tee-shirt until finally, her boobs were free and
jiggling deliciously right in front of me, these glorious mounds of
white titty flesh with their rosy pink, saucer-sized nipples. She
leant forward, cupping one breast with which to feed me. I didn’t
refuse and sucked hard on her huge nipple, whilst still fucking
her, my other hand pressing down on her arse. She moved her breast
around in circles, rotating it in my mouth. She pulled away, her
nipple wet with my saliva, then fed me the other and we started
again.
Suck me,
she urged.
Suck me, fuck me, suck, suck,
go on, suck me.

She sat back up and started
rubbing the pink gash between her legs, her hand moving in time
with my pumping, her puffy lips wide open.
Shit, I think I’m
going to cum. I’m so fucking close. Can I? Can I cum?

Her eyes rolled back.
Squeeze my tits,
she gasped, as her hand dissolved into a
blur as she rubbed her clit yet faster. I felt her clenching her
vaginal muscles, her cunt tightening round my cock. I cupped her
breasts and with a finger played with her nipples.
Yes, that’s
it. I’m coming. Oh, God.

I watched with mounting
excitement as she leant back, fully exposing her cunt to me,
grinding her pelvis hard as I played with her tits. Her eyes glazed
over as she came.
Yes, yes, I’m coming.

Unable to contain myself, I
pulled her forward and sucked hard on her nipples, and frantically
banged her, my cock drilling her dripping cunt with ardent thrusts,
until I came from beneath her, huge, hot gushes of cum spurting
into her warm pussy in torrents.

We lay in bed, speechless,
enjoying the glow of morning sex, happy that the children hadn’t
disturbed us.

That was nice,
said
Emily, still breathless.

We ought to get up,
I
said.
It’s a lovely day out there.

And so, we started our day. But
throughout it, I was still troubled by the thought that my wife
might think I was having an affair. I’m not that sort of man. But
that was last June; six months ago, an invariable lifetime. Two
weeks later I met Dawn.

I work in a Human Resources
department in a corporate hellhole and one fine day she flounced in
as our new temp. I hardly spoke to her, actively made a point not
to; I had no need work-wise and was frankly too in awe of her
looks. But slowly, very slowly, I became besotted. For starters
she’s
beautiful
. An overused word, perhaps, in a world where
beauty is easily obtainable at the right price and is almost a
prerequisite for success but
really
– she is. Slim and
elegant with olive, flawless skin, and flowing dark hair, American
teeth, the works. She has a lovely voice – slightly husky, a little
deep but still totally feminine. And at almost a decade younger
than me she’s not too old and, more importantly, not too young. She
can remember Boy George and Duran Duran. Even Haircut 100.

So, in short, she’s gorgeous.
But, and I’ll say this again, I’m not the sort of man looking for
an affair. Far too lazy.

Wednesday,
5
^th
December

I’ve decided to keep a diary.
I’m not sure why when to write a secret diary is to scream into the
wilderness. And a strange date to start, perhaps, so near to the
end of the year, so why not just postpone it for three weeks to the
New Year, like any other sensible diarist? It’s because today –
tonight, something’s going to happen between Dawn and me. I can
feel
it. It’s been building up over weeks, possibly months,
and tonight is our department’s Christmas meal where somehow the
culmination of my charm offensive and outright flirting will
explode with the release of pent-up passion or implode with a
lawsuit for sexual harassment. Or, most likely, I’ll bottle it and
nothing will happen at all.