The Adulterer's Handbook

by Sam Anthony

  “Because it was hers?”

  “No. I thought at first it was because I was talking about contraception and she was uncomfortable with that topic, but she was actually just keen to convince me the condom was nothing to do with her.”

  “Did you believe her?”

  “I did. She seemed to be telling the truth, but I could tell she was hiding something. I kept probing and asking awkward questions and, finally, she realised I wasn’t going away until she spilt the beans.”

  “Go on.” I’m intrigued.

  “Charlie said some of her friends have been coming round to our house after school, before we get home. Not every day, but two or three times a week.”

  “Just girls?”

  “No. Mostly girls, but occasionally some boys too. They hang out in the kitchen and drink tea and coffee, but she said sometimes couples have ‘popped upstairs for some privacy.’” She mimes air-quotes.

  “Her friends and their boyfriends?” I say.

  “It doesn’t seem to work that way anymore. They no longer use those labels. I’m afraid we’re a bit behind the times, Lee. In plain English, on a few occasions, including this afternoon, one of Charlie’s female friends has snuck upstairs with one of her male acquaintances, and she reckons they’re having sex. She thought they were using her bedroom, but now says it’s possible they were using ours, or maybe our bathroom. Anyway, the bottom line is, the condom wrapper almost certainly came from one of them.”

  “I see,” I say, trying not to appear overly relieved.

  What are the chances? It looks as if someone else is going to get the blame for my mistake.

  “I told Charlie it was okay to have a couple of friends round after school for a hot drink, but it was completely unacceptable for them to be using our house as their personal shag pad.”

  “Absolutely!” I nodded in agreement.

  “I was appalled. Can you imagine the trouble we’d be in if one of her friends got pregnant in our house?”

  “Well, at least they’re using condoms,” I say.

  “That’s hardly the point, Lee.”

  “No. You’re right.”

  “Anyway, I asked Charlie to enquire if one of them had flushed a condom down our loo.”

  Uh oh!

  “Good idea,” I say.

  “Unfortunately not. She refused point blank. She doesn’t want to lose any friends over this. I think we’ve found our culprits, but we’re unlikely to get any confirmation from them.”

  Never again. From now on I’m going to empty my pockets thoroughly before coming home, and double-check the toilet is completely clear after I flush.

  Chapter Eight

  The Dream

  “Hi. Come in. Make yourself at home”, Tamsin says to Sophia as she hands her a glass of champagne.

  They sit together on the sofa, start making polite conversation and take synchronised sips of their drinks.

  Tamsin is wearing a little black dress which was indecently short while she was standing, and has ridden up even higher since she’s sat down. On her feet she sports silver, sparkly stiletto shoes and a diamond ankle bracelet. Her long legs are moisturised and shiny; tanned a lovely golden bronze.

  Sophia’s toned arms and shoulders are bare in the stylish strapless pantsuit that enhances her shapely figure. A simple, pearl choker necklace adorns her throat, and leopard-print dress-pumps complete the outfit.

  I’ve never seen them both looking so attractive.

  I pop into the kitchen to check on the food. It’s coming along on schedule, and should be ready to eat in about twenty minutes.

  When I re-enter the living room, to my absolute amazement, I find them kissing. Tamsin’s hand is resting on the back of Sophia’s neck, while Sophia’s fingers are slowly sliding up the outside of Tamsin’s thigh.

  I keep quiet and watch.

  The kisses are soft and sensuous, but Tamsin and Sophia are both beginning to exhibit signs of arousal; breathing more heavily as their ardour increases.

  Tamsin parts her thighs slightly and Sophia’s hand moves in between them, slowly making its way higher.

  I hear Tamsin gasp with pleasure; a sharp intake of breath as Sophia’s fingers reach their goal.

  I watch as Tamsin caresses Sophia’s flushed neck; her fingertips progressing ever so lightly over Sophia’s clavicle, and on downwards towards her enticing breasts.

  Sophia spies me out the corner of her eye, and tenses. Their faces turn towards me, then they leap apart to opposite ends of the sofa, and make an effort to compose themselves.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, open-mouthed with surprise.

  Tamsin looks enquiringly at Sophia who, after a thoughtful pause, nods back in reply.

  My eyes are glued to Tamsin’s as she taps her hand on the sofa between them.

  “Lee, come and sit down. There’s something we need to tell you.”

  ◆◆◆

  Sophia loved role-play. On several Friday lunchtimes, I arrived at her house to discover that she’d already donned a costume and was playing a character. I’d quickly have to identify and take on the supporting role:

  Naughty pupil to her strict teacher.

  Business tycoon to her high-class escort.

  Sultan to her concubine.

  Gardener to her duchess.

  Patient to her nurse.

  Plumber to her neglected housewife.

  Rugby player to her physiotherapist.

  Photographer to her underwear model.

  Boss to her secretary.

  Secretary to her boss.

  Butler to her maid.

  Abducted human to her alien scientist.

  Virgin to her experienced lover.

  Customer to her exotic dancer.

  Prison warden to her convict.

  She seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of inspired ideas, and we threw ourselves into our respective parts with gusto. We had some great sex, but we often ended up in fits of giggles, laughing at each other’s attempts to remain in character.

  “Hi.”

  “Come in, slave.”

  “You look amazing, Soph. Where did you get the Egyptian queen costume?”

  “Did I say you could speak?”

  “Sorry, my queen.”

  “Speak again, without my permission, and I’ll have you beheaded and then castrated. Or possibly the other way round.”

  A brief intermission ensued to allow me to get over an outburst of chuckling, while Sophia maintained her haughty composure.

  “How can I serve you, my queen?” I said, back in character.

  “Take off your clothes,” she said.

  I complied.

  “Now come and stand before me.”

  I did.

  “Closer, slave.”

  Fine by me.

  “Now, kiss my neck.” She angled her head to the left so I could get better access.

  “That’s nice. Now the other side.” Another tilt of Sophia's regal head.

  “Very nice indeed, slave. Okay, now softly suck on my earlobe.”

  Okey dokey.

  “And the other one.”

  Symmetry is very important during foreplay.

  “That’s excellent. Next I want you to uncover my breasts and lick my nipples.”

  I did as I was commanded, but it was no hardship. I was thoroughly enjoying myself.

  “Stop.”

  I didn’t want to.

  “I said stop, slave!” She grabbed me by the testicles and squeezed just hard enough to get my attention. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

  “Sorry, my queen.” I said, in a voice that sounded unusually high.

  She slowly released the pressure on my scrotum until it felt more like pleasure than pain.

  “Lie down on your back,” Sophia ordered, and I obeyed, making myself comfortable as she untied her shoulder straps and then shimmied to encourage her sheath dress to drop to the floor; still strikingly regal in her crown and jewellery. I was delighted to
discover that she wasn’t wearing any underwear.

  “Now, stick out your tongue,” she said, as she kneeled astride my head and began to lower herself, tantalisingly slowly, towards my mouth…

  ◆◆◆

  I miss Tamsin when we’re at work, and I make an effort to keep in touch with her during the day; mostly by text message, but also email and the occasional phone call. I appreciate that it isn’t easy for Tamsin to reply. As an over-worked primary school teacher her role is pretty full-on, and she hardly gets any breaks during the day. Consequently, she rarely replies to my messages, and, if she does, she usually comes across as exasperated and not particularly pleased to hear from me.

  Electronic communication with Tamsin has a tendency to dampen my ardour, whereas Sophia’s responses are tantalising and arousing. She always replies instantly to my messages, conveying her happiness and gratitude to be in communication with me.

  Sophia and I had begun to text each other a lot; thirty to fifty times per day was not uncommon. The vast majority of these messages were affair-related: risqué photos, kinky sex suggestions – conceived to relieve our mutual concupiscence – and erotic fantasies.

  ◆◆◆

  I’d love to discover what Tamsin fantasises about. Behind those twinkly innocent eyes, there must be a few lewd thoughts occurring. When we make love, is she in the moment with me or, in the dark behind her firmly closed eyes, is she thinking about someone else? Does she imagine she’s screwing the Head Teacher of her school? He’s a few years younger than her, and rather fit if I say so myself. I’ve noticed him checking her out when he thinks she’s not looking. Does she pretend she’s with a beautiful woman, like in the pornographic movies she enjoys so much, but claims not to? Does she simply alter her location and picture the two of us making love in the surf on a tropical sandy beach?

  I have no idea.

  I’ve asked Tamsin many times about her fantasies, but she won’t provide me with any details. She claims she never fantasises but, just occasionally, when she’s close to passing-out-drunk, she might acknowledge that she does sometimes let her imagination roam free. However, to my disappointment, her reveries always feature some faceless man with whom she’s doing something vanilla.

  That’s what she says.

  I don’t believe her.

  ◆◆◆

  I wake up with a start and an impressive erection.

  “Tell me, Tam!” I’m confused and rather disorientated.

  “Tell you what?” she says. I get the impression she’s been awake for quite a while.

  “Nothing,” I mumble. “I was having a strange dream.”

  “I could tell. You were making weird noises in your sleep just then,” Tamsin says while I’m turning off my alarm.

  “Really? What sort of noises?”

  “Sighing and moaning. It sounded like you were having a lovely time.”

  “I don’t remember that,” I say.

  “You don’t remember having a sex dream? I thought I was going to have to throw a bucket of cold water over you.”

  “I don’t think I was, Tam.”

  “Are you telling me you haven’t got a massive erection down there?”

  “Put your hand down and find out,” I say, hopefully.

  “I’m all right thanks,” Tamsin replies and gets out of bed. “So you don’t remember your dream at all?”

  “Bits of it. It was the one I have quite often where my front teeth come loose and fall out while I’m on my way to an exam that I haven’t revised for, having forgotten to get dressed.”

  “Bizarre!” she says. “So how come you kept mumbling someone’s name?”

  ◆◆◆

  Sometimes, while we were getting our breath back, Sophia and I would actually talk. We spoke about many things: work, family, current affairs, television programmes, our likes and dislikes; but the one topic we studiously avoided was our spouses. Obviously, we kept each other informed if our respective other half was going to be absent for a suitably long period, but otherwise, I never mentioned Tamsin and she never mentioned Joe. Except on one occasion.

  About five weeks into our physical relationship, as we both lay panting and sweaty on the floor in a tangle of bedsheets, I brought up a text message that Sophia had sent me back when she’d had the flat tyre.

  “What other things is Joe useless at?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said he’s useless at mechanical stuff and many other things. What things?”

  She frowned. “I did, didn’t I?” She reached up to the bedside cabinet and grabbed her cup of tea, which must have been stone cold by then.

  “So, what things?” I asked again.

  “Where do I start? DIY, gardening, housework, getting me pregnant. The only thing he is any good at is holding down the sofa when the golf’s on TV.”

  “Are you trying to start a family?” I said.

  Her face dropped.

  “We were. We tried for several years, but I never got pregnant. Every month the disappointment became more and more upsetting. In the end, we just stopped making the effort.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Did you try IVF?”

  “No. Joe said we couldn’t afford it. To be honest, he wasn’t that bothered. It was me that was desperate to have a baby.”

  “I see.”

  “Once we stopped trying to conceive, there didn’t seem to be any point having sex anymore, and it gradually petered out altogether. In fact, we haven’t made love for at least eighteen months.”

  “Oh dear,” I said.

  “It’s quite sad. Once the intimacy stopped, so did the affection. God, this is depressing! Anyway, now I’ve got you to satisfy my every desire, so let’s not waste any more time talking. I’m sure I can come up with a better use for that tongue of yours.”

  Ding, ding! Round two.

  ◆◆◆

  It’s not just fantasies and pornographic videos that Tamsin refuses to get excited about, she doesn’t like erotic photographs either.

  Sometimes, when the mood strikes me, I use one of my password-protected phone apps to browse erotic photos on the internet. Occasionally I find a good one; by which I mean, one featuring impossibly perfect specimens of humanity, at least one of whom is a beautiful, classy female, with little or no body hair; plus real or well-faked ecstatic pleasure writ large on her face; and good lighting to boot. If the subjects are participating in an atypical or kinky sex act, that’s even better. Once I’ve found one I like the look of, I’ll send it to Sophia with a message such as, “I want to do this with you!!!”

  She loves it. She always responds quickly and enthusiastically, with an encouraging reply. “Ooh! Yes, please. When?”

  The next time we meet at her house, we’ll try to re-enact the photos. Sometimes this is successful, but more often than not, we simply aren’t flexible enough to get into the required positions. It doesn’t matter though. We still have great fun experimenting.

  I’ve tried sending sexy photos to Tamsin a few times, with the same request: “I want to do this with you!!!” Her replies are tardy and indifferent. A couple of hours later she might reply, “Ok. Can you pick up some milk on the way home?” or, “If you like. Maybe next weekend.”

  When the following weekend comes around, there’ll be no mention of it and, unless I bring it up again, it’ll be forgotten.

  Tamsin has never said, “No. I don’t want to do that.” She simply ignores my requests and suggestions until they’ve slipped so far into the past that we’ve moved on to different issues.

  ◆◆◆

  I attempt my laughing technique again.

  “Really?” Chortle, chortle. “Whose name was I mumbling? It wasn’t that hot newsreader was it?”

  “The Asian one? I knew you fancied her,” Tamsin says.

  “It’d be hard not to. She’s a real stunner.”

  “Don’t you think her eyes are too far apart?”

  “No idea. I’m always too distracted by her décoll
etage to notice,” I say.

  “You mean her boobs, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. It’s her boobs.” My eyes go out of focus as I contemplate her ample bosom for a few seconds.

  “Was it her name I was mumbling?”

  “No, Lee, it wasn’t her.”

  “You know dreams don’t actually mean anything, don’t you, Tam? They’re just random electrical impulses in our brains that generate arbitrary images and thoughts from our memories. Absolute nonsense most of the time, but our brains try to make sense of them.”

  “Thanks, Professor.”

  “Well, what do you dream about?” I ask.

  Tamsin considers the question.

  “Mostly just rainbows, puppies and sunsets.”

  “Yeah, right! You never dream about your family, colleagues from work, people you meet?”

  “Possibly,” she says. “I don’t have dreams very often, but even when I do, I’ve usually forgotten them by the morning.”

  “Do you fancy a cup of tea?” I say as I start to get out of bed, hoping to distance myself from this conversation before it gets any worse.

  “Hang on a sec, Lee. We haven’t finished talking about your sex dream.”

  “I told you, it wasn’t a sex dream, it was just a mixed-up jumble of nonsense,” I say.

  “Then, who is Soph?”

  ◆◆◆

  One afternoon, I was sitting at my desk, pretending to be hard at work, when a text message arrived on my phone.

  “I think I’m pregnant! Any ideas for baby names?”

  I could see Sophia spying on me from next to the coffee machine, her phone in her hand and a cheeky smile on her face.

  “New phone. Who is this?” I replied.

  “How many women are you shagging?!!” was her typed response as she feigned a shocked expression.

  “It’s hard to keep track. I reckon it’s 7 blondes, 5 brunettes, 2 redheads and 1 lady with alopecia totalis of indeterminate hair colour.”

  “Does that list include me?” I can see her pouting across the office.

  “No. Plus you. So about 16 women in total! Obviously, you’re my favourite. X”