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By *aller89 OP Man
21 hours ago
weston super mare |
Mark drove home with the radio off and the windows cracked open. Cool air slid across his face but did nothing for the heat still sitting low in his gut. Sophie’s smile kept replaying, bright, knowing, the way her lower lip had caught between her teeth for half a second. The way those denim cut-offs had stretched tight across her arse when she bent over the bath, the soft pale skin above the waistband flashing as she moved. The warm brush of her fingers on his forearm, light but deliberate. That quiet little invitation in her voice.
He pulled onto their street twenty minutes later. Same family home as always, neat front garden, kids’ bikes dumped on the lawn, blinds twitching in the breeze. He killed the engine and sat there a second longer than usual, engine ticking as it cooled, before grabbing his bag. The van door creaked when he shut it.
Inside the house smelled of washing powder and the faint citrus of Amy’s cleaning spray. The telly was already on in the living room, cartoon theme music blaring. Amy was in the kitchen, blonde hair tied back in a messy knot, still in the clothes she wore for her school hours shift at the supermarket. Jake and Ellie were arguing over something so pointless
“Alright, love?” she said without looking up from the dishwasher. The machine hummed as it finished its cycle. “Get the quote done?”
“Yeah. Big job. Kitchen, knocking that wall through, bathroom. Could be a few weeks’ work.”
She nodded, already moving on, stacking plates with a soft clatter. “Good. We could do with the money. Don’t forget Jake’s football kit needs washing before Saturday.”
Mark kissed the top of her head out of habit. Her hair smelled of the same cheap shampoo she’d used for years. Twenty years together. They’d started young, eighteen and nineteen, a flat above a chippy that always smelled of grease and vinegar, then the house, then the kids. Amy was still pretty in that soft, practical way, but the spark had settled into something comfortable and predictable. Sex was once or twice a month if he was lucky, always the same, lights off, missionary, or her on top, with her eyes closed, the sheets cool and slightly scratchy against his knees. She liked it when he went down on her, would push his head between her thighs and come with soft little gasps, the taste of her familiar and mild, but she never returned the favour. A blowjob was something that happened in the early years and then just stopped. He’d tried suggesting toys, different positions, even just her on top more often. Amy would smile, kiss him, lips dry and quick, and say she liked things the way they were. Routine. Safe.
He showered under water that never quite got hot enough, changed into clean joggers that still smelled faintly of fabric softener, and told Amy he needed to sort some paperwork upstairs. The kids were glued to the telly, laughter and cartoon sound effects drifting up the stairs. He shut the bedroom door with a quiet click, sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and finally let himself think about Sophie properly.
Short. Slim. That blonde ponytail bouncing when she walked. The way her arse had looked in those cut-offs, round, firm, the soft crease where cheek met thigh begging to be gripped. The warm scent of her perfume mixed with coffee when she’d stood close. The soft suggestion in her voice when she said she was bored. That she wanted a proper man to come round and quote her properly.
Mark pushed his joggers down. The cool air of the bedroom kissed his skin. His cock was already half-hard, average length, thick enough, the same one Amy had seen a thousand times and never seemed especially impressed by. He wrapped his fist around it and stroked slowly, the dry friction turning slick as he worked. Eyes closed, he pictured Sophie bent over that bath again, the pale curve of her lower back, the way her shorts would have ridden higher if he’d just reached out. Imagining her turning around, dropping to her knees on the cool kitchen floor, looking up at him with that teasing smile while she took him into her mouth, something Amy hadn’t done in years.
He came harder than he had in months, spilling over his fist with a quiet groan that caught in his throat, Sophie’s name right on the edge of his tongue. The sharp, familiar smell of his own cum filled the quiet room. Afterwards he sat there breathing hard, chest rising and falling, sticky hand resting on his thigh, the doubt creeping in straight after the pleasure like cold water.
He was married. Two kids. A mortgage. If he went back tomorrow and things went the way her eyes had promised, it could blow everything up. Amy would never forgive him. The kids would find out eventually. He should text Sophie, say the job was too big, recommend someone else.
He didn’t.
Instead he wiped his hand on a tissue that felt rough against his skin, pulled his joggers up, and went downstairs like nothing had happened. The cartoon theme was still playing.
Across town, Sophie sat at the kitchen island with her phone propped against a mug of tea that had gone lukewarm. The video call connected after three rings. Her husband Dave appeared on screen in his oil-rig overalls, the background a constant low roar of engines and distant voices, the fluorescent lights harsh on his face.
“Alright, babe?” he said. “Miss me already?”
“Always.” She gave him the practised smile she used for these calls. “Just letting you know I found a builder. Came round this morning, seems decent. Going to do the kitchen, open the wall, sort the bathroom. Starts tomorrow.”
“Good. Get a fair price?”
“Yeah. Mark something. Local bloke. Seems like he knows what he’s doing.”
Dave nodded, already glancing off-screen at someone calling his name. “Alright. Don’t let him overcharge you. Love you. Gotta go, shift change.”
“Love you too.”
The call ended with a soft beep. Sophie set the phone down and stared at the empty kitchen for a long moment. The fridge hummed. A clock ticked somewhere in the hall. Mark’s face floated back into her mind, the solid, slightly soft build, the faint smell of dust and aftershave that had clung to him, the way his eyes had lingered on her arse and made no effort to hide it. The low, rough edge in his voice when he’d said he could fit her in.
She stood up, bare feet quiet on the cool floor, walked through to the living room and dropped onto the sofa. The cushions sighed under her weight. One hand slid down the front of her shorts and into her knickers without any fuss. She was already soaked, slick and warm just from thinking about him, the fabric of her knickers damp against her fingers. Two fingers slipped between her lips, gathering the wetness, circling her clit in slow, deliberate strokes. The soft, wet sound of it was loud in the quiet room.
She pictured Mark coming back tomorrow. Tools. Clipboard. That quiet hunger in his eyes. Imagined him pushing her against the kitchen counter, the cold edge of the worktop digging into the backs of her thighs, big hands on her arse, lifting her onto the island while she wrapped her legs around him. Or better, her on her knees on the living-room carpet, the rough weave pressing into her skin, taking that hard cock into her mouth the way she barely did for Dave anymore, looking up at him while he lost control, the taste of him, the weight of him on her tongue.
Sophie came quickly, thighs trembling, a soft broken moan escaping as she soaked her fingers and the crotch of her knickers. The release rolled through her in warm waves, leaving her breath shaky and her skin flushed. She stayed like that for a minute, breathing hard, hand still cupped between her legs, the slick heat of herself coating her fingertips, already thinking about tomorrow.
Mark would be back in the morning. |
