After my wife discovered I hadn't been entirely honest with her about what happened with Molly in the car, things changed at home. She still doesn't know the extent of what went on, and I'm confident in my head that I’ve stayed strong—alright, ish—and haven't cheated on her. Though I guess it depends on the definition of ‘cheating’.

To date, my son's girlfriend has cavorted herself in front of me, flashed me, let me shave her behind when I burst in on her naked, made me cum in her shorts and wore them, masturbated in the car and then placed my hand in her hot, bare snatch to have me finger her to completion.

Suppose that is a very fine line. Or a crooked one, at least.

But I'm determined to be better. If not for my own sake then for my wife and poor Aaron who is perhaps blissfully ignorant of how far his belle is misbehaving. She's admitted he knows she's a nymph, as she put it, and they enjoy a healthy roleplay lifestyle on the back of her teasing ways. I'm just not sure how far he knows about my involvement. He’s astute, so must know some of it and, maybe like his dad, turns a blind eye to technicalities when he has a hottie throwing herself at him.

Astrid has reiterated on a number of occasions I need to be firm with Molly and she'll back down. Says she's seen her type at the schools she's worked at, and I trust her judgement.

The only wrinkle is that Molly's aura is simply magnetic. From that mane of electric pink hair, cute band of freckles across her cheeks and nose, past her incredible rack, belly piercing above svelte swaying hips, that delicious bare pussy, and her long legs all the way to dainty feet I'd love to get my mouth on, she's a firecracker. Yet her physical appeal is only a fraction of the allure. Her poise; the way she carries herself; the oozing confidence and raw sexuality, all complement her smarts and gregarious charm.

What's even more disturbing is that I'm not in any way dissatisfied with my wife or life, nor am I suffering a midlife crisis. I drive a fucking Volvo and have no desire to buy anything flashier. That may have something to do with not needing a status symbol to demonstrate the size of my penis; I've got that covered, so the two women currently in my life tell me.

Astrid especially has been insatiable in the week since we boned in the garden. When we got back from work on Monday, she all but backed me to the kitchen wall, sank to her knees, tore my trousers and undies down and slobbered my cock to hardness in thirty seconds. I stroked her cheek as she kissed and nuzzled from my sac up to the bulbous tip, making doe eyes up at me.

“Fuck I love your big dick, Andrew Tanning. Love every inch.”

And she proceeded to prove this by jamming her mouth around its girth to the very base, gagging, coughing and hauling free, saliva looping that she sucked up with a devilish grin before wanking my shaft hard.

She brought her second hand up and twisted them in opposite directions on my length. Let go and plunged her mouth until I was wedged in her throat, then dragged free when she needed air.

I wiped a stray tear from her soft cheek. Smiled down at her. “You're such a good girl, Astrid Tanning.”

“Mmm.” She resumed her double handed wank. “I like being your good girl.” Kissing and nibbling her way down my rod, she carried on further, nuzzling my balls. Popped each one in turn in her mouth and swirled. “But I also want to be more than that.” She lapped. Worked down under me and tapped my leg to make me widen my stance. “I also want to be your filthy girl. Your dirty little,” she wormed her tongue into the crease and swabbed my dark knot, “slut.”

My sharp inhalation said it all. “Fffuck.”

“Yeah? You like that?” Her tongue probed and lapped.

“God I love it.”

“Good.” She traced the crease. Circled again. Nuzzled the base of my taut balls. “I want to fuck your ass. Would you let me do that?” Popping my balls in her mouth again, she sucked them tenderly.

“Mmm fuck, yeah. If I can have yours.”

Her grin widened and she let them plop from her mouth. “Deal.”

My heart fluttered. I didn't tell her that Molly had also offered me anal. Not that I've taken her up on it.

Yet.

My cock swelled at the thought of fucking both women in their tight arses. The way they would respond in similar yet wholly different ways.

Given Molly had confessed to some girl-girl encounters and how she'd also like to seduce Astrid, my head immediately pictured them both on all fours, side by side, letting me sidestep from one to the other and plough into their darkest holes until I was ready to blow. At my announcement, they'd clamber to their knees and gaze up at me to receive ropes of thick cum sprayed across their faces, cooing and begging for more.

I know, I know. What the fuck’s wrong with me? I've clearly been watching too much porn.

Anyway, to seal the deal, Astrid nuzzled her way back up to nibble the ridge, took a deep breath and sank fully onto my engorged prick, where she stayed until I groaned, grabbed her skull and spewed spurt upon spurt directly down her throat.

It got better on Wednesday. We were doom scrolling Netflix after dinner but there was nothing much we fancied. Astrid plucked the controller from my hand, stood and dragged my legs off the sofa until I slithered over the edge and dropped to the carpet, leaning back against the seat.

She bent away from me, flipped her short skirt up at the back, thumbed the waistband of her panties and rolled them to the floor. Then she took two steps back out of them and used my face as a seat.

It was incredible having her grind her delicious bottom and slit against my nose and mouth. I moaned up into her musk and lapped and probed for all I was worth as she rocked and called herself filthy names for taking what she wanted with so little regard for my well-being.

I was back in heaven, the gates of hell bolted with a sign hung on them: Use the up escalator round the back.

Her orgasm was strong and wet and sweet, and I couldn't get enough. It was almost a shame when she pulled clear, glossy strings of cum linking us and snapping when she turned. Her eyes met mine, a raw hunger burning as she yanked off her top, unhooked her bra and sat in my lap.

She freed my raging prick in a graceless flurry, slid her dripping pussy forward, up and sunk onto it, tipping her head back and groaning to the ceiling.

I mauled her tits. Pulled her to me and bit them as she bounced and cursed and said she was my filthy fucking angel. The marks would take time to fade, no doubt about it, but her next words would take longer. “Does your other little whore do this for you? Hmmm? Does she?”

I growled. “How many times, Astrid. There's nothing going on. There is no other little whore.” She yelped when I slapped then gripped her tits and shook her. “Only you.”

She exhaled and bounced harder. Ground and rode me like a proper little pornstar, without all the fakery. “Yeah, just me. Just me. Take me.”

I've certainly not been a saint the last week or so, but it was fucked up that she was using the existence of our son's girlfriend a) as a threat and b) as a basis on which to compete for my affection. But was I going to complain?

Hell no.

I lost count of how many times she breathlessly climaxed, clutching my torso and riding herself over the edge with quakes and rasps into the room, before I roared and filled her. I buried deep and pulsed, whispering how amazing she is, and we held one another throughout our orgasms.

We disentangled, redressed, flopped on the couch and watched some inane movie that neither of us remember the name of, hand in hand.

Aaron invited himself over for dinner Thursday evening. Molly of course joined us, wearing what can only be described as fuck all: the same tatty denim cutoffs she'd teased me in the first time we met, and an electric pink sports bra a few shades darker than her hair that tumbled messily over the squished up cleavage.

If she'd been my kid, I'd have raised an eyebrow, blocked the door and said, “You're not going out like that, young lady.” Even a monk would pop a boner at the way the exposed curves of her underbutt rhythmically lifted and rolled beneath the hemline as she strode to the living room. And I'm no monk.

Astrid made a point of trying to be in the room with us at all times, which made the atmosphere a tad frosty at first. To prove how committed I am to our marriage, I made a reciprocal point of not ogling the teenager.

Fine, okay. Only occasionally, When my wife's back was turned.

I might have been caught once as dinner was being dished up. Astrid glared, plate and spoon in her hand. “I was covering a Biology lesson the other day. Did you know female spotted hyenas dominate the social hierarchy and influence access to resources as a form of control? They're very territorial.”

She spooned out one scoop of mash onto Molly’s plate. Two onto everyone else’s and handed them round. Molly regarded her portion and let out a sly grin, reaching for the spoon and collecting another dollop for herself.. “That's interesting. On my course, we carve such animals up or experiment on them.”

Tou-fucking-ché.

It was kind of flattering being the object of two women’s affection. Also scary. 

Astrid smiled sweetly. “Sorry, dear. Didn't want to over-face you. After all, there's not much to you.”

“Quite alright. Happy to serve myself when I get hungry.” She glanced at me and I looked away. “Thank you so much for the meal. You're an amazing cook.”

Ooft.

Once the daggers were away, the meal proceeded in relative comfort.

I cleared the dishes while Aaron checked on his friend Tom, whose parents had announced divorce. When Astrid nipped to the loo, Molly cornered me in the kitchen.

“That was intense.”

“She knows.”

“You think?” She brushed her thigh against mine. 

“Molly, we can't be doing this. It's not fair. On anyone.”

See, Astrid? I can be firm.

Her breath tickled my ear. “Mmm, it is thrilling isn't it? The forbidden.”

“Molly…”

“What if there was a way to touch me… without touching me?”

I blinked. “I don't follow.”

“I've got a remote controlled toy. I'll wear it for you tomorrow while I'm out shopping with Aaron.”

“I'm working tomorrow.”

Her blue eyes twinkled. “Even better.”

“I can't… won't. Can't…”

She ran a single fingertip up my thigh, tracing the rigid length of my firming cock through my jeans. “I'll have to do it myself then. I'll be wearing it anyway. But if you want to play,” she paused and drew a circle around the top of my concealed straining member, “install the Lovense app and add me. MollyDolly06.”

Her heat vanished and I carried on loading the dishwasher as Astrid returned. I'd like to say I wasn't flustered but it would be a lie. Try as I might, I couldn't shake the thoughts.

If I'm not physically touching her, it's not cheating is it? Is it? It's the same as looking at a pretty woman in the street and wondering what she's wearing underneath and whether she has a hidden dirty streak that would surface when she's on her knees, presented with a huge cock to suck. Would she take it all? Would she cough and gag halfway? Would that put her off or galvanize her into trying to take more? They're just thoughts. Projections of consciousness. Harmless if not acted upon in the physical realm. The same way that brushing the screen of a phone projects intent across the airwaves. Harmless as it's not in the physical realm. And I've done far worse in the last week, so if this is a way to safely have some fun with Molly who, by all accounts, isn't going to take no for an answer, well, would that be okay? Guess it's a technicality. Yet another loophole that the Internet makes possible, so where's the harm in…

There's a chime, a two-tone descending cadence I don't recognise, and my boss stops talking. Glances accusingly round the room. My thoughts evaporate and I scrabble, along with a couple of other colleagues around the conference table, for my phone.

On the screen: Accept connection from MollyDolly06.

I hold my hand up. “Sorry, Roger. Thought it was on silent.”

He rolls his eyes and I hover my thumb over the screen, as I fumble to flick the side switch to a more appropriate work mode.

Accept? Decline? Accept? Decline?

When I issue a nod that affirms I've silenced the device, Roger continues droning and gesticulating at slide twenty-three of seven million. Forecast this. Sales volume that. Projection over quarter who-gives-a-fuck.

It's friday afternoon, man: it's just cruel.

My thumb decides.

Accept.

Placing the phone on my thigh, I notice a thin pink line begins to scroll from right to left. At the bottom, a pink circle with some wavy lines on it. A button.

I press it. Nothing happens. Press and drag. Aha. The wavy line raises and I let go, watching the peak scroll off the screen. The message bubble gains a ‘1’ by it and I tap to read it. 

“Ohhhh.”

Holy fuck, she's out there somewhere with some piece of silicone wedged in her underwear and I have complete control over how it vibrates. 

My cock gets the memo too.

Roger flicks to the next slide. “And as you can see from the same period last year…”

… nobody gives a fuck, least of all me. I have a teenager's pleasure at my fingertips. Jesus, how do I wield this power?

My finger hovers over the pink button like it's an extension of her clit. Presumably the toy is wedged directly against it. As surreptitiously as I can, while pretending to be engrossed in the meeting, I slide my finger upwards. Hold it there. Then let go. The line graph mimics. The notification area scrolls up a line:

“Ffuuck.”

I tap a little higher than the button itself and it jumps to meet my fingertip. Letting go leaves a little blip to scroll away, like a pulse.

I repeat it. Rhythmic tapping. Blip. Blip. Blip.

A message: “God that's amazing.”

Another: “Where ru?”

I flick my eyes around the conference room. Nobody is paying me any attention. Fran is doodling on her notepad. Larry is stifling a yawn.

I type: “Meeting.”

She replies with a giggle emoji, then: “Hope ur hard at work.”

I reply by sliding my finger up halfway and keeping it there for a few seconds.

Her response: “God.”

Issuing a few longer pulses of varying intensity, she writes: “Fuck. Aaron back.”

I grin inwardly. Wait maybe a minute as Roger talks about growth, my own growth under the table complete. Then tap out a rhythm.

Nothing. I tap some more.

Nothing. I tap a little higher, which elicits a reaction: “Oy.”

“Yes?”

“Driving me wild. He just looked at me funny.”

I smile: “Oh dear.”

“I can turn u off.”

“But you won’t.”

There's silence in the chat window so I nudge the vibrations as the next slide with a graph on it flickers onto the wall. Keeping my finger on the display, I swoop the little button in playful arcs, imagining her squirming. I needed something to place her.

Type: “Where are you?”

She replies: “Burger King.”

“What, no quip about a Whopper?”

“Haha.”

I sweep the vibe up and down in lazy loops. Imagine her at the table, wriggling her hips opposite her boyfriend. My fucking son.

God this is fucked up.

But I can't stop. I'm straining hard against my work trousers. If the zip fails, my stalk would protrude between the shirt tails I couldn't be bothered to tuck in.

It's too warm in the office anyway. Doubly so now.

My fingertip draws figure-eights on the screen that match the 8K projection next month if we win the Staithwaites business.

One word appears on the chat: “Fuck.”

“What?”

“Ur gonna make me cum.”

I let go of the display. Send the grinning devil emoji. Then: “No you won't.”

Ha! Payback.

She responds, probably between mouthfuls of flame-grilled meat. “Fuck.”

Letting her stew, I pay attention to a couple of Roger’s slides then brush my fingertip across the button, dragging it up like I'm dying to do in real life, scuffing her wet clit. I alternate taps and swoops, getting the hang of imagining how each touch affects her soaked little slit.

God, her panties will be dripping, surely.

Pre-cum forms. I can sense it seeping into the fabric of my underwear, staining. Just like hers as I tap random dots across the display and watch the varying height of the blips pulse and scroll away.

The chat window lights up with a flurry of one-worders:

“God.”

“Ffuucckk.”

“Gonnacum.”

I stop. Suppress a grin and type. “No.”

The retort takes a while to materialise, probably because she's fighting the urge to soak her knickers. “FUCKER.”

I wonder how the absence of the buzzing affects her. Can she feel the echoes of it? Is it as maddening to have the insistent vibrations against her clit as without?

The answer comes in the next message from her. Not text, but a photo. With a shaky tap, I enlarge the image, hastily-snapped under the table up her skirt, the corner of the picture blurred by her fingertip. The outline of the toy is clearly visible through her pale pink panties, the dark circle of the magnet holding it in place against her needy snatch. But below it, the imprint of her shaved pussy lips are clearly defined through the irregular wet patch in the fabric.

I have to fight hard not to gasp. Force myself to look away and focus on...