I feel dreadfully wicked.

It’s Monday, and John, my husband has left to work abroad for a week. As I’ve explained, he works alternate weeks abroad and alternate weeks in the UK.

I’m always glad when John’s home, of course I am. I love my husband, and when he’s home everything is wonderful. So why do I feel this thrill now that he’s left for St. Louis in the United States?

I feel this thrill because this evening I will perform. I love performing for my husband, but the time difference is six hours, which makes it impractical to do it live. So as I always do, I will perform in front of the camera, and send him the clip.

But the wickedness doesn’t come from this exactly. The wicked part is the thrill that comes from knowing that as I perform for John, someone else will be watching; a secret admirer, a peeping tom, standing outside, witnessing my performance.

I know it’s very wrong of me, but I can’t help it. When John’s home we have wonderful, spine-tingling sex, and yet the minute he’s gone, I feel a delicious, illicit thrill, knowing that shortly I will be performing for both John and my secret admirer.

Time goes by so slow this Monday. It’s been over a week since I last performed in this way, and I can hardly wait. Oh, I perform my duties at work and smile at my colleagues, but behind the mask I am all barely restrained anticipation. In the middle of the day, I even contemplate sneaking off to the ladies’ room to… relieve some of the tension, but I don’t. I want everything pent up, so that when I get down to business, my performance really is something else.

Then I have other moments. Moments when I know I should put a stop to this game. I know it isn’t right, shamelessly performing for this peeper as well as my husband. I should leave some message and draw the curtains, the way I draw the curtains when John is home and we find satisfaction together. I tell myself I’m not that kind of woman.

The trouble is that events have shown me that I am that kind of woman. Not the kind who would ever cheat on her husband. Just the kind who enjoys someone other than her husband finding her desirable. The kind of woman who enjoys being watched as she pleasures herself. I know I shouldn’t do it, that I should exert some kind of self-control, but for whatever reason I’m unable too.

Oh dear, that does make me sound very wicked, doesn’t it?

I plan for John, by which I mean I choose what to wear with my husband in mind. Not that I know what my secret admirer would prefer. John has a thing about hold-ups, preferably black, so of course I indulge him. I have a black corset too, with frilly bits, which John says makes him want to devour my breasts whole. Yes, that’s it; the hold-ups and the corset, nothing else.

Later in the week I’ll see to it that I’m a bit more adventurous, but for tonight, it will be more straightforward; in the bedroom on the bed. I position the laptop at the foot of the bed, ready to record my slightest movement. I make sure to start punctually, on the stroke of nine. It’s an unspoken agreement between myself and my secret admirer. The show always starts at nine on the dot.

Oh dear, that makes me sound very wicked. It makes me sound like a strip club hussy. I feel ashamed. I blush. Perhaps I’m not so very different from the girls who work in such places, even if I only ever perform for two men.

I try to vary my performances. Sometimes I use only my fingers, but tonight I place three dildos on the bed. I don’t know if I’ll use them all – I certainly won’t use them all at once – but at least they’re there. The window is slightly ajar, so that my secret admirer can hear me, as I perform for him. And for John, of course.

I know how that sounds. Don’t get me wrong. I love performing for my husband like this, giving him a show for him to watch in his lonely hotel room. But the awful, shameful truth is that the greatest thrill comes from knowing there’s a young man outside, watching.

I know he’s young because I’ve seen him. Once. He looked like a thug, dressed in sweats and with his face almost entirely obscured by a hoodie. He wasn’t what I’d imagined, and he gave me quite a fright at first. But he’s never troubled me, or tried to touch me or anything. He just watches, so I’m prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. I used to call him Algernon, but he’s definitely not an Algernon, and now I don’t know what to call him.

It’s nine o’clock. I hit record and talk to the camera. I talk about how horny I am and what my needs are. I toy with my cleavage with one of the dildos. I tease the tip of the dildo with my tongue. I slide my hands over my body. I run my hands up and down my stockinged thighs. I spread my legs and tease the insides of my thighs. I bring my face up close to the camera and suck hard on the dildo I have that’s a replica of John’s cock.

I writhe on the bed, moaning loudly and touching myself everywhere. I announce how horny I am. I say filthy things. But I don’t touch my pussy until I’ve worked myself up so that I know it will only take a few minutes. I’m slick and wet when I spread my legs and slide one of the dildos inside myself. For good measure I tuck one of the other dildos between my breasts, which are still held in place by the corset. John has an underwear fetish, and loves me to keep garments on as much as I can, even if I don’t reveal any nipple that way.

I shove the dildo back and forth, and when I can feel that it’s almost, almost time, I get up on all fours in front of the camera. I stand the replica of John’s cock upright and reach back with my other hand to stroke my clit. “Cum for me,” I breathe. “I want you to cum in my mouth. Give me your hot, creamy load!”

I’m embarrassed by my own words, but I’m too worked up to care. With the replica dildo in my mouth, I rub myself until I explode with all the pent up lust I’ve been fighting to hold back all day.

By the time I send the clip to John, it’s almost four in the afternoon in St. Louis. In a couple of hours he will be back at the hotel, eager to watch my performance while I’m at home sleeping. Tomorrow morning there’ll be an e-mail for me, where he tells me how turned on he was, and how he wanked his big hard cock as he imagined spilling his seed in my mouth.

I love that, of course I do. I love it that my husband and I have hotter sex now than we did on our honeymoon. But the real thrill, and this is the really bad thing, the thing that John must never know, is that the biggest excitement is the illicit thrill of knowing that my secret admirer is out there watching. It’s a terrible thing, but that’s how it is, and I don’t know what to do about it. I am a slave to my desires. I perform for my husband, but what gets me really turned on is the thought of my secret admirer, outside, looking in through the window. “Cum for me,” I breathe, and afterwards I feel really embarrassed at the thought of both John and this young man fantasising about ejaculating in my mouth.

Because I’m not that kind of woman. At least I thought I wasn’t.

My secret admirer has cum for me. I know, because in the morning I find the customary condom outside, tied in a knot and containing his sperm. It’s disgusting, but he’s young enough to be immature, and in its way the gesture is kind of sweet. But as I dump the thing in the bin, it makes me think, as I have done of late, that there must be a better way of communicating.

There is, of course, but my mind still isn’t made up. It feels too dangerous. It would be an escalation, with no guarantee that things wouldn’t get out of hand. I don’t want them to get out of hand, but the idea just won’t go away.

At work I take a moment to take my old mobile phone out of my bag and look at it. It has a bit of age, but that hardly matters. I’ve had it there for a month now, thinking that I can take the plunge if I want to. Taking one small step doesn’t mean I have to take the next one. Except that I know that one small step inevitably leads to another.

I have a new phone, so why do I cling to this old one? Why do I put myself in temptation’s way? I should just throw the thing out instead. After all, the battery’s practically run down. I think about this evening, that I could spend money on a new outfit instead, one that will really blow John’s mind. And my secret admirer’s, even though I don’t know what kind of thing he likes on a woman.

After work I drive to a shopping centre, thinking that I really will throw my old phone out. I’ll buy a new outfit and perform for John. I will perform for my secret admirer for as long as it amuses him, and when it doesn’t, well so be it. He’s young, after all. He’ll find someone his own age. She’ll be everything to him, and I’ll be of no further interest.

The hurt overwhelms me. I feel insanely jealous of some young girl who doesn’t even exist yet; who I will never know, but who will steal my secret admirer away from me, cause him to discard me. And why should I feel jealous when I’ll still have my wonderful, loving husband?

I know I’m being silly, because it must happen that way, but I can’t fight the feelings. I depend on my secret admirer. It’s the knowledge that he’s there that makes me perform the way I do. If I stop performing so well, maybe John will succumb to other temptations on his travels. I don’t really believe he will. John is good and faithful, but these things happen; the fear is there.

I come out of the shopping centre with a new battery in my old phone and a pay-as-you-go package. “You’re lucky we still have batteries for this old model,” the shopkeeper said to me. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to invest in a newer model?”

Hoping fervently that the newer model I already have won’t go off, I said, “Oh, I’m sure this old thing will satisfy my needs a while longer,” then go hot all over thinking how my old phone might be a way of satisfying certain other needs.

Exactly how, I’m not sure. In fact I’m not even sure what needs I’m trying to satisfy. After all, it’s not as if things can progress much further. I don’t want to cheat on John; not physically with another man. Back in the car I think how stupid I’ve been. I’ve wasted money in taking a step that has to be the last.

But one step always leads to another. Besides, I hate wasting money. I tell myself that it’s this last thing that finally solves my agony of indecision. One minute I feel I can’t possibly take another step, the next I’m halfway there.

And one step always leads to another. Shortly before I prepare for the evening’s performance, I scribble my new number on a slip of paper and sellotape it to the outside of the bedroom window. Back inside, I regret it almost instantly, but don’t go out to remove the slip of paper, telling myself it’s because I’m afraid I’ll encounter my secret admirer. His place is outside and mine inside.

It’s stupid and ridiculous because if I really wanted to talk to him, I could do it through the cracked open window when the camera’s off. I’m neither stupid nor ridiculous, but for some reason I can’t stop myself from doing what I’m doing. I’m a bundle of nerves as I perform, but I cum hard.

The next morning there’s a text message from my beloved husband. He tells me it was a sensational performance, that I was on fire, that I’ve seldom looked hotter. I blush and feel terrible, knowing that my performance owes everything to the thrill of being watched by my secret admirer, and knowing that he now has my phone number – one of them.

I should throw the phone away, or at least never switch it on. But one step leads to another. Every day I switch the phone on when I get in my car after work, and don’t switch it off until I turn out the lights at home to go to sleep. I feel both disappointed and relieved that it doesn’t ring. I know that my secret admirer watches me, because I find his little “gift” in the morning, and the next morning.

Then John is home for a week and I keep my secret phone off permanently. I’m taken upside down and back to front, and I love it. I mean, I love having John home full stop. I don’t want you to think I’m a total sex maniac. I love married life. I love the conversations and the evening walks and the meals out and the comforting presence of the man I love.

And yet the moment he leaves to get the plane to Seattle, where he’ll be for a week, I feel that thrill. While John’s away I will perform for him every evening, and perform for my secret admirer at the same time. It’s naughty of me, wicked of me. I tell myself I’m not that kind of woman, but by now that sounds so hollow I hardly know why I bother trying to convince myself of that.

As soon as I can, I switch my secret phone on. There have been no calls, no text messages. I’m disappointed and relieved. After all, if my secret admirer doesn’t call, it saves the risk of things getting complicated. It almost feels as if he’s saving me from myself.

He watches, I know he does, because he continues to leave those little “parcels” for me to find in the morning. Perhaps that’s why I’ve given him my number, because it would be better if he communicated with me with words instead of these faintly disgusting tokens.

It happens on the Wednesday, after I’ve performed. I’m just about to switch the phone off before turning out the light, when it rings. I’m actually holding it in my hand. My heart starts beating twice as hard and my mind goes blank. I drop the phone on the bed, letting it ring. I shouldn’t answer. But if I’m not prepared to answer, why have I given my secret admirer the number at all?

I pick the phone up and my finger pushes the button. “Hello?”

“Hello?” He sounds as nervous as I feel. His voice trembles slightly. It’s neither deep nor high. My secret admirer may look like a thug, but he doesn’t sound like one.

My nerve fails me. I don’t know what to say. I just lay there, in bed, under the covers, unable to speak.

My secret admirer clears his throat. “I’m calling to… I wanted to say, I’m sorry I couldn’t come tonight.”

I know what he means, but the unintentional double entendre cuts through my nervousness and I give a little giggle.

“I didn’t mean… I mean…” My secret admirer sounds embarrassed. “Something came up.”

This time I can’t help myself. “Something came up, but you couldn't come,” I giggle.

There’s silence on the line. I feel bad. I sense that he’s every bit as nervous as I am.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “I didn’t mean to… It was very considerate of you to call and let me know.”

There’s a renewed silence, as if the young man doesn’t know what to say. “Perhaps I should have called beforehand,” he suggests at last.

“No,” I say sharply, perhaps a little too sharply. “What I mean is…” I take the plunge, I have to. “I like imagining that you’re there… even if you aren’t.” The awful truth, that I’ve known for some time, but which perhaps only now hits me with its fullest force, is that I wouldn’t perform anywhere near as well if I knew he wasn’t there.

“I’m glad,” the man says.

By now it’s clear to me that he’s nowhere near the thug he looked when he stood there, just inside the French windows that one time. He sounds normal. It’s comforting. The thrill of having him on the line, of hearing his voice, asserts itself. My body starts to tingle. I know I shouldn’t, but I say. “Do you think of me when you’re not… watching?”

“I think about you all the time.”

This is forward, and dangerous. “And what do you think when you think about me?”

There’s a pause. It lasts so long I wonder if he’s hung up, even though I know he hasn’t. “I think about touching you.”

He sounds so nervous even though his answer is so innocuous. He might have said anything. I blush thinking about the times I’ve urged, “Cum in my mouth! Cum for me!” Perhaps it’s his apparent innocence that makes me say, “That sounds nice. Is there anything else you think about doing?”

“I think about kissing you.”

“No!” I exclaim spontaneously. “Only Jo… Only my husband may kiss me.” As If I’d actually let my secret admirer do anything at all.

There’s silence. I can sense the man withdrawing into himself.

“On the mouth,” I clarify, though really this wasn’t what I’d meant at all.

This seems to calm the young man, though he still sounds very nervous and tense. “I think about kissing you on the neck,” he says.

“The neck’s good,” I say. I can hear him breathing nervously and imagine his hot breath on my neck. Beneath the sheets my sensitive breasts respond, my nipples harden. “Is there anywhere else you think of kissing me?”

“I think of kissing your arms,” he says.

“Mmmmm.” My body refuses to help my head, responding with goose bumps. This is becoming harder to resist by the minute. “I like the sound of that. Where else do you think of kissing me?”

There’s a long pause before he says, “I’d like to kiss your feet.”

I almost burst out laughing. Either he’s a foot fetishist or he’s about to run through my entire anatomy working up the courage to get to the really sensitive parts. What next? Elbow? Knee cap? Shoulder blade? I make my voice as seductive as possible, and by now I’ve had lots of practice. “Would you like to kiss my stomach?”

There’s a sharp intake of breath. “Of course!”

“Mmmmm! I like the thought of you kissing my stomach.”

“I like the thought of kissing it.” His voice still sounds nervous, tense, strained.

“Maybe I like the thought of it so much that I’d like you to be more daring.”

There’s silence, save for breathing. Heavy breathing.

“Maybe you should put your hand on my thigh as you kiss my stomach.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath. “If you’d like me to.”

I giggle. I’ve not long since experienced a heaving climax, and here I am getting all hot and bothered again. “Of course I would! Rest your hand on my thigh and kiss your way up from my stomach.”

There’s pure excitement in his breathing, and it triggers an irrepressible response in me as he says, “How far up?”

I giggle. “As far up as you like.”

“You want me to kiss your breasts?” His voices echoes with disbelief.

“Of course I do! I’d love to feel your lips on my breasts. They’re very sensitive.”

It sounds as if he’s got something stuck in his throat. “I’d love to kiss your breasts,” he says.

My nipples strain. My body’s all awash with illicit desire, with feelings for my nameless admirer that I know I shouldn’t have. But I still can’t stop myself. “Tell me,” I urge him. “Tell me how you want to kiss my breasts and slide your tongue across my hard nipples.”

“I want to so much,” he breathes.

“What is it you want?” I ask. “Do you want to suck on my nipples and maybe slide your hand a little further up my thigh?”

It sounds as if he’s crying, as if my secret admirer is sobbing into the phone. It takes me a moment to realise what’s happening, and when I do I give him a little while before I giggle, “Did you just cum for me?”

He sounds unhappy when he replies, “I’m sorry.

I just…”

“It’s alright,” I soothe. “I’m flattered that just the thought of kissing my breasts turns you on so.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

I can’t have him keep apologising like this. “Do you do that often? Cum when you think of me?”

There’s a long pause. “Yes,” he says finally. He sounds embarrassed.

“I like that,” I reassure him. “I like it that you think of me like that.”

“You’re amazing,” he says.

“Thank you. Now, can I expect you tomorrow evening?”

“Yes,” he says. “I’ll come tomorrow evening.”

I don’t know if he realises the connotation of what he’s just said, but I giggle and say, “Yes, you will cum tomorrow. I’ll make sure of that.”

“You’re amazing,” he says again.

“Enough of that,” I say. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he says. I sense something more coming. “And thank you.”

“The pleasure was all mine.”

I switch the phone off and the light out, but have trouble getting to sleep. I could work myself to a new climax, but I’m afraid of what I’ll fantasize about, since I know it won’t be John.

What have I done? What have I said? What did I mean by it? What have I lead my secret admirer to believe, to expect? I dread to think, but I can’t stop the excitement from scuttling up and down my body. Obviously I enjoy a bit of innuendo-laden flirting with John, but it took until a good few months into our relationship to get there. Now, here I am, a married woman, saying naughty things to a young man I know nothing about.

Though I don’t get much sleep, I’m wide awake the next day. I’m running on pure adrenalin, and I know it.

You know that old joke about men, that I too have been known to share with friends; that they think with that thing between their legs? Well be careful what you joke about, I can now say in all seriousness. My head keeps telling me that this is wrong and dangerous. I’m a married woman, and I’m getting in deep with someone I don’t even know if I can trust. But my head is being overruled by the sensation between my thighs. Work is hell as all I want to think about is how I intend to perform this evening. Whenever I get up from a chair I’m afraid that I’m leaving behind a highly visible damp splodge.

After work I go shopping. I buy the clothes I might have bought yesterday. I find a thigh length red dress that buttons down the front. I go for red underwear too, except for a pair of black, crotchless tights with a lattice pattern. All the while I’m on edge, having received a text from my secret admirer the moment I switched on my secret phone. “Looking forward to watching you.”

I can’t resist replying. “Performance starts at nine, in the bedroom.”

I don’t need to tell him that. It’s the normal routine, unless I’ve managed to convey something different, but I want to give him a sign that I’m as excited by this as he is, as if he doesn’t know.

It’s useless trying to do anything useful at home. It feels as if my entire life revolves around my coming performance. I change into my new clothes at once. The bra fits tight and forces my breasts to reach new heights of voluptuousness, even though I’m not exactly challenged in that department to begin with. The knickers fit tight enough to reveal the minutest detail of the shape of my vulva.

When I add the tights, the dress and a pair of high heels… If I was a man, I’d want to fuck me. The thought sends a new rush of heat through me as I regard myself in the mirror. This is, after all, the effect I wanted. I want to make my secret admirer want to fuck me, as if he doesn’t already. Tonight’s performance will be for him, inspired by him.

Oh dear, this sounds very bad, doesn’t it? I’m a married woman, and I don’t want to cheat on John. Yet here I am, dressing to make my secret admirer want to fuck me. But then, John, with his clothing and underwear fetish will love what I have in mind, so it’s all good, isn’t it?

No. It’s bad, it’s wrong, and I can’t help myself.

With time on my hands, I do a spot of detective work. Armed with my secret admirer’s telephone number, I’m almost surprised that finding out his identity is no trouble whatsoever. I discover that his name’s Mark, which feels reassuringly solid and stable and dependable. It certainly doesn’t sound thuggish. The only trouble is that whereas I used to think of him as Algernon, because I could never get physical with a man called Algernon, I’d have no trouble at all giving myself to a man whose name is Mark.

This is how it is. One step leads to another more dangerous step. Knowing my secret admirer’s name is Mark inches me closer to doing something I mustn’t do.

A few mouse clicks later and I begin to discover all kinds of things about my secret admirer. He’s heavily into music, as young men of his age sometimes are, and a big fan of the local football club. More importantly perhaps, he has a job; a proper job, which reflects well on him.

To my surprise, most of his online friends appear to be young women, of roughly his age. Some of them are very pretty. I feel flattered. Not that I look bad. Nor am I old – I’ve just turned 30. But these girls are definitely younger and prettier, some of them, and yet rather than spend time with them, assuming they live round here, he chooses to stand outside my window watching me perform. The thought scares me a little. Not because I find him creepy in any way, but because every new thing I learn about him makes me like him a little more.

I keep the laptop on and move it into the bedroom. I stand it on the foot of the bed as I always do, but angle it slightly. I take a chair and test the position, until I find the right camera angle in relation to the chair. I take a purple dildo out of the drawer and place it on the bed. Finally I make sure that the window’s ajar. That’s all the preparation I need, and it’s still only eight o’clock.

At a loose end, I check myself out in the mirror again. I look good enough to fuck, and my pussy tingles at the thought.

The next hour passes at a snail’s pace. I have no inclination to do anything but consider my upcoming performance. Though it’s designed for and inspired by the man I now know as Mark, it satisfies my initial purpose for performing like this. I don’t want John straying, going to some strip club or worse over there in Seattle. And so I endeavour to be the kind of woman I’m afraid might tempt him…

Oh, I trust John, but these things happen, as I know only too well given my own behaviour of late.

At last, nine o’clock rolls around. I enter the bedroom punctually, going over to the laptop and initiating the recording. At first all that can be seen of me is a mass of red. As I back up, my nylons come into view, then gradually more of me, until I sit down on the chair and can see myself from head to toe on the screen.

I look at the camera, feeling Mark’s presence outside, but well aware that I must avoid looking at the window at all costs. “Good evening,” I say, sliding fingertips over black, latticed nylon. “I hope you like the look of me. I hope you’re satisfied with my appearance.”

There’s no doubt in my mind that John will be hugely turned on, and he hasn’t even seen my underwear yet. After all, I know what he likes. I also do my best to act the kind of woman I’m afraid he might stray with while he’s abroad, if he ever did. I have an idea that there are places where women sit, just like this, lined up, doing their best to arouse men’s interest. I don’t want to be too vulgar about this, but every man loves a good slut, don’t they? That’s why I continue to tease nylon just below the hem of the dress and say, “I want to satisfy you. Your satisfaction is my pleasure.”

I frown inwardly, but outwardly I smile at the camera. I still don’t think I’m good with the dirty talk. Fortunately I have my inspiration outside the window. I stare into the camera and recall hearing Mark ejaculate over the phone. It brings a huge smile to my face, and I’m shocked to see how brothel-worthy I look, as if my job is to be an object of desire and to provide satisfaction.

“Do you want to touch me?” I ask, sliding a full hand across the nylon. “I’d like it if you were to touch me. Just the thought makes me go all gooey inside.” I’m only too well aware that I have Mark in mind as I speak, though I stare at the camera. I feel clammy between my thighs. I wonder if my secret admirer has his cock out yet. I imagine he has.

I slide my hand up and down the nylon, imagining it’s Mark touching me. I don’t know how to explain to myself that I’m thinking of a man other than my husband, but I’m already beyond such concerns. “Touch me, kiss me,” I say. I hear the yearning in my voice, the words slipping out as more of a moan than anything.

One hand still on my leg, I touch my neck with my other hand. “Kiss me there,” I breathe, pointing. “Make me want you!” Remembering that I’m supposed to be doing this for John, I add, “Make me want you more than I ever have before.”

Stroking my leg, I run the other hand down an arm. “Kiss me,” I murmur. “Kiss my neck and my arms. Push your lips against my skin.” It occurs to me that I’ve never actually seen Mark’s mouth, but in my mind I know it’s the most kissable mouth there is. Apart from John’s, of course. “Kiss me,” I murmur again. “Let your kisses drive me wild with desire.”

I’d like to say more, to be able to put words to the way my body is feeling, but I’m defeated. I point to a spot on the nylon and giggle. “Would you like to kiss me there? I’d like it if you kissed me there.”

I stroke the nylon some more and let out a long moan. The moan says more than words, after all. “Where else would you like to touch me? Where else would you like to kiss me?”

I stare into the camera for the benefit of my husband, sliding my tongue across my lips. In my head I hear Mark’s voice, nervous and tense and remember yesterday’s exchange. I imagine him outside and hear myself purr slightly. “Would you like to kiss my stomach?” I giggle. “I’d like it if you kissed my stomach.”

One hand rests on latticed nylon as the fingers on the other fiddle with the bottom button of the dress. Slowly I work my way up, undoing enough buttons to finally reveal my stomach. As I work, the dress comes apart. I keep my legs crossed, but on the screen I can see how I’m giving a glimpse of crotchless tights and red knickers. I circle my belly-button with a fingertip. “Would you like to touch me there?” I coo. “Would you like to kiss me there?”

Then I point to a spot where black nylon gives way to naked flesh. “Or would you like to kiss me there?” I giggle. “You can touch and kiss me wherever you like. I won’t say no.”

I redden as I realise that I’ve just more or less offered myself to Mark, even though I’m staring at the camera for the benefit of my husband. If Mark takes it literally where he’s standing, outside the window, holding his erection, then I’m in trouble. Because I don’t want to cheat on John, do I?

But in my head I can hear the sound of Mark ejaculating. I hope he isn’t doing so already, but given last night’s phone conversation, I at least know what he likes. “Do you want to kiss me there?” I breathe, pointing at my belly-button, “or there,” pointing at my thigh. I giggle, then say seductively, “Or would you rather touch my breasts?”

I bring my hands up to cup my boobs, giving a little squeeze. They’re already pushed together by the bra, though that fact is still hidden by the dress. “Ooooh!” I moan. “Do you want to touch my big, ripe, aching, sensitive breasts?” They are sensitive. The nipples swell as pleasure radiates out through my body.

I giggle again. “Do you want to know a secret?” I ask. “If you touch my breasts, I won’t be able to control myself.” It’s no secret to John, of course, that I am very susceptible to mammary stimulation, but he’ll take it as all part of the roleplay.

Slowly I undo the rest of the buttons, working my way upwards. I open the dress up to reveal my new bra, which squeezes and pushes my breasts into shapes I’d consider unnatural if I saw them in advertising. “Do you like what you see?” I say, looking at myself on the screen, and thinking that a man would have to be dead not to adore my cleavage, and the highly visible outline of nipple.

I run my fingers over my breasts, giving a long, drawn-out moan as I do so. “Mmmmm,” I purr, cupping them. “Just the thought of you touching my breasts makes me so horny.” I giggle. “Would you like to kiss them?” My fingers find the swell of nipple and I pinch them through the fabric. “Would you like to suck on my big, hard, swollen nipples? They’re aching for you?”

Remembering Mark’s spontaneous combustion at the thought of my breasts, I decide not to remove my bra. In any case, John, being such an underwear fetishist, he’ll love it if I keep the bra on. Sometimes I think it’s a shame to spend so much money on fuck-me clothes if you don’t keep them on.

I slide my hands back down my body, stretching as I moan out loud. “Ooooh, touch me all over! Kiss me all over my body!” I begin pointing to random spots; stomach, ribcage, thigh, knee. “Touch me there! Kiss me there!”

Then I giggle again. I don’t want Mark to cum too soon, but the thought of him renders me unable to help myself. I run my hands back up to my boobs and fondle them. “Touch my breasts!” I beg. “Kiss them, lick them, suck on them!” I concentrate hard on focusing on the camera. “Make me unable to control myself.” I giggle. “If you’re very good to me, I might let you do something special.” I moan out loud as I finger my nipples through the fabric. “Imagine it. Your big, hard, swollen cock between my soft, yearning breasts.”

I only hope this hasn’t got Mark overexcited. I imagine him outside, holding his cock, wanking as he watches me. Waves of lust wash over me. I run my hands back down my body. “Touch me! Kiss me!” I urge. “Lick me all over!”

Where did that last line come from? A song? I don’t know. All I know is that I’m too horny to draw this out much longer. My hands end up on the outsides of my thighs, on the latticed nylon. I uncross my legs slowly and part them, watching as every detail of the shape of my vulva is revealed, albeit through the deep red of my knickers. I moan as I slide my hands round to my inner thighs. “Touch me there!” I breathe. “Kiss me there!”

I smile at the camera, seeing the face of a wanton, brothel-worthy hussy. I move a hand, placing a finger on the red fabric where it covers my labia. “Kiss me there!” I say.

Mark’s outside. A few yards away, watching, is someone who would do exactly as I say, if I really wanted him to. For now I must concentrate on the recording. And concentrate on not getting so carried away that I really do end up cheating on John.

My hands end up on my breasts again, squeezing hard as I look at myself, at the patch of damp that slowly darkens the red of my panties. “Kiss me!” I urge. “Kiss me wherever you like!” I pinch my nipples and feel urgent need sprint down my body. My hands move to my thighs, pointing to where nylon gives way to flesh. “Touch me there! Kiss me there!”

I imagine Mark, climbing in through the window, swollen cock in hand, and realise that restraint is vanishing fast. I grab hold of the knickers and pull, so that the fabric ends up between my labia. Puffy pussy lips for my secret admirer to look at, with the added bonus that John loves this kind of thing. I pull on the panties and place a finger on the flesh that spills out over them. “Kiss me there!” I urge. “Kiss me right there!”

My hands move back up my body to fondle my breasts, but by now I’m lost. “Touch me, kiss me!” I breathe. “Kiss me all over! Kiss my breasts, my arms, my neck, my thighs.” I move a hand back down, once again touching my pussy lips. “Kiss me right there!” I say, staring into the camera, lust dripping from my eyes. “I want you so bad,” I say, wishing I dared look at the window. “I can’t wait any longer! I want you to fuck me, M… My love!” I almost gave myself away there. I need to focus, but I can hardly think.

It’s but one step to the bed. I lay on my back, adjusting the screen with my feet. I spread my legs, pulling the panties to one side, offering a full view. John will like it that I’ve left all the clothes on, but it’s Mark I’m thinking of as I point to my labia and breathe, “Kiss me there!”

Juices are dribbling out of me as I grab hold of the dildo. I draw the head against my labia a couple of times. “I want it so bad,” I moan. “I want you to fill me with your big hard cock!”

And then I’m filling myself with the dildo. This is not a time to be gentle with myself. I push hard, work the dildo swiftly inside myself. It stretches me as I plunge it into my depths, which is just the way I like it. I push harder, faster. “Fuck me!” I moan. “Fuck me!”

Those two words seem to be the only ones left as I ram the fake cock into myself, hearing my juices as my pussy sucks the dildo into itself, feeling them ooze out of me onto the bed sheets. “Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!” Pitch and volume increase along with my arousal, along with the production of secretion. “Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!” My body’s moving, but I don’t see it, and I don’t care. My eyes are closed. I have to, so that I don’t look at the window. I imagine Mark out there, wanking frantically as he watches me with my legs spread, shoving the dildo into myself, my body writhing on the bed. “Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!”

I’m screaming out loud. “Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuckmeeeeei’mcumming! I’m cumming! I’m cumming! I’m cumming!”

I tighten and cum hard, everything but the explosions inside vanishing, before I return to the slightest slither of normality. I sit up and look straight into the camera. “That concludes this evening’s performance,” I say. “I hope I provided satisfaction.” I blow the camera a kiss and stop the recording.

I don’t know why, but I have to see Mark, if he’s still there. My legs are shaky, but I make it across to the window and open it wide. He is standing there, in his hoodie, though his eyes, which are all I can see of his face, look less menacing tonight.

More surprising is that a huge, condom-clad erection is pointing over the edge of his sweatpants. He hasn’t ejaculated yet.

Obviously my eyes betray my surprise, because he says, in that nervous voice of his, “You didn’t ask me to cum for you.”

I almost burst out laughing, it’s so absurd, but it’s sweet too, and I don’t want to embarrass him. On instinct I reach out over the window ledge and make a grab for his hard cock. As my fingers close round the shaft, he gives what sounds like a sob. Then he’s twitching in my hand. Pulses of sperm are jetting out into the protection he strictly speaking doesn’t need. It’s dirty and illicit, and for the few seconds it lasts, utterly enthralling.

“I’m sorry,” Mark gasps.

“Don’t be,” I reply, moving my hand away from his shaft.

He begins to stutter. “I have to… be… go…”

“It’s alright,” I say. Then I indicate the condom. “Let me take care of that for you.”

And suddenly I’m left with a sheath full of male ejaculate, wondering exactly which compartment it should go in for recycling purposes, then feeling immensely stupid for thinking such a thing.

Having dealt with the rubber, I sit on the bed and write a short e-mail to John, telling him about my day, but thinking guiltily that most of it has been spent thinking of Mark. I attach the latest video and press send.

The next morning there’s a text message for me. “Will you be wearing that outfit when I return home?”

I text back, “If my darling husband promises to ravish me at once, then of course I will.”

But I can’t stop thinking of Mark, and of what happened last night. Another small step. I shouldn’t keep taking these small steps, I should put a stop to them, but I don’t think I can.

Where will it all end?