I stopped at the corner of Churchill Road and Stirling Avenue. Heavy snow was falling and settling on the ground. The old Seaman’s hall clock strikes eight in the distance, it’s chime carrying on the still of the night, across the town.

As I pass the Black Sails pub, a rousing chorus of ‘I’m forever blowing bubbles’ spills out into the street. Through the orange glow the of misted-up windows, I can see Archie in the centre of a small mob of people, glass raised, bellowing at the top of his lungs.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s Zoe.

Zoe: Hi.

Me: Are you ok?

Zoe: Yes

Me: Regrets?

Zoe: No.

If he knew, he would kill me, but I can’t help but enjoy the moment. I have nothing against him personally, I just saw an opportunity and went for it. I feel no guilt at all. I can still smell her on my skin, on my fingers, taste her in my mouth. He may be the main man in the area, feared for his aggressive reputation, but I gave his wife something that he couldn’t.

Zoe: I’ve had a shower and have gone to bed before Alfie comes home.

Me: He’s in the Black Sails.

Zoe: Have you seen him?

Me: I’m staring at him right now.

I stood outside the front door of number fifteen Greenfinch Lane and rang the doorbell. The hallway light illuminated the tiny square panels in the door before it opened. She was wearing a striped pink and white bathrobe and her hair was tied up in a light blue towel. The scent of lavender filled the room, growing stronger as it infused with the cold night air. She didn’t say a word, but her expression was one of confused approval as if she had been half expecting me.

“I was passing and thought I’d take you up on your offer.” The line was rehearsed, and I almost blew it.

“Okay,” she giggled, “I guess you’d better come in then.” The house was warm and inviting, I could hear the sounds of the football match coming from another room.

“I didn’t take you as a Hammers fan,” I joked.

“I’m not; it just got left on,” she said, walking me through to the front room, “Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee please,” I replied, watching her disappear into the small kitchen. The room was comfortable with a huge television dominating one corner, showing me that the first half of the match was coming to an end.

Photographs of Zoe, Archie and various family members were dotted around the walls and side tables. On the wall above the television was a black and white framed photo of Archie. His arms flexed either side of his head, his fists clenched as he displayed the medals that hung around his neck. Those medals now hung over the corners of the picture frame. A newspaper cutting in the bottom corner, reporting his latest triumph, was pressed against the glass. I never saw him fight in the ring, but I have seen his temper after he’s had a few pints.

The half time whistle sounded on the tv, making me check the time on my phone. I quickly estimated that if Archie didn’t go for a post-match pint, I had about an hour and a half before he came home.

When I joined Zoe in the kitchen, she was standing at the kitchen sink with her back to me. She looked up at my reflection mirrored in the window against the blackness of the night outside. I reached out to touch her, feeling the soft towelling of the bathrobe on her shoulders.

“I’m married, Joey,” she whispered, as I, too, looked at our impressions in the black mirror, my hand moved down, tugging at the loose belt around her waist.

“I can’t. I’m married.” I looked out into the darkness as her robe parted, freeing her naked left breast. “Please Joey.” The palm of my hand brushed against the soft tip of her erect nipple, my middle finger circling the pimpled areola.

“This is so wrong; we shouldn't be doing this.” Her fingers remained tightly fixed to the draining board not moving a muscle, and although these words came from her mouth, she hadn’t said the most important one, ‘No’, and she certainly hadn’t made any move to stop me.

With my left hand on her breast, I began to unzip the fly of my jeans with my right. The sudden sharp burr of the metal teeth parting made her shiver and straighten her back. She knew exactly what I was doing, and I was giving her ample time to react, to move, anything to signal to me that she didn’t want this to happen. Instead she remained, continuing to look out into the blackness of the night.

“If you want me to go, I will.”

“I have a husband. This is our home,” she replied, avoiding the question.

“Do you want me to leave?” I pressed, placing my hand on hers and moving it behind her back, “Do you?” I removed my hand and waited. My cock ached inside the confines of my tight blue jeans. I had asked all the questions and it was now down to her to decide.

A loud cheer sounded from the front room which I took to mean that West Ham had just scored. I felt the light touch of her fingertips, tentatively feeling their way over the bulge in my jeans. My hand rested on her bottom, lifting the bathrobe. For the first time, she reacted, turning her face towards me.

“Not here,” she said, shaking her head. Taking my hand, she led me along the hallway, past the door to the front room, and up the stairs.

The bedroom was small and crowded, barely enough room to walk around the large double bed that dominated the floor space. Edging herself to the window, she closed the curtains, shutting out both the night and potential spies.

“You know this is crazy don’t you,” she said, turning to face me. Her bathrobe remained open displaying her half-naked body, from the soft mounds of her hidden breasts, her taut flat stomach down to the thin strip of trimmed pubic hair above her sex.

“What do you want?” I asked, watching her glare across the room at me. Her gaze drawn to the opening in my jeans.

“He’ll kill you, and probably me as well if he finds out,” she countered. I’m not stupid and the thought had crossed my mind on more than one occasion. And she was right of course, this was indeed crazy.

Downstairs I heard the referee blow the final whistle. If my calculations were correct, I guessed that we had about forty-five minutes before Alfie came home. In forty-five minutes time, there had to be distance between me and number fifteen Greenfinch Lane.

“But here you are Joey. That means that you are either stupid or insane. Which one is it?” She placed a hand on my noticeable bulge, rubbing me though the material. There is a look that gives them away. A dreamy, squinting expression through half closed eyes that says everything.

Pushing me down on the bed, she undressed me, taking off my shoes before reaching for the top button of my jeans. I raised my bottom slightly, allowing her to pull my jeans over my hips and drop them down on the floor at her feet. I stared up at her as she gawped down between my legs. That wonderful, ego-inflating moment as they take in what is before them. I often wonder what exactly goes through their minds. Do they mentally compare me to their husband or past boyfriends?

“You’re quite the talk of the town,” she said. Even though we were the only people in the house, she spoke in a low hoarse whisper. “You know how people are around here, Chinese whispers and all that.” Her fingers lightly grazed my skin, barely touching, but I could sense it, slowly drawing an invisible line from my pubic hair along the underside of my erect cock, along the dark brown contour of my shaft, to the swollen, bulbous, purple head. “But I have to say, it’s more impressive than I expected.”

Me: Glad to be of service.

Zoe: Ha ha, you make it sound like a job. You could advertise.

Me: Lol. Put in the paper?

Zoe: Yes!!!! Cock for hire.

Me: Would you hire me again?

There was a pause. I imagined her in bed, probably wearing a pair of pyjamas. Was she already having doubts, regretting what happened, thinking forward to what would happen if Archie ever found out?

Zoe: I would.

She lay below me on the bed, my cock pressed against her opening, touching the soft lips but not entering.

“Yes?” I asked, fully aware that whatever she said or did in the next few seconds determined destiny. She reached out, touching my face and nodded.

“Yes,” her whispered reply, barely audible. I pushed my hips forward, breaking through the stubborn resistance with a silent pop. The colour of her face changed from a delicate pale white to blushed pink. Her eyes were wide open, staring up at me, as she blew out her cheeks, panting almost like she was in labour.

She was tight, much tighter than I had expected. Tighter than anyone that I had experienced. Slowly and softly I pressed deeper, feeling her growing accustomed to my size, until I was suddenly aware that I was gliding inside her, her hips rising to meet me. Only her soft moans and the annoying squeak from the mattress broke the silence.

Me: Which of my services would you require?

Zoe: I’ll leave it up to you.

Me: I’m full of surprises.

Zoe: I don’t doubt it. 

Zoe: How many others are on your list?

Me: It’s growing.

Zoe: Do I know anyone?

Me: Yes.

Zoe: Who?

There is this brief moment I’ve come to recognise and appreciate. It’s just after they’ve cum, their body quivering and pulsating. Something that I cannot explain happens biologically, sending a drug-like stimulant though their veins, changing their personalities and turning their normally logical brains to scrambled egg.

They will do anything, their legs wide open accepting more as they growl at you. Sometimes it’s profanities; I’ve been called everything under the sun, but sometimes it’s different, and that was Zoe. She begged and pleaded with me to fuck her harder. Grabbing me around my neck and grinding herself against me.

My phone is never far from me to record this moment of unguarded passion for prosperity, adding it to my collection as I push them over the edge.

“Fuck me!” she snarled, her hair hanging in a sweat-drenched tangle.

“What do you want?”

“Fuck me!” Her pained voice howled as I slammed my cock deep inside her.

“What’s the biggest cock you’ve had?” I mutter through gritted teeth.

“Mmmm,” she breathed, looking at me and shaking her head, as a curled smirk formed on her lips. She knew the answer and so did I.

“Who?”

“Joey.”

“What?”

“Fuck meeee, Joey.” I watched as her eyes rolled back into her head and her body spasmed as she released me from her clasp, falling back on the bed.

“Do you want me to cum?”

“Mmmmmmm,” she moaned unintelligibly. I’m ready. I can feel the tell-tale prickle on the back of my thighs, spreading to my buttocks. Soon the prickle will turn into a spark, convulsing though my nervous system and semi-paralysing my brain.

Withdrawing from her, I inched my way up her prone body, her erect nipples brushing against my scrotum, creating a wonderfully new and unexpected sensation. She raised her eyes up at me with a look of resigned expectancy as I rub my cock before her. There is only one place to mark an adulterer and she knows it.

“Where?” I ask, pointing my cock directly at her, waiting for permission.

“My face,” she replied, combing her hair back with her fingers. Her tongue reaches out from her open mouth, as if she was expecting to receive the body of Christ. Stifling a cry, the first spit of my cum lands in her hair making her open her eyes.

“What are you?” I sob, shivering as the delicious paralytic sensation almost overcomes me. She doesn’t answer as her features become temporarily distorted to my eyes. When I recover, my cum lies splattered on her eyes, her nose, her mouth. And then it’s over. I wipe the final tear from my cock with my hand, then carefully remove the sticky substance from her eyelids.

“Fuck Joey, have you been storing that up?” She grinned, and I watch her lick her lips, taking me into her mouth, tasting me. “I need a towel, the bathroom is down the hall.” I bounce off the bed and walk naked down the landing. The bathroom door is open straight ahead.

Her clothes lie in a small pile by the laundry basket, black bra and knickers on top of a pair of blue jeans and a peach coloured jumper. I can’t resist picking up her knickers and inhaling her scent. The last remnants of her bath still remain, a small fluffy mound of bubbles cover the plug hole.

Three towels hang over the radiator, two white ones and a claret and blue West Ham one. The choice is as simple as it is devious. I carry the towel back to the bedroom, wiping my cock with it then handing it to her and waiting for her reaction.

“You really do have a death wish don’t you,” she said, wiping my cum from her face and hair. Two things suddenly occur to me. What makes me do these things, unnecessarily inviting trouble. The second is the time. My phone reads 7:54, if my primitive calculations were correct, Alfie would be home at about eight; it was time to make tracks.

Zoe realised this as soon saw me check my phone, and dashed towards the bathroom, brushing past me as I quickly dragged my jeans up my legs. The reality of the situation suddenly hits me, and I’m filled with a dread that rapidly turns to a sickening blind panic. Half-dressed I scramble down the stairs, trying desperately to remember if I bought anything else in with me. I can hear the shower hiss into life upstairs in the bathroom and check my pockets for my phone before heading out.

Me: That secret stays with me.

Zoe: You can’t leave it there.

Me: What do you want to know?

Zoe: I want to know where your cock has been.

Me: Why. 

Me: Do you want more? 

Me: Did it make you cum?

I waited in the cold for an answer, backed up in the shadows against a wall. The snow was starting to fall more heavily, and the curb stones were now invisible, the road and the pavement one perfectly level skim of snow.

Me: ???????

Zoe: Yes.

Me: To which question?

Zoe: Both.

It was exactly what I wanted to hear. I have asked that same question before to a number of women and received the same answer. Over a relatively short space of time, I have managed to amass a small but enthusiastic group of ladies who require my services. Unbeknown to several men in this area, their wives now crave something else, something better.

It’s quite a strange feeling, passing these men on the streets, saying hello to them aware that they are oblivious to what is going on behind their backs, while they are at work, the pub, or the football.

These women have no intention in leaving their husband for me, and neither would I want them to. But there is something unfulfilled lying dormant inside them, and on occasion, I can fill the need. At the end of the day it’s all just harmless fun, isn't it?

Well isn’t it?