Putty In Her Hands Read online

  Putty In Her Hands

  R.J. Butler

  © 2014 R.J. Butler

  Smashwords Edition

  Table of Contents

  Part One

  Part Two

  Note from the Author

  A word of warning:

  This book includes explicit descriptions of sex which may offend.

  PART ONE

  Prologue (June)

  We were in the taxi heading home, three in the morning, feeling worse for wear and incredibly randy. The whole party had seemed randy and on the point of an orgy. People I knew, usually the epitome of respectability, had that look in their eye, circling round the party looking for someone to fuck. A friend of ours, Rebecca, had tried to entice me into the toilet; her blouse already unbuttoned beyond decency, revealing a hint of pink bra, her motivation all too apparent. I had to resist. Her husband wasn’t too far away and this was not really her sort of thing. Nor mine. Something had gotten into her and I knew she would regret it and would make things awkward between us all. Even my wife, Emily, bless her, had lost the power of speech and had a wild and frankly frightening look in her eye. Everyone, bar myself, seemed to be affected. It was time, I decided, to go home.

  In the taxi home, Emily managed to recover the ability to speak and think. Someone had spiked the drinks, she said. I agreed. It wasn’t natural. How are you feeling? she asked. Now that she mentioned it, I was experiencing some movement down my nether regions. But with our taxi driver humming the tune of Take My Breath Away, I merely shrugged my shoulders and said, Ok, I guess. But she knew by the way I looked at her what was really on my mind, and with each passing moment, I felt increasingly horny. Emily spotted the bulge in my trousers. She smiled and looked away as if to watch the world racing pass the window. But with her eyes fixed outside, she gently moved her hand and rested it on my lap. The presence of her hand there sent a shockwave through me, and my cock surged at her touch and I couldn’t help but let slip a slight groan. I tried to cover it up with a cough while the driver fiddled with the knob on his car radio.

  As the music got louder, an anonymous dance track, and the closer we got to home, the more risqué Emily became, unzipping my fly and slipping her hand in. She rubbed the end of my knob through the material of my pants producing a stream of pre-cum that soaked my underwear. I was desperate for her to stop and desperate for her to carry on. My cock was now as stiff as it’s ever been, unnaturally so, I felt – someone had definitely spiked those drinks.

  Thank goodness, the taxi swung into our road. Number twenty-eight, please, I managed to croak, and the car came to an abrupt halt.

  Having paid the driver off, giving him an unnecessarily large tip such was my haste to be shot of him, I staggered back to the house barely able to walk, Emily giggling in my wake. Now we had to face Ruth, our sixteen-year-old babysitter.

  How had things been, we asked her, were the children OK, did they get off to sleep? All this, while I held my coat strategically in front of me, hiding my protrusion. Ruth is a would-be Goth – dyed black hair and a nose stud and even a ring through her lower lip, but polite, shy and good with Lola, our three-year-old daughter and tolerated by Joshua, our ten-year-old son. Having paid her, it was my job to walk Ruth home. Fortunately only a few houses down the street, no more than a two-minute walk, the cold soon put pay to my arousal while Ruth exclaimed about a new Goth band she’d discovered. She walks in that slouchy way that teenagers do and having seen her to her door and thanked her, I found myself walking home in the same manner.

  Then, remembering how horny I’d felt, I picked up speed. Emily would be waiting for me, hopefully playing with herself, getting herself ready. There is nothing quite like drunken sex to chase away every last inhibition. I was almost running by the time I got back home. I rushed in and charged into the living room, throwing off my jacket.

  Shit.

  Lying on the settee, not playing with herself, not moaning in anticipation, was my wife – fast asleep.

  *

  The next morning, I was still dozing when Emily said my name in a tone that I didn’t like, the way she stretched out the ‘n’.

  Robinnn... You would never have an affair, would you?

  What? Me? What made you say that all of a sudden? I was fully awake now. The alarm clock on my bedside table showed half nine. I was amazed Lola hadn’t been up to see us yet. Outside, it was a lovely day; the June sun streaming through the muslin curtains.

  Nothing. Just wondering.

  I’m too lazy to have an affair. All that hassle, I said. The stress; it’d be too much for someone like me.

  I sidled across the warm bed, falling into the Grand Canyon that’s emerged in the middle of our mattress, and slid my arms round her, pressing myself into the contours of her body. She smelt warm. Anyway, I added in a tone that even to me sounded nauseating. With a wife like you, my darling, why would any man stray?

  Robin Collingbourne, you are such a charmer.

  I know, I said with mock self-satisfaction, turning onto my back. But, nonetheless, her question had taken me by surprise and niggled at me. Did she suspect something; had I given her cause to? But I am not. I don’t need to have an affair. I’ve been happily married to Emily for fifteen years and totally faithful; we have two vaguely well-adjusted children and Ginger, my maladjusted cat; and live in a fine town house in a middle-class ghetto of London. If asked are you happy, or at least content, I’d answer in the affirmative. Certainly not the sort of man looking for an affair.

  I felt Emily’s hand crawl down my stomach and slide beneath the elastic of my pyjama bottoms. She smiled a devious smile at me as her fingers wrapped round the base of my cock, which stirred into life. Well, what have we here? she purred. I don’t know what they put in those drinks last night but I’m still feeling so horny. Do you fancy a little…?

  Emily, Lola might come in, I said, conscious of my hardening cock.

  She’ll knock. Anyway, she’ll be watching TV.

  I nodded and grunted, unable to speak. She disappeared beneath the duvet and I held my breath in anticipation. I lifted my ass as she pulled my pyjama bottoms down to my knees. My muscles tightened as I felt her tongue gently lick the head of my knob in little circular motions. My shoulders dropped as a wave of pleasure descended over me. God, you have such a gorgeous cock, I heard her say, her voice muffled by the duvet. Soo big, So fucking hard. I’m such a lucky girl. Her mouth fell onto my cock, greedily devouring me.

  Boy, this is a nice way to wake up. I felt her fingers massage my balls as her tongue ran up and down the underside of my shaft. The duvet moved up and down as her head bobbed with her sucking. After a few seconds, she re-emerged, her hair ruffled and her make-up smudged. In her drunkenness last night, she had gone to bed with it still on. She looked fantastic; the smeared lipstick made her look filthy, like a woman in search of some hard, unforgiving sex.

  She lay on top of me, smelling of morning warmth, while I took my cock and edged it closer to her entrance. We both knew the children were awake, so we couldn’t afford to spend too long on such niceties as foreplay. Go on, she breathed as she lowered herself to the tip of my stiff cock. Stuff it in.

  Slowly, I pushed through her drenched lips. God, you’re wet.

  Take me then. Fucking stuff it in.

  I thrust myself inside her, causing her to squeal as my cock penetrated her gorgeously wet pussy. She fell on me, kissing me hard, urgently. The taste of her lipstick and faint aroma of the previous night’s perfume electrified me, causing me to pump harder still.

  Oh God, yes, she said, sitting up as I thrust, holding onto her hips.

  She was wearing a tee-shirt, a pale yellow one, but no bra which meant that as she jerked up and down in time with
my thrusts, her wonderfully enormous tits bounced round beneath her shirt. I love feeling her tits beneath the thin material and pulling back the shirt to emphasise the shape and size, and the shadow of her erect nipples through the fabric. Slowly, Emily lifted her tee-shirt so I could see the bottom of her breasts but not yet the nipples. The more I thrust, the higher she inched the tee-shirt until finally, her boobs were free and jiggling deliciously right in front of me, these glorious mounds of white titty flesh with their rosy pink, saucer-sized nipples. She leant forward, cupping one breast with which to feed me. I didn’t refuse and sucked hard on her huge nipple, whilst still fucking her, my other hand pressing down on her arse. She moved her breast around in circles, rotating it in my mouth. She pulled away, her nipple wet with my saliva, then fed me the other and we started again. Suck me, she urged. Suck me, fuck me, suck, suck, go on, suck me.

  She sat back up and started rubbing the pink gash between her legs, her hand moving in time with my pumping, her puffy lips wide open. Shit, I think I’m going to cum. I’m so fucking close. Can I? Can I cum?

  Her eyes rolled back. Squeeze my tits, she gasped, as her hand dissolved into a blur as she rubbed her clit yet faster. I felt her clenching her vaginal muscles, her cunt tightening round my cock. I cupped her breasts and with a finger played with her nipples. Yes, that’s it. I’m coming. Oh, God.

  I watched with mounting excitement as she leant back, fully exposing her cunt to me, grinding her pelvis hard as I played with her tits. Her eyes glazed over as she came. Yes, yes, I’m coming.

  Unable to contain myself, I pulled her forward and sucked hard on her nipples, and frantically banged her, my cock drilling her dripping cunt with ardent thrusts, until I came from beneath her, huge, hot gushes of cum spurting into her warm pussy in torrents.

  We lay in bed, speechless, enjoying the glow of morning sex, happy that the children hadn’t disturbed us.

  That was nice, said Emily, still breathless.

  We ought to get up, I said. It’s a lovely day out there.

  And so, we started our day. But throughout it, I was still troubled by the thought that my wife might think I was having an affair. I’m not that sort of man. But that was last June; six months ago, an invariable lifetime. Two weeks later I met Dawn.

  I work in a Human Resources department in a corporate hellhole and one fine day she flounced in as our new temp. I hardly spoke to her, actively made a point not to; I had no need work-wise and was frankly too in awe of her looks. But slowly, very slowly, I became besotted. For starters she’s beautiful. An overused word, perhaps, in a world where beauty is easily obtainable at the right price and is almost a prerequisite for success but really – she is. Slim and elegant with olive, flawless skin, and flowing dark hair, American teeth, the works. She has a lovely voice – slightly husky, a little deep but still totally feminine. And at almost a decade younger than me she’s not too old and, more importantly, not too young. She can remember Boy George and Duran Duran. Even Haircut 100.

  So, in short, she’s gorgeous. But, and I’ll say this again, I’m not the sort of man looking for an affair. Far too lazy.

  Wednesday, 5th December

  I’ve decided to keep a diary. I’m not sure why when to write a secret diary is to scream into the wilderness. And a strange date to start, perhaps, so near to the end of the year, so why not just postpone it for three weeks to the New Year, like any other sensible diarist? It’s because today – tonight, something’s going to happen between Dawn and me. I can feel it. It’s been building up over weeks, possibly months, and tonight is our department’s Christmas meal where somehow the culmination of my charm offensive and outright flirting will explode with the release of pent-up passion or implode with a lawsuit for sexual harassment. Or, most likely, I’ll bottle it and nothing will happen at all.

  It’s 10 a.m. I sit at my desk, partly hidden within my cubicle, whirling around on my revolving chair, writing my diary onto my computer, hand on mouse, ready to pounce on the exit key in case my boss, Heather, should wander by. Hidden behind the diary, another document – the one I should be concentrating on, a fifteen-page updated policy on whistleblowing in the workplace. Fifteen pages of tedium.

  The Human Resources department I work in is on a huge floor in a high-rise office block where I sit at a small desk, identical to hundreds of others around me, working to the continuous sound of hushed voices, telephones ringing and fingers clattering on keyboards. No one wants to be here but boy we all take it so seriously. I can’t imagine anyone jumping up at the age of 16, shouting, I know – I want to work in HR! It just wouldn’t happen. And yet here we all are as if it’s our life’s destiny.

  But it’s through this job I met the wondrous Dawn. And what a breath of fresh air she is. She only works on a casual basis, which means she’s only in occasionally, gets paid a pittance and could be dropped at a moment’s notice. Her job here is routine, repetitive and dull. No different to mine then. Only, after eighteen years, I get paid moderately well for it. Slowly, over the months, I began talking to her. A casual exchange here, a passing sentence or two there, deliberately building it up. To my surprise I found her engaging to talk to, and we built up a lively banter.

  A month ago the office socialites began organising our Christmas meal. Nothing spectacular and every year I go with the faint hope of enjoying myself and come backed dulled by insipid food, inane chatter and the sense that another year’s slipped by. This year I keenly put my name down in the hope Dawn would be there. But she had a prior engagement – a party with e-list celebrities and photographers, a prospect slightly more engaging than our dire efforts. She herself is a photographer by trade. Then, a week ago, she changed her mind – she was forsaking the glamour for us. A small part of me wondered whether I had any influence on her decision but I dismissed the idea as being too fanciful. But that was when the fantasy really began to take hold. I have thought of little else all week. I daydream about pulling her to one side and kissing her. I go to bed dreaming of her and wake up chastising myself for my teenage lust. I remind myself that I’m married but it’s only a fantasy. Yet I can’t let go of my ridiculous scenario, to such an extent that tonight I have set myself a target, an objective: to kiss Dawn. But having stated the objective I realise I have no action plan, no strategy, let alone an exit strategy for when she rejects my advances with a withering look of pity or, worst still, utter disgust. I can hardly call a meeting or form a working party. So how, I ask myself, do I propose to achieve this ambitious objective? Fuck knows.

  8 a.m. I’m trying to catch the news on the radio but Lola’s whining because I’ve given her brown toast instead of white; and Joshua’s still complaining of the offside decision that ruled out his goal at football yesterday. Initially, I was dutifully sympathetic, although he clearly was offside, but sympathy only goes so far, so that by now, the eightieth time of mentioning it, it has truly vanished. Get over it, I snap.

  Who? Me or Lola?

  Daddy, you know I don’t like brown bread with bits in it.

  Both of you. I step on Ginger who springs up and yelps. Oh fuck, sorry, Ginger.

  Daddy, you swore.

  No, I said tuck, as in… shouldn’t you tuck your shirt in, Joshua?

  He shrugs. The teachers don’t care.

  That’s not the –

  Robinnn, Emily yells from our bedroom, having just stepped out of the shower and part of me is tempted to nip upstairs merely to catch sight of her boobs. Does the novelty ever wear off, I wonder. Can you do Joshua’s sandwiches?

  Oh, must I? I mutter. Even Joshua groans; he hates it when I do his lunch. It’s never quite the same.

  Twenty minutes later and Joshua’s gone to school, his shirt still hanging out and my hastily-made packed lunch no doubt squashed at the bottom of his schoolbag. Emily and Lola are cleaning teeth and I’m in the bedroom with Ginger, who sits on the bed, idly watching me as put on my tie and readjust my hair. Damn the grey bits.

  You smell nice,
says Emily as I pass by the bathroom.

  Christmas meal tonight; remember? I say, kissing my girls goodbye.

  Oh, yes. Well have fun.

  Will do, I say, scampering downstairs.

  As I reach the bottom, she adds, Behave yourself.