My Marketing Men

Another affair with another guy in my company. Longer and more intense.

This is the second chapter of Ms. Screwloose’s affairs in New York while living apart from her then-fiance-later-husband.

This story is largely about a committed couple who lived for several years in separate cities, required by their jobs. Both partners gave the other room to have sexual experiences, short-term affairs so that they did not have to be completely celibate for their years apart. Their affairs were not “cheating” or “unfaithful” in any sense. They encouraged each other to enjoy themselves sexually, just so long as they did not become entangled emotionally. They talked a lot about their adventures, used them as fuel for their mutual lust when they were together. Sport fucking, yes; romance, no. This story is about the woman’s adventures in her workplace.

If you are upset by the idea of spouses having sexual experiments outside their primary relationship, please stop reading right now. Don’t just leave nasty comments because you don’t like this type of story. Skip it entirely. You have been asked politely.

There is a lot of truth here, plus fictional details added for spice. The overall arc of the story is completely true. Some incidents, some actions, some dialog have been elaborated, increased in intensity and detail. Ms. Screwloose isn’t a slut just because she went to bed with a number of men. She was just somewhat hypersexual. She was still single, and her fiance encouraged her to play. If anything, he was her coach cheering from the sidelines. She was basically serially monogamous in her affairs. Sex-driven, not sex-crazed. A helluva woman.

For some years between grad school and marriage, my guy – hubby now, fiance then – and I carried on a long distance relationship, me in New York, him in DC. We got together on weekends as often as we could afford, bless Amtrak. Train was cheaper than the shuttle (plane) but still too expensive to do all the time. Otherwise we just had long phone calls and the occasional letter. We were young and in love and highly sexual, so there was hot stuff in the phone calls and the letters.

I was assistant to the president of a medium size marketing firm. I had an MBA and several years’ experience, so I was not just a glorified secretary. I was his top staff guy – well, girl of course, but that’s what he told people: “See my staff guy.” At that time, I had been working there about a year.

This was a very proper, buttoned down office: suits on the men, dresses or suits on the women. Skirts were well above the knee as was the fashion then. But no pantsuits. Verboten.

It wasn’t like the orgy-prone ad agencies of that era. It’s not that there was no hanky panky in the office; it wasn’t *that* buttoned down. I saw hints of it in some of the working relationships, everyone saw a little of it, but it wasn’t blatant. So, a normal office, somewhere in the middle between a convent and an orgy.

A couple months after my affair with boss ended, I started seeing a new man, the new VP of the Western Region, Marc. He was really smart, sharp, really handsome, a great dresser, 40ish. He was on the short side, only a little taller than I am. Thin, wavy red hair. He had grown up a rough city kid, but all the rough edges were sanded off by education and years in business. He was married of course, out there in the burbs somewhere. All the men I met in New York were married.

I got involved in a couple special projects for him – you know, service above and beyond, not my job but I volunteered – where I prepared fancy graphics for his presentations. He was very grateful, said he owed me dinner or at least a couple drinks for my effort. Sure, some day after work.

We went to quiet cocktail lounge in another neighborhood, just chairs and a small table. We had to lean in to talk quietly. He told me how much he appreciated my work and how clever I was to do such a thorough job on his projects. And he told me that he liked me, wished I were *his* staff guy. Well, I liked him, too, but I already had more than enough to do for my boss, the pres.

Into the third drink, pretty tipsy, we flirted a little. In the city, no one had to drive home, so tipsy was okay. He put his hand on top of mine on the table, told me again he really enjoyed my company. I was a little shocked but didn’t pull my hand away. He stroked the back of my hand with his fingertips gently. It was very nice, but that day we went no further. At least I didn’t think we were going to.

We finished our drinks and left. As he was walking me toward the avenue, he took my arm and guided me with him into a doorway, where he kissed me. He took my face in his hands and really kissed me. Gently first then harder. Our mouths opened, our tongues touched and caressed. This was really a serious kiss. Not a friendly peck that one might have expected from an office mate. I was a little breathless, surprised. He apologized. Sorry if that was unwelcome. No it was okay. I liked it. I pulled his face to mine and kissed him back.

“You know I’m engaged.”

“The whole office knows you’re engaged. But I also know you had a fling with Van. So you’re not exactly immune to extra-pre-marital affairs.”

We just looked at each other, then took hands and walked on. He hailed a cab, took me to my apartment building. We sat quietly in the cab, holding hands, not really knowing what to say about what had just happened. When the cab pulled up to let me out, he said, “I’d like to see you again.”

“Yes, I’d like that too.

“Can we have dinner tomorrow?”

“Yes, I think so. Let’s talk about it at work.”

“We should be careful at work,” he noted, “like leave separately and meet at the restaurant.” He was right. Caution was good, even if nothing happened.

It turned out he had a small pied a terre in the city, just a one-bedroom apartment, because his home was so far out in the wilds of New Jersey that daily commuting was not feasible. He typically came in Monday morning, stayed in the city during the week, and went home Thursday or Friday night.

I sort of knew that he didn’t catch a train home most nights because he was never rushed when we worked late. So that’s the deal. How very convenient for a philanderer. And I sensed very strongly that he wanted me to be his philander-ee.

We met for dinner at little out of the way French place, tres intime. We talked about the office, news, and eventually about us. He looked into my eyes, took my hand, both hands, and told me he really wanted to continue to see me. I didn’t even hesitate much. “I think that’s okay. I think so, too.”

As he helped me put my coat on, he put his arms around me and held me tight. I felt very warm and wanted.

In the cab we kissed. We kissed a lot, and long and hard. We made out like teenagers. The cabbie looked back in the mirror at every light. This was probably not an unusual sight for him, a May-December couple. Well, let’s call it May-October, because he wasn’t that old. His arm went down from my shoulder to my breast, inside my coat then inside my suit jacket, just my blouse and bra in the way between his skin and mine. I gasped sharply. I was not expecting that, but I should have been. I did not pull away. We arrived. He walked me to the door, kissed me, and got back in the cab.

Hey, maybe this is a new weekday lover for me. I can still spend weekends with my guy because Marc is a weekday-only guy.

I told my guy about it that night on the phone. As usual, he wanted to know about the guy and what we did. I told him about the guy, Marc, a very sharp 40-year-old guy. Really handsome. Could have been a male model in his youth. I told him VP, big bucks, pied a terre in the city. Yes, that would be extremely convenient for assignations.

We always had these long discussions about what might happen with a new casual relationship. I didn’t want to do anything to endanger my serious relationship with my guy. What did I want, how did I feel about it? What did he want? How far was this flirtation going to go?

I told him that it started out as just drinks yesterday, but he kissed me. And then an innocent dinner tonight. But it turned sexual on the ride home. He kissed me. He felt my breast. A lot. And I let him. Yes, I was horny.

Did you like being touched that way?

Yes, I got a little hot from being touched like that.

Did I want to continue to see where it went?

Well, yes, sort of, I did. Is that okay, honey? Is it okay if we make out and he feels me up? What if he wants to go further? How far should I let him go?

That’s up to you, babe. Whatever you want to feel. How far do you want to go?

Well, a little feelski on the blouse is one thing. But what if he wants to go under my clothes? Like, up my skirt? Can I open my legs for him? Can I let him feel my pussy?

If you want to, yes. Would that turn you on? It would turn *me* on to know that he was feeling you up.

You want him to feel me? You want him to reach up my skirt to my sex? Should I let him get under my bra to my tits? Or under my panties to my bare pussy?

That would be very exciting. If you let him feel you, feel your naked skin. Even get into your pants. And you tell me all about it.

Yes, I’ll tell you. Like now.

And you’ll tell me every detail when *I’m* kissing your breasts, or fingering you, or eating your pussy . . . or making love to you. I want to know everything he does to you. Everything you do to him.

Oh, god, yes, honey. I will always tell you how bad I’ve been. Where he feels me and fondles me. Is it okay if he touches me all over? Touches my bare skin? You know I have to wear a lot of clothes for work here. Can I take some of it off so he can touch me? You know, like bra, stockings?

Yes, babe, I think that would give him a clear message that you want to be touched.

Oh, god, yes! By this time I had a hand inside my pants and was rubbing myself furiously.

Panties? If I take my panties off, he will think. . . . What if he wants to get into me? If he feels my pussy and touches my insides? If he gets between my legs, gets *into* me?

Sounds like wonderful playing! I would love to hear you moaning and sighing when he sticks his fingers into you!

Yes, yes! . . . I was about to come on my hand. Is it okay if this man has me? Can he have me? I know he wants to fuck me. I haven’t even felt his dick yet, but I know he wants to have me. Can I let him actually fuck me? Oh, I’m so horny! My pussy is flowing onto my and into my pants just thinking about it! Honey, can I let him fuck me?

Long pause. Then, Yes, yes if you want to. If you think it’s safe. . . . If you want to spread your legs and take him inside you, yes. And you’ll enjoy it. And I’ll love hearing about it.

One last thing, honey. You’re going to be my husband. I’m going to be your wife.

Yes, yes.

Can he come in me? Can he come in your wife’s pussy? Please, you have to tell me. Tell me to let him have your wife’s pussy, he can come in your wife. Tell me if he can squirt his seed into my cunt. Can he use me to come in?

There, I said it. That’s how hot I was. I use the c-word only to refer to my hot, wet, yawning chasm of a cunt that is dying to be filled with hard cock!

Honey, shall I give my pussy to him? Can he use my pussy? Eat it? Fuck it? Fill it with his cum? Do you give my pussy to him?

Yesssssss, he whispered as I came and he came.

Now *that* was good phone sex.

He wants to be reassured, This will be just casual sex? Weeknight casual horny?

Oh, yes, that’s the law. Honey, I would never do anything endanger our marriage. Soon-to-be marriage.

Yeah, okay.

He told me again that he loved me madly and told me to have fun. And give him all the details.

The next week, Marc and I got together. The first time, in his apartment, we just tore off our clothes and jumped into bed. I spent the night. No one slept much.

We coupled in a pretty vanilla missionary way, except that he liked folding my legs up to my chest so he was very deep in me. He lay me back on the bed, knelt between my legs. I pulled his cock into me. Deep, all the way. After a couple minutes, he raised my knees to his shoulders. It felt wonderful. He was so much deeper into my hole than I was accustomed to. A couple more minutes. He asked me to grab behind my knees and pull them to my chest so he could push his cock as deep as possible inside my cunt. I did. I pulled hard, my knees almost on my breasts. It felt wonderful. I could feel every inch of his cock sliding deep into my sex tube and scraping the top of my vagina. I came, and pulled my knees back even more. He was directly above me pushing his member straight down into me. I didn’t know I could take anything that deep. Then I could feel his cock get stiffer and pulse as he shot into me, as deep as anyone had ever been, pulse after pulse. And I came again and grabbed him with my arms and kissed him. And then locked my legs around him to hold that delicious cock deep in me. I squeezed his shooting cock as hard as I could with my pelvic muscles; I wanted to hold his hardness in me and feel it throbbing as long as I could.

Eventually he started to soften and one of my squeezes pushed him out of my pussy, along with a lot of his semen that I felt flowing down my crack and my ass. We made quite a wet spot, kind of a badge of honor. I hated to feel it go, hated to feel my womb empty instead of full. But I knew that I could get that feeling again, not just that night but many times as it turned out.

That first night, we went at it three times. Once urgent and fast. I could really feel him shooting in me because he was so deep. I came twice. Then relax, smoke and drink. He came into me again, long and slow this time, and for a while with me on top. I came in the middle but it lasted a long time. We were both wrecked. We slept. He pushed into me for a quickie in the morning. When the alarm went off we were spooning and he just stuck it in me. I was still juicy from night before, so it was easy in.

We had not planned well. To be clear, I hadn’t planned at all. We both just lusted. I had to run home to change before going into office, glad that we remembered to set an alarm. And with luck I found all my suit and underwear before leaving. Such are the benefits of a small apartment.

My pussy was a little sensitive the next day. Bruised, but on the inside not on the outside. My labia were perfectly happy, but the hammering I took stretching my vagina to accommodate his length left some sensitive spots deep inside where I couldn’t massage them. So I took a long, very hot bath that night to soothe my insides as well as outsides, and that helped.

He was really good. His long, skinny cock curved up so it felt especially good. I came a lot being drilled by it. He loved fingering me and eating me before we screwed, also two of my favorite things. And it turned out he was a cuddler, too, like my guy, and I liked that, too. He didn’t just turn over and fall asleep on the woman he had just fucked. No Wham Bam Thank you Ma’am and then snore. No, he held me, either he lying on my chest or I lying on his. He fell asleep, of course. Guys always fall asleep, for a few minutes anyway. Don’t get me wrong; this wasn’t love; this was just good, clean, dirty fun.

The next night, I called Danny to tell him all about it. He said he figured that I was out playing because I didn’t answer my phone (land line only back then) last night. Yes, I was out with him. Yes, he fucked me. He fucked my brains out a couple times, and then left me another gentle present in the morning. Then I gave him the long version. While we talked, I ripped off my panties and plunged two fingers into my sopping slit. He did the same for himself, handling his erect cock for me while I whispered to him how bad I had been.

When I got to his apartment, he was waiting with a glass of wine. One sip and then he kissed me. Our clothes just melted away while we were kissing. We fell onto the bed. We kissed and kissed. He kneaded and sucked my breasts. I grabbed his cock. It was long and skinny. And hard and hot. I tickled his balls with my fingernails. He returned the favor. While he was kissing my breast, he reached down to my belly, cupped my pussy. Oh, I was so hot and wet. His fingers slid into me easily. My juice was all over my clit as he rubbed it and pinched it, driving me wild. I wanted to be filled! I desperately wanted a male pole to slide through my lips and stretch open my vagina again and again.

I lay back on the bed and spread my legs wide. I lifted my knees to angle my pussy up for easy penetration. I took his cock as he knelt between my legs and I rubbed the head of it up and down my wet slit. Finally I put the arrowhead of his cock right at the entrance to my hole, and I pulled it in.

He was gentle, pushed into me slowly. My hole opened up to accept the delicious intruder. He pushed inches more into me. He bottomed out. He pushed even more, inches more. It hurt a little, but it was a good hurt. I was so hot, my cunt was a boiling cauldron of sex juice. He pumped, out and in, slowly, then a little faster. I came after only a minute or two. He slowed, pulled my legs up onto his shoulders, and then started again. Long strokes. Deeper now because I was folded in half, my puffy lips sticking way out, going in and out with every stroke of his cock. I wanted to hold onto that cock, not let it pull out of me. I held him with my arms. I clamped my cunt tight on his dick as it slid deep and almost out and then in deep again.

He didn’t last long, either. A few minutes of shoving slowly into me, with my cunt grabbing him like a hot fist on every stroke. I felt him growing stiffer and bigger. Come in me! I hissed. Come in my pussy! Fill me with your cream! My cunt is on fire! I got louder, almost screaming. Take my pussy! My cunt is yours! Come! In! Me! Come! In! Me!

And he did. Pulse after pulse! Shooting into my depths again and again! I came again with that thrilling sensation. My female cavern being filled with hot male juice, over and over. Squirt, squirt. Some flowing out of my hole down my crack. Warm. Hot. It tickled my ass.

He rolled off me. Halfway off, still tight against my side, his arm across my chest, his hand gently kneading my breast. We both fell asleep for five or ten minutes. He got up, pulled me up. We walked to the counter to get our wine glasses. Some of his cum had left a big wet spot on the sheets. The rest was draining slowly from my used pussy down onto my thighs. I could feel the wet slap thigh-on-thigh as I walked. I always love that feeling. My woman parts overflowing with man seed. I dipped a finger a little way into my hole to get some, and tasted it, showing him very dramatically that I liked his cum.

Somewhere during that long monologue, Danny and I both came from pleasuring ourselves. I was sopping wet all over again.

Did I drip cum into my panties all day?

Yes, I didn’t clean up. I still have those wet panties on.

Danny seemed happy for me. He was maybe a little concerned because it seemed so intense, but then new relationships are always intense, aren’t they.

I told him about being a little bruised inside from the depth of Marc’s strokes, especially with me folded in half like that. Danny and I also often coupled with my legs up over his shoulders to get him deeper inside me. Having me pull my knees down and really fold myself in half, that was new, and we would have to try that at the next opportunity, which was that weekend. I have to say, it became a standard optional enhancement to our lovemaking if one of us or both of us wanted it. I was very limber in those days.

Danny may have guessed, from the bruising comments, that Marc’s depth gauge in my womb was somewhat longer than his. But it was thinner. And a little up-banana. Not a problem for me, and he never mentioned it directly.

I remember, when I was on top, fully impaled, sitting down on Marc with his cock in me as far as it would go, I always felt stretched inside. If I pressed on my belly, I could feel that hard shaft up inside me almost up to my navel. It was more than I was used to taking into my body, so it hurt a little. I couldn’t just plop down onto it; I had to let my hips down slowly, taking time to let my vagina stretch to accommodate its length. I didn’t tell Danny all this at the time because, well, you know how insecure guys are about dick size.

I saved the stories of the second screw and the slow morning pick-me-up for the weekend, when we could really enjoy the titillation of my nastiness together. We both loved thinking of me as a selective slut, a sex-driven female who wanted a lot of attention and penetration from males. (Or male-like objects. I had my little drawer of, shall we say, pre-marital aids.)

When Marc and I started, it was usually two weekdays a week. Occasionally three if we were especially horny. Drinks, dinner. We got to search out a lot of out of the way places to avoid being seen. Then back to his apartment. Or the other order, depending.

I spent the night at his place only occasionally, once every couple weeks. (Fresh clothes for the next day to avoid “the walk of shame” were important and a pain to do in advance.) The other evenings, he paid for a cab to take me home quickly and safely.

The rest of the evenings I spent in my own place, often on the phone with my guy, telling him all about my adventures, and as dramatically as I could manage. I loved being a hot slut with loose legs and he loved my taunting him with my slutty behavior.

Of course I wasn’t a typical slut. I was very selective. And serially monogamous. Well, I was completely with all my heart monogamous with my man. And then serially monogamous with my various weekday dalliances. One at a time. Then change partners when that one goes cold or weird. So I sort of taunted Danny with my blatantly sexual behavior.

Do you like it when I go to my lover, sprawl on his bed, and have him eat me? Ooh, he does that so well! I always come when he pokes his tongue into my hole, then drills me with his fingers while he tongues and sucks my clit.

Then I spread my legs wide to welcome him into me. He pushes my knees down to my boobs so my puffy lips and gaping hole are completely exposed and vulnerable. I’m folded in half and my drooling sex is pointed straight up at him waiting to be probed! Drilled! Fucked! And he takes his long, hard, hot dick and slides it into my hole. Deep into my body! He slides in and I love it and I come when I feel him hit bottom. His balls bounce on my butt with every stroke. His shaft scrapes my clit every time he pushes in and sends lightning thrills to my womb and my belly and my brain.

Does it turn you on when my lover comes inside me? When he sticks his joint deep into my body and squirts his seed there? How he claims my pussy by planting his seed in my womb? You know I don’t clean it out. I want to keep his cum in me. Wouldn’t you like to see him come in me? Can you see his cum dripping out when his cock deflates and falls out of me, while he still lies on top of me, kisses me passionately? I’m going to be your wife! Can you see this man planting his cum in your wife? Watch his cum seeping out of your wife’s used pussy?

I took a cab home tonight. Imagine how every bump in the road squeezes a little more sperm out of my leaky box into my damp underwear. And that oozing sensation reminds me of how good I felt inside when he squirted squirted squirted his seed into me. Does it turn you on that Marc’s cum is still inside me? I can feel his hot juices seeping out of my hole and into my pants. If I strain my pussy muscles I can squeeze out a glob of cum.

My guy reveled in that sort of taunting tale! That was his way. He was jealous of my heart and head, but not of my pussy. We both got off on it. God, I get wet right now just remembering those times.

He did the same for me when he was involved with some babe. Unfortunately that was less frequent. It is harder for a guy, even a cutie like my guy, to find an informal mistress that isn’t looking for a real attachment. He did discover a couple times that older, married women were fun partners and not clingy. But the DC suburbs are close in, so there were never any overnighters. They tended to be brief dalliances, just a mom looking to let off some steam and get laid by a new man. But I loved hearing about his erotic adventures, too.

We both played with ourselves during our phone sex calls. I had a vibrator; he had only Ma Hand and Kleenex, but we tried to come together.

I never lied about my affairs. I stressed the sensual, the sexual, the thrilling sensations, and the psychology of the moment, my unbridled lust. I would describe how I felt anticipating getting screwed – and screwed hard! – later. How sitting in a bar or restaurant I could feel my sex beginning to warm up and weep. How his hands on my breasts or under my skirt in the cab made me hotter and wetter. How when we got into the apartment, we would usually rip clothes off – well, not literally rip, but pull off and toss – and fall into bed. How he kissed me, kissed my breasts, put his fingers up me and teased my G-spot! How he sometimes knelt by the bed and sucked on my vagina and clit until I screamed! How he knelt between my legs and stroked the head of his cock through my wet lips. And how I aimed his cock directly at my hole and pulled it into my hole to penetrate me, a little at first, then deep, then deeper still! How I lifted my knees and pulled my legs way up and apart to make a perfect target to be pierced deep by that arrow of love. How he pounded away at me, how I cried for him to fuck me deeper, harder! How I came and he came, his long cock growing, throbbing, pulsing, squirting his seed into my cunt!

And how I got to be on top later, kneeling over his hips, aiming his cock’s arrowhead again straight into me. How I sat down, slowly, down, down, savoring every inch of man meat opening up my cunthole! How I moved up and down and round and round to get the feeling of his member scraping every inch of my insides. How he cried about the exquisite torture of my cunt moving so slowly! How that prolonged his orgasm for seconds, tens, a minute, and drained him.

Through all of this, we-the-couple were having sex with each other over two hundred miles of telephone wire. I came and he came and we panted and whispered words of love and went to sleep for the night.

When the weekend came, well, the ones we could afford to travel back and forth on, we would do all this in person. With my beloved’s cock piercing me, making me scream instead of my lover’s.

But let me be really clear about this affair: it was not a romance at all, just sport fucking. Mainly we got together to get off, get our rocks off, get our ashes hauled, just plain get laid! A great tension reliever at the end of the work day. After the first month or so, the novelty wore off and most of our sessions would be rated as quickies: in, clothes off, in-out in-out in-out in-out . . . , scream out, squirt in, snore, clothes on, kiss goodbye, out. Still tension-relieving if not emotionally satisfying.

I was – and still am – madly in love with my guy, and intended to marry him – which I did – and wanted to spend the rest of my life with him – which I am in the process of doing. I liked Marc and that was it. I mean, I liked the guy, I enjoyed getting poked by him during the week when I couldn’t be with my honey. He was my sex toy. I chose him partly, I’m sure, because he was not the type I could become attached to. I came a lot, I screamed a lot, I felt a long dick shooting into me a lot, I dripped cum a lot. Fun. End of story.

I actually liked walking around with cum drips coating my thighs, my wet thighs sliding against each other as I walked. I still do, when possible. Makes me a perv, eh? And my husband loves seeing my thighs glistening with male juices leaking from inside me. And much better if in public, wet thighs showing under a short skirt! Both pervs, and loving it.

I was young and horny. I think my hormones started raging kind of late. I didn’t really do much with boys sexually until college. An evening with Marc usually but not always included dinner before or after sex. For an affair, I think you could say it was mostly new and exciting at first, then settled into a routine. I mean, he was a nice guy, but not one I would choose for myself for long term. However, he really was a great lay, and that’s why we got together to put our organs together. As I said, fun but a little boring.

There were a few fun times that really stand out in my memory.

We had dinner at a Middle Eastern restaurant where everyone sits on big pillows, tailor seat. There were six people (strangers) around a low table where the food was served. It was very dark, only some lighting onto the table. By very fortunate accident I had a dress on that day with a flared skirt; my usual business suit with straight skirt would have made this impossible. So I gathered the skirt for modesty. When I leaned forward to get food, I had to go up on my knees so my butt and the back of my skirt were off the cushion. Marc took advantage of this several times to put his hand under my butt when I sat back. I didn’t mind, of course, and it wasn’t too obvious to the others.

After a while Marc suggested to me that I go to the ladies room and remove my panties. *And* split open the pantyhose. He already knew about that trick that Van and I had done so often because I told him and showed him. He rarely used the opportunity to reach under my skirt to get into me at the office, only sometimes if we were working late and the place was empty. But right here in the restaurant? Like five feet away from other people? He insisted; I acceded. I did it. Open crotch pantyhose and no panties to get in the way.

When I sat back at one point, his hand was just under my butt, feeling my goodies. After a couple minutes of this off and on, I was getting hot and wet under there. Then he went for the home run. I sat back slowly and he put a finger into my vagina. I sat there with his digit wriggling inside my sex for a few minutes as we ate and talked. I was so excited. The brazenness of it! The illicitness of it! A nice girl like me getting finger fucked – in public, during dinner, at a restaurant, with strangers watching! They couldn’t actually see my crotch or his hand, I’m sure, but they must have guessed that something was going on from the way I was squirming, and closing my eyes, and gasping now and then.

When we went to plays or movies, he would suggest that I wear a relatively loose skirt and of course the required modified underwear: open crotch pantyhose, and panties removed when we were seated in the theater. And we always had to be on the correct sides, with him on my left so he could molest me with his right hand. Danny was the same way, so I was used to that arrangement.

We tried to sit with no one on the other side of me so that he could play with my pussy unobserved. That wasn’t always possible because of limited seating choices at Broadway theaters or little off-Broadway theaters or even crowded New York movie theaters. so I learned not to care too much if someone saw his hand going up my skirt and me parting my legs to welcome him up there.

On more than one occasion, a man sitting on my other side brazenly put his hand on my other leg and fondled my thigh on the way up. I was really shocked the first time it happened, but what could I do? I froze. Marc didn’t mind. He whispered to me, “It’s okay. If he wants to feel you, let him feel you.” After all, I wasn’t his property, I was just his mistress. There, I said it, I was the illicit mistress of a married man. His weekday tumble, his occasional whore – except that he didn’t pay me, of course; this wasn’t a business arrangement, just a lot of fun.

“But what if he wants to do more than just feel my leg? What if he wants to do what you’re doing? *In* me? He’s a complete stranger!”

He didn’t mind at all. “Then I’ll watch him give you some pleasure. Open up for him and enjoy it.” So he let another man feel me up, feel my knee, feel my thigh, spread my legs, feel my crotch if he dared to go that far!

I sat there, slouched down with my legs spread, two men feeling up my stockinged legs, up under my skirt. One hand already inside my wet pussy drilling me with his finger and rubbing my clit to try to make me come, right there in the theater. The other hand fondling inside my thigh, going higher and higher. I hoped that their hands would meet at my crotch, that they would cooperate, that both of them would stick their fingers into my sopping cunt and fuck me madly until I came, biting my hand to silence my cries of pleasure as my vagina contracted on their probing digits.

But no such luck, I never had the two men cooperate to finger fuck me at the same time. They just alternated. Marc visibly moved his hand out of my crotch and the other man – a stranger, no one I had ever seen before or would see again – moved his hand up to my pussy. He quickly discovered the opening in the pantyhose that welcomed his hand on my vulva, his fingers pushing into my slit, between my puffy wet lips, his fingertip on my clit that made me jump, and finally his finger prying into my hole, sliding into my blazing hot sex, pushing in and out and in and out and curling sliding. This made me completely crazy! A complete stranger with his hand up my dress! Fucking me with his fingers! In a crowded theater! Oh god that was hot! I was completely beside myself, my eyes closed, concentrating on the delicious sensation of being fucked by a strange man’s hand.

When this happened, and it happened several times, I lost the thread of the play or movie, and I would have to ask Marc to fill me in later. He had a hard time doing that because he was also very distracted by my sex at the same time.

Sometimes the stranger was able to make me come. Maybe those lucky few were left handed or just more dexterous. A couple times, the strange man withdrew before I came. At least once, it was because his date (wife?) saw what he was doing and jabbed him hard in the ribs.

Imagine! Imagine being at a movie with your husband/boyfriend/date, and discovering that he has his hand up the dress of the girl sitting next to him? And from his movements you are sure that he’s finger fucking her? You know *why* he’s doing it: no guy in his right mind would pass up the opportunity to plunder the sex of an attractive young woman, even at the risk of being caught at it by his wife/girlfriend/date. But why is her – the girl’s – date/boyfriend/husband allowing it? Look at that! Her date has a hand on her thigh, too, and her skirt is pulled way up, and he can see that her crotch is occupied by another man’s hand, and he clearly knows that she is being manhandled by my date/boyfriend/husband. What is this craziness? He must be enjoying it, too!

Well, I think she should try it sometime. She doesn’t know what her pussy is missing. Everyone involved here is getting a kick out of it, except her. She should let her guy put his hand up *her* skirt and play. Let him get right up to her pussy. Open her legs to welcome him there. Maybe get stockings and garters instead of pantyhose. Maybe even take off her panties, or forget them altogether. Bet she’d come like gangbusters when he touched her sensitive spots. And maybe, just maybe, there would be a cute guy on her other side who would be brave enough to join in. At least feel her knee, then her thigh, stroking her tight, slippery, stockinged thigh. Up, up, up, higher, closer, hotter, wetter. And who knows where it would go from there. . . . I think most women would love it – if they could just get past thinking that sex is some sacred act. It’s not sacred. It’s fun. Evolution put all those pleasure nerves in that area to make sure we “did it” a lot and continued to reproduce the species.

End of rant. Back to the story.

In New York, one takes a lot of taxis. When Marc and I were in a taxi for more than a few blocks, we would make out like horny teenagers, for our pleasure and as an added the benefit for the driver. He would maul my breasts. I loved having someone else see my breasts being kneaded passionately like that. After a while, he would lift my skirt high and spread my legs wide, both so he could get up it easily and so anyone watching could see him delving into my hot hole shining with my juices and probably his, too. I loved this. Especially if my panties were already off. A little exhibitionism enhanced my excitement at being finger-fucked and clit-rubbed. If I actually came there in the cab, it was an extra bonus for me and for the driver that he could see and hear me. Many drivers gave us a special thank you with a wink when we got out.

Of course we didn’t leap into the deep end of the pool all at once. We started gradually with just kissing. Then a little feeling up. Then a hand on the thigh. But like sex junkies, we built up a tolerance for simple pleasures and went further and further over a few weeks. I wonder if cabbies shared stories of us. Maybe they cruised our usual locations hoping to pick up a porn show along with a fare. And I do wonder if there were ever cameras in some of those cabs. Yikes, I dread the thought that I might be an inadvertent porn star.

Then there were subways and buses. Sometimes, like rush hour in the rain, you just can’t get a cab, so you hop on the other forms of public transit. And, it being rush hour, they are usually very crowded, packed to the gills. This, too, presented opportunities for a little semi-clandestine semi-public fondling. If we were squeezed together, Marc would always put a hand on my ass or my thigh, and stroke and fondle a bit. And guys crowded in around me often used the occasion to do a little frottage with my bum. I didn’t mind much; usually I could almost ignore it.

There was one occasion when Marc was behind me stroking my ass, getting under it toward the goodies. The guy in front of me, a young Hispanic guy in a suit, caught on and thought that looked like fun. So he put his hand on my thigh – over my skirt and pantyhose, sure, but way up high on my thigh. This was not an innocent touch. I looked at him, pointedly looked down at his hand then back to his eyes, and, since I didn’t object or pull away, he took that as a green light. His hand moved to the inside of my thigh. And then up a little. This was too good an opportunity to let go to waste. I moved my feet apart as much as I could in the crowd. A clear signal for him to continue. An open path to my pussy. He reached the top of my leg, between my legs, and cupped my crotch. He pressed up into my pussy; I answered pushing my vulva toward him to increase the pressure on my crotch, trying to split open my labia.

Little did he know that my crotchless pantyhose would have presented no real obstacle if he could get there. Maybe he would have been faster and more insistent. His fingers started to inch my skirt up as he still held hard onto my pussy. Another couple minutes and this would be a four-alarm fire in my pants. But he didn’t quite get under the skirt because the bus started to empty out. He gave my pussy one last squeeze and stepped away. We smiled. Even Marc inched back and removed his hand from my ass.

A couple times we tried to screw really in public. There are a few small parks in the city with benches, screened away from the street by plantings. I would put on a dress with a very full skirt. And no panties to get in the way. Finding a small park that was empty in the evening, but when it was still light enough to feel safe, was not that easy. There was always road traffic, and occasional foot traffic.