Early in the evening of her eighth wedding anniversary, Lucie Hammond returned home to cook a special dinner for her husband and instead found him burying his cock inside his pretty, young secretary.
In their marital bed.
She stood at the open door to their delicately and decorated lilac bedroom, her arms still laden with shopping bags, and watched for an eternity before the rutting pair even realised they had an audience.
Painfully, she took in every detail. The sight of her husband’s broad shoulders and muscular tanned back, his tight bottom bobbing furiously up and down. The girl’s long, slender legs wrapped around his waist, their owner obscured by his body except for a fan of golden hair spreading over Lucie’s own pillow. She even noticed the red spot right in the middle of his left buttock.
The sounds of their betrayal filled her ears in awful, detailed stereo. His heavy breathing matching the rhythm of her breathless, tiny moans. The mattress, heavy and expensive, bought especially to help his bad back, shunting noisily back and forth on the cast iron bed frame and the slap of their bellies in a riotous, filthy applause.
The air smelt faintly of cod.
Lucie's jaw dropped open and a low sound escaped her.
"Umph"
It was the sound an old worn out pillow might make when punched really hard in its tired gut.
Martin Hammond turned his dark, sleekly cut head around.
"What the fuck are you doing home?" he snarled. Beads of perspiration slid down on his forehead, his backside still pumping.
Lucie caught sight of the girl lying beneath him, the gril with her head on Lucie's lilac pillow. It was Carla, his latest secretary. Young, probably twenty-one or two, so ten years Lucie’s junior, blonde and pretty with large, springy breasts that were still pointing miraculously skywards even though she was lying on her back.
Very much his type. No surprises there then.
The girl opened her eyes and saw her lover's wife standing not six foot from their entwined, naked bodies. Her blue eyes opened really wide, her arms clasped around Martin’s back and her perfect legs dropped down stiffly onto the bed. She looked petrified.
Still Martin continued ramming himself into her rigid body, his movements becoming more frantic as he chased his orgasm to its final shuddering conclusion.
"I'm sorry," Lucie mumbled, backing out of the bedroom door and shutting it firmly behind her.
She leaned against the wall outside the door, put the shopping bags down and took several deep, ragged breaths. After a few seconds, she could hear mumbled voices from within the bedroom. One high pitched, the girl, questioning, panicking; the other, deep, her husband, reassuring, calming, cajoling.
Then the bed began to creak and groan again.
Ridiculously, Magnus Magnusson on Mastermind popped into Lucie's head, "I've started, so I'll finish."
Stifling a sob, she fled down the corridor and into the kitchen, quietly closing the door behind her.
Suddenly, the lemongrass scented air in the meticulously clean and tidy kitchen seemed too thick. The colours, muted oaks and sea greens, chosen from Dulex’s calming range, screamed at her and the blonde beige of the marble floor seemed yellow and grotesquely garish. Her heart raced, her breath coming faster and faster, far too big for her tight, panicky chest. She sank to the floor at the far end of her kitchen behind her new breakfast bar, dropping bags and scattering groceries, opened her mouth wide and silently screamed.