The Wicked Card game by Deepti

Thank you for uploading my last story – Blackmailed by my Driver; I really appreciate the response that I am receiving from your readers. I want to submit another of my story about how my husband’s boss fucked me in the kitchen while my husband was playing cards.

The Wicked Card game

This was bizarre!

I had thirteen cards in my hand. I was dressed in my favourite little black dress, wore my best silk stockings and sheerest thong, no bra — Nikhil’s idea, (fabulous idea that turned out to be!) — and the man on my right, whom I had met for the first time tonight, and whom Nikhil was hoping would offer him a job if all goes well (tonight), had his hand up my skirt.

‘Do you play much rummy, dear?’ asked his wife, across the table, waiting for my husband to lead a card. It was girls against boys: her idea.

‘Plays pretty well, as far as I can tell,’ said the big man, whom Nikhil hoped would offer him a job, with a wink at me, arms hidden beneath the green felt table-cloth, index finger of his right hand absently stroking the bulge of my clitoris in the paper thin silk of my thong.

‘She’s good at cards,’ said Nikhil, my husband, absently, eyes on dummy, trying to figure out which card to lead.

For mercy’s sake, just lead! I thought. I waited, hands up, elbows in, cards high, knees apart. My husband, Nikhil, is lousy at cards. Why he ever agreed to ‘a rubber or two’ with the Khans, I shall never understand. Most of dinner was spent with me trying to keep my flesh away from his wandering hands beneath the table-cloth. But this table was a tenth the size of the dining table. Under here there was no escape! I’d covered the card-table with a felt blanket. It hung down on all four sides. Bad idea, as it entirely concealed Aslam’s hands. His nose was an inch from dummy, chair pushed back, elbows on knees, arms beneath the blanket and fingers up my dress.

‘Spades might be worth a look,’ says Aslam, to Nikhil, who is hesitating, one of Aslam’s hands gently stroking the underside of my inner thigh, the other caressing my clit, and starting to cause me distress.

‘Ahhhhhh…’ I moaned, internally.

I take a deep breath. Nikhil, for God’s sake get on with it! I scream in my head at my husband, for the sooner we have finished playing cards, the sooner I can move out of range of Aslam’s hands.

‘Nice house,’ said Mrs. Khan, waiting for Nikhil to play.

My feet slips out of my heels as both knee lifts high.

His fingers are driving me nuts.

‘I’m glad you like it,’ I said, giving her a smile, hands held perfectly still.

Nikhil plays, at last.

‘Two of spades,’ says Aslam, as if we hadn’t noticed. It is not a good lead. My partner plays a ten. Nikhil plays a jack from dummy. I take the trick with the king then lead the two of hearts and wonder, after I’ve played it, if that was sensible. I really can’t tell. All I can focus on are the fingers between my legs and what they’re doing to me. They give a last soft circle of my throbbing clitoris, then start to move lower.

It is proving very hard to keep still. I hold my cards out in front, both hands, just over the line of the table as I’d always been taught — my parents are keen, we all learned at home. I feel my pelvis slowly squirm, then spasm suddenly. His finger is burrowing beneath my thong where it runs between my legs.

‘Your play, my dear,’ says Mrs. Khan.

I try to concentrate on what’s just been played, but all I am aware of the finger now inside my thong, softly stroking skin. The skin of my cunt. It is moist, and swollen, and warm … and getting hotter and moister by the moment!

‘The Queen,’ notes Aslam, nose near the table, finger spreading my very moist cunt. I try not to swallow again. My focus is there, deep in the cunt, sensing the masculine drive of the finger that now slips into my wet cunt. The movement is eased by the honey slickness that he’s been encouraging since dinner — about the first course! My hips do a lazy roll. Nothing to do with me! He moves his finger to and fro in the moisture and warmth. My hips roll again. Very slowly. Deliberately. As if they have a life of their own.

‘You again, Deepti dear,’ says my partner, gently, as if I am a child.

I try to concentrate on the cards. Aslam’s other hand is pushing the hem of my short black dress to the top of my legs. The skin between stockings and panties is tingling in the movement of air beneath the table, and the infuriating movement of his fingers between my legs. I let my knees drift even further apart. What else can I do? A warm palm closes around my naked thigh. The crotch of my panties is eased away from my skin, as if he doesn’t want to get them sticky, or is about to pull them off!

‘Are you sure you want to play the seven, dear,’ Mrs. Khan asks.

‘She’s played it now,’ says Aslam.

(Typical male.)

‘He’ll let you change it, won’t you dear,’ says Mrs. Khan, looking at her husband.

‘What’s in it for us?’ he asks, looking at his wife as his finger softly circles my tender and sensitive cunt. Invasion territory. Out of bounds.

As if all the rest of me isn’t?

‘Go on. Let the sweet girl change her lead,’ says Aslam’s wife.

He turns to me. I should have played the jack, of course. I think to change it. I look at him. His eyes are starting to lick my irises, I sense. ‘Can I change?’ I whisper, though should know better than this — but his wife, my partner, you understand …

‘What’s in it for me,’ he says again.

I have opened my legs even wider than before and angled my pelvis towards him. I am practically inviting him in. ‘Oh well,’ he says, as the tip of his thick broad finger accepts my apparent invitation, and slips inside my pussy, ‘I suppose …’ and the rest of the thick finger follows. And I find I have closed my eyelids, and my chin has tilted upwards, and my lips have fallen open …

‘Go on then, Deepti dear,’ says my partner. ‘Aslam says you can.’

I manage to open my eyes. She leans over the table, picks up the eight, and slides it back into my hand. I take out the jack and put it down instead.

What would my parents have said? That is so not-done!

(And having her husband’s finger inside me — is done?)

Nikhil, who knows nothing of cards, thinks nothing of this. He is too busy figuring out what he should play next. I swallow, more noisily than intended.

‘Are you alright, my dear?’ says Mrs. Khan, leaning forward again. Her husband’s finger, now deep inside me, is slowly rotating first one way then the other, then it curls up, ever so gently, still deep inside my cunt, causing me to bear down — ever so slightly — on the pressure he exerts. And then the other way, curling again. I bear down again.

‘I’m fine,’ I said, with a slight smile, baring down a third time on her husband’s probing finger.

‘Ah,’ says Aslam, ‘my partner plays a King.’

We all look at Nikhil, but just as we do, Aslam jerks my panties. Hard. They slip down my hips some inches, then hold. My weight is on top. My buttocks are holding them against the chair. ‘Is that wise?’ he asks my husband.

Nikhil is confused. He looks from the card, to the man who he wants to give him a job, back to the cards, then at me. But what can I do? I bear down as unobtrusively as I can on the invasive finger, the tip of it curling deep inside me. I shrug to my husband, as if to say: ‘Don’t look at me,’ for in truth I don’t want him to look at me. I don’t want anyone to look at me. I fear if they do they will not have to be particularly perceptive to know I am becoming (unwittingly, even unwillingly) aroused, which always brings on a deep flush, starting at the tips of my nipples and extending all the way up my neck, and ending up all over my face.

‘Take it back,’ says Mrs. Khan. ‘We don’t mind. Do we; my dear?’ she looks at me.

‘No,’ I say. ‘Of course not,’ I say, trying not to look at her.

‘Go on,’ urges Aslam, loudly. Causing us all to look at Nikhil.

Tug! My thong slips down two inches more.

‘Do it, man!’ he says, to Nikhil.

Then Tug! at me.

I ease my hips off the chair. I can’t think what else to do — other than risk the thong being ripped. The sound alone could be embarrassing.

My panties are round my knees, knees spread, panties drawn tight. Aslam moves my knees together — why do I let him move me so? He eases my thong over my knees, past my calves, down to my ankles, onto the floor … What do I do with them now? I close my eyes. His hand is wandering my cunt. My clit. The moisture of my lips. The sensitive edge of my vagina — empty for the moment of invaders. Easing towards the cleft. Threatening the path towards my ass. Softly up and over my mons. Cupping me there. A gentle caress.

‘You next, sweet thing,’ breathes my partner.

I open my eyes. Her eyes are on mine.

Does she guess what her husband is doing to me?

I pull out a card from the fan in my hand. I place it on the table. She leans over and covers my hand with her own. ‘Good card,’ she whispers, approvingly, stroking my hand. Three of the couple’s four hands are now on me. All of them stroking or fondling. My eyes drift closed. Again. I open my lips so a sigh may escape without notice. He toys with my clit. It is hard, fit to burst. It is …

I bear down again.

Last thing I noticed before my lids closed was Nikhil frowning at his cards. He doesn’t know what to play next, poor dear. I struggle to open my eyes. The view of the table appears, albeit weakly. My partner has her hand on my husband, around his neck, urging him to play a card. Any card at all, I almost plead. The hem of my dress is round my waist. Aslam’s hands are all over the skin of my hips and my thighs. My knees are flaying loosely, one minute together the next wide apart, as his hands wander softly all around my private parts. I gasp. My face angles up towards the ceiling.

‘How about a seven of clubs?’ says Nikhil, plaintively. I don’t reply. He isn’t asking me, I think.

Or don’t.

A large hand cups my buttock. I’ve somehow lifted from the chair and the hand has slipped beneath me. It cups me intimately. His fingers stroke the cleft, slip in, fingertips seeking my ass. My mind slips further into neutral and my buttocks rise, his fingers slip deeper in the cleft.

‘Are you sure?’ says Aslam, to Nikhil.

Both Khans look at him now.

I turn my head, pretend to do the same. Nikhil looks ill at ease. Which is how I feel, I must confess. Though I hope I am concealing it better than he. I squirm my hips beneath the table, turning them this way and that as Aslam explores and strokes and caresses every naked inch between my waist and thighs, all the way down to my knees … then back up and in between, and even …

‘Aahh!’ I gasp, as he enters me again. My pelvis bucks this time, quite hard. It reverberates right up my spine. My eyes snap open, alarmed. But everyone’s looking at Nikhil. Nikhil is staring at cards. ‘Aaaahhh’ I gasp again, as my pelvis jumps then bucks. My face leaps up towards the ceiling, and just as it gets there, my eyes snap closed. ‘Aaaahh!’ I gasp a third time.

‘Don’t worry, Nikhil, you just take your time, ‘ I hear my partner say, seemingly oblivious to my jumps, and jerks, and squirming in my chair. Nikhil, clearly focused on not disappointing Aslam, appears oblivious to all that’s going on. Although it is I who should be focused on that! I, after all, am the one who seems to be ensuring the big man is not disappointed — and judging from the hunger of the hands that explore me, Aslam is far from disappointed!

I force my eyes open again; force my head straight on my shoulders. I lower my buttocks, gently, into the chair. His hand still cups me there so I don’t sit down with all my weight. (It wouldn’t do to hurt his hand.) I lean my elbows on the table, bearing some weight on that. (Breaking Aslam’s hand will hardly get Nikhil his job.) Which is when it strikes me: Were a card to fall on the floor about now, and one of the players bend to retrieve it, the sight beneath the table might surprise, or stun, or outrage deeply … depending, I suppose, whose card it was.

What might they see? Nikhil’s neat polished shoes, heals together, the crease on the trousers, one of the knees bouncing nervously up and down every now and then. Then settling, still. On his left, the prim print frock of Mrs. Khan, hem reaching down to mid-calf, thick formless ankles, sturdy-healed ‘sensible shoes’. Opposite Nikhil’s neat trousers the broad powerful calves of Aslam, bulging under the creased grey slacks. Knees wide apart, elbows and forearms extending from the knees, broad shoes scuffed, bobbing up and down every now and then.

Next to these, and at times coiled around one, my own lady-like legs. Twenty-two years old, smooth in sleek stay-up stockings, both shoes off, thong round one ankle like a garter, slipped low. One foot on tiptoes, the other curled under my chair. Knees one moment apart, then spread, then lifting up, tight against each other. Naked thighs, naked hips, naked mons, naked cunt — glistening with moisture — intertwined with hands. Moved and positioned and caressed as the smooth naked buttocks rolled and squirmed on the front of the chair, looking at times to edge off altogether as yet another spasm drives the pelvis forward. Then a squirm sends it gliding to the side. Then a catch and a tweak of the fingers send it spinning towards the back before yet another spasm kicks in, lurching it back towards the front yet again, spreading it wide towards the waiting hands, eating out the palm of first one, then the other, nuzzling at the thick invading fingers …

I couldn’t keep my eyes on the cards. Below the waist my nakedness was sliding out of control. Aslam’s hands were at war with me, invading every sensitive inch of my private parts. Battling defenses, weakening will, driving my emotions to the wall.

‘Aaaaahhhh,’ I gasped aloud, as my partner said again — how many times had she said it, ‘Your turn, Deepti, my pet.’ I was now this woman’s ‘pet’. From the way her husband was petting me too, I was clearly becoming the family pet!

‘Sorry,’ I look at my hand. A heart was led. I have a heart. I pull it out, and as I place it on the table Nikhil, watching the card — not seeming to see me at all — Aslam pulls my leg toward him. I slip even further down my chair, threatening to slip off altogether. To slide ignominiously, half-naked, under the table itself, (only the grip of my elbows on the table top stops that from happening).

The edge of the chair is now against the top of my buttocks. All the lower parts are electrifyingly aware of his touch. The hungry hands exploring their shape. Hard firm globes, I think to myself, absently, as his hands stroke both, then slip between, then stroke me there. Fingertips easing more deeply between. I feel my cleft grow large, like a hungry mouth. Gaping, affording entry.

‘A heart,’ I say to Nikhil, drawing his attention to the card I’ve just played.

My head is now low, my shoulders lifted, my elbows on the table holding me up, my pelvis and thighs and private parts open to the hands of Aslam, taking advantage of my hopelessness. And how much advantage he takes! His fingertip stands at my ass. What do I do to prevent it?

‘A heart?’ asks Nikhil, clearly bemused by the need to follow suit.

‘You need to follow suit,’ said Aslam, to Nikhil. Then he leans forward — to me — and into my ear, as one of his hands cups my buttock and his other goes over my mons, a finger stroking my clit (and practically closing my eyes). While his other fingertip lingers, ominously close, to the puckered little bulge of the entrance to my ass … and nothing has ever been there! ‘You need to open,’ he says.

He is clearly talking to me.

‘A heart,’ says Mrs. Khan, to Nikhil. Then looking at me with a smile, she says, ‘Aslam’s being silly, Deepti my pet, he doesn’t know that you’ve opened already,’ she nods at my card.

I have opened.

I don’t know why, or how — nor even why — but I have …

Aslam’s thick finger is easing its way up my butt… And no-one has been there before!

This has now gone away past bizarre — this is now thoroughly weird.

What the heck am I doing? I ask myself, eyes on the card I’ve just played, almost off my chair, naked parts of me thrust towards this man as he uses what I offer how he wants. The feeling of the thick finger moving slowly up my butt — is so strangely insulting, so deeply offensive, so utterly impolite, that I find myself turning to the man, and studying him. He stares right back at me. My eyes, I know, are wide on his. He opens his on mine as if we are the only two people in the room, me effectively offering all my sensitive feminine parts to him to do with as he pleases, while he does precisely that.

He is looking at me with unusual … what is that look?

Hunger? Lust? Arrogance? Confidence … What is that look?

‘Urgh!’ my eyes snap shut. He has pushed the tip of his finger into my ass. My pelvis lifts beneath the table and then, as my eyes snap open — on his — I find I am sinking back down … onto him. My pelvis, under it’s weight and deprived of the pressure of my sphincter, slides gently down his finger. Very soon it’s length is deep inside me. He leans towards me and before I know what I’m doing, I lean towards him. The next thing I know his lips are on mine, and his tongue is in my mouth.

Alarmed, I rear away. Our lips break apart. Tightening my grip on the invasive finger, flexing my thighs, pressing my feet on the floor and using my elbows as levers, I thrust myself upright.

‘She deserved it, don’t you think,’ says Aslam, to Nikhil (I think).

I guiltily glance in his direction. His eyes are down on the cards in his hand, two fingers closed over one, trying to decide. I don’t think my husband even noticed the kiss.

Aslam is kissing his wife now in front of him. I playfully pushes him away.

‘Take you time,’ says Mrs. Khan, smiling at her husband, then at me, then at Nikhil, adding with her eyes on him, ‘Poor dear doesn’t know what to do.’

‘Don’t you think Deepti deserves a kiss, playing such a good lead?’ says Aslam to his wife, as his hand between my legs slowly circles my clitoris, and the one with my ass impaled, massages me gently. For reasons I cannot explain, I have my ass relaxed. Entirely relaxed.

‘Whatever you say, my dear,’ says Mrs. Khan, accommodatingly, to her husband.

‘You agree too?’ he asks Nikhil.

Nikhil nods, vaguely, still studying his cards. Next I know, Aslam has leant towards me, brought a hand from under the baize tablecloth to the back of my neck and is bending my head towards his. Before I’ve had a chance to get my thoughts back in order, I have allowed my lips to close on Aslam’s lips. And this time his tongue does a thorough job! When we break, I am gasping for air and have a finger up both the apertures between my legs. Then I have Aslam’s lips running down my neck, and am stretching my neck as if I want them there … and Nikhil is playing a seven of hearts.

My partner wins the trick. I straighten.

At least above the waist I look normal. I think. My shoulder straps are still on my shoulder, my hair is still in place, my breasts — albeit with nipples elaborately hard — are still inside my dress. Sort of normal, anyway. But down below all hell is breaking loose. How can I stay still? The sexual flush to which I am prone has risen to my neck. I feel it there. His finger is up my ass. I feel that there. Another is snug in my cunt, and I certainly feel that there! I try to keep my breathing calm. I try to keep my cards still. I spasm again as his thumb tweaks my clit … then again … and again … and again! ‘AAAAHHHH FUUCCKK!’ I gasp louder.

‘You all right, my petikins?’ croons Mrs. Khan.

‘Just a bit parched,’ I say, words pulled out the air, given little thought. ‘A drink of water,’ I look down at the table, shaking my head. Then I decide, ‘Would you excuse me?’ I say, determined to leave this table of utter and impossible anxiety, at least for a minute. I have to ‘regroup’, pull myself together, get a bloody grip!

I lay my cards face down on the table.

Aslam takes the hint. I feel his fingers draw out of my innards, and then I am straightening my skirt beneath the table, pushing back my chair, coming to my feet — and noticing my panties round an ankle!

‘I’ll just be a minute,’ I say, kicking off the panties towards Aslam, moving my feet into shoes on the floor, straightening my hem down more, turning, and making for the kitchen. As I open the kitchen door I hear Mrs. Khan say, kindly, ‘I can give you some pointers if you like, Nikhil.’ And Nikhil, relieved, saying ‘Would you, I’d like that, now?’ ‘Certainly, why not,’ responds my partner, while Aslam himself says softly, ‘Why don’t I go and help Deepti. I wouldn’t mind some water myself.’


I am by the fridge. I open it, waiting for the sound of him. I take out the water. Reach up for two glasses in the cupboard above and as I am stretched I hear the kitchen door open, and close … and as I get my fingers round the tumblers I feel his large hands on me. There is no pretense at any accidental touch. He simply runs his hands around my front, pulls my bum into his crotch, the opens his big hands against me, over my tummy, held flat.

I hold the tumblers in the cupboard up above.

His hands run up my stomach towards my breasts. I arch my back. Not violently or suddenly, but gently, as if it is the proper thing to do. This presses my breasts even tighter against the thin silk of my dress, my little black dress. His hands run inexorably onwards, upwards, then onto my breasts themselves, then over my breasts, cupping them gently, taking them captive and filling his hands. I let out an unconscious sigh. My breasts are unbearably sensitive. My nipples outrageously so. His fingers are searching for nipples.

I hang on to the tumblers above. My eyes drift closed and my knees feel week … shit, this is not good at all! His fingers find my nipples and take them, lightly gripped, and roll them one way, two ways. I squirm, and twist, and arch my back some more. His hands flatten over my breasts, and flatten them into my ribs. I roll my chest against his eager hands. Not good. Not good. Not good!

‘Kiss me, you little whore,’ he whispers in my ear, probing it next with his tongue, thrusting his groin in my butt, fondling my breasts and playing my nipples like a violin. Or guitar: neatly plucked. I growl and groan and turn in the circle of his arms and thrust my throbbing tits into the man’s great hairy chest. I feel sure he will have hairs on his chest. Animals have hair on their chest. Aslam is animal. Everything about him is animal. My mouth is wide on his, my tongue deep at the back, probing for tonsils, searching for his throat. Then his own great brute of a tongue battles past, strides into my mouth, and does go down my throat.

‘Aaargh!’ I groan, mouth opened into his, starting to suckle his tongue.

His hand is at my butt, cupping a buttock, lifting me high. My arms are round his neck. My legs coil out and round him too, ankles closing tight around his buttocks as his hand on my butt lifts my dress, finds nakedness and moisture underneath. He whispers into my ear, ‘I’m going to fuck you now, little whore,’ as his hands burrow under my pussy — exposed, open, gaping, slick with juices — and with a sleight of hand that I can’t quite fathom his cock, hard and long easily 10 inches, is there. My cunt senses the big bad dog, runs up and down its long hard shaft sharing the wet damp heat, nuzzling it, egging it on. No longer anything to do with me — this is no longer under my control.

Crazy, I think, in one part of my mind, as the other gasps and slavers. My uncontrollable (animal) part is now indecently eager and wildly expectant as the hand with the large Aslam cock — it is bound to be large, everything about him is large, and brutish — seems to be fumbling between spread legs. What do I do about this? Not a damn thing! I am open and wide, almost willingly exposed, waiting for the inevitable … deep, deep, deep, inside me.


I groan like a banshee, gasp and yelp as my pelvis kicks then thrusts, then flares. My thoughts drift hopelessly: Nikhil, outside, learning how to pay bridge with Mrs. Khan while here in the kitchen her husband probes deep in his pupil’s wife. I rock then roll atop him. He is bigger by far than Nikhil. Deeper and further inside me, than Nikhil has ever been. What will we do if Nikhil walks in? Closing my eyes (just in case?) my arms pull him closer forcing our mouths tight together. Stretching my lips so the tongues both can play. Arching my back and spreading my thighs and clasping my ankles like steel … as I ride up and down, moaning and gasping in his mouth punctuated by sharp little cries … high pitched cries, plaintive cries, cries of exquisite pain.

What is Nikhil doing now? Has he learned how to lead, how to open — as I open my mouth to its widest extent, sucking his tongue down my throat, bucking as his shaft plunges deep. My fingers fumble with the buttons on his shirt. He has pulled the tiny spaghetti straps of my dress down my arms, exposing my breasts, and the breasts want his rough chest against them. Where did I get such an urge! The soft tender flesh of my breasts and the hard firm nubs of my nipples crush themselves into the hard wiry carpet of hair that covers the huge man’s chest. (As I knew it would!) He drives in deep and hard. I gasp and cry out and my thighs crush hard as my breast pancake into his chest.

‘Aaargh!’ I cry, then ‘oh god yessss!’ as an orgasm rips through my innards. Strange colored dreams, light colored thoughts, thick red and bright blue explosions. Violin strings to my innards pluck at the core of my being. My lips come from his and a loud cry erupts from the souls of my feet.


My cry is bitten off as the immensity inside me seems to grow and plunge even deeper than before. He has bent me over the counter, my back is arched backwards as he is bent forwards, bent like a bow over me. His wiry hair is crushed against my breasts. His tongue is half way down my throat. My feet are angled up into the air forcing my pelvis ever higher and harder into him … as he forces himself ever deeper and harder into me …

‘Whaaaaaagh!’ It hits me again, a sweeping driving trembling surf of uncontrollable emotion. ‘Aaaargh!’ I cry, then ‘Aaahhh!’ as orgasm hits, again, like a bull charging right through the first, a series of jolts to my system. I no longer know what to make of it all. (Nikhil and I don’t do this like this.)

‘Are you two all right?’ cries Mrs. Khan, from the sitting room.

‘Just getting some water, my dear,’ gasps her husband, thrusting himself inside me like a piston in the engine of a ship.

‘Won’t be long,’ I hear a voice say, trying to be calm, a catch at the top — and suddenly realize the voice is mine. Why am I trying to calm things?

‘Aaargh!’ It ripples, then blooms, then erupts in a Technicolor blast that sweeps through my soul like a lava flow moving at the speed of sound.

‘Just coming,’ I hear myself say, as Aslam fucks me hard for another 35 minutes and finally cum inside me, and another in my series of orgasms, rears, thrashing my senses to tatters, hurling my emotions on their back — legs spread, defenses open, will surrendered, loyalty reverted to the enemy … who shoots his heat in spurts, in me, again, and again, and again, and again.

My legs stay wrapped around the man who has laid me open so easily. Then the thick hard rod starts slowly to withdraw. My sexual slime comes too. His ejaculated sperm mixed in, in hot thick pockets. My cunt lips swollen and flushed and aroused and hot, at the end of the affair they were involved in. All the frenzied need for contact, cunt and thigh and inner leg, drains of its desire. The hair of his chest leaves my soft flushed breasts. I try to keep my balance with my feet on the tiles of the kitchen. I re-adjust the straps of my little black dress, throbbing breasts back where they belong. I move my hair from the sweat on my cheek. I pull down the hem, covering the top of my legs. Decorum being restored.

‘Would either of you like some water,’ asks Aslam, shirt buttoned, cock put away — wiped casually, I noted, with my little black dress. Zip pulled up. He is at the kitchen door, looking out.

‘Yes please, dear,’ says his wife.

‘No thank you, Aslam,’ says Nikhil.

“Aslam?” I wonder at that.

‘How many waters?’ I ask him, seeming to think it’s important.

‘Er, three please,’ says Aslam.

So I get three tumblers from the cupboard, and straighten my hair a bit more, and check that my stockings are straight. I pour the water, and get out a tray. Aslam goes out in advance. I follow, and offer the water around, feeling a continuing discharge run down my inner thigh. I sit down. Uncross my legs and spread them open once again. The discharge flattens softly. Hot, slick, sticky, and sleek. Whose play is it now? I wonder, noticing the card pack in front of my place. My partner is looking at me.

‘You cut to the big boy,’ she says.

So I cut the cards.

To her husband.

The End

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