Every Thursday, while Carrie thinks I’m working late, I’m actually with Margo. Who might that possibly be, you ask, since I have professed such undying love for my wife? Margo. How does one describe her? Well, she’s half she-devil, half siren, but all tigress. She makes me sizzle and fills a certain need in me. Her silky mocha skin reminds me of brown sugar and tastes just as sweet, while her long thick hair is the color of a starless night. I love to run my hands through it. But it’s her dark eyes that enthrall me, for they gleam like glossy volcanic rock.
I never know what to expect when we meet. Margo tends to be mysterious and always has some new, exciting adventure planned. And when I fear she has finally outdone herself, she comes up with some totally outrageous scenario that leaves me breathless and completely in awe. Take last Thursday, for instance.
We had tickets to the theater. Margo gave me explicit instructions to wear my trench coat.
“But according to the weather report, there’s no chance of precipitation all week,” I protested, not wanting to have to drag the coat around if it wasn’t necessary.
“Jeremy, I know better. Trust me and wear the coat.”
Knowing my phenomenal mistress had something up her sleeve, I did as she commanded.
The play was a revival of My Fair Lady and the theater was packed. I took off my coat, folded it and placed it on my lap. Margo, looking ravishing as usual in a clingy, short red dress that left nothing to the imagination, smiled and took my hand in hers. Halfway through the first act, she abandoned my hand and began to rub my prick. I had stopped wearing underwear on Thursdays long ago and felt her touch through my lightweight slacks as if she were directly touching my skin. In practically no time, she proceeded to drive me wild. Needless to mention, I walk around every Thursday half-hard just thinking about meeting Margo later on. I held the coat just so to obstruct the view of the elderly woman on my left. I’m certain had she witnessed what we were doing she would have had a stroke. Margo unzipped my slacks, unleashed my rigid tool and continued to stroke me.
Moments later, Margo whispered into my ear, “Don’t come yet. Hold your coat over your cock and follow me.”
We rose from our seats together and made our way out to the lobby and into the men’s room. I had some reservation about this, but luckily the men’s room was empty. Choosing the stall farthest from the door, she sat down on the toilet and took my entire cock into her mouth as she tugged on my balls. Within seconds, I let loose a jet of cum. In an attempt to swallow it all and not miss a drop, Margo wrapped her talented tongue around my spent cock and licked it until it glistened only with her saliva.
I started to zip up my slacks, but Margo stopped me and purred, “Haven’t you forgotten me?” She took my hand and placed it on her wet pussy.
“But how…?”
“Come on, quickly.” Her voice was dripping with excitement as she half dragged me from the stall.
A moment later she was sitting on the counter by the sink.
“But what if someone comes in?” I asked, nervously glancing at the door.
“They can watch.”
The thought of being caught in the act breathed new life into my cock, and by the time she had reached inside my slacks, I was ready for her. Her short dress had risen over her luscious, mocha thighs, revealing her clit and moist snatch. Feeling how wet it was, I guided my shaft into that glistening pussy. She let out a low moan as I slowly filled her. I grabbed her hips, moving them forward and drawing her closer. She began to rub her clit as I slipped my finger into her now accessible anus the way she liked. It was at that moment I thought I heard the door open.
Suddenly I heard a voice behind me. “Man, this fucking show is better than the one on stage.”
That did it. I felt Margo stiffen. She began to moan as her vulva convulsed. From the corner of my eye, I saw a guy take out his member and begin to jack off furiously.
“Would you like to finish me off, little lady?” the stranger gasped.
Margo merely gave out a throaty laugh as she hopped off the counter. “Looks like you’re doing just fine without me.” Then turning back to me, she said, “Hmm. Now that I’ve had dessert, I’m ready for some dinner.”
We linked arms and walked out of the men’s room, laughing.
Unlike my unpredictable girlfriend, my wife, Carrie, is a conventional lover, and modest to the point of being shy. In fact, undressing in front of other women often gives her the willies. I can never picture her doing any of the outrageous things that Margo has done. You can’t imagine how often I’ve wished Carrie to be more daring and less inhibited. Like, for instance, the time we went to a movie a few months back.
Carrie and I were sitting in the darkened theater. I had draped my arm loosely about her shoulders. When I began to stroke one of her tits with the tip of my finger, she pushed my hand away.
“What’s wrong?” I whispered.
“Someone might see.”
Poor Carrie is always so caught up in how people might perceive her. Because of this, she rarely displays any form of affection in public. I blame this on her cold fish of a mother who probably caused her husband to jack off to Hustler magazine in the bathroom for relief.
Margo and I often talk after having sex. She’s quite intelligent and we discuss virtually everything. Had she been born in
