(Or Zehra Learns To Play Nice)
[Author's Notes: Before diving into this rather long story I feel I should give you a heads-up for the kinks so you can decide whether this is your jam or not: this is a cheating girlfriend story where BOTH cheaters are initially resistant to cheating, but their mutual lust for each other wins through and they cheat anyway. There are no repercussions for their actions - the story ends with the boyfriend oblivious to the cheating. Also the sex is deliberately over the top: great artistic licence is taken in terms of realistic biology (like guys cuming pints, and shit like that). So if that's all right up your alley, then read on!]
Sprawling across the northeastern coastline of the UK like a woman recovering from the best cum of her life is the city of Coytoss; fourth largest on the isle and for many an urban nightmare of conflicting British history. Post-war council estates bleed into post-millennium bachelor pads and sprawling fintech offices surrounded by carefully manicured lawns; while on the other side of the fence dilapidated steelworks speak of times long past - their walls covered in graffiti, their words speaking of sinful unions between denizens of this sordid city.
Words aplenty, for Coytoss is a most devilish place for one to call home. Not for those of strong moral character or reservations, for Coytoss, and the county of Eroshire within which it resides, is known of throughout the UK as a city of lust; of carnal delights and desires allowed to be made manifest to the detriment of relationships (although only if those who allow their desires to rule their needs are sloppy, and there are many living in Coytoss who are experienced in keeping those they love from finding out about the someone extra they have on the side, and plenty more who have taken a third option, and a fourth, and fifth...) A city where there are no sins, only the meeting of desires, the meetings of the flesh, of lust, of want and need!
It is said that there is something in the air, or maybe in the water, that makes the residents of the county horny as fuck; the women insatiable, and the men indefatigable.
No surprise, some say, considering the name of the city...
...which is not entirely inaccurate. For the city known these days as Coytoss is relatively young; not built upon old Roman fortresses like many, but rather born from the old shipyard industry of the 1800's; beginning modestly as the small town of Cotshire when the first shipyards were built. After which the people came seeking work, and the town grew in size; eventually luring those of great wealth, who quickly bought up vast amounts of the land around the town for their own means. One of these individuals, Frances Kent, took a great dislike to the name 'Cotshire', and demanded that a new name be given to the burgeoning city, one befitting a future great dock of the British Empire.
Many suggestions were made by rich peers, but it was the one from the eccentric Maximillian Miller that was taken up by his many friends amongst the Eroshire elite, and soon was adopted as the name of the city. When he was asked Miller explained that 'Coytoss' was a reference to the ancient Saxon game of Coy Tossing; where a ball made of spare yarn would be kept aloft by two teams of five armed with sticks. Eventually it would be proven by historians that no such game ever existed, and in fact Miller, a renowned sex addict who frequently held great orgies in his mansion, had simply decided to name the city after the act he most enjoyed in life.
At this point Kent had been using the name for years, and found himself quite embarrassed by the whole affair, rigidly upholding the 'Coy Tossing' fabrication long after it had been debunked, rather than admit the man he disliked had managed to score a point over him by convincing him to name a city after sex (this was, you see, during the Victorian era, where a woman's bare ankles were considered the very height of debauchery).
Today a statue stands at the centre of Coytoss depicting Maximillian Miller in all his drunken glory, and to the people of the city the man is no less a fucking god (and was, so historians insist, a god of fucking as well).
Around the busy square where Maximillian Miller is captured, mid-stagger, in metal faded by the elements, there are many expensive properties, afforded by those fortunate enough to have high-paying jobs in the city. Zehra Sydin's boyfriend, Adrian Foster, is one such individual, and tonight she stands on the balcony of his flat looking over the square, cheekily having one last cigarette, as the cool night breeze plays with her long dark hair; it blows gently over her tanned skin - so dark as to be almost Mediterranean brown, revealing her Turkish heritage despite being born only a few miles away, in Coytoss Central Hospital almost twenty-eight years ago.
Placing the cigarette between two full lips, Zehra took a drag, exhaling the smoke out into the night air, as her large dark green eyes regarded the traffic below; currently at a standstill thanks to some roadworks blocking almost every exit from the junction. Something about the water. An average Thursday evening for Miller's Madness (or Miller's Meeting, as the junction was actually named); one of the reasons why Zehra could enjoy her current extended stay at her boyfriend's flat: the view from Adrian's balcony was fantastic, and the entertainment afforded by city traffic even more so!
Normally she was one to feel the cold, especially in a UK winter, but tonight was strangely hot for a mid-February evening (16C, according to her phone), and the heat from all the cars down below meant Zehra wasn't feeling chilly despite the low-cut top she was wearing; revealing a great portion of her large breasts, held back by the sports bra she still wore from some home workout (or rather 'boyfriend's-pad-workout') a few hours earlier; as well as most of her arms from the shoulders down, her skin covered in a web of intricate tattoos depicting all manner of mythological creatures; ending finally with a sizeable amount of toned stomach that showed off her dedication to working out as much as she could despite not having the money for the gym.
Having a nicer set of abs than your boyfriend was somewhat amusing, but Adrian's body wasn't what Zehra loved about him (although he *did* have a nice body).
"Hey babe!" Speak of the devil: Zehra hadn't heard Adrian approach and was surprised to hear his voice a moment before he kissed her on the cheek, but she hid it well as she turned around to face him, placing her back to the motorised chaos down below. "Are you not cold out here?"
"No, strange enough," she replied, her voice deep and husky; something that she was always a little self-conscious about. "It's warm tonight, ain't it?"
As he laid his hands on her hips, standing close to her, Adrian frowned at the night's sky, as if he was measuring the temperature around them with some kind of extra-sensory skill. "Guess," he said after a moment. "Then again I don't feel the temperature as easily as you do."
"I'm not that bad," she said, smiling at his good-natured ribbing. "You're the one that's got his hoodie on with the heating turned up. I came out here for a little fresh air from the sauna inside; are you trying to cook us tonight or something?"
"Hmm... nah, I think you're hot enough."
She rolled her eyes, but smiled nonetheless as she kissed him again.
"What's this?" Adrian said, giving the cigarette still clutched between two slender fingers a tug, while his smile told her he knew exactly what it was; this was an old point between them.
Tapping her cigarette on the railings, sending glowing ash falling to the pavement below them, Zehra regarded him with a cool look. "Well if maybe a certain someone didn't ban smoking in his place I wouldn't have to come out here, would I?"
"You could give up," Adrian said, not for the first time since they started dating.
