Mid-Life Crisis

I did see twenty-year-old Craig again for we had to complete the tennis competition, but we both knew it was over. Having him cum on my face, fuck me three times in my house and sleep all night with me had brought closure to our fling, we both knew that. Over the next few months I was tempted a couple of times when I would see his number in my addresses on my phone and he called once and suggested a 'for old times-sake get together,' but we didn't. With flings like we had, which are totally based on sex, but then what else is there between a forty two year old woman and a twenty year old guy, there's no going back; so I went forward instead.

Kevin and I got back together again. It was good for a while with him being wonderfully attentive and fabulous in bed. Slowly though he drifted back to his old ways: sudden overnight trips up north in England or trips overseas, long lunches from which he came home half or completely pissed, increases in client entertaining, dinners a couple of times a week and so on. As the frequency and amount of this increased I became suspicious. I didn't like what I did for I checked his shirts and suits hoping against hope I didn't smell perfume or find mascara or lip-gloss smudges. I went through his pockets seeing if there were any incriminating receipts and I looked at the numbers he had recently called on his mobile. I didn't find anything, but wasn't confident enough to believe that was because he was 'going straight,' just that he was being careful. That's what happens when you love a man that has cheated on you many times. The other thing that happens is that cheating takes on another meaning and starts to become a 'if he can do it so can I,' a sort of 'what's good for the goose etc...!'

I got bored. Although he'd promised to travel less and be home more he didn't; nothing changed. Sara was doing great at school, he was doing great with the business we had built between us and I was stultifying. I became suspicious of him. I questioned him too much and continually asked where he was going and where he had been. I wanted our marriage to work, I loved Kevin and had thought we would spend the rest of our lives together in wedded bliss, bringing up our gorgeous, intelligent and very balanced daughter. But it was slowly dawning on me that was not going to happen and as with many of our friends the 'magic' was going from our marriage. That scared me. The thought of being alone, starting a new life and bringing Sara up by myself horrified me. Ok I would be fine financially, but a wreck emotionally. I just didn't know who to turn to or what to do and that made things so much worse.

In some ways Kevin did try. He was extra attentive, made sure I got plenty of sex and took me out frequently. He took me to the Villa d'Este on Lake Guarda for a week and bought me a big diamond. It was all nice and we had some good sex, but I was depressed. I knew that soon this would all stop and not much would have changed, except perhaps the young bimbo he was fucking would be a blonde instead of a brunette.

I started golf lessons again; I hadn't played for year. I quite enjoyed it and I arranged to be coached by a young pro at his club and, by god, was I tempted? It looked as though it might be another Craig all over again. He was good looking, had a lovely personality and was quite bright but did not have the level of inteligence necessary for my panties to come off. My knickers are intellectual snobs!

On the second day on Italy it rained all day, it often does in that region. The clouds sometimes seem to get caught on the mountains and they just stay there dumping their rain. It's surprising that when it does rain at a holiday resort, just how little there is to do.

"Why don't I take some photos of you, sort of commemorate the holiday?" Kevin suggested.

Although it was raining it was still quite warm and we were sitting on the balcony of our suite looking out over the lake.

"We've got loads."

"I know that but just a few portraits."

He's always been keen on photography, but didn't really have the time to spend on it. He had the money, though and was always buying new cameras and other stuff and for Christmas I had bought him a Canon digital SLR, which he had wanted.

I was wearing jeans and a white blouse, nothing special and certainly not clothes to commemorate a really special occasion, but I agreed.

He took a number of photos of me from different angles and with me in a variety of poses. I was quite used to posing for him for he was always taking snaps, especially when we were on holiday.

"Open another button," he said squinting at me through the lens.

"What?"

"Your blouse looks a bit too tight."

"If I open another button I'll show a lot of cleavage."

"So, I can handle that."

"Yes I know darling you handled it and more last night didn't you?" I smiled back pleased that we were getting on so well.

"Well yes, but why so much cleavage?"

"I'm wearing a new bra, one of those I bought in Milan; it's Italian and on the small side for me."

"Yes not too many Italian women have D cup knockers do they?"

"No they tend to be smaller as do their bras."

"Well why not take it off then?"

"The bra?"#

"Yes" he said a little croakily.

"And have you photograph me?"

"Why not, it might be er fun."

The idea gave me an adrenalin rush, it excited me. I did undo the extra button, I did show him the deep cleavage, he did photograph it, I did remove my bra and he was right, it was fun..

"Put the blouse back on."

"Kev what are you up to?"

"Amanda this is good, I'm enjoying it. Please."

I did as he asked. He photographed me with the blouse done up, the thin cotton stretched across my boobs, my nipples, which I realised had hardened, clearly on view.

"You won't show these to anyone will you?" I croaked realising I was getting worked up.

"Of course not, now undo the buttons one by one."

As I did that looking down and occasionally looking at the camera, Kevin took loads of shots of me.

"Undo it and let it hang."

The edges of the blouse caught on my immensely erect nipples as if that is what they were designed for, they were in the right places and were the right size.

I had never done anything like this and I did feel shy when we had started, but now that had gone and I was enjoying myself.

"Now undo the jeans."

"No Kevin we can't," I said, but, and I could hardly believe this, I wanted to.

When I had undone my belt and the zip on my jeans it all kicked off. He shot me topless in my jeans, undoing the jeans and taking them off. He took loads of me in my panties including me lying on my back on the bed and on the floor and him kneeling across me. His erection was very evident as he croaked.

"Now the panties Amanda."

I demurred at first, but eventually they came off and Kevin photographed me like that, I was half expecting him to tell me as Craig had, that I had a gorgeous cunt, but Kevin is always slow on the compliments. We did though have sex and it was brilliant. Posing for your lover as he photographs you was, I recognised, the perfect foreplay. It also gave vent to the exhibitionist streak that my toyboy had discovered lay dormant in me.

A couple of evenings later we were getting ready for dinner at a posh restaurant just round the lake.

"Stay right like that," he said as he came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel.

I was in my underwear, a black bra and thong and one stocking, and was just pulling the other holdup up my leg. I hadn't done my hair so it was tumbling in an unkempt pile of chestnut locks onto my bare shoulders.

"I must shoot you like that."

"We can't we'll be late for dinner."

I watched incredulously as he picked up the phone, called the concierge and told him to cancel the restaurant.

"And send the waiter up in forty five minutes so we can order room service," He went on getting his camera from the bag. "On the bed Amanda I so want to get you in that outfit."

He snapped away as I, now far less self-consciously, rolled around on the bed striking up my own poses and removing my bra with little hesitation when he asked. I knew that my tummy had a little bulge, my full breasts had a bit of a sag and there was some excess on my bum and hips so I struck poses that mitigated as far as I could those parts of my body.

He was beside the bed snapping away as I pusheed my breasts together and pinched my nipples into even larger lumps than they had become involuntarily. I could see the outline of his erection under the towel, it was so tempting. I gave into it, rolled onto my side, pulled the towel so it fell away from him, grabbed his erection and started licking and sucking him. Unlike Craig he didn't shoot his lot onto my face and tits. No my husband came in my mouth and I swallowed him!

Back home the glamour gone we went back to the norm: the grinding, fucking, boring life of a working housewife and mother. I was going out of my head with worry over what Kevin was up to, who he was fucking this time and if he would leave Sara and me. I couldn't stay in the house. I tried more tennis, but kept meeting Craig and at the golf club the spectre of Craig Mark two loomed so large that I stopped going to lessons.

So I got a job. A proper job, well a part time proper job, one where I had to go to an office to work I mean as opposed to working from home as I had for years. It was in a marketing and promotions agency. They did lots of research both for clients, their own use and for publication. They needed someone to edit the reports, present them in a readable form and create and maintain a database of materials for use in their research.

I'm not sure why I got it, but it seemed a good idea at the time. We didn't need the money and it was a bit tiresome commuting to Covent Garden from Chigwell three days a week, but it sounded like fun and the work appeared to be interesting. I hadn't worked in an office other than as the boss since my early twenties when I was employed in an ad agency and committed the cardinal sin in advertising, I fucked the client and that was Kevin.

So it was all new to me. I got my mum and dad who lived near by to pick Sara up from school although on two of the days I worked she had something on in the school one night and studied at a friend's another. As I didn't have to be at work until nine thirty and with school being near the tube station making the necessary arrangements to cope with our daughter was a breeze. Kevin did help, but I could never trust him to collect Sara; he was just too unreliable and I thought in my dark moments, his bimbos were more important than his daughter who wasn't that much younger than his bits on the side.

Strangely I loved it. I liked the buzz in the place, the camaraderie of being part of a team, meeting new people from walks of life I rarely experienced who I had nothing common with but the job, the office politics, the going out for a drink after work and, of course, the flirtation. PC hadn't reached such agencies then and so many of the comments were quite ribald; I just loved it. I also loved kitting myself out. I had to buy a range of casual office clothes, jeans, trousers, tops, cardis that sort of stuff and several uniforms for client meetings, power suits in black, blue, red and white; I bought each suit with both trousers and a skirt.

I suppose it was inevitable. Maybe it was what I was looking for? Perhaps I saw work as a means to an end? Possibly deep down I imagined I would meet men in no strings situations? I really don't know, but it was and I did. But I swear I never looked for it or promoted it, things like Patrick and me just happen, I don't think they can be planned.

In some ways I guess it was a classic office romance, a predictable work colleagues' affair. But to me it was not that. I think Patrick could well have been the true love of my life and I feel I was that to him.

Patrick was one of the directors and he was my boss. He was just older than me, nearly fifty and lived in Potters Bar an upscale North London suburb which was just a few miles from where I lived. He too was married with two children. His wife was known in the office and didn't seem to be liked. She was heavily into politics and was a local Tory party councillor, but was trying to get adopted for a parliamentary seat in Kent so she was away from home quite a lot. As we got to know each, many other similarities emerged.

I suppose it developed and followed a fairly predictable path.

We worked closely together, probably closer than was really necessary.

We had to attend meetings together, both in the office and at clients' premises, most of which were in London, but some were round the country; we usually travelled together.

We got to know each other, we talked of many things including our personal lives, which I soon learned were dangerous discussion topics.

We started to work late together, we had lunches, sometimes with clients, but more often just the two of us, ostensibly to discuss work.

We had drinks after work, just the two of us, he gave me lifts to the station and then.

"Maybe we could have dinner one night Amanda, perhaps when we are both at a loose end having been partner dumped?"

Ok. The intimacy trail or, the road to a fuck.

Staying late at the office, mild flirting, lifts to the station, the odd drinks after work even lunch are all part of work. Yes they may be extensions of it and they may bring the participants closer together, but they can always be viewed as work; they are usually in work time so they can be justified as that. Dinner is different. It's out of work hours, it isn't part of the working day, it intrudes on one's personal time and cannot really be justified. I could no more say to Kevin that I was going to dinner with Patrick my boss than Patrick could say to his shrew of a wife that he was taking me out. You can wrap it how you will but dinner, even between work colleagues is a date, it's as simple as that. But rather than say 'come on a date' we use the euphemism 'let's have dinner.' We both knew, though, exactly what it is and what was going on; after all we were both grown ups!. Patrick was trying to extend our relationship, take it beyond work mould it into friendship or more, he was extending a guarded invitation to me to go out with him. Yes Patrick was inviting me to take another step along the intimacy trail. I strode out with little hesitation on that road to be fucked.

"Yes that would be nice," was my hesitant reply.

It didn't go anywhere. We got on well, we chatted easily, we found out lots about each other, but it ended when he dropped me at Liverpool Street Station and I got the tube home. I think we were both too nervous and concerned that we would do something to upset the other. I certainly, and I suspect Patrick as well, were also relieved; starting an affair is a big step and a huge responsibility.

Whether I was trying to justify my feelings for Patrick and the potential affair or whether all the signs from Kevin were adding up to him being 'at it' again I'm not sure. But he was away and out more, he had more 'urgent' trips and then yes, I did smell the 'cheap' perfume that bimbos wear, that is until he buys them Chanel as a present, and the tell-tale smudge of lip gloss or lipstick on his jacket. That convinced me he was up to something, but then 'leopards never change their spots' I thought feeling remarkably relaxed about the fact that my husband was fucking another woman, or more!

Again whether it was me 'knowing' that Kevin was up to his old tricks' or some other force I don't know, but I started feeling differently about Patrick. There was almost, or so it seemed, a correlation between the strength of my suspicions that my husband was shagging some little bitch and the strength of those feelings for Patrick.

I looked for him from my cubby hole as he walked round the large open plan office or I glanced into his glass walled office through the vertical blinds as I passed by, which I seemed to do more frequently. I looked forward to our daily meetings and to presenting stuff to him as just the two of us sat in his office with the door closed, sometimes our arms or legs touching. When he touched me, perhaps guiding me through a doorway before him, they were now more than mere touches, they felt like caresses. When he looked at me his stare became more than a glance in my direction it became a look of affectionate lust, I felt as if he was undressing me as, increasingly I was mentally doing to him.

We had dinner again. This time when he dropped me at Liverpool Street Station he got out of the car, came round opened the door and stood there as I got out. He stared at me, put his hand on my shoulder and said.

"I have really enjoyed tonight Amanda, thanks so much."

He kissed me on my cheek. It was like an electric shock. We both just stood there a moment or two. Involuntarily I touched where he had kissed me with my fingertips, his hand was still resting on my shoulder. I whispered.

"So have I Patrick, thank you."

And still neither moved. Then I felt his hand on my shoulder as he applied some pressure. Slowly we closed the gap between us. He pressed his body against mine and buried his face in my, what some would say was too long for my age, chestnut coloured hair.

"Maybe Amanda, I have enjoyed it a little too much, if you know what I mean?" he said quietly, his hand running down my arm and resting on my hip.

I felt surprisingly calm. Although my heart was pounding and a heat was oozing through my body from the pit of my tummy to my breasts and nipples, I managed to hold on.

"Yes Patrick I do," I sighed as his hand found mine and held it.

"So what would Missus Amanda say if I gave her a proper kiss goodnight?" He surprisingly, but very welcomingly asked.

I didn't reply, but instead I inclined my head slightly so we were looking at each other and let the expression in my eyes say what I was thinking as a reply. Well not exactly for right then my reply would have been, 'Yes kiss me, shove your tongue in my mouth and rip my clothes off.'

Instead I moulded into his arms and we kissed. It was long, loving and wonderful.

That night for the first time it was Patrick who fucked me, well in my mind as I masturbated.

A week later, no less than that, neither of us could have waited a week.

We were in the office and found ourselves alone in the coffee room.

He blurted out. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about the other evening Amanda."

"I know," I quickly replied.

"Was it ok?"

"Yes."

"I wasn't out of order then?"

"No."

Then someone else came in.

'We need to talk' the email from Patrick said.

'Yes,' I typed back.

'Soon.'

'Yes, I agree.'

'I'm at meetings all afternoon, sod it.'

'Hmmmmm"' I sent.

'I'm in the car today, how about I give you a lift home?'

'It's so out of your way,' I replied my heart pumping at the thought of the best part of an hour or so alone with him.

We talked a lot as we crawled through the East London traffic. Chigwell is almost due east of London and Potters bar is nearly due north, but both are about the same distance from Covent Garden. The route from Chigwell to PB is along the M25 and can take ages so I had insisted he drop me at a tube station on my way home, making it easier for him to get home. We agreed on Stratford where the Olympic Park was rapidly being constructed. In any case he and Marcia, the shrew, were entertaining that evening and Kevin was home, so we didn't have too much time.

He pulled away from the station entrance into the semi darkness of the car park.

At that time of evening the tubes every few minutes and it only takes twenty minutes or so to Chigwell so there was no rush, well at least on my part.