Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Flash!...  Flash!...  Flash!...  Flash!...Flash!

   The sudden blinding white light in the near darkness catches you both
dead, like rabbits caught fucking in a beam, the only sound the ghastly
whine of the flash gun and your gasps of breath in the near stillness.

   You feel John's cock involuntarily stiffen inside your sodden mashed up
cunt, your stomach cold & bruised bent over the boot of his new BMW.  With
this brutal pause your pendulous breasts no longer sway jiggle & slap
against his rear window.  He pulls away hurriedly, his cock still erect
smeared with your juices, disengages with an obscene slurp as he fumbles to
push it back into his briefs.

   "Wait in the car!"

   Always the terse command from John your boss.  Master of the taciturn
sentence, the man who's clarity of thought and coolness in a crisis you
find so knicker wetting in the office.  John, the man with all the answers,
his purpose always clear, his insight frighteningly exact, breathtaking in
his hold on those around him.  But not tonight.

   John spins around half crouched, ready for action, ready for flight. 
The direction of the big bike being kicked over is indistinct, the snarl of
it's engine & the bright glow of it's tail light being all you catch of it
through the thicket of trees shielding you from the road.  Pursuit would be
best naïve, at worst fantasy.

   Without the heat on you back, without the protection of his body
shielding yours, you feel cold & vulnerable in the early autumnal evening.
You feel your cunt twitch, your legs shake & your ass pucker as you attempt
a degree of modesty by pulling your skirt down from around your waist, only
to realise that your favourite Janet Raegers are still stretched ankle to
ankle.  In frustration to be free of them you stomp them down awkwardly in
your stiletto heeled shoes only to tramp them into a puddle & splash your
ankles.

   You stand on the edge of the puddle, bottom lip quivering, and an
overwhelming need to pee suddenly on you.  You move round to the passenger
door leaving your soiled panties in the puddle, nothing new in this lay-by
perhaps bar the quality.  Opening the car door you sit & remove your shoes,
placing them in the carrier bag you brought along especially, slipping on
your workaday flats.

   You see John kick an old oil drum in rage, sludge splattering his
trousers, a sharp edge grazing his shoe.  He won't like that, a fastidious
man John, always immaculately turned out.  His outburst of obscenities
exhausted he returns to the car and settles him self along side you.

   "Best take you home".

   That's all he said nothing more, nothing less.  He drives slowly & in
silence, no radio, no chit-chat.  You try & form words in your mouth but
they won't come, you fear the backlash anyway.  He drops you home in a
perfunctory manner & eases away from the kerb into the night.  A light has
been left on for you.  You adjust your dress, take a deep breath, put on a
brave face and fumble for your keys.

   George, a loving providing husband.  Doesn't ask too many questions,
always there when you need him.  Good with a tools & leaves for work
promptly at 06:30 each morning in his blue overall's, flask & snap box in
hand.  Arrives back a little after four every afternoon soiled from a day
of toiling at the factory always, but always, with dirt under his finger
nails.  You can't remember if it was the overalls or the dirty finger nails
that first made you dream of more.  A friend once told you to be careful of
what you wished for; you might just get it.  Well you certainly got it
didn't you gel?

   You can't quite remember when the affair began; not too long before that
Christmas party that George didn't care to go to.  The drink had been
flowing & you had been flirting outrageously all evening, free of the
shackles of your blue collar husband.  You were only vaguely aware of the
hand that guyed you away from the edge of the dance floor where you had
been dancing with any one who came within ten foot of you.  Only vaguely
aware also that this arm with the hand attached was leading you towards the
exit of the function room, that it was still only 10pm & that the other arm
was grasping an ice bucket with a champagne bottle inserted.  The sniggers
and whispers of your colleagues went similarly un-noticed although it was
plainly obvious to all in the room of the prize that John was bagging and
boy did he bag you.

   Your recollections the following morning were hazy but you vaguely
remember that;

   - it was not your room.

   - dashing to the loo once the door was opened shouting; " my turn first"

   - having your blouse & bra removed whilst on the loo, feeling
embarrassed , blushing, but feeling horny at the same time

   - undoing his belt & buttons, taking out & wanking/sucking his cock
whilst he had tugged on your nipples.

   - John running the bath & placing the champagne along side, you knocking
both glasses in the bath climbing in & giggling as John fished them out.

   - Having your body washed very elaborately, standing up being towelled
down whilst persistently telling him that you were a `big girl now'

   - Him leading you to the bed, laying you down , smiling at your
awkwardness, carefully undressing, straddling & mounting you, which was
nice.

   - Him pinning your legs over your head & trying to bugger you which made
you want to throw up.  In fact didn't you rush off to the loo & throw up.

   - More champagne, a rather pleasant 69, dashing to the loo again, that
champagne really does run through you

   - Him coming in your face, not very nice, Him laughing at you covered in
his spunk, still not nice.  Him fixing coffee & brandy whilst you cleaned
up & had another pee, v nice.

   - Sneaking back to your room at 03:20 red as a beetroot feeling v
naughty, v fucked & still just a little bit tipsy.

   And tonight in the lay by had been no different, well slightly
different.

   It had started with the Hilton, surreptitious meets after work leading
to "training courses" mid week requiring you to lodge away, [your husband
seemed almost impressed with your progress, the poor sop].  But when the
mood took him, the cleaners damp rag and shuffle of trainers frustrating
his efforts of taking you ankles over shoulder on the edge of his desk, he
always had his lay-by to fall back on.  Frequented mostly by overnighting
artics, the rutted diesel scented litter strewn lay-by was a remnant of the
old road before the by pass had been built.  Dark & uninviting, a body had
been found there years earlier, [ a poor murdered nobody dumped by a
passing lorry driver so they claim], the story being enough to keep most
folk away.  His old Scorpio had been quite roomy, the electric heated seats
folding back almost flat, with the tartan rug on the parcel shelf being put
to good use.  But tonight had been different, slightly, his beloved new BMW
being delivered only yesterday.  He meant to christen it, but not inside,
not this time, not ever.  He still hadn't forgiven you for the episode at
the Crown Plaza six weeks back.  You had been on your hands & knees, face
down, tits flattened against the sheets, buttocks up and spread.  His
foreplay had been manic.  The relaxed shower, the hallmark of your meets
where you usually washed away the scent of the day, turning into a mini
orgy in the bathroom.  Once stripped he had crudely bent you over the
toilet pan, breasts swinging, and immediately set to work tonguing your
sodden cunt from behind.  His right arm snaking around, fingers pinching,
stroking, tugging at your clit before finally plunging your depths.  Then
you knew you were in trouble as he began to tongue fuck your anus, soft &
gentle at first bursting into wild & savage.  An anal tongue fuck was a
sure sign of a rough night ahead, brutal sex, biting, spanking, deep
throating and the inevitable anal plundering.  Not that you are adverse to
that sort of thing, if done gently, passionately and with plenty of lube.
But that nights foreplay soon saw you squashed tits against the wall in the
shower, three fingers of bodywash worked into your soon to be sore ass,
followed by his cock plunging home as the hot water cascaded down your
back. You hate anal sex standing.  His height & strength lifted you almost
to tie toes with every thrust & if the bastard has one thing it is pace &
stamina.  That night he was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he hardly
noticed your finger sneaking south to caress your aching swollen clit, to
bring some relief from this constant buggery.  As he comes he slams into
you so hard your teeth and nose impact on the tiles, your body winded
slightly.  You taste the blood on you lips, thankful that his wild assault
has terminated, waiting to move through into the bedroom for cuddles kisses
and brandy.  As you deliberately tense, forcing his now flaccid cock from
your distended anus he pulls away.  You hope for a moment alone to empty
your bladder, dab your tender rosebud with tissue paper and check your
teeth in the mirror, but tonight he is not sated, not by far.  As he pulled
you from the shower dripping, in more ways than one, he threw a bathrobe
around you and led you hurriedly to the bed.  There, with the minimum of
prompting, you assumed the position, face down, hands flat, bum up, legs
slightly apart.  Slap!  The paddle stung and reddened your left buttock,
just a warm up swing worse was yet to come, you were sure of it.  Slap! 
The right buttock received a more generous blow.  You bit your lip as tears
welled.  " What are you?" he asked in a low menacing voice;

   "Master's dirty cock sucking nasty little whore!" The words sprang from
your mouth far too easily for your liking, though they had been beaten out
in the past.

   "And what is your purpose?"

   " To make Master happy & proud of me, to carry out my Master's word
without question," came your immediate response.

   "Was I rough with you Jane in the shower?"

   " Yes Sir!" You knew a lie would merit more punishment.

   " Well then, let me soothe it better for you."

   With that you heard the jar of cold cream opening, sensed his fingers
scooping in and felt his left hand on the base of your spine as his right
index finger found your sore distended anus.  As he gently massaged the
cream in amongst the spunk, soap and you shuddered to think what else, he
slipped his middle two fingers into your neglected cunt, his little finger
skimmed across your clit.  The bastard, he knew that you could not take
this for long without turning into a quivering shuddering wreck.  You also
knew the rules; you must always get Master's permission to orgasm.  But
that night was different, that night you couldn't hold back as he expertly
manipulated his fingers within your cunt & ass whilst stroking your clit.
Maybe the fuck in the shower earlier had done more for you than you thought
but as your mouth opened to find the right request for your inevitable
climax your cunt twitched, swelled and squirted uncontrollably, again,
again and again.

   The result was electric; he had jumped back so fast that he collided
with the chair with his clothes so neatly arranged so violently that he had
sent it flying.  Stumbling to keep his footing he had fell back against the
sideboard jolting the tea tray into turmoil, his right hand landing on and
crushing the complimentary custard creams that you had been eyeing all
evening.  [Had he never heard of wined, dined & 69'd, you would have
settled for fed'n'fucked!].

   As your knees gave way you had slumped into a puddle of your own juices
on, over & in the sheet & mattress.

   "Clean that up at once!" he had bellowed furiously whilst pacing the
room like a bear in distress.  Dressing hurriedly from the mixture of male
& female garments on the floor uttered;

   "I'll see you in the morning." And with that he had left as hurriedly as
you had come.

   You had tied up the best you could, decided that was what chamber maids
were for, repaired your make up, gave up with your hair, finished both the
brandies & took a taxi home.  With great care you slipped silently between
the sheets along side your husband, only to be greeted by an arm around the
waist & a kiss in the nape of your neck.

   The following morning had been sullen & miserable in the office.  He had
barely grunted at you all morning.  When his secretary had whispered at you
that he had a private & confidential call from the Crown Plaza, with a
knowing smile, you feared the worse.  As you peered over the frosted glass
into his office you could clearly see his face, the supplementary invoice
you had lifted of the fax machine minutes later indicating a surcharge of
£60 for "soiling" confirmed your fears.

   It was a while before he spoke to you again, a while before you took
that first drink, had that first fuck, this time noticeably towels were
laid out on the bed.

   But as for his new BMW, no way was he going to sully the leather
interior with half a teaspoon of spunk, never mind half a pint of female
cum.  From now on all fucking in the lay-by was to be done al-fresco, over
the boot, where any leakage could be wiped down.

   Flash!...Flash!...Flash!...Flash!...Flash!

   Those bright lights were still burned into your memory, how you had both
turned to face the light, caught bang to rights.  You felt is cock swell
inside you, was it rage or was he just playing to the camera.

   The next day in the office you didn't speak about it, you kept your
distance; somebody was on to you.  For the rest of the week he was out,
away visiting clients.

   And that was the end of it.  But of course it wasn't

   The envelope turned up on the third morning.  A5 manila, local post
mark, 1st class stamp.  Ink jet sticky address label on the envelope,
addressed & PNC's to you personally.  So they knew who you were.  Had John
had a similar envelope you wonder.  Slipping away to the ladies you sit
there on the down turned lid & carefully peel open the envelope, may as
well get it over & done with, be brave, just 23 years of marriage & your
job down the pan, nothing to worry about.  The toilet seemed the
appropriate place to open it really.  Inside was a short ink jetted
message.

   I have something you want.  If you want it back go to 113 High Street,
2pm this Saturday & ask for Cathy.  Otherwise I publish Monday.

   You shed a silent tear, tidy yourself up, flush the chain & return to
your desk to think.  The Police, John, your husband?  Or do you go along on
Saturday & face the music, see where that might lead?

   So Jane, do you go & seek out your destiny ??
   .