Gallery Carre
A Slightly Scandalous Woman
Jul 22nd, 2024 by Holiday
She arched her back in unmistakable delight.
“Yes, that’s right,” she said in a throaty whisper, “a little deeper, please.”
The shirtless young man parted her moist labia further, and flicked his tongue lovingly around her glistening, distended clit.
The woman had the cold-hearted beauty of Charlotte Rampling, seated nude on the edge of the heavy oak dinner table at the Hôtel Nord-Pinus, in Helmut Newton’s iconic 1973 black and white photograph.
The woman’s tuxedo-wearing husband stood in the doorway of the dining room with his stylish Portobello Road walking stick and watched approvingly.
“We’re still going to the awards ceremony later tonight – right?” he asked.
“Yes, my love,” she said in an overly excited voice. “Of course, you don’t mind about Becket – do you? I’m so fucking hot … I need to get off. And I didn’t want you to wrinkle your gorgeous tuxedo.”
“Thoughtful to a fault; that’s what I adore about you. No, your lover is fine. Mind if I watch?”
“Not at all,” she panted. “I know how much this arouses you.”
And the husband truly enjoyed this decadent spectacle, like a deep musical note that could not be heard but was felt. He was an inveterate sensualist and could not control himself.
The semi-nude Becket sometimes looked up at the husband from between the wife’s moist thighs with a good-humored smile.
* * *
The wife met Becket at Speaker’s Corner in Hyde Park for a rally about Zapatista prisoners in the southern Mexican state of Chiapas. The wife’s best liberal intentions quickly gave way to debauched sex that afternoon. She spotted Becket among the small crowd and wanted to fuck him within five minutes; so much for the suffering of Méxicanos in some backwater region.
The political activist was a very good-looking, well-built man in his early 30s, of medium height, with fair hair and a clever and very handsome face.
The wife whisked Becket to a coffee shop near Marble Arch, where she watched intently as his sensuous mouth moved, expressing his eloquent thoughts, and she struggled to avoid lifting her dress so he could immediately apply his oral talents between her legs. She kept two fingers carefully concealed in her growing dampness, as the bon-vivant’s eyes sparkled and darted around the semi-darkened room, and his strong hands tore at chunks of cheese and crusts of bread.
Like a stingy Medici, the wife kept Becket in her bedroom all afternoon. On the subject of passionate sex, the wife was an unerring connoisseur. She had an insatiable lust for the male body, and bestowed unimaginable attention on Becket. The pièce de résistance was performing fellatio while vigorously finger-fucking his compliant anus. This rendered her new lover in a fever, and completely delirious.
It was late, about eight o’clock, when the husband arrived home to find the couple in bed. His wife appeared thoroughly ravished when she looked up at him dreamily from the disheveled white pillow in the dwindling summer light.
He stood watching for a minute, and was profoundly stirred by her misbehavior.
The husband had long loved his wife fervently. He agreed with Oscar Wilde that life often presents one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to recapture that experience as often as possible. For the husband, just being with his wife made this all true.
The fact that she was sexually unfaithful on occasion simply made her more desirable.
Yet the husband willingly avoided involvement with other women because this made his wife dreadfully jealous. To outsiders, this contradiction probably baffled even the most sagacious observers.
No one could explain why she was a slightly scandalous woman, and he was a mild cuckold. This was the nature of their marriage and they both readily accepted their roles without tired justifications.
* * *
Only a few moments elapsed as the husband watched Becket perform arousing cunnilingus on his nude wife, still reclining on the edge of the heavy oak dinner table.
This was an all-time favorite treat for the married woman. She absolutely adored a man who paid homage to her clit with his loving mouth – whether it was her husband or a male lover.
So often, the wife only had to say two words and, like magic, her husband buried his face in her wet cunt. The term, of course, was: “Clean me.” And the husband did so like a trusty zealot.
When Becket swirled his tongue quickly around her clit, the wife opened her eyes very wide and, throwing back her whole body, she stared vaguely at her husband without uttering a sound.
“How is it, my darling?” the husband asked. “Are you really at a loss for words?”
She clutched the table edge harder and harder, and barely managed any coherency.
“My, God,” she gasped. “This is heavenly.”
“You love it – don’t you?” the husband asked.
“Yes, I admit it,” she said in measured breaths, scissoring her legs around Becket’s throat, running her fingers intensely through his hair. “But you are the main event.”
As the wife half-heartedly managed this discourse, Becket skillfully brought her to that exquisite moment of personal transport.
“Jesus! Jesus!” she stammered, disheveled and wild-eyed. “Oh yes, that was perfect.”
Afterward, the wife was seized by a vague feeling of languorous delight, and she had the sensation that she was not in her own body. She wanted to stand up and embrace her husband, but her weakened legs didn’t permit her to do this.
Becket regained his composure, grabbed his dress shirt and walked nonchalantly past the husband, shutting the front door behind him.
“My darling wife,” the husband said. “Let’s get you dressed for the awards ceremony tonight. Don’t forget, you are the presenter for Mother-of-the Year.”
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