I don’t normally take the bus, I used to think public transport was purely for the great unwashed, and perhaps I still think that.

But beggars can’t be choosers, so I get the bus, among the great unwashed. The rain is pelting against the windows, and even though its early afternoon, the sky is ominous.

The seats are cheap plastic, look-a-like leather, and my skirt has risen and now my arse is stuck to the filthy surface beneath me.

I would move, but there is a young guy with a do-rag (it looks to be for show) staring at my lap, and I really don’t want to give him any ideas.

I wouldn’t even have to take the bus if not for my own stupidity, but its more than that, its deeper than that.

The young guy straightens up, I think he is going to get off at the stop, but instead he unties the head scarf, his hair is jet, soft and springy, his eyes are incredibly intense, and I know he can see me staring even though he has stopped looking directly at me.

I wonder if my skirt is dangerous. Have I chosen to laud my sexuality in too much show?

Ever so slowly he moves in his seat, so that only I can see his hands. He slides the flat of his palm across his crotch, and even from the other side of the bus I can see the outline beneath his jeans.

I feel a rush in my own crotch, and purposefully turn away from him to look out the window at nothing.

Men and their cocks are the sole reason I am riding the bus today, so he for one can take his rock-hard gift and fuck off with it.

I can not believe it has been six weeks since my world was turned on its head, but the relentless and pointless swishing of the windscreen wipers journey me back.

I had sold two pieces of art in the gallery, one, a painting by Jane Masterson, my commission on that alone was a in the heady range of numbers.

The other, a work of sculpture by a new artist Philip Wilton. He was relatively young, five years my junior, but such a talent, and I was so delighted he had allowed my gallery to handle his work.

For his first sale I took no commission, I have been doing this job since my 19th birthday, and I know who will make it and who will be a fad. Wilton will be a name to remember.

He was grateful, perhaps too puppy in his gratitude, but my PA Nicola was smitten with him, and he was a potential earner.

I sent him champagne, and a note to thank him for choosing me. I hoped Nicola would not fuck him though, I hate complications like that.

So, I made my way home on a high, delighted I had left Cava in the fridge in the hope of happy news.

Even though it was still early spring there was a chill in the air, and my fumbling to get out of my coat in the downstairs hallway must have surely made noise to alert my arrival,

I had said I would be late, but there was no car in the driveway, so I figured I was alone, and it seemed there was no husband home to greet me. I took my phone from my pocket to call him, as I headed to the kitchen.

I never got to make the call.

My husband, Gerrard, might not have heard the call even if I had rung.

His cock was buried to the hilt in some Blonde bitch’s ass, while his business partner Robert semi squatted in front of her face, his incredibly huge cock ramming down her throat.

No one heard me enter.

They say for stuff like this, time stands still. Let me tell you, they are liars.

Nothing was still.

The sounds are as loud and clear in my ears now as they were in my kitchen – Former kitchen, six weeks ago.

Gerrard’s balls smacking loudly against the blonde’s ass, her arse cheeks pulled so wide apart she was in danger of being ripped in two. Her grunts were pure abandonment, Robert was gasping while trying not to collapse in front of her.

Her anus grabbing onto my husbands’ cock, clear hand-prints red and angry against her flawless skin bore testament to the party being in rather full swing.

It was Robert who became aware first.

As my husband professed how much of a slut the blonde was and how he only wanted to fuck her to infinity (how fucking original) she released Roberts cock from her hungry mouth.

But he was not ready to end this game. He was there too, just at explosion, he opened his eyes to direct his upset to the blonde, and his cock pivoted towards his belly, he grabbed it angrily trying to point it at her, but his face showed little control.

His eyes met mine.

At first incredulity, then shock, then a tiny glint of something.

He slid his hand over the length of his cock, a smile playing at his lips, he jerked his cock, almost angrily, now focused on drowning blondies’ mouth.

He jerked twice and forced the blonde’s mouth to the end of his huge cock as the cum exploded from it.

I felt sick to my stomach.

My knickers were drenched, and the heat between my legs was horrifying me. I moved then, as she moaned out some words, as my husband bellowed his orgasm into her tight asshole.

I walked into the middle of my Matt grey kitchen with the dark teak counter tops, and the marbled grey tiles all the way from a tiny village on a mountaintop in Italy.

Gerrard saw me, but his eyes were not sending messages to his body. It was still in the throws, and the blonde was not finished.

His cock stood hard still, throbbing wanting to shove into the her waiting pussy for one last hurrah.

It was the blonde who made the last move, no pawn here, she rear ended her pussy onto his cock, grabbing the full length of it, while holding tight to Roberts cock, stretching her neck now to lick the rest of the dripping cum from his balls.

Maybe her words broke the spell my husband was under, I don’t for sure know, or really care.

But she lasted only two thrusts, then raised her hips, and her splendid pussy exploded, while she screamed: “You fucking dirty bastards.”

Realization dawned slowly.

She had to turn her head to see me, but her body collapsed on my tiles.

The two men were not yet back to earth, each holding his cock; for security, or to grab the last remaining Nanoseconds of utopia, I will never know.

The fruit bowl was a gift; a stupidly expensive, pointless gift from Gerrard’s mother.

Purchased at Harrods, by an Artist, she claimed. I knew it was a challenge to my expertise, but I did not rise to the bait. Instead I went in one day and looked. It was by an artist; a guy who used to be a chef, now turned glass blower. A total blower if you ask me.

She paid £475 for the stupid thing. Made of glass, with two tiny brass mounts, and claw feet. Ugly as fuck, it screamed money, and oh by the way you can fit four apples and a bunch of grapes here.

Sadly, it missed Gerrard’s head. Happily, it shattered into a bazillion, noisy, tiny, extremely dangerous (for naked people) pieces.

That’s when it all gets weird.

Two grown men screaming. “What the fuck Anna?”

And I lost it.

What the fuck Anna, while they were screwing blondie like a porno shoot?

While they were inhabiting the kitchen I designed?

In the house I had dreamed of since I was 10 years of age?

So, I lost it.

Every fucking thing I could lay my hands on was thrown.

Eventually, when three people ran from my house, there was blood on the floor, many smashed items of crockery, a broken art deco lamp, some candles, and the smell of a sex orgy.

I married Gerrard because he made me laugh, and he was hot as fuck.

He came into the Gallery in Eglington in London, where I was finishing my time working for none other than Joseph Tindall, before opening my own gallery on his retirement.

Gerrard, I knew immediately, was a boy about town, with his dapper suit, his chiseled looks, his fuck me smile, and money to burn.

Daddy left him a fortune; offshore, and safe; from what form of endeavor is anyone’s guess.

Mommy ensured the money stayed there by providing for his every need; financially.

I was not on Mommy’s list of things to do when one is bored.

And, to be fair, Gerrard did all the running.

Don’t get me wrong. The moment I saw him I knew I would fuck him.

I was a relatively innocent 22-year-old. A good life, great income, free spirit, but I hadn’t been born with a silver spoon with any spoon in fact, so, I believed, I was no push over.

This intrigued Gerrard.

He sent flowers, cards, a chauffeur to collect me from work.

I was so fucking wet for him, I sometimes thought I would die.

But I did not give in.

Until the night he fell. It was a simple fall, as we walked through my local park, I had refused to use the limo service his mother sent with him to spy on us.

And he tripped, right over the root of an old gnarled tree.

I began to laugh, nerves and too much champagne at dinner.

I tried to help him up, but I couldn’t get it together, and then, just as hysteria was about to burst out of me, I realized he was crying. Actual man tears.

What the fuck?

I was gentle, but he could not, for the value of his life, tell me what was wrong with him.

We hobbled to my flat.

I bandaged the swelling ankle and poured whiskey down this throat, for the ache in his sore heart.

He told me then that he would never be enough for me, that I would discard him, that he could not measure up to the man I wanted, and he was devastated to fail for the woman he loved so much.

The best line ever spoken.

In less than five minutes I was naked, and the rest you can imagine.

His mother, Hilda, hated me.

But, we married, and to be fair, we had a great five years; or so I thought.

Making changes

After the orgy, I closed my gallery for one day.

In the five years since I opened, it was the only day I ever took off.

I was, thankfully autonomous with my business. Never wanting Gerrard involved, I left him and Robert to their monopoly money bets, which, always fucking worked to their advantage.

I spent the day after the orgy numb.

I called a service, and they came and cleaned without asking questions while I soaked in my bath.

For two weeks I pretended nothing had happened.

Gerrard called, cajoled, sent flowers, sent cards, but I sent everything back un-opened.

And then, he arrived at the house, with his mother, and a man in a suit so expensive it made my eyes water.

In no uncertain terms I was advised of my rights. Prenuptial agreements, and documents with my signature were foisted upon me. All the time Gerrard’s eyes pleading for a chance.

The sports coupe Mercedes, the Christmas gift, four months old became the camel’s back.

And as its customized paint of Burgundy Aruba glinted in the sunlight, I decided on a final act of defiance which makes me eminently proud and stomach churningly sick, in equal measure.

Initially, I left. I left with my four suitcases and 5 boxes of shit, to mark the five years of lying bastard marriage.

But something inside me snapped as the removal man yawned his way through filling the tiny van.

I felt the shift, and I knew I had to have one final smash.

I returned to the house, past the ‘security detail’ on the pretext of leaving my phone in the bathroom.

I grabbed the first thing to hand in Gerrard’s drawer, and a lighter he used to melt his stash of weed.

And as I passed, MY car, I threw a burning pair of his Italian designer boxers into it.

And the weeks have passed, and today, of all days, Philip Wilton wants to come to my gallery and chat to me.

The me, who five weeks ago, had her shit together.

The tall, slim redhead, with too many freckles, and too much attitude would have been so excited.

This me was palpably sick.

When the taxi was a no show, I screamed down the phone looking for another, then lost that plot and ran out of my flat to the high street, but I live in a bustling city, and getting a taxi to stop for a flame haired woman losing her shit is tough.

So, the bus just happened past, and on it I jumped.

Even though the bus journey was too long, I am still early, but the rain is hammering down, so I run from the bus, I am soaked, through skin almost, by the time I get to the gallery.

Nicola, my assistant is there hugging a mug of tea, and laughs at my appearance.

“The cat drag you?”

I have no time, I run to the bathroom to dry off, and pull my grey silk shirt over my head, thinking a spin under the hand dryer will do.

My bra is sodden too, and my boobs are too big for it, spilling over the edges of the damp course material, and fuck it, I just don’t need this shit, so I pull if off violently, not at peace with myself for taking the memory lane journey today of all days, and just when I pull the zipper of my skirt I turn full circle.

Philip Wilton, is not just looking at me, he is drinking me in.

And I am a mess. My hair plastered to my head, the wet skin with the motley freckles, the semi discarded skirt, and the suddenly erect nipples, does nothing to say I am the agent you need to stay with.

I have no idea if he was here the whole time, or just stumbled upon me, but he does not look too much like he wants to leave, and I have yet to react.

I cross my arms, slowly, I admit, over my boobs.

I grab a blue towel from over the door and sort of shelf it on front of me.

I know there is a droplet of water heading from my hairline down my nose, but I blow it away, and hope, I look less ridiculous.

I try for casual.


But it sounds, even to me, wanton.

‘Anna’, there is a melody to his voice.

And it’s a release.

He looks at me like he is unwrapping a gift, and I hope to fuck my nipples are not begging.

I have no clue what to say, so I simply say ‘Sorry.’

He shrugs and leaves the tiny space we have occupied for almost five minutes and I am bereft.

It takes far too long to dry off my hair, re-apply mascara, and get fucking dressed, but when, eventually I leave my hiding place, I can hear Nicola and Philip laughing.

Its an innocent laugh, nothing sinister, so immediately I need her to fucking leave.

My confidence is back, almost, and as I walk into the gallery, I take a moment to observe him.

He is tall, more than a six-footer, and his hands, which I noticed the first time we met two years ago, are hard hands, big, ready to work, to quarry stones, or mold a breast.

His eyes are dark, not brown or green, but murky, as though they hide secrets.

He does not look like an artist, I realize. He looks like a construction worker, or a carpenter, he looks strong, he looks like he could make any material bend to his whim.

He turns his head slowly, a mock smile playing on his lips. His head is bald, but his features are dark, there will be a growth of hair in a few hours, and it will attest to a dark-haired youth.

I look at my watch. Only 4pm, but fuck it, Nicola needs to go.

The bell chimes above the door, and like liquid Nicola is gone.

I am alone with this younger man, and suddenly I don’t feel so self-assured.

“Give me a sheet of paper” the words are spoken too gently, and for a moment, I wonder who has said them.

“A sheet of paper” he says. “Get me a sheet of paper, I want to write it down.”

I have dealt with the Artistes, since a young age, I know they are prone to drama, so I move, thankful of purpose to the printer and take a sheet of paper and grab a pen from Nicolas desk.

He leans over and beckons me to lean in close.

He writes with precision, fluid lines, definite swirls, and his eyes on mine.

I read the message, as he hands snakes out to slowly move up my leg. He keeps moving until he finds the response between my legs.

The message reads:

‘I am going to fuck you till you scream this fucking place down, so keep her or leave her, I don’t much care. But this is happening.’

His hand is rough, and to be honest I don’t even know if they are the actual words on the page, I don’t need to know.

He can do whatever he wants, and he knows it.

He moves his hand as we hear Nicola returning to the general area with an older lady in tow.

“This is Doris Payton, Philip, the lady I was telling you about. She would love to meet the artist?”

I can’t move, if I do my legs will buckle, I will fall to the floor and shudder my way to an orgasm that might deliver a heart attack, to me and to the audience.

He offers Doris the hand which must still be damp from between my legs, and she almost bows over it.

Doris is an exceptionally wealthy woman, a diamond on each finger just so everyone knows, but she is also a smart lady, and something tells her that the artist is not fully in residence.

She hands him a card, there is small talk. Exclamations, and cheek kissing before she leaves, darting an inquiring glance in my direction.

I tell Nicola that I need to chat to Philip, and she can leave early, but she is so eager to stay that it takes almost 20 minutes for her to leave.

20 excruciating minutes where I can feel him ignoring me, and I start to worry if the idea has gone cold, have I matching underwear on, are my legs shaved, and a million other thoughts.

The door closes behind her, and I lock it and press the button for the security grills at the same time.

When I turn, he is sitting with his back to me and I falter.

Do I really need complicated?

“Come here.” His voice is a command, and I am not going to fuck around with coy.

He turns as I reach him.

“The first time I met you I wanted to pull that crazy blue dress over your head to find out what was underneath. You were hidden in it.” He smiles, but suddenly the temperature is lower, I can not see this smile in his eyes.

“Take off your clothes for me. Now.”

I feel suddenly very alone, and the fight or flight instinct is screaming shit in my ear.

My skirt is still damp, it does not glide off in made for movie fashion.

But I shimmy out of it, aware he is watching me, almost clinically.

I leave my underwear on, secretly delighted it is a matching set, my sex Angels must have been watching over me.

“You, are fucking stunning.” He tells me as his hand reaches out to trace a line from my shoulder all the way down my right arm.

I have Goosebumps on my Goosebumps, and my throat is suddenly very dry.

His hand circles my wrist, and he moves to take both my wrists in his hands.

One move pulls me to him, and he unfolds from his stool perch to press me tightly against the wall, the full length of his body pressing against me.

“I have imagined every way I want to fuck you. Slowly, fast, wet, slick, with screams,” He grins then, “with ties, with toys, with silence, or words, but trust me, I have fantasied so many ways, you may never get to open the door again.”

My arms are stretched above my head, I am exposed to this fully dressed man, and I am prepared to beg to be fucked, but he is leading this charge.

His lips meet mine and his kiss promises pain as his tongue forces past my lips, hungry and cruel. He pushes my legs apart with his leg so that he can shape his groin into me.

I think he might just fuck me now, right against the wall without preamble, and suddenly I am so wet I wonder did I cum?

His mouth moves down my face, my neck, stopping to lick the delicate skin behind my ear, holding tight to my hands, he bites, hard enough to cause a sensation.

“Naked fuck, or keeping this thing on?” He asks letting my hands go so he can travel his hands across the lace of my bra.

My arms feel weak without his support, but I manage to unclasp the front catch and drop the bra to the ground.

He smiles, “Fuck.” His mouth sucks one nipple greedily, his teeth nipping while he pinches the other.

The heat is a flash of lightening and my legs are not enough to hold me up.

He stops.

“Don’t stop.” I yelp, shocked that my voice is such a slut.

“I am going to make you scream, you need to tell me you are ok with that. Otherwise, I need a whiskey and a cold shower, and a new gallery.”

His eyes are warm again, warm and murky and I know he could make me cum just by talking to me, and I am fucking terrified.