Lipstick Jungle

She suddenly panicked, pushing him away again, and turning her head. What was she doing? Seymour . . . Kirby . . . in a few seconds, he’d have her clothes off, and what would he think about her body? He was probably used to sleeping with twenty-five-year-old supermodels.

Kirby removed his hand. “Hey,” he said. “Are you all right? Because we don’t have to . . . you know.”

“I want to,” she whispered. “I’m just . . .”

He nodded knowingly. “First time?”

She looked at him quizzically, unsure as to what he was talking about. “You know,” he said. “Cheating on your husband.”

She opened her mouth in shock, and he took the opportunity to swoop down on her for another kiss. “Don’t worry about it,” he murmured. “You gotta figure you’ve got your reasons, right?” He suddenly put his hands around her waist and lifted her up like she was a child, placing her bottom on the countertop. He pressed forward and she leaned back, not ready to give in to him quite yet, especially after that remark about cheating. Why did he have to put it so baldly? she wondered. But it was the truth. She was cheating. Maybe it made it more exciting for him.

“And in case you’re wondering, you have a great body,” he whispered, sliding her skirt up and working his hands between her legs to pry them open. She resisted, thinking about how good it felt that he wanted her enough to work at getting her to give in to him, and also knowing that if she resisted she could lie to herself later, telling herself that she hadn’t been able to help what happened—she was overcome. She suddenly allowed him to open her legs, and he ran his hands up and down the inside of her thighs, watching her face. Thank God for Seymour, she thought, thank God he made her work out for half an hour every morning at six a.m. in their home gym in the basement. He said it was for health reasons as opposed to aesthetics, to increase her stamina and concentration. It suddenly occurred to her that Seymour treated her more like a racehorse than a human being.

“Do you need these?” Kirby asked, pulling on the waistband of her panty hose. She looked at him in blissful confusion. “Or can I cut them off?” he asked boldly. “I want to cut them off with scissors, so I can get to you, but maybe that’ll be suspicious later on, huh? If you go home with no panty hose . . .”

“It’s okay,” she whispered, lying back to allow him to proceed with the operation. This was so not like her, she thought, but no one was ever going to know what she had done here in Kirby’s kitchen. She had another pair of panty hose in the small dressing room attached to the bathroom in her office, and no one would notice if she came back to the office without her stockings intact . . .

Kirby removed a pair of kitchen shears from a flowered ceramic holder containing an assortment of wooden spoons and spatulas. On top of being great in bed, he was a cook, she thought. He teasingly ran his hand over her belly and inner thighs, and then, pulling the panty hose away from her stomach, began to snip downwards with agonizing slowness. When he reached the top of her pudenda, he put down the scissors and with his two hands, ripped the panty hose open.

She thought she was going to die from anticipation.

Then he gently lifted the crotch of her underpants (which, thank God, were nice—light blue silk mesh from La Perla—and ran his finger in a circle over the lips of her vagina. She never liked to speak during sex—in fact, she actually preferred not to make any sound—but she surprised herself by emitting a low, guttural moan. It was a tiny bit embarrassing, and she thought she sounded like something out of a porno movie, but Kirby didn’t seem to mind. He pulled the crotch of her underpants farther to the side, exposing her, and then opened her lips with his fingers.

Oh God, she thought. God, she was really having a good time. Could it get any better than this, having great sex with a fucking Calvin Klein underwear model?

How did she get so lucky?

She suddenly felt a stab of guilt. If Seymour tried to do this to her, she would have told him to forget about it. She had kept pushing Seymour away, more and more over the years, so that now he hardly ever made any advances at all.

“You have a beautiful pussy,” Kirby said, and began licking her, pushing his fingers into her vagina as he did so.

“Next time I’m going to put you on your knees,” he said hotly, causing her to forget about Seymour and envision all kinds of possibilities with Kirby instead. “Oh fuck, I can’t wait any longer,” he said. He picked up the scissors and with one powerful snip, cut the crotch of her underpants. He reached into his pocket and took out a foil-wrapped condom, ripping the top off with his teeth. In a few quick seconds, he unzipped his pants, releasing a rock-hard penis (okay, it was a cliché, she thought, but there really was no other way to describe it), the proportions of which appeared to be slightly bigger and longer than average. Or bigger, anyway, than Seymour’s . . .

He expertly rolled the condom onto his penis, and she nearly laughed with girlish embarrassment. Condoms! She’d forgotten all about them. She’d never been with a man who had used one, because for the past fourteen years (longer, because she hadn’t been with anyone

for at least six months before she’d met Seymour), she’d only been with one man. And she’d only been with five men in her whole life, not counting Kirby. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asked. “It’s better this way. Then we don’t have to worry. And you’re so wet . . .”

She shook her head, anticipating how it would feel when he pushed his penis into her.

She fell back with a groan of pleasure, knocking her head against the wall. He pushed her legs up, so her feet were nearly resting on the edge of the countertop. She was completely vulnerable. The fact that she was allowing herself to be so open was in itself exciting, because she was never like this . . . not with Seymour . . .

And then she pushed Seymour out of her mind. She wasn’t going to let her husband spoil her one moment of pleasure.

* * *

AFTERWARD, SHE LAY SCRUNCHED up on the counter like a rag doll. “That was pretty great, wasn’t it?” Kirby asked, helping her off the counter. She stood up, smoothing down her skirt. Somewhere in the process she’d not only lost her underpants and panty hose, but her pumps as well. “You really screamed when you came,” Kirby said.

She suddenly felt embarrassed. “Did I?” she asked, retrieving one of her shoes from the corner. “I don’t normally do that.”

“Well, you did today,” Kirby said, with a fraternal heartiness. “Don’t worry about it. I liked it.” He held up the pair of cut panties. “Do you need these?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” she said, wondering what he might imagine she would do with them—maybe pin the edges together?

“You’ll be riding bareback for the rest of the afternoon,” Kirby said, cupping her face between his hands. “I’m going to think about you that way. And every time I do, I’m going to get a boner.”

She laughed nervously. She wasn’t used to men thinking of her as a sex object. But did this mean that Kirby wanted to see her again?

She hoped so, she thought, resting one hand on his shoulder while she put on her shoes. But now what? Should she just leave? She glanced at her watch. It was now two-thirty. If she left immediately, she could be back at her office by three. But would Kirby be offended?