Harvey the Married – Part I

I met Harvey at work, maybe the first or second week after I started. He was reasonable looking, a friendly nature but there was something else. It took me a while to pin it down but I settled on “a twinkle in his eye”. He was charming, very fucking charming, and oozed charisma.

We’d flirt when we saw each other, which wasn’t that frequently. It was harmless good fun. Sure, I had a crush on him but I usually talk a bigger game than I play.

On occasion, I may have been over-friendly with some email banter but he rarely reciprocated. While he didn’t wear a wedding ring, I had suspected he was married after I ran into him in a café having breakfast with a beautiful little girl.

Over the next few months, I ran into him a few more times at the same café and while I enjoyed peeking at him over my coffee, he never seemed to be watching me. I finally plucked up the courage to ask the office gossip what his deal was and she told me he was married and had not one but two daughters.

I Facebook stalked the wife and discovered that she was smart and beautiful and that I had no chance of ever even pashing this guy. I was also still married but I can’t deny the thought was seductive.

Six months later

“Damn! Fuck … you bitch. You little bugger.”

Harvey had such a way with words when he came. My hands were around his throat as his cock pulsed and he blew inside me.

“Shit. Shit! You’re naughty.”

I love watching him come; the expression on his face, the way his neck muscles tensed under my fingers. His slick wetness mingled with my own. The sweat beading on his forehead and chest and then everything releases. His mouth opens slightly, his eyes flutter open and he looks at me.

“Shit. That was good.”

I push myself off him, letting his cock slide out and roll onto the bed next to him, fling my arm across his damp chest.

“You liked that, did you?”

“You cheeky bitch, you know I did.”

We are both relaxed, sated and comfortable laying on top of my shitty Kmart sheets, the result of a malfunctioning dryer and a miserable overcast day. My soft Egyptian cotton linen was draped across two clothes horses in the living area. Starched and scratchy, we’d fucked on the shitty sheets, now wet with cum, lube and sweat.

I don’t know how long we’d fucked for. We’d talked for hours before that, sitting on the deck overlooking the city. He was drinking vodka, I Southern Comfort. When it started to rain, we escaped to the lounge, illuminated by the string of party lights my housemates had hung up for New Year’s Eve.

I loved talking to him. We spoke without pause, without awkwardness, everything from the physics of space travel to the death of his dad. I liked making him laugh, and I did it often. Not because I’m a particularly funny person, but because we could both be ourselves.

On the lounge, he’d asked me how many people I’d slept with and I’d asked him in return.

“I don’t know. You know you get to that point where you stop keeping track. You know, like as a teenager, every time is like an achievement. Now, I truly have no idea.”

“Estimate. 50? 100?”

“More than 100.”

“More than 100? 200? 500? 1000?”

“Not 1000.”

“500 then?”

“No, I don’t think 500.”

“Well, how do you know it’s more than 100?”

“I cracked a tonne in my teens. You remember that stuff.”

“Holy fuck.”

“Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t. Not at all. I’m not judging you. I’m curious. Impressed.”

“It’s not a thing to be impressed about. Besides it shouldn’t matter.”

“And it doesn’t. I just find this stuff fascinating. I always have. How old were you when you started?”


“How young?”


“I was 14, surely it’s can’t be much younger than that.”

He raised his eyebrows in response.

“Had your balls even dropped?”

“Haha, yes, my balls had dropped. I was probably about 14. Yeah, probably about the same.”

“Really? Was it younger?”

“No, 14 sounds about right.”

He was in his 40s now had fucked between 200 and 300 women.

“But I did it all arse about,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“I did all my fucking around when I was young, before I knew what I was doing. I’d just fuck anyone and just get in and get out. Then I got a bit older and had an older woman who showed me a thing or two. Then I got cocky, thought I knew everything. You’ve gone about it the right way, leaving all your fucking until you’re older and you know what you want.”

“How many new women do you sleep with, in a year say?

“Now? Maybe an average of four a year. I’ve gotten pickier as I’ve got older. I won’t just fuck anyone. There needs to be a connection.”

He starts to snore, lightly at first and then heavy. His breathing is still fast from our fucking. It’s nice having someone in my bed to curl up with. There was a time when I couldn’t sleep with someone else in my bed. It would take me weeks to feel comfortable enough. I’d lay awake, listening to them breathe, trying not to move.

I watch his face for a while. It creeps people out, which is part of the fun, but he was fast asleep, his arm around me. I roll over onto my other side, tuck my pillow under my head and fall asleep.

Earlier that night, sitting on the lounge, out of the rain, I’d been listening to him speak and placed my fingers lightly on his leg.

He inhaled sharply and interrupted himself: “You’re touching my leg”.

“Is that OK?”

“Haha, yeah it’s OK.”

A beat.

“Have you read American Psycho?” he had asked me.


“Seen the movie?”

“Nope, why’s that?”

“You remind me of the main character.”

“What the fuck? That doesn’t sound good.”

“Like, not the killing people bit, but the other stuff. Looking at your bathroom just now when I was peeing, the way it’s laid out. It reminds me a lot of the main guy, but the female version obviously.”

“What do you mean, like OCD? Because I don’t have OCD.”

“Just the way you have arranged things.”

“I have new towels since you were last here, if that’s what you mean?”

“No. Just … read it, then watch the movie. I think you’ll get a lot out of it.”

“OK, now that’s starting to freak me out. You think I’m a psycho?”

“No, no, not at all. Just read it. Yep, just read the book.”

He made me think. Most of the guys I’d been seeing lately had been like that, challenged me in new ways I hadn’t considered. Or they’d say something so insightful that I only recognised it when it was verbalised my someone else. It was exciting to be learning new things about myself every day. I had been craving this kind of stimulation, this energy in my life.

“You’ve got big boobs,” he’d said, reaching over to cup one in his hand.

“Yes I do. I hate them.”

“What? Why?”

“They’re too big. It makes it hard to buy clothes.”

“Yeah, I can understand that. I like them.”

The feeling of his hand, even over my dress and bra had been delicious. That familiar tingle had started in my body, a shiver of anticipation.

Hours later, laying in bed, it was he that was shivering and he reaches down to pull the sheet and doona over us. I roll into him, my arm across his chest, his arm around my, holding me close. I begin to run my fingertips lightly over his torso, trailing them down his ribs, across his stomach and back up to his neck.

His breathing is catching every time I near his ribs. I vary the pressure of my fingers, firm then soft, fast then slow. On each downward sweep, I graze my fingers lightly across his pelvic bone, but not near enough to touch his cock.

He’s groaning lightly on each pass and I can sense without seeing that he is getting hard. On my next pass, I let my fingers bump into the head of his cock and he groans loudly.

“Shit, you’re in trouble.”

In one swift movement, he rolls me onto my back and lays on top of me. His cock is hard against my belly.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard.”

He positions his cock and thrusts hard. I am sore from our earlier session but welcome the feeling of his cock inside me.

“Oh yeah, you like that? Does it feel good?”

“Yes, oh fuck yes.”

I wrap my legs around him, crossing my ankles on his back. He thrusts into me deeper. It’s good. I like him being in control. He leans back and grabs my legs and throws them over his shoulders. He thrusts into me hard. He holds my ankles and pushes me back further, until my arse is in the air, my spine curved.

He licks my arse and I squirm with pleasure.

“That’s naughty,” I say.

“You like it though, don’t you?”

“Fuck yes.”

The bed is starting to squeak in time with our thrusting.

“Shit, what are you doing to me?”

He rolls off me and onto his back, breathing heavily. I lean down and take his cock in my mouth and suck hard.

“Oh shit. Shit. Shit!”

I love sucking his cock, making him groan and call out my name.

“Jesus. You want me to come in you?


He pulls me on top of him and I slide down onto him, my legs straddling his hips.

I begin to rock, finding my rhythm, rubbing myself against the root of his cock.

“That’s it, find your spot. Fuck me. Fuck me til you come. Fuck you’re sexy. Do you know that?”

I do feel sexy as I fuck him, riding the wave to orgasm over and over. My juices running out of me and down his balls.

“Shit. Jesus. I’m going to come.”

His thrusts quicken and he’s gasping for breath as my hands close around his throat. He hand is tight around my bicep as he comes hard. I slow my body, letting his cum fill me, and his cock soften.

“We go good together,” he says.

“Yeah, we go OK.”

“Haha, OK. That was great.

“Yeah it really was.”

And I’m snuggled against his side again, my arm flung across his sweaty chest. It’s so comfortable but it has to end. It’s 5.30 in the morning and he has to get home, to his wife, his kids.

“Are you going to go back to sleep when I leave?”


“One night, I want to stay. I want to stay all night and fuck you again when we wake up. I need to shower.

“Of course, go for it. Let me pee first.”

At the door, we kiss goodbye.

“I’ll see you Monday at work,” he says.

“Tomorrow,” I reply.





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