EROTIC STORIES :

THE SPY WHO LOVED HIS WIFE
© remittance girl, 2005

James de Walden settled comfortably into the oxblood leather wingchair and crossed his gangly legs. He gave the other man what he hoped was a helpful, expectant look. It had been so long since he'd actually come to a 'meet' himself, he'd decided not to pass it on to a junior officer just to assure himself that he still had the knack. Especially as this was clearly an internal matter.

The invitation to drinks at the Hong Kong Foreign Correspondents' Club on Conduit Road hadn't even hinted at the subject matter. It had come across his desk in the form of a hand-written note.

Must have a word with you, old bean.
FCC
Seven
Drinks
?
Martin Reeves.

Not at all like Martin to be so cloak and daggerish. Martin Reeves was a chap with his feet on the ground and his head in the books. Thirty-nine, Oxbridge graduate, married with a wife in-country, he was financial controller in the Embassy's accounts department. James, who's purview was intelligence, assumed he was about to hear of some financial indiscretion committed by a higher-up - perhaps a dodgy receipt or a misappropriation of funds. Whatever it was, it had better be good; he was missing his weekly bridge party for this.

The drinks came and James once again tried on his most sensitive and solicitous face. Martin seemed reticent; perhaps a little domestic chitchat would smooth the way.

"How's ...er..." James searched his mind for the right name from the file, "Camilla? She's settling in alright, then?"

Martin beamed. "Oh yes, she's enjoying herself immensely - especially the shopping."

James waited, hoping Martin would continue, but he didn't. Perhaps a little more prompting was in order. "And how's life with the money men? Everything shipshape down in Accounts?"

"Oh, Lord yes. Everything's fine. Couldn't be better."

This was becoming tiresome. James shifted slightly in his chair and re-crossed his legs. His stomach rudely reminded him that he hadn't had much of a lunch, he'd eschewed the two digestive biscuits at tea in favour of his waistline, and dinner wasn't until 8:30. Martin simply wasn't going to volunteer anything. James took a sip of his gin and tonic and huffed.

"Ah...look, Reeves. Your note was somewhat vague. What's on your mind?"

The man opposite him blanched a little and, for a moment, James thought he was about to hear the confession of another closet homosexual being blackmailed by the People's Republic of China. Oh, Christ, that's all they needed!

Martin took a swig of his drink, his adam's apple working furtively and in silence, before he finally spoke.

"Well, it's more of a question really, James." Once he'd got the words out, he began to look a little less like a rabbit caught in the headlights. "I've been wanting to ask you something, man to man, as it were."

The 'man to man' remark got James' mind tabulating the possibilities again. He had played tennis with Martin on occasion, they both belonged to the Embassy cricket team but their relationship could hardly be described as close. Not that James had any close male friends. He found, overall, that most foreign office men posted abroad fell into two categories: boring, xenophobic bureaucrats or over-indulgent hypocrites. He hadn't yet formed an opinion on which camp Martin Reeves fell into. What on earth was this about? Not a prostate problem, James hoped. Poor chap but not really his wicket.

"Well, ask away. I might not be able to give you a proper answer though, but I'll do my best."

"Would you mind terribly if I fucked your wife?"

The kindly but unhelpful speech that James had prepared on how very little he knew about medical issues and his high recommendation of Dr. Beddows, the chief medical officer, almost flew out regardless. He sat choking the now-irrelevant advice down along with his shock, purposefully holding the outer veneer of composure in place.

"Marjorie?"

Martin Reeves smiled appreciatively. "Yes. Marjorie. Or do you have another wife?" he joked.

James ignored the quip. He has furiously trying to think back to the last time he had fucked Marjorie - sometime around Easter, he thought. It wasn't that he didn't love his wife but, with the passing of the years, other things always seemed to take priority.

"Why do you want to sleep with Marjorie? Can't you have a fling with one of those attentive little sweethearts out in reception?" James realised he was babbling, but he was still trying to come to terms with the initial question. "Anyway," he snapped, "why on earth are you asking me? Why not ask Marjorie?"

"Well, I thought I'd be decent and ask you first."

That made him fume - what a preposterous position to be put in. Why couldn't this horrible little man just do the dirty deed in secret and leave it at that? This was outrageous, damn it! The unmitigated cheek! He decided to take the offensive.

"Look, how would you feel if I asked to sleep with your wife?" he asked, his tone mild to hide the anger.

"Rather flattered, actually. Although Camilla is something of an independent soul - never been one to seek anyone's approval for anything. That's why I love her so."

James shook his head, confused and incredulous. "Well, Christ man, if you love her so much, why'd you need to mess about with my wife?"

Martin managed to look sheepish. "Variety's the spice of life, old man," he said. "Anyway, what's your answer - yeah or nay? You're welcome to have a go at Camilla in return. No guarantees, of course."

The absolute reasonableness of Martin's answer was infuriating. James searched his mind... he couldn't even remember what Camilla Reeves looked like. It wasn't that James had been a saint but he didn't much go in for other men's wives - too complicated, too messy - he'd weaned himself off coveting them years ago. Oh, bugger it! He thought.

"Do what you like, Martin. But I can't answer for how Marjorie will respond at all. You're likely to get a slap across the face for suggesting it." James chortled smugly.

* * *

Hours later, he remembered that self-satisfied guffaw with some discomfort.

They were getting ready for bed. Marjorie sat at the dressing table wiping cold cream off her face and depositing gooey, multi-coloured tissues into a bin at her neatly pedicured feet.

"I had a rather interesting discussion this evening with a colleague," James proffered, removing his bathrobe.

She rubbed more cream into her lips, making a red mess of her pointed little chin. "Oh, yes? And what made it interesting, bunnikins?"

"Martin Reeves asked me if he could sleep with you." James didn't use the word 'fuck'; he and Marjorie had never used that sort of language.

She hooted with laugher as she wiped at her mouth. "Good god, darling! What did you say? Did you hit him?"

Her reaction reminded him of why he adored her. She took everything in her stride and with good humour; such a sensible, loveable soul she was. James climbed into bed, set a number of documents to read on his lap and slid his reading glasses down his patrician nose.

"Of course I didn't hit him, Margers. I simply told him to take it up with you. You're a big girl, you can handle yourself."

Marjorie swung around on the stool excitedly, clasped her hands around her knees and gave him the most charming of smiles. "How civilized of you, sweetie. He really is quite dishy. What do you think I should do?"

James peered over his documents at his wife's insincere version of an ingénue. My god, she's actually considering it, he thought. He waited to feel the green-eyed monster wrap its scaly tail around his girth and squeeze, but surprisingly, that didn't happen. In fact, if he had to be completely honest with himself, the idea of Marjorie impaled and writhing on anyone's cock made him inexplicably aroused.

"I think you should do whatever you like, my darling." He tried to keep his voice casual and sensible, but it wasn't how he felt. He suddenly felt the most tremendous pang of fondness for her.

Rising from the dressing table in her elegant cream chiffon peignoir, she climbed onto the bottom of their double bed and came for him on her hands and knees like a little lioness. "Jamsey Wamesy... wouldn't you be just the tiniest bit jealous if I did?" she purred flirtatiously.

He pushed his papers off the bed and pulled her into his arms. "Would you like that, kitty cat?" He bent his head and kissed the warm valley between her generous breasts, poking his tongue down into the dark, warm crevice they made. "I wouldn't be jealous unless you wanted me to be."

Marjorie wriggled in his arms and nuzzled the back of his neck. She kissed it lightly and repetitively. She was quiet for a moment and then said, "Have you seen his wife, Camilla? She's really quite something. Perhaps we could even up the score to keep things neat."

James raised his head and looked into his wife's deep green eyes. "No. I don't think I've ever seen her. Anyway, what's that got to do with it? I can hardly be expected to want someone I've never met."

She gave him that look: the one that said, 'oh sometimes you can be a little thick'. "You're the security officer, James. If we all do it, there's no possibility of - how shall I put it - loose lips," she giggled. "Come on, bunnikins, don't be a stick in the mud!"

He sighed and squeezed her tight. "You should have been in the service, darling. You're far too bright to spend your life playing Mah-jong."

And for the first time in a very long time, James kissed his wife with conscious passion. Visions of her arching and moaning, clawing at some other man's back, wrapping her legs around someone else's hips, danced in his head. The hunger to witness it grew and grew, raw and feral in his mind.

"Take that fluffy thing off, you little minx, and come to bed," he growled.

* * *

It was decided that a change of venue might be a good and discreet idea. James had left the arrangements up to Marjorie, who could be relied upon to orchestrate any social gathering with panache. After a whispered conversation with Martin at the cocktail party to welcome the new French Ambassador and several telephone conversations with his wife Camilla, she had settled on a weekend visit to Macau as the perfect timing and setting for their little escapade. Marjorie had informed him at breakfast on the Thursday. The itinerary was immaculate, and the security flawless. Each couple would take separate ferries, each would be booked into separate hotels.

James couldn't quite see the need for all this clandestine behaviour until he noticed that his wife was literally vibrating with excitement. The whole thing was being built up into the most marvellous adventure and she was enjoying every minute of the planning. Her cheeks glowed, her eyes sparkled, a wry little smile hovered on the edge of her lips. The anticipation made her look more beautiful, sexier by the day.

When Saturday arrived, James and Marjorie boarded the 10:30 am ferry for Macau. They met several other members of the British expatriot community on the ship and made arch comments to each other about loosing their shirts at the gaming tables.

By 5 pm they'd checked in to the old Hotel Lisboa. James had something of a chuckle when Marjorie signed them in under the surname 'Smith'.

"Don't you think you're taking all this cloak and dagger stuff a little too far?" James asked, wrapping his arm around her waist in the elevator.

"Mmmm. But it's marvellously exciting, isn't it darling?" A scintillating little shiver coursed down her spine and he felt it. Who would have known that his little Marjorie had such a taste for adventure? And in so many ways. A small smile tugged at the corner of James' mouth. The indicator lights on the old elevator blinked on as they passed each floor, like hidden possibilities becoming obvious and available. He had to admit her excitement was contagious.

The suite of rooms was old-fashioned and luxurious, but its decor had seen better days and there was a sense of faded glory about the place. There were two bedrooms separated by a formal sitting room, complete with French reproduction armchairs and a tasselled sofa. The two bedrooms gave James a twinge of distress that, at first, he couldn't identify.

They each took a bathroom and washed off the dust and sweat of their journey. James wallowed in the bath, considering his discomfort. The two rooms meant that they would inevitably pair off, Marjorie and Martin to one room, he and Camilla to another. What had he expected - an orgy? He cringed at the thought - an orgy sounded so...so... tawdry. Nevertheless, the fact remained that what had intrigued him most about this whole affair was the thought of seeing his wife in the throws of passion, being pleasured by another. James still hadn't seen Camilla but he suspected he would discharge his duty adequately. He tried to work up some enthusiasm for the prospect. He wondered, after so many years, what it would be like to be with another woman. Intellectually, he found the thought entertaining, but emotionally, it left him cold. James draped the wet washcloth over his face and sighed through it heavily.

"Bunnikins, why all the huffing and puffing?"

Marjorie had come in without a sound wearing nothing but a towel. She had settled herself on the edge of the tub and pulled the washcloth off his face. Looking down at him endearingly with her glittering emerald eyes, she gave him a mock pout.

"Nothing, my darling," he lied. He wasn't going to spoil her fun. That would be unforgivable now that they'd come this far.

"James Jonathan de Walden! No one would have to torture you in the least to tell when you were lying. It's written all over your face!" Marjorie soaped the washcloth and pulled him upright to get at his back. She began to wash it. "If you are feeling even the teensiest bit of trepidation about all this, we can call it off, you know. It's simply not important enough to bother with." She kissed him on the shoulder sweetly.

He might stand in front of a high court judge and lie till his soul burned to black but he could never hide anything from his wife. Quietly he cursed himself for his transparency and took her idle hand in his.

"I'd like to watch you. That's all," James said hesitantly. "You're the loveliest woman I know and I thought about what it would be like to watch you without... well, without being... distracted." He grinned boyishly.

"Oh, you wicked, wicked man!" Marjorie wriggled her hand free and slipped it down into the water and between his legs, teasing his soft cock. It responded to her touch immediately. She leaned forward and whispered in his ear. "I want you to watch me, James. I want you to watch me till it hurts... and then give Camilla a rogering she'll never forget!"

Between her ministrations and the lewdness of her whispers, James' cock was raging, throbbing in her hand. He pulled her face to his and kissed her deeply, eagerly. His tongue slid against hers, probing, tasting. She sighed contentedly and kissed him back, her hand tormenting him with firm, urgent strokes beneath the water. Behind his lids he saw her again, shuddering uncontrollably as she came, crying out into a pillow as someone took her from behind. Suddenly he stiffened and shuddered himself. A glorious bubble of pleasure burst out from his groin and, moaning into her mouth, he came in the water. He could feel the hotter, heavier substance of his semen sink and settle over his legs, sliding between them, over them.

James felt her lips curve into a broad smile against his before she broke away. "Good lord, bunnikins. You are terribly excitable today."

She stood and primly retucked her towel. "We'd better get dressed or we'll be late for drinks. We're meeting them in the bar at six."

* * *

The Reeves were there when they entered the Gallery lounge. Both men had dressed formally in white ties and dinner jackets, both women in cocktail dresses. James led Marjorie towards the table and pulled out her chair. Then he settled himself.

Camilla Reeves was everything she was rumoured to be: cool, elegant, and strikingly beautiful with her dark hair swept up into a French twist. She sat sedately, fitting a cigarette into a long ivory holder. James fumbled for his lighter and bent forward to offer her a light. She leaned into him, her eyes appraising him as she inhaled. The smile she gave him was seductive, dark brown eyes flashing beneath the lazy black sweep of her lashes. Predatory.

"Well, well," teased Martin, "Aren't we a naughty bunch!"

James suddenly despised him. Underneath all the polish, Martin was a slippery, tasteless idiot. This should have made him want to grab Marjorie by the hand and run like hell, but instead, it had quite the opposite effect. Now more than ever, he wanted to see this bastard splay his wife and take her over the edge. He couldn't explain the paradox or the need but it gnawed at his gut like dozens of hungry eels and made his mouth water.

"So what did you two get up to this afternoon?" inquired Marjorie pleasantly.

Camilla sipped her martini and grinned. "Well, I had a rather marvellous time watching Martin lose at chemin de fer. Didn't I, darling? The Chinese are positively shark-like when it comes to gambling." As if to underline her point, Camilla lifted the skewered olive in her drink to her mouth and held it between her sharp white teeth while she removed the toothpick. The flash of green disappeared between her red lips and was mercilessly crushed between her jaws.

Martin agreed that he had lost quite a bit of cash. The chitchat went on. James listened and felt vaguely distant from it all. He looked over at Marjorie who was saying all the right things and relieving him of the obligation to do anything but nod in agreement. He had switched to spy mode, quite unwittingly, but once there, it was almost impossible to get out of.

As they went into dinner, James looked at the other diners, guessing their origins, occupations, and reasons for being in Macau. He even spotted a Chang Kai Chek operative he knew quite well, wining and dining a new mistress with ill-gotten gains, no doubt. The other man recognized him also, and nodded politely in James' direction. Not an enemy, not a friend, just another snake in the grass; no one, it seemed, came to Macau to be beatified.

By the end of supper, everyone had overdone the wine except for James. He was maddeningly sober and still trapped, obsessively listening and watching. The two brandies he'd downed with the coffee hadn't shifted his mood. The role of spy was an old, familiar mantle. Even though he was now head of intelligence at the Embassy, a named position and highly visible, the old ways of his youth died so very hard and felt so terribly comforting. The conversation had turned vaguely suggestive and both women were giggling and sporting bright spots of colour on their cheeks.

It wasn't until they were following the Reeves to the bank of elevators that Marjorie gave his hand a firm squeeze and whispered, "James... you're being very distant, darling. And you seemed so gung-ho this afternoon. Have you changed your mind?"

He bent to her ear, smelling her perfume. "Not a chance, you little minx. It's time for the real dessert now."

She mewed appreciatively as they got into the elevator.

It occurred to James that he could save them all from an awkward moment or two if he were to make the first move. And, feeling vaguely guilty for his passivity at dinner, he moved toward Camilla in the elevator and slid a hand around her small, tightly corseted waist.

"Do you do this sort of thing often, Mrs Reeves?" He made his voice low and suggestive, pulling her towards him. He traced an idle thumb over the black stuff of her dress, outlining her nipple. Even through all the layers that he knew must be there, he felt her respond and stiffen.

"On occasion, James. When the company warrants it." Her cochineal stained lips hovered next to his. Her breath smelled of the mint liqueur she'd had at dinner.

"And have we passed muster then?" James pressed his thigh between hers, rubbing it against her mound.

Camilla's lips shivered. "Oh, yes. Passed with flying colours."

* * *

The suite's lighting was low. Table lamps gave off a golden glow in the sitting room as James pulled Camilla to him once again and kissed her. Her mouth opened immediately and sought out his tongue with hunger. He opened his eyes, in the middle of the kiss to see Marjorie, leaning against Martin, watching the kiss. Martin was feasting on her bared shoulder, one hand firmly around her waist, the other making its way up under her full skirt. James caught a glimpse of Martin's hand as it reached the top of her stocking and slid between her legs and upwards, disappearing beneath folds of fabric. But Marjorie's moan told them all where it was. Martin's arm worked rhythmically. It was then that James' cock engorged with blood and sprung to life, pressing against Camilla's pelvis. She suckled his tongue and crushed her hips against him.

It was Martin who made the first move towards a bedroom, shrugging off his dinner jacket and pulling Marjorie by the arm. James broke his kiss with Camilla to watch them go.

"Come on, James," growled Camilla, sliding her slender, red-talonned hand down the front of his trousers, caressing the rampant erection beneath. Her long nails scraped the worsted. "Let's go make our own fun. I want to see if you're as big as you feel."

Suddenly James' heart plummeted. It wasn't that he couldn't fuck Camilla, but quite clearly, he wasn't going to get what he really wanted. He gave her a boyish grin, pulled off his jacket and draped it over one of the chairs, resigning himself to the situation at hand.

"James?" called a sweet, breathy little voice from the other room. "Bring Camilla in here, darling. There's plenty of room for all of us!"

A joy so acute it felt almost like pain stabbed at James' chest. If Camilla had been looking, she would have seen tears shimmer in his eyes, but he didn't look at her as he pulled his tie loose. Instead, he swept her up in his arms, kissed her deeply and carried her into the occupied room.

He set Camilla down gently on the bed and glanced at Marjorie on the other side, who was in her brassiere, stays and stockings, straddling a partially clothed Martin. She was breathing heavily as she undid his shirt buttons. Martin's hands were on her Marjorie's hips, pressing her down onto his clothed cock.

James knelt on the carpet by the bed, pushing Camilla's legs apart. She reached behind and James heard a long zipper being drawn as he slid his tongue up the inside of her thigh. She purred and inched herself forward to the edge of the bed, spreading her stocking sheathed legs wide and gathering up her skirt to give him access.

There was something both seductive and frustrating about the number of undergarments women wore. James hooked his fingers around her briefs and tried relieve her of them, only to find that she wore them under her stays, making it impossible to remove them without unhooking her stockings. The scent of Camilla's wet cunt and Marjorie's moans of pleasure kept him in fumbling, frustrating hell as he freed the offending garment.

Finally, with his goal in sight, he sank his head between Camilla's legs, nosing his way into the sopping slit that peeped carmine between her dark haired lips. His tongue slithered smoothly up and down her furrow until he found and worried the engorging little bud of Camilla's clit.

She groaned and lay back, her hips pushing up into his face, her cunt greedy for his tongue's attention. Her legs, still sheathed in loose stockings wrapped around his back as he fed and stroked. The lewdness of her hips spurred him on and he slid a thick thumb into her hole while his fingers, wet with her juices, teased her darker, tighter rear. Pressing his lips to her vulva, forming a seal, he sucked and flicked at her clit. James felt Camilla grab a handful of his hair and tug, just as on the other side of the bed, he could hear Marjorie having one of what he hoped were many orgasms. He pressed firmly inward with his index finger and felt Camilla's ass admit him hesitantly.

"Oh, Christ, not there..." she gasped, only to groan, "Oh, god yes!" as he started to fuck both her holes with his digits. Seconds later, she came screaming and arching, her hips bucking so wildly, James could barely attend to details. Camilla lay inert, panting on the bed when James looked beyond her to see Marjorie. Her eyes were closed, her deep red lips engulfing Martin's thick, hard cock. James could almost feel those lips around his own throbbing hard-on. Her lipstick smeared as she pulled up Martin's shaft, leaving a glorious red trail behind. Then she took him down again, fully. What a sight... what a beautiful sight.

James wrestled out of his shirt, socks and finally, his trousers. He needed to feel Camilla's lips where he imagined Marjorie's to be, he removed his boxers and climbed onto the bed, but she just smiled at him wanly.

"She won't do it old man... oo-oh, not like your lovely Marjorie, here," panted Martin as he arched upwards into Marjorie's mouth. "Camilla thinks that proper ladies... don't indulge in that sort of behaviour."

James looked down at the languishing Camilla who was grinning now. "Is that what you think, you wretched woman?" he teased, pulling the rest of her clothes off. He grabbed her hips and flipped her onto her stomach roughly. "So you think my Marjorie's not a proper lady, do you?" He hooked a finger under the back of her brassiere, pulled and let it go with a snap.

"Ow! James!" whined Camilla. The pale, creamy globes of her buttocks wiggled at him invitingly.

"Not a proper lady. indeed!" James went on in mock admonition. He pulled her legs apart rather roughly and positioned himself between them. Even as he spoke, his eyes were glued to Marjorie's mouth, sliding up and down on that cock. Martin's eyes were shut tight, his mouth open, o'd in pleasure. He was about to give Marjorie what she'd worked so hard for.

"Not a proper lady," James murmured again as he pulled Camilla's hips up. "We'll have to see about that."

He thrust into her cunt, roughly, pushing a cry from Camilla's throat. Her cunt didn't feel like Marjorie's mouth but it would certainly do. James began to fuck her, pinning his rhythm to the bobbing of Marjorie's head.

Martin suddenly arched his hips upwards and held them there, his hand holding Marjorie's head, his cock buried in her throat. She moaned as he spurted into her mouth, white rivulets of cum leaking out the corner of her mouth.

The sight drove James to pump Camilla harder, faster. He bent over her and took a breast in his hand, squeezing it hard as he slammed into her repeatedly. Even as he felt himself getting close, his gaze remained on Marjorie, sucking and licking the remains of Martin's pleasure off his cock.

Beneath him, Camilla bucked her hips against him, moaning and arching her back. James felt her tighten around him and start to come.

"A real lady," he panted as he fucked Camilla, reaching between her legs to bring her home, "knows how to be a whore."

Marjorie stopped her ministrations and turned her face to James, smiling and licking her lips. It finished him. He roared and spurted into Camilla. His cock twitching upwards with each shot. The after-shocks of her orgasm, rippled around him, milking him.

* * *

A year later, Mr and Mrs de Walden were back in Macau for what had become a rather regular jaunt to the island. This time, they travelled unaccompanied and met no friends.

James sat at the Chemin de Fer table, loosing to a heavy-set American. Marjorie sat behind him, smiling and looking very fetching. Every so often, in fact, every time he lost, she planted a little kiss on his cheek.

James had bet on credit and found, to his great delight, that he couldn't make good on what he owed.

"If you couldn't pay up, you shouldn't have played, buddy," growled the dark-haired Yank.

James smiled. "Oh, I'm absolutely certain we could come to some arrangement."

The American lifted an eyebrow. "An arrangement? And what would that be?" he demanded. The voice biting and suspicious.

James bent over and whispered in his ear. "Would you like to fuck my wife?"