Fever Pitch

It was just a twenty-four hour flu, but it was lousy timing. It came on in the morning, but somehow I got through the meeting. It was important. I had already spent the best part of a week working on the design. Six bedrooms, all with en-suites, three reception rooms, a dining room, office, kitchen, utility room, conservatory, triple garage and a pool.

It would cost the best part of two million to build. If the client decided to go with my scheme, I could charge around two hundred thousand. All of it profit, less the rental for my one man and my wife as part time secretary office space.

I could tell he liked it. The money was not a problem. Saudi oil would provide that. He was one of the thirty something year old Saudis who liked life in London and who wanted his own place instead of staying at a hotel. A run down property in Richmond had provided the site. He wanted modern, so I had designed modern.

"It's good," he said. "I like it. I like it too much. It gives me a problem. Now I have to choose. Another architect has been working up an alternative and I like his design as well. It will be difficult to choose between you."

It was the first that I had heard of another architect competing for the work, but I played it cool, in spite of beginning to feel a little feverish.

He checked his watch.

"I have someone to meet in half an hour," he said. "But we can discuss your proposal over dinner this evening if you are free. The Mayfair Hilton? Seven thirty? Bring your wife. Make it an evening to enjoy, not just business."

It was a Wednesday, and we had no other plans. Laura would be only too happy to have dinner at the Hilton. I confirmed. He got up from the sofa we had been sharing as we reviewed the designs. We shook hands. He thanked me for my work, and left.

I phoned Laura.

I told her how the meeting had gone, and about dinner that evening. She was fine about it.

I shivered. Maybe it was just a sugar low. I went for lunch. After lunch, I went straight home. It was not a sugar low. I was not too good.

I had thought I would just take a nap, and get myself feeling better for the evening. I went to bed around three, and slept immediately. From then on, everything became a blur.

I remember Laura checking on me, saying I would need to make my excuses. There was no way I could go like that. I tried to argue, but realised that if I did not have the strength to persuade Laura I could cope, there was no way I could sell my design as we discussed it over dinner. I would have to take the hit if I lost the job. That was life. Laura found the client's number and made the call to let him know we were not coming.

After that, I remember Laura showering, drying her long black hair with her drier, even using it on her pubic hair, as she always did. She kept it wild, and toweling it was not enough for her high standards. Then she started dressing. Saying something about his suggesting she came on her own. She would try to keep him sweet.

In my haze, I tried to work out of those were really stockings that she was rolling up her legs. Whether she had put on a bra before she slipped the black dress over her head, I could not be sure. At some stage she kissed me, saying she would see me later. I dropped back into a sleep, dreaming.

It was not just her bra I could not remember seeing. I could remember the stockings, black, with a fine diamond mesh that let her white complexion show through. I remembered a black suspender belt, but not panties, or a thong.

I remembered her back had been to me when she had put on the dress, her back pure milk white, her shoulder blades, spine and rib-cage well defined, her buttocks perfect globes of white, which meant she had not been wearing panties, and although I could remember the suspender belt around her waist, I could not recall the stretched back-string of a thong.

No. Definitely she had not worn a bra. Not with that dress. Besides she had bent over me as she had kissed me goodbye and I had seen her nipples graze the satin.

At least she would make an impression on the guy. She had made an effort. I appreciated that.

What time it was when she got back, I really had no idea. It was late. I knew that. I had been sleeping, and was only vaguely aware of her coming into the bedroom in the dark, using the bathroom, sliding naked under the duvet.

The red digital display had said something twenty three as I drifted in and out of fevered sleep. It might have been a two. Maybe it was a five. I was not sure. It had to have been a two, or was there a one in front, making it the two of twelve.

Dinner does not last that long. Getting back by tube would only have been forty minutes. After midnight would be late, but made more sense than after two in the morning, and after five would be ridiculous.

When I say a twenty four hour flu, in the morning I thought it would be less than that. I woke a little after nine, feeling so much better. The fever had nearly gone. I could almost think again.

At least Laura had gone to the dinner. I would call him later in the day to apologise again, find out how things lay. I got up, leaving Laura asleep in the bed, put on my dressing gown, and went down to make some coffee.

Laura's bag was on the table. Just a clutch purse, shiny black leather to match her dress. Then I remembered which dress it was that she had worn, the one that I bought her for our special evenings, not just backless, but with the sides bare as well.

Only the front of the dress rose in a curve on either side from where the back skimmed the groove between her buttocks, encasing her breasts, or trying to, narrowing to her neckl, and held there by a gleaming black leather collar.

The cut, and the fullness of Laura's breasts, meant that at the sides,the undercurves of her breasts were bared, which was why she had not worn a bra. Across her back, and at the sides, it would have spoiled the look. That exposure of her breast flesh at the sides, even if her wide areoles were concealed, was why she had never worn the dress with friends or relatives, but only where we were unlikely to be known.

I tried to remember what time had she got back? I really could not remember if it had been a two or a five on the digital clock, or if there had been a one beside the two, or just an empty space. The bed had seemed so empty without her there beside me. But just when her warmth had joined me, I did not know.

Still taking in that she had worn that dress to meet him, I poured boiling water on the coffee, put the top on the cafetiere, waited for a bit, then got impatient for the caffeine, pressed the plunger, and poured some of the strong, black coffee into a china mug. I needed it.

That was when Laura's bag vibrated. Just once. A text. At first I was going to ignore it. It was Laura's phone, which I never checked. Except, just possibly, it was my client with a message about the project. Maybe he had come to a decision. Laura was still asleep. I ought to check. Just in case.

I unzipped the bag. Her phone was obvious. There was only room for the phone, a small make up bag, her wallet, and some tissues. I swiped my finger on the screen. She did not use a code. The text just opened. I was right. It was the client. He wanted to arrange another meeting. But with Laura.

"Come to my hotel at 3.00pm," it read. "Bring the contract. I will sign it if I am as fully satisfied as you made me feel last night."

It was obviously the effect of the virus on my brain, but in retrospect my thought processes were painfully slow. Things were looking good. The meeting over dinner had obviously gone well. I put the phone back in Laura's bag, sipped my coffee, and thought that I would need to get in to my office, print out the standard contract, and have it ready. I might not be feeling as good as I would have liked, but I could manage that.

I sat at the table, waiting for the caffeine to kick in. My brain slowly started to engage. I took Laura's phone out of her bag again. Read the text again. What did he need to be satisfied with? It was a standard contract for architectural services. Ten percent of the overall costs. Three tenders from reputable contractors to ensure best price on the building costs. Nothing unusual.

Fully satisfied. As fully satisfied as she had made him feel last night. Satisfied how? What had she done to satisfy him?

It is strange the way that even when you are recovering from illness, your cock can function normally. Mine was starting to rise, anticipating what my brain was still working out. Laura had dressed to impress. Was it possible that she had undressed to impress as well?

Five years of marriage, great sex, great life together, totally trusting, no hint of anything going on elsewhere, my business ticking over nicely, we could use the money from this deal but we do without it too. There was no reason for Laura to have done anything more than have dinner with him. If the design alone was insufficient, there was no need for her to offer anything else to seal the deal

I stared at the phone. He wanted to be fully satisfied again. By my wife, who was asleep upstairs, and who had got back at God knows what time last night.

But it still could just have been dinner, nothing more. Of course they would have talked about other things, casual conversation, not just the design itself, or my ability to deliver the project. That did not mean that anything else had happened. Besides, he knew that I was ill, so asking Laura to bring the contract for him to check was natural. At least I told myself it was. But my cock was still rock hard.

Laura was still sleeping soundly when I left for the office. By then it was well after ten. I had had two mugs of coffee, shaved, showered and dressed. Laura had not so much as opened her eyes. Normally she got by on seven hours. That day she lay, tucked deep under the duvet, just her nose, forehead, and lustrous hair visible against her pillow.

Let her sleep. I could call her from the office at mid-day, to wake her up. Give her time to get herself together. I could be back by one, with the contract for her to bring to Mayfair.

I turned on the desk top computer, waiting for it to boot up, picturing him sitting right beside me on the sofa that was on the other side of my desk, when we had looked over the plans spread out on the large coffee table I had bought for the office just for that purpose. Less formality of a sofa, at a coffee table.

He was lean, but you could tell that he kept in shape. Square shoulders filling out his shirt, his jacket on a chair back. Slender waist, gleaming black leather belt, black trousers with razor sharp creases, immaculately polished shoes. He knew how to take care of his things. Or he had someone do it for him. Maybe he had a wardrobe full of suits, shirts, belts, shoes, continually replenished. Some of these guys only wore things once, and threw them away. In Laura's case, he seemed to be making an exception. He wanted to see her a second time.

The image flashed through my head. Laura, spread-eagled on his bed, her hour glass figure naked apart from her stockings and suspender belt, as he moved between her legs, his cock hard. Do not ask me why I pictured his cock with an upward curve, circumcised of course. No body hair, not even at his groin. Something about body hair being unclean, especially there. My own cock hardened at the thought of his cock head finding its way to Laura's entrance.

The screen came on, ready for use. I moved the mouse to open up my documents, found the folder for standard contracts and clicked on the one I needed.

It was just the virus, playing games with me. Putting thoughts in my head that I could do without. I needed to focus on the job in hand. I eased my hard cock to one side, giving it room.

The file opened. I took the hard copy folder with the design work and client details from the corner of my desk and found what I needed. I entered his name, his address in Saudi, and his hotel details for correspondence in the United Kingdom. I put the necessary dates in the right sections. Inserted the references to the design plans, using the numbers and dates for each of the A1 sheets. The contract already specified ten percent. And three tenders. I put the estimated cost as the two million British pounds.

What was that film called? The one with Robert Redford, paying a million to sleep with Demi Moore. Another guy's wife. Not that Redford cared. And the guy had agreed to let him have twenty four hours with his wife. For one million. Ten percent of two million is hardly a million. Two hundred thousand. Although Redford had paid in dollars. Mine was pounds. Not that I had agreed. Not that it had happened.

If it had been Redford's million, what would I have said? For just one night with Laura. Not with Redford making love to her, but a slender, wealthy guy from Saudi who I had met several times and shaken hands with. Not just one night. Another afternoon as well. This afternoon. The answer could only be, had to be, not for all the money in the world, let alone in oil rich Saudi.

I cleared my head. I double checked the contract. It looked fine. I sent it to the printer. A few moments later the printer whirred. I stapled the sheets together. I put them in a stiffened envelope along with a set of plans. I checked that the name and address showed through the window of the envelope. All ready. All my wife would have to do was make sure that the guy was satisfied. Fully satisfied. With the contract. Just the contract.

My mobile rang. Laura.

"Hi, where are you?" she asked.

"At the office," I said. "How are you? You were fast asleep."

"Sorry," she said. "I must have been more tired than I realised. I've had a text from him. He wants me to bring the contract over. Can you get it ready?"

I did not say that I had seen the text.

"When do you need it?"

"He wants me to come at three. So anytime between one and two. Is that enough time to do it?"

Her first few words got to me.

"He wants me to come."

Had he made her come already? Had he come? Had he come inside her? Had he spewed his Saudi sperm inside my wife?

"Sure," I said. "I'll get it together and have it with you in an hour. You're sure you're okay to do this?"

To do what? To bring the guy a contract, run through it with him, get his signature and leave. Or to fully satisfy him, a second time around?

I needed to stop thinking like that. This was Laura. This was my wife I was thinking about. There was no way she would do that. Was there?

"It's fine," she said.

"Okay," I said, and ended the call with her.

Laura had on one of her business suits. That was a relief. No backless, black dress with nothing underneath. Instead, a grey, pleated skirt with matching tailored jacket worn over a white blouse that her breasts pushed against and that just, and only just, allowed the outline of her white bra to show through. Plain black tights. Or not quite plain. They had seams running up the backs. But she looked good, professional. Were they tights or stockings?

I gave her the envelope.

"Thanks," she said.

I drove her to the tube. It was quicker. Always the gentleman, I opened her door for her as she got in. Laura slid into the passenger seat, an inch of white thigh revealed as her skirt slid up. Stockings. My wife never wore stockings in the daytime. Only in the evening. Only for a special dinner.

I stopped just before the station, in a ten minute parking bay. I put my hand on her leg as I kissed her cheek. Just high enough that my thumb was on her inner thigh, on her warm flesh, the rest of my hand on her stocking.

"Thanks for doing this," I said.

She did not answer as I took my hand away. She just climbed out of the car. As she closed the door my wife said the words we always said when either of us was leaving.

"Love you!"

"Love you too!"

She closed the door, turned, and walked to the station, her back straight, her pleated skirt swaying, her slender, shapely, straight seamed calves balanced on three inch black heels.

I drove home. I could have used my cock as a gear stick, but my head was still in denial. She had dressed to impress. That was all.

Then I pictured her stockinged legs clamped around his waist as he thrust again and again into her, his buttocks taut, his curved cock sliding in and out of her, spewing his sperm deep into her, copious liquid globules of hot Saudi semen.

Maybe the fever had not quite gone. I was not going to go back to the office. I made a hot drink of honey, lemon, whiskey. I brought it to the lounge. I turned on the television. Forget day-time. I checked the listings of programmes we had recorded. Question Time. Talking heads discussing politics. It would do.

"Thanks for doing this," I had said. With my hand deliberately far enough up her thigh that she would know that I knew that she was wearing stockings. If she had let him fuck her, and was going back for more, than I had just thanked her for doing it, or at least that was how it would have come across.

Fuck her.

That was the first time I had used those words when I had been picturing, or thinking about what had, or had not happened.

As far as he would be concerned, that was all she was. She was just a fuck. How many women had he fucked? Was there a harem back in Saudi? Not an actual harem, with topless girls langouring around a pool, and palm trees growing inside a courtyard, but were there women he could call on any time he wanted one? Did one of his lackeys arrange his women for him? Had he added my wife to whatever his tally of women he had fucked already was? He was in his thirties. When had he had his first woman? When he was a teenager? How many women does a guy like that fuck in the average week? Was Laura number however many hundred and one English architect's wife more?

"How would the panel deal with the unacceptable waiting times at Accident and Emergency in our hospitals?" the Question Time audience member asked.

You have to sympathise with people left sitting in hospital waiting rooms for hours on end. It is the last thing you need when you are unwell, or injured. Sitting around waiting. Your thoughts all over the place. Exactly what I was doing, right then. Sitting around waiting. My thoughts all over the place.

How would it happen?

I guessed he would have a suite. A reception room of some kind with the bedroom to one side, bathroom beyond. Would someone show her in? Would he open the door for her himself? What about when she went inside? What would happen then?

They were not having an affair. He was hardly likely to hold her tight and kiss her in a romantic embrace. This was business mixed with pleasure. She was just a plaything. If I were him I would bring her into the reception room, but keep her standing, while I sat back down. Tell her to put the contract documents on whatever coffee table would be there. Tell her to undress. Down to her stockings and suspenders. I could enjoy doing that to her. Make her go on her hands and knees. Finger her idly while I sat thinking of other things, my fingers in her pussy. Keep her waiting until I was ready to fuck her English cunt.

I had to adjust my cock again. Obviously it would not be like that. He would have a secretary, probably a man. He would have a room used as an office. He would see her there. He would read through the contract papers. He would ask some questions. Then he would sign. Then she would leave.

Or he would shut the office door. Have her bend across his desk. Lift her skirt. Find her buttocks as naked as her upper thighs above her stocking tops, her pussy bare, lips pouting from between her thighs. He would play with it. He would finger it. Fingers and thumb together. Fingers in her pussy. Thumb in her ass. Maybe he would use his palm. Smack her buttock cheeks while she was bent over the desk. I would need to check, when she got back, when she undressed tonight, whether her buttocks had been reddened.