On the Canal Bank and After

What the hell was she doing?

The congratulations were coming to an end. The crowd of volunteers, happy and self-satisfied, begin to drift away.

Amy's hand comes out of her cargo pants.

She sees Anthony's mouth is close to her mother's ear, with the woman's eyes going wide at whatever he's murmured. Her mother's expression runs through several phases, telegraphing her emotions to anyone bothered enough to watch.

First, incredulity -- she can't believe what Anthony has said.

Next, delight, with Astrid's lips moving from the large O to form a banana smile, all teeth and adoration.

Amy squirms and pulls at her crotch, arranging the gusset of her knickers back in place with a wriggle.

She sees her mother's nod and watches her lips move as Astrid looks into Anthony's face.

Although she couldn't make out what was said, Amy knows the moment is upon them. This is when her mother comes to her with the lie.

Anthony saunters away to take the journalist by the elbow, and Amy watches her mother's eyes seek her out. "Bitch," she mutters, and then steps from behind the bin with a smile pinned to her face, her cheeks stiff with the falseness of it.

Amy waves.

Her mother spots her and indicates by means of haphazard sign language that she needs to speak to her. And to make her mother work for it, Amy stays where she is.

"Anthony's asked if I can stay behind and make sure the lads from the tip collect all the bags," Astrid says as she approaches. She has an I-can-hardly-refuse look on her face, arms wide in appeal. "You'll be all right getting the bus, won't you, Amy?"

Amy notices her mother's eyes slide away.

Without waiting for a reply, as though it's a done deal, Astrid continues. "Tell your dad I'll be home in a few hours."

Amy knows another co-ordinator is tagged to supervise the loading of the bags and ensuring nothing gets left behind for dogs or urban foxes to scavenge, but she holds her peace nevertheless. It suits her to go along with her mother's falsehood.

Amy shrugs. "I suppose so." She delivers the statement with just the right amount of aggrieved truculence her mother would expect.

"That's good, Amy. Thanks." A pause and then: "Anthony will appreciate it."

It's almost imperceptible, but Amy notices her mother is just a touch too bright and enthusiastic. She reasons her mother might have been anticipating some resistance and is relieved her daughter has acquiesced so readily.

"Well," Astrid goes on, with a nervous glance over one shoulder. "I suppose I'd better..." She throws a thumb over the opposite shoulder to signify her intent. "No rest for the wicked," is Astrid's closing statement.

Then she's away.

"I bet," muttered Amy under her breath as her mother skips up the steps. She glances at her watch and decides she'd give them five minutes.

Two

Amy has no trouble getting past the receptionist. First of all the stoop-shouldered, middle-aged lady behind the desk is in the process of handing over to the night security watchman, and with Saturday's business day being concluded, she's too intent on getting out of the building and away home to her cats and Bruce Forsyth on the telly to pay much attention. Secondly, since Amy is a familiar face, and togged out in the informal uniform of cargo pants and polo shirt, the council's motif on her right breast, neither the woman nor the guard take a second look.

She slips past the open turnstile with a waggle of her fingers and takes the stairs two at a time, a hand on the rail as she boosts herself along.

When she hits the third floor she moves quickly yet silently, the rubber soles on her boots plus the layer of threadbare carpet underfoot aiding and abetting stealth. She reaches the door to Anthony's office and, knowing the layout -- a small vestibule beyond the door before the man's office proper, another door in-between -- enters quietly, trusting her mother and Anthony will be in the room beyond.

With her heart bouncing in her ribcage, her breath caught in her throat, Amy is relieved to find the anteroom empty. She lets out the lungful of anxiety she's had trapped inside her on a long sigh.

Then she calms herself in readiness for the confrontation.

While she's taking deep breaths Amy glances around.

It's obvious the room has been used as an office for a personal assistant or secretary in the past. It's completely kitted out for use: three-drawer lockable filing cabinet, waste-paper bin, a dark-wood desk with modesty screen, a leatherette chair behind the desk.

Amy moves to the adjoining door and presses her ear to the panel. There are voices beyond but she can't make out any of the words.

Then the girl startles when the knob in the door rattles. The volume of one of the voices inside the other room increases, and it's suddenly apparent the door is about to be flung open.

Amy lunges away, panic swelling inside her. She looks around, desperate for a hiding place, tiny mewls coming out of her.

She can't be discovered. She has no excuse ready. Her plan was to make certain her mother and Anthony were at it before she burst in and delivered hell-fire.

She's still in the middle of the room when the door opens. But, thankfully, nobody appears immediately.

"I just don't feel too fresh at the moment, Anthony," Amy hears her mother say. "I won't be long. Give me five minutes."

There's only one hiding place, and Amy ducks behind the desk a moment before her mother steps from the inner office. She's crouched there behind the modesty screen, with her throat feeling like it's clogged with her heart. She's certain her mother must have seen a flicker of movement. Her de-cloaking is imminent.

But, instead of the anticipated cry of surprise, Amy hears her mother say, "You just keep that thing primed. I'll be back." Then Astrid's voice drops, the words coming out all thick and curdled. "I'm so horny, Anthony." Amy's mother sighs and, just before she leaves, murmurs, "Keep stroking it. Keep it hard for when I get back."

"Don't take forever," Anthony calls. "If I keep doing it, I'll come."

"That would be an awful waste," Astrid replies, and then Amy is alone in the vestibule, with Anthony in his office, his cock apparently primed and ready.

Silence.

Shuffling sounds from the inner office.

Again, what she saw at midday comes to Amy's mind. Her body responds in the usual way and, with Amy, crouching behind the desk, she closes her eyes and tries to block the images. She fights against the dark urges inside her, denying that her pussy is sluicing and her libido is snarling.

She wonders just what Anthony is up to. She pictures him stroking his cock, just waiting for her mother to return.

Before she realises it, Amy is up from behind the desk.

Then she's at the door and peering in.

And there his is, sitting on a worn yet serviceable sofa. Of course, he's naked, but what brings the heat flooding into her vulva is the fact he's cranking his erection with both hands.

The pair stare at one another for several long beats, with Anthony's face slackening in surprise. Yet, Amy notices, he doesn't cease his languid caress.

The girl swallows, her attention fixed on that awful member.

"Amy," Anthony says, with no inflection in the word, and Amy is unsure if it's a greeting or a question or a simple statement of fact.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, apparently unconcerned at being caught with his dick in his hands.

The girl says nothing. The words are a log-jam behind her teeth. Her throat has shrunk to the diameter of a drinking straw. No sound can emerge.

It's difficult to breathe, her heart is bouncing again, her mind is awhirl with conflicting emotions, and her cunt is so hot and itchy.

"Why don't you come in, Amy," murmurs Anthony, his tone hypnotic. "You look like you want to."

That cock slaps down against the ribbed muscle when he lets it go, a sob almost bursting out of Amy when she sees the knob-head of the thing reaches Anthony's sternum.

The man beckons to the young woman standing in the doorway with her eyes fixed on his cock.

"You shouldn't be here, Amy," Anthony smirks. "Your mother will be here soon."

At the mention of her mother, Amy nods. "I know," she croaks.

He looks at her, an eyebrow arched. "What do you want, Amy?"

"My father," the girl mumbles. "You shouldn't be doing it with my mother. She's married and..."

"I haven't done it to her yet, Amy," Anthony replies, interjecting rudely.

The girl bridles. "I saw you at lunch time."

Anthony grimaces and lifts his arms in a parody of a Hindu God. "I haven't fucked her yet."

Amy gulps when she hears Anthony utter the profanity. He has, in all Amy's previous experience in her dealings with him, been the epitome of charm and sophistication when dealing directly with her, and to see him sitting there with his cock lying against his body is like bursting in on her grandmother on the toilet.

It's just wrong.

Then, flexing some internal muscle the man makes his cock twitch, the movement causing it to lift and fall back of its own accord, a sight that brings a gasp from Amy, her pussy siping into her underwear.

"She wants to fuck me, you know, Amy," Anthony breathes. His eyes are on the girl, his stare predatory as he lifts his penis and begins to stroke it. "Your mother's hot for this big cock."

"You pig," Amy moans.

Anthony chuckles, his stare locked on the girl's face. "What about you?" he asks. "I get the impression you're curious about it, too. What do you say, Amy?" he continues in that narcotic tone. "Would you like to touch it?"

"No," Amy mumbles.

"Oh," nods Anthony, "I think you do."

His fist moves.

The length of him is hard and swollen, the skin taut, the bulbous head bulging.

"Do you think it'd fit inside you?" he asks at the same moment Amy has the exact same thought. "It'd be tight," he adds, grinning. "But it would go in. If I fed it into you nice and slow. Until you got used to it..."

"Leave my mother alone," Amy mumbles.

Anthony nods again. "I might," he says, "if I had a sweet little thing like you to play with." Anthony pouts and then smirks. "But your mum's very keen. And she's so enthusiastic. It's difficult to turn it down. I mean, it isn't like she's a dog or anything, Amy. She's very attractive, very sexy. And I know she's got a great pair of tits."

"Buh-but my father--" Amy begins.

"Isn't enough for her," finishes Anthony, cutting the girl off again. "She wants sex all the time, Amy. Your mother needs a lot of attention. She wants to fuck ... And I'm the man who can give her what she needs." He waggles his dick at the young woman. "And there's plenty of this to go round. You can have some, too ... If you want," he adds with a leer. Anthony pauses, eyebrows lifted in question. "Don't you want some, Amy?" he asks. "I'd love to fuck your tight little pussy with this."

And then he's stroking it and moaning. Anthony's hands are both sliding up and down that cock. The expression on his face...

The agonised ecstasy Amy sees there shoots a white hot flare straight between her legs. Her hand is down inside her knickers; Amy's fingers are sliding over her sodden vulva. She can't help herself; she can't resist.

"Come on, baby," groans Anthony. "Come and sit on it."

Three

Astrid is in the Ladies.

It's an old-fashioned place of white tiles and scarred blue doors, the bottom edges of which are nine inches from the floor. It could do with a make-over, but there's no money in the coffers that year. There are three stalls, with three sinks opposite, a long mirror running horizontally above the porcelain bowls. The woman is in a state of high arousal, with excitement at the prospect of finally feeling Anthony's huge cock inside her fizzing. Her stomach is churning like a washing machine, as it has been all day. Astrid's pussy is awash with desire, which is why she insisted on cleaning up before the sex. Always fastidious, Astrid can't countenance Anthony getting a whiff of her pussy. She's convinced he'll be put off by the sour musk that's been fermenting down below.

It's a calculated risk that she'll be disturbed, but Astrid assesses the likelihood of anyone else using the facilities as very low, negligible in fact.

She fills a basin with water, testing the temperature before hauling her cargo pants to her knees -- the last thing she needs is a scalded pussy!

Then, a thrill coursing through her, a shiver of adventure, Astrid decides to forgo the trousers completely. She unlaces her boots and toes them off at the heel one after the other.

Off come her socks and Astrid shimmies out of the cargo pants.

She hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her delicate panties, and when she catches a glimpse of her reflection and sees herself naked from the waist down the heat floods her face.

"Oh you've got it bad," admits Astrid to the woman in the mirror. Then, smirking at her alternative self in her other universe, she yanks the polo shirt over her head. Next thing her bra has joined the heap of clothes on the countertop.

Fully naked, Astrid examines herself, trying to see herself from the male point of view.

"Not bad," she decides, pouting at her breasts, cupping the weighty orbs in her palms.

Astrid grins, knowing it was her tits that caught Anthony's eye in the first place. Not that she'd been keen on him at first, far too self-confident by half had been her first impression: cocky and more than a little selfish.

Astrid had correctly assessed Anthony's short-comings during her interview for the position as Chief Co-Ordinator for the canal project, but when she'd walked in on him while he was changing in his office one afternoon, when she'd clocked the thing dangling between his legs, she had adjusted her opinion of her employer.

Anthony, she decided, might be just what she was looking for.

Jaded by twenty-nine years of marriage, and with an indifferent husband with a low sex drive, Astrid was on the look-out for something fresh. She'd had a string of young lovers over the past two years but was between cocks as it were when she'd barged in and caught him, literally, with his pants down.

From that incident on she had made it obvious she fancied Anthony. She'd played up to him, giving him no illusion she was most definitely interested in his big cock.

But, Anthony being Anthony, the bastard had played her along. He'd teased her for weeks, flirting, snogging, and even fingering her to several noisy, very squelchy orgasms in some very risky situations.

For a man with his ambitions, Anthony certainly enjoyed taking risks.

Yet he'd made her wait.

It had been close down by the canal that afternoon. She thought he would cave and fuck the arse off her right there. And how fitting that would have been! Celebrating Earth Day with a glorious al fresco fuck! But, again, it hadn't happened. Anthony had her dangling.

Astrid sluices water over her vulva. She washes away the musk of over-excited female and considers rubbing herself to orgasm while watching herself in the mirror.

Under usual circumstances Astrid would never dream of such wanton behaviour, but such was her yearning for relief, despite the big cock waiting for her -- let him wait, the bastard -- Astrid succumbed to her base desires.

So she decides to take a little risk herself and watches her own face while standing in front of the mirror, a hand between her legs.

"Oh, fuck," she groans, voice curdled. "I want it. I want to fuck."

Astrid's mind goes back to the other times, the other men, and she can't remember ever being so horny -- Not ever. Not once.

She sees her reflection, the woman in the mirror; Astrid sees the woman wince, her face slack, jaw dangling. Her hand works at her sex, two fingers sliding into her body.

The precisely razored triangle of her pubic bush grazes her palm as Astrid's digits probe deep. The woman grunts and moans, desire sluicing.

Astrid comes in that grubby setting, the seediness enhancing her pleasure while she watches her face coming back at her through the glass. Astrid recognises the hunger and, from nowhere, wonders what her husband is doing at that moment.

He doesn't deserve it; he doesn't deserve a slut for a wife.

But Astrid didn't see herself as a slut. Not really. She's protecting her husband is how she sees it. That's how she justifies her behaviour to herself.

Astrid needs more than he can offer in a sexual sense ... She really needs more.

And he just can't meet her demands.

So she has affairs. She sleeps with other men.

The alternative is to tear his life apart with the serrated blade of divorce -- But what good would that do? The aftermath would be three people in anguish: Astrid, her husband, and Amy.

So, with that slewed logic, Astrid reconciled her desires with her actions: she was doing what she needed to do, but, at the same time, protected everyone.

Astrid winces and groans and mumbles nonsense as her orgasm boils. A mindless pleasure overwhelms her and, while her fingers work at her sex, there are no rights or wrongs. She gulps and stares at her reflection, the depravity of her situation, the certainty that, at last, she's going to get plugged by Anthony's extraordinary penis heating her blood.

Eventually, finally, with Astrid gasping and staring into the mirror, her climax cooling after a juddering climax, with her mind clearing, mortified by how far she'd gone, the woman staggers away from the counter.

Her body thrums. Her breasts ache for a man's touch. She wants to feel fingers mauling at her flesh, hot breath on her neck while she kneels on all fours and offers her sex. Astrid is filled with urgent yearning for Anthony's cock. She wants to feel him inside her; she wants his hands on her body, and she wants his mouth against hers.

Gathering her clothes in a bundle, cursing when a loose sock drops to the floor, Astrid bends to collect the errant article and then pushes the door open a crack with her hip.

She checks the corridor -- no sign of anyone. And so, clothing clutched to her chest, Astrid scuttles along the hallway, negotiating the whole perilous length to Anthony's office near the lift, thankful the council is too stingy to install CCTV.

Imagine the guard's face...

When she reaches the sanctuary of the outer office Astrid stands with her back against the now closed door, clothes still bundled against her breasts. She sucks in a deep breath and lays her stuff on the desk, intending to surprise Anthony with her nakedness.

But it's Astrid who gets the surprise when she opens the door.

Four

He was shocked when the girl walked in. Not that he let her see of course, his politician's brain had assessed the situation immediately, weighing up all the factors in a frantic burst of synaptic activity, and where a lesser man might have leapt to his feet and covered up and began babbling, Anthony saw something in Amy's expression that decided his course of action.

"Amy," he says, letting her see his cock. He continues to stroke it, using both hands -- he knows from experience that the ladies love seeing him do that.

Well, a few of them have ... over the years.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, going for completely unconcerned, even though his heart is hammering and he feels the organ might just burst on him then and there.

And wouldn't that be one for the journalist and her photographer -- him naked and hard, dead on the sofa with his dick in his hands.

But, he reasons, if this got out into the public domain his embryonic political future could be ruined. So he watches Amy carefully, his brain registering every flicker on her face. He studies her, intently analysing every flicker, every nuance, deciding on the best course of action in dealing with the time-bomb ticking away.