The Fourth Room

By Tom Covenent

Margaret and Jeff live in humdrum suburbia. Married for 25 years, they were an unremarkable middle aged couple working toward retirement.

But Jeff and Margaret shared a secret.

It had been Jeff's idea to spice up a flagging sex life by converting their fourth bedroom into an adult play room. Sleeping in the spare room had once been a lonely and sad affair, the consequence of a headache or a badly timed squabble over some minor domestic issue. But if Jeff found Margaret in the spare room now, it was the green light for increasingly erotic playtimes.

But neither Jeff nor Margaret had shared all of their secrets, Jeff is harbouring an increasingly overwhelming secret desire and Margaret hides a colourful past experience.

Will Jeff's fantasy escape into a new reality in the Fourth Room, will Margaret's naughty secret be exposed?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Covenent
• Release date: Sep 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310146756

Tom Covenent

Specialising in real erotic situations, you will find no millionaires, no shades of grey, just red hot sex. In his fifties, married, Tom likes to write about wives and husbands sexual awakenings. A lover of lingerie and sometimes not a little kinky.

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The Fourth Room

Tom Covenent

Copyright 2014 by Tom Covenent

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Take off your clothes. The instruction brooked no refusal, the jutting jaw, keen steel grey eyes, his stance; impossible for her to refuse him. With trembling fingers, uncertain if they shook from fear or excitement, she began to unbutton her blouse.

Impatient, frustrated at her pernickety care, he grabbed and tore the garment open. The cotton ripped and buttons flew, clattering plastic hailstones on the varnished wooden floor.

She glared at him, eyes burning angrily. Fighting back tears, she stammered, You b...b...bastard, I loved that blouse!

But she made no attempt to pull the garment together again, to cover herself; to do so would have been to admit that he had dismayed her. Breathing heavily, she shrugged off the ruined blouse. Her heaving breasts were barely restrained and hardly covered by the sheer satin of the lace trimmed bra. Hoping her stance communicated her defiance, she waited for his next move.

Without breaking eye contact, he loosened the knot of the pale grey silk tie, easily flicked free the top button of his plain cotton shirt. Her eyes dropped to the meagre morsel of additional flesh he had revealed. His skin was smooth, lightly tanned, there was no pallid white.

Not taking her eyes from his chest, she pulled her bra down, spilling her breasts over what now served as nothing more than a support belt. Her nipples were pointing at him, thrusting at him from a pool of generous aureole, dimpled and brown.

His gaze dropped and she knew the equilibrium had shifted her way.

It was a pivotal moment, a decisive moment, she had control. She could accept it, or reject it. He did not have the same choice, he would embrace her decision, of that she was certain.

She chose.

Dropping her gaze, as if she had given up her willpower, she saw the gleaming black patent leather shoes stepping to turn her body away from him. The angry red of nipples impossibly stiff tipped the wobbling swell of her pale-skinned breasts, as if, despite her surrender, they remained defiant.

She halted her turn, her naked back exposed to him for the first time. Raising her arms behind her, uncomfortably stretching the muscles in the unfamiliar position of submission, she offered her wrists to him.

She had forgotten the bra. Ignoring her act of submission, he chose his own. She barely felt the release. Her breasts dropped. Instinctively, she grabbed them, covering her nipples like a surprised virgin.

He barked a laugh, his voice dripped sarcasm, a little late for modesty, bitch!

Realizing the stupidity of her reaction, feeling hurt and humiliated