~6~ crash and burn

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Mrs Ibsen (aka cool Hitchcock beauty) and sexy gardener are in a hot embrace. She has her legs wrapped around his waist and her head thrown back in the throes of passion. Her rouged mouth is shaped in an “o”. A series of undulating moans shatter the quiet. Mrs Ibsen’s silk blouse is unbuttoned, displaying a heaving creamy chest. The gardener’s mouth leaves a trail of hot, nimble kisses on her neck… 

It’s messy, earthy and… they’re having s£x on the kitchen counter.

Who would have thought it, eh? It’s exactly like those romance covers. The guy’s chest is all muddy and glistening with sweat while she’s swooning in his arms. Their lips are intermeshed. He’s practically chewing her lips off. Passionate. Sultry! 

A kitchen tap is running. The furious rhythm of their writhing bodies synchronises with the gushing water. 

“Harder, Silvio!” she begs. 

Silvio grabs the back of her head. “Open your eyes.”

Mrs Ibsen’s eyes flutter open reluctantly — her eyes are dazed with lust.

“I’m the man,” he growls. 

She reaches her climax and releases an all-mighty scream — I’m almost deafened. 

Grinning, I’m just standing there gormless. I wish I had some popcorn…

The hot gardener’s young — early-twenties. She’s got herself a toy boy lover then… Wonder what her hubby Mr Ibsen will say to that!

She finally manages to untangle herself away from his embrace.

“Control yourself! You’re getting mud all over me,” she tries to smooth her hair back into place. A few blonde tresses have escaped from her chignon.

Silvio the gardener doesn’t seem too ashamed with himself. He licks his lips suggestively. 

“I fill you up nicely — you don’t have to fake 0rgasm with me…”

“That’s none of your concern—”

He shrugs his shoulders and smacks her bum, leaving a muddy handprint on the back of her skirt. “You didn’t even know you had G-sp0ts before me. I’ll just find another woman…”

“I have a client in the other room…” she pouts.

Just as I’m about to duck out of the room, Sexy Silvio spots me. He grabs Mrs Ibsen as she’s turning round to face the door. He winks at me over her shoulder. What a slimeball. He’s checking me out while Mrs Ibsen is giggling like a schoolgirl in his arms. Where’s your sense of loyalty, man? 

I take that opportunity to run back into the morning room. As I’m leaving the house, a framed photograph catches my attention. A wedding photograph. It shows Mr and Mrs Ibsen outside a sumptuous french chateau. She’s in a cream Chanel suit holding a bouquet of white roses, lavender and baby’s breath while her pensioner husband is grinning from ear to ear like he’s won the lottery. The adulteress has a cool, practiced smile on her face — their wedding night must have been fun… 

My heart goes out to him. 

I wouldn’t want to be a cuckolded husband.

There’s no way I’m going back. That woman is an ice queen — there’s something chilling about her…


Google is my bible. I don’t know what I’d do without it. There’s that stupid search engine “Bing” but I always end up typing “Google” into Bing. Anything to escape it.

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