The leather chair in the corner of the dining room is prominent, omni-present, dominating, never to be forgotten. Every time I look at it I see her, her knees drawn up and spread wide, heels resting on the edge of her seat, her head thrown to the side, her eyes closed, her mouth open.

As I lick her, my head completely between her thighs, my whole face against her sopping wet cunt, I can hear her muffled moans mixed with random night-time noises from the rest of the house.

I lick faster, the footsteps of my wife in the bedroom over our heads, the image of her preparing herself, anticipating her nightly fuck blissfully unaware of our guest's pleasure, spurring me on.