Adventures of Patricia

Friday, May 9, 1975


This is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

Admitting my life isn’t perfect is a huge step. The fact that the problems relate to my marriage make it worse.

Everyone believes we’re the dream couple, but we just live in the same house these days and keep up a charade. I can’t remember the last time we had a truly intimate moment, in any sense of the word.

I’ve been agonising for months about it all and when I’ve tried to talk to him he just puts up the barriers or twists things to turn the spotlight back on me. According to my magazines, it is classic behaviour of the adulterer.

I didn’t think he was capable of being unfaithful and kidded myself for so long. But now I know. He has a regular “mistress”, that blond bitch from marketing, but he’s also been having one-night stands on his frequent business trips away.

So what do I do to get things back to normal? I’ve got my figure back after months of dieting and exercising. I look better than I did when we first met, or at least I think I do, but he hasn’t noticed.

That’s why I kept turning back to Cosmo. I needed inspiration, I needed ideas.

Nothing was working. But this last one seemed the most drastic, the most daring, the most likely to succeed.

It was also the most simple – act like the tarts he’s been sleeping with instead of myself. Cosmo even provided the check-list and plan of action – new, sexy lingerie that best shows off my figure and in the colour that drives him mad (check); a pair of stilettos to match the lingerie (check); a raincoat that drops down at least as far as the knee (check); new hair-do (check); bold make-up (check).

Drive to office when he’s working late (check); make your way to his office (check); surprise him, whip open the coat to show you’ve nothing on but the lingerie and let him ravish you there and then (failed).

The magazine didn’t say what to do if he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. I guessed he was with the blond somewhere.

I headed back to the lift when a familiar voice called out: “Is that you Patricia?”

I wanted to ignore it, just get in the lift and go down to my car and cry. But the second: “Patricia?” was closer. I turned to see Bob, one of the other directors, now only a few feet away.

We’d met several times, all at company functions where the senior managers and directors got drunk and us wives got dressed up simply to carry our husbands off to bed as they were incapable of walking. Bob had a reputation for being a bit strait-laced, a little too dull, not really “one of the boys”. Perhaps that’s why I’d always got on better with him than my husband’s other colleagues?

I still wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible, but Bob was being his usual helpful self. He insisted on taking me down to his office and checking to see whether he could locate my errant husband – fat chance, but as ever I was too polite to stick to my guns and do what I wanted.

I dutifully followed him and watched the painful attempts of Bob to cover for my husband – he clearly knew where he was and who he was with. Frustration go the better of me. I snapped in a way I can’t ever remember doing before.

“Oh for goodness sake Bob, I know he’s shacked up with that tart somewhere. Stop trying to fool me.”

Bob looked as sheepish as he looked surprised at my little outburst. I apologised and that sparked the tears. It wasn’t a full breakdown, just a little sob. But it was enough to get Bob fussing again, offering cups of tea or coffee and tissues.

I said the best thing I could do would be to head home for something stronger. He paused momentarily, reached into one of his drawers and said: “How about one of these?” as he pulled out a bottle of scotch.

I’m not a whisky drinker, but my immediate thought was: “Why not?” So he poured out two tumblers and apologised for not having any ice or water. I told him not to worry, the stronger the better, and downed it in two gulps.

Bob offered another shot. I nodded and he poured a little more than the first one, but this time took a more lady-like sip.

We did the polite, British thing and chit-chatted over our drinks. It was a warm evening and the office was very stuffy. Ordinarily I would have at least loosened my coat, but under the circumstances I kept it fully buttoned and tightly belted. It wasn’t lost on Bob, who offered to hang my coat up for me.

I told him I would need another large shot of scotch before I’d be in a position to do that and not surprisingly he looked confused but let it drop. We chatted some more until I asked him a straight question: “Is he with her?”

Bob didn’t need to answer. He flushed a deep scarlet and looked away. I gulped down the remainder of my drink and asked for a top-up. I sipped some more and we sat in silence until Bob asked: “So, have you now drunk enough to take off your coat.”

The answer was I was more than drunk enough to unbutton my coat. There was still a moment of hesitation – the respectable, dutiful wife I am prevented me for a few seconds – but the scotch was a powerful persuader. I downed the rest of the glass and stood up smiling.

“Now, Bob, I want you to know I don’t always go out of the house like this. I’m only doing it to try and seduce my own husband. But as he isn’t here, I guess it would be a shame not to let someone appreciate it.”

Bob looked blankly at me. But his eyes soon widened as I undid the belt and start to loosen the buttons.

I had really splashed out on the new “outfit” that had supposed to be for my husband’s eyes only. He goes wild for black silk or satin lingerie – what man doesn’t? – with matching stockings. I have always had a curvy figure and now I’ve lost weight and trimmed down my boobs and bum in particular look fantastic. I’d opted for a black, lace one-piece, which showed off plenty of cleavage and also moulded to my hour-glass figure. I’d also spent more on the sexiest silk stockings and discreet suspender belt I could find than I’d spent before.

It was all money well spent, judging by Bob’s face. My coat was on the floor by my feet and I perched myself on the edge of the desk, bending forward to give Bob a view of my boobs.

"So, what do you think?" I asked him. "Is my husband a fool for missing out on this?"

Bob just nodded in agreement. I was a lot more drunk than I realised. I must have been because I then asked Bob if he wanted to see more. Again, he simply nodded.

I did a slow, what I considered to be sexy and sensual (but was probably quite stumbling and drunken) striptease until I stood before him in just my stockings and suspenders. I walked over to him and told him to get out from under his desk. He did, quite sheepishly, and I discovered he'd sneaked his hand inside his trousers and was now holding a rather stiff looking cock. I was amazed, I'd only ever had sex with my husband so this was only the second cock I'd seen in the flesh.

Bob's looked thicker than my husband's. I was fascinated. I sat on the desk in front of Bob and reached down and took hold of him. He groaned his approval as I started to pump my hand. I got faster and faster until Bob yelled out and my hand and his cock got covered in his warm, sticky, creamy stuff.

I didn't say anything else. I just picked up my lingerie, put on my coat and did it up and headed to the lift.

It was only when I got to my car that I realised I was too drunk to drive. Bob then appeared, red-faced and breathless (from running after me, I think) and offered to drive me home. He suggested driving my car, so I didn't have to leave it there in case my husband saw it and he would then get a taxi back to the office.

We didn't speak much, if at all. Bob drove me home and waited outside after I'd phoned for a taxi.

I showered, went to bed and woke up this morning with a really bad headache and a feeling of dread. I couldn't believe what I'd done.

My husband went off to work before I got out of bed and I made sure the children got to school before sitting on the sofa and wondering what I should do next. I'm 31, married with two children and I feel like a silly schoolgirl.

The phone went. It was Bob. He said he wanted to see me again and "finish what we started".

I put the phone down without answering. I phoned him back ten minutes later and we've arranged to meet next week when my husband is away on business and I can get my parents to look after the children again.

Roll on May 14...