Much Ado About Fucking

Note: Everyone's over 18. They should know better. I should know better. Fiction, obviously. Shakespeare would approve though.

---

Right. So. The Cambridge Shakespeare Festival. Not exactly where I thought I'd be letting a fresh-faced Trinity College hopeful finger me during Act Three of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' at St John's College on a balmy July evening. But after our encounters on the train, that grope-fest at the pub where I'd wanked him off under the table while he tried not to spill his lemonade, and the quick fuck behind the cricket pavilion on Parker's Piece where he'd gone down on me with surprising skill for someone his age, it seemed like the logical next step. Proper academic progression. From public transport to public house to public theatre. The Bard would approve, the dirty old sod.

*"Lord, what fools these mortals be!"* Indeed, Puck. Indeed.

Christ, listen to me trying to justify it. As if Shakespeare gives a toss who I shag or where I do it. Though I reckon he'd laugh his arse off seeing how many academics make careers out of his dick jokes.

Any normal person would think we were having a wholesome outing. Me being his aunt or some family friend. All proper like in those BBC things. Made what we were planning dirtier. I wore my navy wrap dress with the spots. Easy to untie but looks respectable. And stockings. Wolford ones. David loves them. Had my sensible heels on too, easy to slip off during the show. Or if I needed to cause a scene.

Though David wasn't with us tonight. Departmental budget meeting that couldn't be rescheduled. 'Don't let that stop you from furthering William's classical education,' he'd said with that infuriating academic smirk. 'Shakespeare is best experienced as a participatory medium.' Participatory medium, my arse. Just his way of saying he was happy for me to get fingered during the play while he argued about funding with Helen Palmer.

St John's College Gardens isn't your typical theatre venue. That massive old willow tree adds the perfect backdrop for Shakespeare's woodland scenes. And then those posh twats perched on their John Lewis picnic blankets, sipping prosecco from plastic glasses and pretending they're not just there because it's the done thing. Cultural capital for the middle classes. Bloody obvious, innit?

I spotted Mary Archer three blankets over, looking impossibly poised despite being a good eighty years old, with her perfect posture but blimey, what a snob. And that ghastly husband, or is it ex-husband now, Jeffrey. The ultimate Cambridge power couple, though power and prison seem to go hand in hand with that family.

Sod it, I'm being catty. Occupational hazard when you're surrounded by twats with PhDs all day. Not that I can talk, given what I'm about to let William do once the fairies show up. Mind you, he knows what he's doing with those fingers. Made me bite my wrist at the cricket pavilion so nobody would hear me coming.

It's fucked up, innit? Sitting with all these Cambridge types while letting an eighteen-year-old finger me. But we're all at it in academia. The ones who look proper buttoned-up are always the worst. Put a few glasses of wine in Professor Jameson from Theology and she's showing off her nipple ring. Dr Higgins from Classics told me at the Christmas party he likes being spanked with The Iliad. First edition, mind, has to be leather-bound.

William finally graced us with his presence, predictably tardy. The preppy costume had been shelved for what passed as casual in his circles: rumpled linen shirt strategically untucked, those ubiquitous chinos that seem issued at birth to every Home Counties boy, and deck shoes worn brazenly sockless. The absolute template for Cambridge summer. Mummy would be so proud, though probably fretting about his poor exposed ankles catching cold.

'Catherine,' he greeted me, his smile far too cute. He handed me a bottle of wine. 'I brought refreshments. New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc. I remembered it's your favourite.'

'Good lad,' I said, taking the bottle. 'At least you've got decent taste in plonk.' I checked the label - Cloudy Bay, not the cheap stuff from Tesco. I felt a momentary twinge of conscience that was quickly drowned by the first sip. Moral qualms are no match for good Sauvignon Blanc.

Got the tartan rug from John Lewis. David insisted. "Can't go to outdoor Shakespeare with a beach towel, Catherine." Typical snob. Spotted an old stain on it - Glyndebourne last summer. David's wandering hands during Così fan tutte. Never made it to the third act.

Then... sort of... as the fairy music started up and drifted over the grass, William shuffled closer, his thigh pressing against mine through my dress. Bit obvious, that.

'Been thinking about you,' he mumbled, pretending to watch the performance.

'Oh?'

'Yeah. You know. The train. The pub.'

His hand found my knee. Warm, bit sweaty if I'm honest.

'Thought maybe we could... you know.'

I nearly snorted wine everywhere. 'Could what? Use your words, William.'

'You know,' he went redder than a fucking lobster. 'The thing.'

'The thing?'

'From behind the cricket pavilion.'

'What are we, twelve? Say what you want.'

He leaned in, whispered, 'Want to touch you. Taste you. Fuck you.'

'Better. Still sound like a takeaway menu, but we'll work on it.'

Had to smile though. He'd clearly practiced that in the mirror. Probably Googled 'how to talk dirty' and memorised the least pornographic option.

His fingers started on my knee, drawing circles, inching up bit by bit. On stage Puck was banging on about something. Couldn't focus. Mischief and bollocks, whatever it was. Bloody appropriate.

'Watch it,' I hissed as his hand slid under my dress. 'Professor Jameson's right over there with her feminist theory gang. And Mary Archer might see us, though her eyes must be fucked by now.'

'Know,' he said, voice all deep and trying to sound older. 'Bit risky, isinit?'

His finger found the top of my stocking, ran along the lace bit. Fuck me, that sent shivers.

'You like that I'm old enough to be your mum, don't you?' I whispered.

'N-no, I...'

'Liar. Bet you've thought about your friends' mums too. Which ones?'

'Jesus, Catherine.'

'Come on. I won't tell.'

'Fine. Mrs. Harrington. Henry's mum.'

'I bet she blonde with a tennis obsession? Good choice. Bet she's filthy.'

'Stockings,' he observed quietly. 'You've been planning this.'

'Always prepared for scholarly discussion,' I replied, maintaining my composure despite the heat building between my legs. 'Like a bloody academic Girl Guide.

His breath... fuck... caught when he touched me. Face like he'd bloody won the lottery or something. Made me laugh though... boys his age, everything's such a sodding big deal. Like he'd discovered something nobody'd ever found before, not just another wet cunt at a Shakespeare play.

'Jesus,' he muttered. 'You're... you're soaking.'

'What did you expect? Of course I'm wet. That's generally what happens when someone's about to get a seeing-to during Act Three. Basic biology, William. Did they not teach you that at your posh school?'

'We, um, didn't exactly focus on female anatomy in Biology,' he admitted with a sheepish grin. 'More about photosynthesis and, like, frog dissection.'

'Their loss,' I replied. 'Though I suspect your rugby teammates covered the subject extensively in the changing rooms.'

Shakespeare droned on. Fairies mincing about, Bottom being a tit. Meanwhile William was feeling me up like he was defusing a bomb. Terrified of getting caught but desperate to get inside my knickers. Not that it mattered, the audience was too busy chortling at 500-year-old jokes to notice the middle-aged woman getting fingered. Though if they did notice, half of them would probably take notes for their own relationships. 'Must try that at the next one,' they'd whisper to their husbands, who'd promptly spill their prosecco in shock.

'Still exploring delayed gratification?' he murmured, circling but not quite touching where I needed him most.

'The best narratives,' I managed, 'build tension gradually.'

'Like this?' His finger teasing my pussy.

'Exactly like...' My words cut off as he suddenly, unexpectedly pressed more firmly, causing me to gasp. 'Jez H Christ!'

A woman two blankets over glanced our way, and I quickly turned the exclamation into a cough, reaching for my wine glass as cover. William had the audacity to look pleased with himself. Little shit.

I shifted slightly, angling my body to shield our activities from view. Around us, the audience laughed at some buffoonery from Bottom, now transformed with his ass's head. The sound provided cover for my small gasp when William finally inserted his fingers into me with deliberate pressure.

Fuck me, the boy knew what he was doing. Found my G-spot straight away. No fumbling about like most blokes his age. Had me biting my lip trying not to moan in front of half the English faculty.

I was so turned on I slipped my own fingers between my legs, gathered the wetness there. Then, under the cover of darkness, I brought them to William's lips. His eyes widened in surprise.

'Academic taste test,' I whispered. 'Extra credit opportunity.'

After a moment's hesitation, he opened his mouth, let me slide my fingers inside. He sucked them clean, his eyes locked on mine. The hungry look on his face made me laugh.

'Well?' I asked, withdrawing my fingers. 'Your assessment?'

'Better than the school formal dinner,' he whispered, looking dazed. 'And they charge thirty quid for that.'

I had to try my hardest to stop laughing too loud. Cheeky sod had found his voice.

Then he slid his own fingers into me again, worked them a bit, then pulled them out. Stared at them for a second, then hesitantly licked one finger, then another. Watching me nervously like he might be doing it wrong.

'Is that... OK?'

'More than OK,' I breathed. 'You're learning fast.'

'Catherine!' Anne's voice. Shit.

'Hi Anne,' I smiled, nudging William to get his hand out from under my dress.

'Didn't know you were going to be here tonight!'

'Last minute,' I said, hoping my face wasn't as flushed as it felt. 'This is William, son of my friend. Thinking of applying. Trinity...'

'Oh lovely,' she smiled at him. 'Enjoying it?'

'Very much,' William said, cool as anything. 'Dr. Harrison's been explaining the text.'

Had to stop myself laughing. 'Yes, very... stimulating discussion.'

'Join us for interval?'

'Thanks, but we'll stay put,' I said. 'William's got questions about the English course.'

'Course,' Anne nodded. 'Have fun!'

As she left I let out a breath. 'Fucking hell.'

'Close one,' William grinned.

'Shut up,' I muttered, guiding his hand back. 'And watch for Anne. If she looks over, we're discussing iambic fucking pentameter.'

What would Jameson say if she saw me? Feminist theory queen catching me getting fingered by a teenager during Shakespeare. Could end my career. Made me wetter though. Sick, eh? The thought of getting caught. By someone who matters.

Puck was rabbiting on about bollocks on stage. Couldn't listen. Too busy trying not to moan as his fingers worked inside me. Not bad for a kid. My entire body went taut as a bowstring, that familiar tightening that momentarily makes you forget about tutorial schedules and whether you remembered to put the bins out. My thighs began that mortifying tremble they do, making me feel simultaneously like a desperate undergraduate and someone's gran having a funny turn. For a blissful moment, I didn't care who saw, who knew. I was nothing but sensation, completely undone by this young man's touch. Spent decades being Professor fucking Harrison and now I'm coming with some kid's fingers in me at Shakespeare. Christ.

***

Applause. Everyone standing. Shit.

'Fix your dress,' William muttered.

I tugged everything back into place while he zipped up. We shuffled out with the crowd. The night air hit me, warm for July. Made my skin tingle where I was still wet.

'You know,' I said as we walked from the college, 'it's only ten. Not ready for bed yet.'

William perked up, all eager puppy. 'Yeah?'

'Car's just round the corner. Know a good spot.'

'Won't we get caught?'

I laughed. 'Scared?'

'No! I just...'

'Christ, I'm not going to eat you. Well, not in that way.'

He went proper red at that. Too easy.

My Volvo wasn't exactly the sexiest vehicle for a liaison, more suited to carrying book crates and conference materials than illicit trysts, but it had surprising leg room in the back. Plus a layer of academic detritus - old coffee cups, a forgotten umbrella, three different tote bags from literary festivals, and a half-eaten packet of Hobnobs that I'd been saving for traffic jams. Nothing says 'passionate encounter' quite like brushing biscuit crumbs off your arse.

Drove to a quiet spot by the river. Trees hiding us a bit. Just the odd cyclist going past now. Some tosser had left a punt pole against a tree. Probably fell in. Happens every summer - pissed students thinking punting's easy, ending up soaked while tourists laugh at them.

'Sure we won't we be seen?' William asked, glancing around nervously.

'Only if someone's proper looking,' I said, killing the engine and lights. 'Most of the faculty have shagged here anyway. Like formal hall but with orgasms.'

His eyes lit up. 'That makes what we're doing even more...'

'Forbidden?' I supplied, running my nails lightly up his thigh. 'You're getting quite the education, aren't you? First wanking you off on that crowded train. Then under the table at The Eagle while half the physics department got pissed in the beer garden. Shakespeare and public indecency tonight. Now this little riverside exhibition. You'll have a Ph. D. in risk-taking before you've even started your undergraduate degree.'

Got me going, corrupting him. Posh accent, expensive school. Now he's fingering me at Shakespeare while mummy thinks he's expanding his culture. Each time we meet he gets dirtier.

I leaned across and snogged him. Proper tonsil hockey, not the polite pecks I give David's colleagues at department parties. His tongue pushed against mine, tasted of wine and mint. I bit his lower lip, tugged a bit, and he made this sound in his throat that was frankly obscene. His hand found my tit through my dress, thumb rubbing over my nipple. The gearstick was digging into my ribs but I didn't care. Better than David's Mini anyway. We'd tried it once after a faculty dinner. Got cramp in both legs and he'd set the bloody horn off. Whole car park knew what we were up to.

'Back seat,' I whispered against his lips. 'Now.'

He moved between the seats, less gracefully than he might have hoped, bumping his head on the roof with a soft curse. I couldn't help but laugh as I followed, catching my dress on the gear stick. It made a nasty ripping sound. Shit. That was a Hobbs dress, not some cheap Primark number. Another casualty of middle-aged adventure.

'Wait,' I said suddenly as we settled in the back seat. 'I want to try something a bit more... creative.'

I tugged at the knot of my wrap dress, which, true to fucking form, seized up like a rusty bolt. Whoever designed these things was a sadist. Or never tried to get one off in the back of a car with an eager eighteen-year-old waiting. I pulled harder, nearly dislocating my shoulder.

'Need help?' William offered, pushing his glasses up his nose in that way that somehow managed to be both nerdy and oddly attractive.

'If you rip it, you're buying me a new one,' I warned... it's expensive'

'I know,' he said seriously. 'Summer collection, last year. My mother has the same one in green.'

I stared at him. 'Please don't mention your mother while your fingers are covered in the juices from my cunt.'

He flushed scarlet, which made me cackle. God, it was too easy sometimes.

The knot finally gave way and my dress fell open. Had the expensive bra on, not the comfy one. Cost a fortune but worth it, especially given the way he was looking at me.

'Christ, you're gorgeous,' William breathed, specs all steamed up. The way he said it made my stomach do a weird flip. Been a while since anyone looked at me like that without having paid for dinner first.

'Very British, this,' I remarked, removing and then dangling the sheer fabric of my stocking between my fingers. 'There's something terribly proper about Wolford nylon stockings, isn't there? The posh girl's fetish wear. Eighty quid a pair, absolute daylight robbery, but David insists they're worth every penny. Says they make my legs look like they belong in a noir film. He's always had a thing for femme fatales. Probably why he married me - he sensed the moral ambiguity beneath the Oxford education.'

'What are you... oh,' he stammered as I wrapped the stocking around his cock.

'Too weird?'

'No, it's... different.'

'Good different?'

He nodded quickly. 'Yeah.'

The nylon against his skin made him gasp. I lowered my head, took him into my mouth through the thin fabric. His hands gripped the seat like he might fall off otherwise.

'There's something rather taboo about fellating a university hopeful through designer hosiery in the back of a family estate car,' I thought to myself. 'The perfect middle-class rebellion. Somewhere in Surrey, the Volvo marketing team is having collective palpitations.' I pictured their advertising meetings: 'Built for safety, designed for families, occasionally used for blowjobs by academics with questionable boundaries.'

I worked him with my mouth for several delicious minutes, enjoying the power I had over him. His hands clutched at the leather seats, leaving sweaty prints all over my freshly valeted upholstery. Making an effort not to finish too quickly, his face contorted into that peculiar grimace men adopt when desperately thinking about cricket statistics. Each time he seemed close to the edge, I'd pull back, leaving him trembling and desperate.

'Please,' he finally gasped, his posh boy composure completely shattered. 'I need... I want...'

'Use your words, William,' I taunted, giving him one last teasing lick through the nylon.

'I want to be inside you,' he managed, face flushed, glasses slightly askew. 'Properly.'

I smiled, pleased with his directness. 'Good boy.'

I sort of... straddled him in the back seat, dress all hanging open. Car creaked like an old ship... bloody Volvo. Despite all our previous stuff, y'know, he still had this eagerness about him... this nervousness that was... I dunno... endearing, I suppose.

'Let me,' I said, reaching between us, guiding him to the right spot. The familiarity was there, but each time still had that electric moment.

I sank down slowly, appreciating the feeling. His expression was priceless - that mix of awe and pleasure that never gets old.

'God,' he whispered.

'Still good?'

He nodded, eyes locked on mine. 'Always good.'

'I've been thinking about those red toes of yours all evening,' he murmured, breaking the kiss to trail his lips down my neck. 'The way they curled when I touched you during the play.'

'Foot fetish, William?' I teased. 'How delightfully perverse.'

'Not a fetish,' he protested, cheeks going pink even in the dim light. 'Just an... appreciation.'

'Nothing to be embarrassed about,' I assured him. 'Everyone's got their thing. David likes watching, you like feet. I like inappropriate men. We're all perverts in our own special ways.'

I was about to say something else witty when movement outside the car caught my eye.

'I think we've got an audience,' I whispered in William's ear, feeling him stiffen beneath me.

His rhythm went to shit. 'What? Fuck... where?' he stammered, nearly bloody dropping me.

I nodded slightly toward the window. 'Willow tree.'

William squinted through the fogged glass, then his eyes widened. 'Fuck yes I see him.'

I laughed softly, deliberately grinding down on him in a way that drew a strangled groan from his throat. I angled myself... bit awkwardly, mind, to give our peeping Tom a better show, rolling my hips all slow and... well, you know... deliberate-like. Bit performative, but what the hell.

I turned to look directly at our watcher, maintaining eye contact as I rode William harder. 'Our friend seems to be enjoying the show,' I murmured, noticing with amusement that they'd now moved a hand to their crotch, wanking furiously through their trousers. 'Probably a Fellow from King's. They're always the perviest.'

'Have you done this before?' William asked. His hands were on my tits, warm through my bra.

'What, shagging in a car?'

'No, I mean... with someone watching.'

'Not exactly.' I shifted, getting a better angle. 'Done stuff where we might get caught. Hotel balcony in Greece. Beach in Cornwall after dark. But never with someone actually watching us fuck.'

And then the bloody cramp hit. Not a little twinge, but a full-on charley horse that felt like someone was stabbing my calf.

'Ffffuck, ow, fuck, wait!' I gasped, toppling sideways.

'What? Did I, shit, are you okay?' William froze, his face proper panicked. Probably thought he'd broken me. Or worse, that I was having a heart attack. At my age, not impossible.

'Cramp,' I hissed through gritted teeth, clutching at my calf. 'Just need a minute.'

I twisted around on the seat, swearing like a docker, grabbing at my calf as it seized up. Bloody thing felt like it was being crushed in a vice. Getting old is proper shit, that's what they don't tell you in those glossy retirement brochures.

'Should I do something?' William hovered, his erection wilting in real time. Nothing kills the mood quite like a middle-aged woman swearing at her own leg.

'Just push my foot up,' I managed, as he gingerly took my heel and pressed it towards my shin.

'Fuck! Not that hard!' I yelped. 'Jesus Christ on a bicycle!'

'Sorry! I'm sorry!' His face was a picture, half terrified, half trying not to laugh.

I snorted, couldn't help it. Then proper laughed. William looked at me like I'd gone bonkers, then he started laughing too. There we were, me half-naked with a gammy leg, him with his dick out, both howling like loons in a Volvo by the river. If any of my students walked past, that'd be my career fucked. Might be worth it though.

He wrapped his hands round my hips, pulled me down harder. Car rocked. I gasped as he hit that spot, clenched round him. Loved how he filled me up - not massive, but perfect shape, curved just right. Sweat down my back. His mouth on my nipple through my bra, teeth grazing enough to make me swear. Windows steamed up. Thighs trembling. His fingers dug into my arse, leaving marks I'd find tomorrow in the shower. Wanted them there.

'Fuck, I'm close,' he grunted against my neck.

I ground against him with each thrust. Just enough friction. Just right. Grabbed his hair, pulled his head back, watched his face as he got close. Young men are so obvious. Like they've never felt anything this good before. Every. Fucking. Time.

'I'm going to come,' I whispered against his ear, my voice barely audible.

His fingers dug into my hips, urging me on. His own control was clearly slipping, his breathing irregular, muscles tense beneath me. William followed moments later, his hips jerking upward as he came inside me. I could feel the heat of him, pulsing deep inside. The nylon barrier of the stocking still wrapped around him added a strange texture to the sensation, a reminder of our earlier impromptu creativity. Ridiculously expensive hosiery put to far better use than their designers ever intended. There's something appropriately Cambridge about using posh stockings to catch some teenager's jizz.

'Fuck,' he breathed against my hair, his chest heaving. 'That was... Christ.'

'Mmm,' I agreed, too blissed out for proper words. I lifted my head to glance out the window. Our voyeur had disappeared, presumably finished with his own entertainment. 'Seems we lost our audience. Typical man can't even stick around for the closing credits. Probably rushing home to write it up in his sad little wanking journal.'

We disentangled, laughing as we knocked heads. My stocking was ruined. Worth the eighty quid though. Could claim it as expenses. Educational materials or some bollocks.

'Shit,' William suddenly said, glancing at his watch. 'The last train's at 11:15. I've got to go, or I'll be stuck here.'

'Your parents expecting you?' I asked, already starting to retie my wrap dress. Typical - just as I'm basking in the post-coital glow, reality intrudes in the form of train timetables.

He nodded, looking slightly embarrassed. 'Dad's away on a business trip and Mum's been extra interested about me since my A-levels finished. Keeps asking if I've heard anything from Trinity yet, as if results come out before August.'

Couldn't help but laugh as I climbed back into the driver's seat. 'Christ, I couldn't make this up if I tried. And here I am, rushing to get you to the station so you're not stuck explaining to your mother where you've been spending your gap summer. "Sorry Mum, missed the train because I was too busy shagging a Cambridge professor in the back of her Volvo." That would go down a treat at the breakfast table.'

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Fuck. Every line on show, bit of a double chin starting, roots needed doing weeks ago. Looked well shagged, though. Though my lipstick was completely gone and my mascara had smudged, giving me what David calls my 'panda in a hurricane' look. Attractive.

Dropped him at the station with barely five minutes till the last train. We did the proper distance thing on the pavement. Some drunks went past singing. Nothing changes.

'Thanks for the lift, Mum,' he said loudly as some tourists walked past. Had his railcard ready on his phone.

I kept my cool. 'Text when you get home safe,' I said in my best mum voice, then when they'd gone, 'You little shit. Next time I'll make you call me Mummy while you're inside me. See how you like that.'

'Deal,' he grinned, then dashed for the train as the doors were closing.

As I drove home, could still feel him inside me. David would be waiting, glass of that bloody Merlot he drinks just to wind me up. Always quoting that Sideways film - "I am NOT drinking fucking Merlot!" - then laughing like he's the first person to make the joke. Fifteen years married and still thinks he's hilarious.

I'd tell him everything, from William's fingers during Puck's monologue to the mysterious voyeur who'd watched us fuck in the car. I'd tell him how I'd performed for our anonymous audience, how I'd commanded William to go deeper, thrust harder, give our watcher a proper show. Though I'd probably leave out the calf cramp incident. Some things are too undignified to share, even with one's husband.

David would have a raging hard-on before I finished the first sentence. He'd already made it clear he wanted to join us next time. 'I want to come too,' he'd said when I first mentioned William. Something about hearing his wife with a young man drove him wild. Who would have thought after fifteen years of marriage I'd discover this kink?

Another chapter in our unconventional education of William. Another delicious secret to share with my husband. As I pulled into our regular parking spot on the narrow street outside our terraced house, I couldn't help smiling at the thought of explaining the suspicious stains on the Volvo's back seat. 'Just a small spillage of, er, wine and youth, darling. Nothing to worry about.'

I resolved to return to the Shakespeare Festival again next summer. After all, Shakespeare didn't write just the one play. There was still Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, Hamlet... plenty of opportunities for more 'academic discussions' with William. By the time he actually enrolled at Cambridge, he'd be the most thoroughly educated fresher in the university's history.

'The course of true love never did run smooth,' I murmured to myself, quoting from the very play we'd just watched. Though I suspected neither Shakespeare nor Lysander had quite this scenario in mind. Still, the Bard had always understood human desire better than most, writing about lust, betrayal, and forbidden love with a knowing wink. In my own way, I was simply continuing that grand theatrical tradition.

Just with significantly fewer codpieces and considerably more expensive stockings.

***

As expected, David was waiting for me when I got home, sprawled across our sofa with a glass of that bloody Merlot, pretending to read the latest issue of the London Review of Books but clearly just waiting for my return.

'How was Shakespeare?' he asked, closing his journal and removing his reading glasses.

'Illuminating,' I replied, kicking off my remaining kitten heel. 'Though I'm not sure the feminist scholars in the audience would approve of my interpretation of the text.'

'And young William? Did he enjoy his cultural experience?'

I sank into the armchair opposite him, accepting the glass of wine he poured me. 'He was an eager student. Very... hands-on with his learning approach.'

David's eyes darkened with interest. 'Details, please. And don't skimp on the academic terminology. You know how it excites me.'

'Well, Professor,' I began, slipping into our familiar pattern, 'there was a significant practical component to tonight's educational session. The subject demonstrated remarkable dexterity during the participatory phase of Puck's monologue.'

'Did he, now?' David leaned forward, his academic's face betrayed by the visible bulge in his trousers. 'And was there any... post-performance discussion?'

'Oh yes,' I said, sipping my wine with deliberate slowness. 'A very thorough debriefing. In the Volvo. By the river.'

'The one with the willow trees?' David asked, his voice dropping to that register I knew so well.

'The very same,' I confirmed. 'It seems your preferred location for outdoor academic discourse is becoming quite popular.'

David knelt in front of me, hands pushing up my thighs. Carpet burns on his knees

'I can smell him on you,' he growled, Yorkshire accent slipping out. Gets proper northern when he's horny, does David. 'Tell me what happened.'

Fucking hell, he was hard already. Fifteen years married and still gets a stiffy quicker than his first-years get confused by Chaucer. Once tried to talk me into shagging in the Wren Library. I said no, obvs. Though it was tempting.

'Well,' I began, opening my legs wider, 'it started with his fingers during the Mechanicals' scene...'

By the time I finished my tale, David was trembling with need. 'I want to taste him on you,' he whispered, pushing up my ruined dress. 'I want to taste both of you.'

'And then what?' I asked, spreading my legs for my husband.

'And then you're going to tell me again,' David groaned, his mouth inches from where I was still sensitive and swollen. 'But this time, in excruciating academic detail.'

'Next time,' David mumbled against my thigh, 'I'm coming too. Sod the budget meeting.'

'Othello's on next week,' I said, gasping as his tongue hit the spot. 'Could be fun.'

'The green-eyed monster?' David laughed. 'Not me, love.'

Shakespeare would've approved. Dirty old sod wrote enough bedroom farces himself.