Between Two Worlds

All characters are fictional adults (18+). This story is a graphic exploration of class, power, and sexual humiliation in modern Britain. It contains explicit content, coercion, and cuckolding. Intended for mature audiences, or the properly depraved.

Read on if you're a perv!

---

Weren't supposed to be there tonight, was we? Thursday was usually safe. Richard in Singapore, Thomas at boarding school. The big empty house all ours.

But Cal's been on one all week. Getting cocky. 'Let's go tonight,' he kept saying. 'Surprise her.'

I knew Richard was home. Checked his LinkedIn, didn't I. Flight from Changi landed Heathrow that morning. But I didn't say nothing. Wanted to see what would happen. Wanted to see his face when he opened that front door and realised his wife's been getting smashed by a gang of chavs while he's been doing spreadsheets in Asia.

Up the hill to Millbridge Rise. Converted Victorian mill. Drive you could land a helicopter on. The fuck do these people need five bedrooms for when there's only two of them most of the time? My mum raised three of us in a two-bed flat with damp up the walls.

Jack rang the bell. Cal doing that bouncing thing he does when he's buzzing. I hung back. Chewing gum and watching.

The door opened and there he was. Richard Crawford. Finance Director. Grey hair going thin at the front. Ralph Lauren shirt tucked into pressed chinos. Leather slippers. Actual leather slippers indoors. Looked like someone who'd never been punched and couldn't imagine why anyone would want to.

'Yes?' he said. One of them voices that sounds like it's asking politely but is actually telling you to fuck off.

'Soph about?' Jack said. Casual. Like he was picking up a mate.

I watched the colour drain out of this bloke's face. Not cos of what Jack said. Cos of how he said it. Soph. First name. Familiar. Comfortable. Like he'd said it a thousand times before. Which he had. Usually while she was bent over something.

'I'm sorry, who are--'

'Your missus knows us,' I said, walking past him. Straight into the hallway. Coats on pegs. Framed photos. Umbrella stand. Place smelled of that posh reed diffuser bollocks. Jo Malone or whatever. 'Don't you, Soph?'

She was at the kitchen island. Laptop open. Wine glass. Hair up. And fuck me, the outfit. Black seamed holdups, I could see the tops where her skirt had ridden up on the bar stool. Silk blouse, buttons undone enough to show a lace bra. Pearl necklace sat in the hollow of her throat. Dressed up on a Thursday night for no one.

Bollocks, dressed for no one. She knew we'd been coming Thursdays. Probably forgot Richard was back and put her fuck-me outfit on out of habit.

Her face when she saw us though. Priceless. Went from confused to terrified in about half a second. Then her eyes went past us to Richard in the hallway and the terror doubled.

'Richard,' she said. Voice like she was in court. Controlled. Steady. Fake as fuck. 'I know them. From Thomas's football.'

'Thomas's football?' Richard followed us in. Stood in his own kitchen looking lost. 'It's half eight on a Thursday, Sophie.'

Cal found the whisky before anyone could stop him. Not that we was asking permission. Macallan. He whistled at the label and poured three fingers into one of them heavy crystal glasses.

'Don't mind, do ya Rich?' He took a sip. 'Fuck me, that's smooth. What's that set you back?'

Richard was doing that thing posh blokes do. Trying to take control of a situation they lost control of the minute they opened the front door. 'I think you should leave,' he said. Polite but firm. Like he was talking to someone at work.

I sat on his sofa. Put my feet up on his glass coffee table. 'Sit down, and shut the fuck up Richard.'

'Now listen--'

I held up my phone. Turned the screen to Sophie first. Watched her face, her eyes. Then turned it to Richard.

On screen: his wife. On her knees in a shed. Hands tied behind her back with her own silk scarf. Tits out. Jack's hand round her throat. Her face. Christ, her face. Eyes rolling back. Mouth open. Coming so hard she looked like she was having a seizure.

Richard's mouth open. Stoic.

'Five months,' I said. 'Your wife's been getting shagged by Jack and Cal since the football season started. In the shed behind the pitch. On the train. In your dining room while you was in Hong Kong. In her chambers at work. Oh, and there's about seven hours of footage. Wanna see more or are we good?'

Richard sat down.

---

There are moments in your life when you understand that everything before was a lie and everything after will be different and you're standing right on the line between the two and you can feel it happening in real time. This was one of those moments for Richard Crawford.

He sat in his armchair. Chloe stood in front of him explaining things he didn't want explained. Cal drank his whisky on the sofa. Jack leaned against the Aga, arms folded, watching Sophie the way a dog watches a door it knows is about to open.

'Here's how it goes,' Chloe said. 'Jack fucks your wife. Right here. You watch. And you don't do nothing about it, cos if you do, every video goes to the Bar Council, the papers, her colleagues, every judge she's ever grovelled to. Seven hours of footage, Rich. Her in cable ties on a train getting forced to come till she pisses herself. Her in her own chambers with nipple clamps on and a vibrator taped between her legs. Your wife. The big important KC. Finished.'

'Sophie,' Richard said. 'Is this true?'

She didn't answer. Jack pushed off the Aga and walked to her. Put his hand on the back of her neck. Just rested it there. And Sophie, his Sophie, Sophie who flinched when Richard's hand brushed hers reaching for the remote, Sophie tilted her head into Jack's hand like a cat.

Jack kissed her. Open mouth. Slow. His hand tight on her neck. She grabbed the front of his hoodie and pulled him in and kissed him back like she'd been waiting all day. Like she'd been waiting all week. The kissing alone was worse than the photos.

His cock was hard.

Richard noticed it like you'd notice a strange car in the driveway. It shouldn't be there. But it was. Stiff against his thigh and getting stiffer and there was nothing he could do about it because his body had betrayed him completely and immediately.

Jack undid Sophie's blouse. Button by button. Took his time. Spread the silk and there she was, black lace bra, nipples poking through. Agent Provocateur. Richard had found the receipt in the recycling. Eighty quid. Not for him. Obviously not for him.

Jack unclipped it from the front and her tits fell out and Cal went 'Fucking lovely' and Sophie just stood there letting two strangers look at her body and her husband could see she was breathing fast and her nipples were hard and she hadn't looked at him once.

'Gym's paying off, innit.'

'They're perfect,' Jack said. Grabbed her left one. Hard. Squeezed it like he was testing fruit at a market. Sophie gasped and her hand went to his wrist and held him there.

Richard had touched those breasts two, maybe three thousand times. Careful. Gentle. Like you'd hold a bird that might fly off. Jack grabbed them like they were his.

His cock throbbed. He pressed his hand down on his thigh to stop it showing. Chloe saw him do it. Course she did. She saw everything, that girl.

'Your hubby's getting a hard-on, Soph,' Chloe announced. Gleeful. 'Watching Jack grab your tits and he's poking a tent in his trousers. What a pervert.'

Sophie looked at Richard for the first time. Down at his crotch. Up at his face. And her expression wasn't horror. It was confusion.

If he's turned on then this isn't the end of everything. If he's turned on then maybe we survive this. That's what she was thinking. Richard could see it. And he hated that she was right. And he hated that he was hard. And he hated everything about the next thing that happened which was Jack lifting Sophie onto the kitchen island where they prepped food and ate breakfast and she wrapped her stockinged legs around him while he pulled his trackies down.

Jack's cock was hard and thick and bigger than Richard's.

Jack pulled Sophie's knickers to one side. Not even off. Just moved them. She was soaking, Richard could see the wet on the lace from across the kitchen. She was soaking for this kid. Dripping for him. She hadn't been wet for Richard in years.

Jack pushed into her.

'Gosh yes,' Sophie said. Eyes closed. Head back. Pearls bouncing. 'Fuck me.'

That voice. Not her court voice or her dinner party voice or the quiet polite voice she used in bed with Richard on the rare occasions they still bothered. A different voice. Rough. Raw. The voice of someone who'd been pretending for seventeen years and had finally stopped.

---

See the thing about posh men is they fold. Every time. I've seen it on the estate when the debt collectors come and the hard men answer the door. They front up. Shout. Sometimes throw a punch. That's cos they've got nothing to lose.

Richard had everything to lose and that made him a coward. Sat in his six hundred quid armchair watching Jack rail his wife on the kitchen island and did precisely fuck all about it.

Not just sat there. Sat there with a hard-on. Could see the bulge from where I was standing. Proper tent in his chinos. Getting off on watching his wife take young cock. Pathetic and predictable.

Jack fucked her hard. The way she liked it. Each thrust making her slide on the marble. Her wine glass went off the edge and smashed on the tiles and neither of them even blinked. Sophie's legs wrapped tight round his waist, stocking tops showing, the seams all twisted from his hands.

'Harder,' she said. 'Please, harder.'

Please.

I looked at Richard when she said that. He looked like he'd been stabbed. His wife saying please to a nineteen-year-old estate kid in a Nike hoodie and joggers. Begging for it. In their kitchen.

'Hear that, Rich?' Cal called from the sofa where he was sprawled with the Macallan. 'She's begging. Your wife. Begging for young cock. When's the last time she begged you for anything? Bet it's been a while, yeah?'

Richard said nothing.

'Take them pearls off her,' I told Jack.

He unclipped them one-handed while he was still inside her, didn't even break rhythm, and tossed them to me. Three grand's worth of pearls flying through the air. Caught them and put them on. Looked at him while I adjusted them against my neck.

'These real?' I asked him. Knowing they were. 'They suit me better, don't they? Everything your wife owns looks better on someone half her age.'

Richard gripped the chair. I could see his cock straining against his trousers and I wanted to laugh but I also wanted to keep pushing because this was better than any of the other times. The shed was good. The dining room was a right buzz. Chambers made me feel powerful. But this. This was the whole thing. Husband in the chair. Wife on the counter. This was what Oscar Wilde was on about.

'Ah fuck, gonna come,' Jack grunted.

'Inside her,' I said. 'Make sure hubby sees.'

Jack slammed deep. Held there. Sophie's legs clamped round him, pulling him in. She came first. I could tell cos her whole body locked up and then this sound came out of her, not a moan, more like something being let go of, something she'd held onto for years. Then she went limp and her head dropped forward.

Jack followed. Groaned and emptied himself into her while Richard watched from his chair with his hard cock and his leather slippers and his whole life falling apart.

'My turn,' Cal said. Already on his feet. Already pulling his trackies down.

---

My kitchen. My marble worktop. My wife.

Those words went round Richard's head while Cal fucked Sophie from behind. She was bent over the island now, face down on the marble, and Cal had her skirt off and was going at her like he was angry with her. Maybe he was. These kids seemed angry about everything. About the house and the whisky and the life that Richard had built over thirty years of being careful and sensible and boring.

Boring. That was the word, wasn't it? He could see it in Sophie's face as she turned her head sideways on the marble and looked at him while another man pumped into her. Bored. She'd been bored of him for years. The separate beds. The dead-end conversations. Singapore and quarterly reviews and loading the dishwasher. He'd bored her into the arms of teenagers.

Cal fucked her rough. Both hands on her hips pulling her back onto him each thrust. She was full of Jack's cum and the sounds were obscene, wet and sloppy, and Cal was running his mouth the whole time.

'Sloppy seconds, love it. She's well loose now. Still tight though, fuck. Hey Rich, she always this wet or is this special occasion? Cos I've had her thirty times now and she's been dripping every time. Filthy posh cow. You want it harder? Course you do. Look at her taking it. Look at your wife, Rich. Proper slag.'

Sophie braced her hands on the marble. Pushed back against Cal. Met each thrust. Her breath coming in these short sharp bursts.

Chloe crouched beside Richard's chair. Wearing his wife's pearls. Smelling of Impulse and menthol cigarettes. Close enough to whisper.

'She told Jack something last week. In his bedsit. After. Know what she said?'

Richard didn't answer.

'She said you haven't made her come in eleven years.'

Richard closed his eyes.

'Eleven years, Rich. You've been lying next to your wife for eleven years and she's been faking it or going without. And then Jack shows up and she comes so hard she cries. First time. In a shed. On a dirty floor. With a lad who left school at sixteen.' Chloe paused. 'That's not your fault, is it? Some women just need something their husbands can't give them. You're too gentle. Too polite. Too boring. She needs someone to grab her by the throat and call her a slut and fuck her till she can't walk straight. And that's never gonna be you.'

She watched his face for a moment. Then she leaned closer.

'You know what this is, don't you? This isn't just us being nasty. This is Howards End, Rich. You ever read that? Course you have. You went to the right school. E.M. Forster. Only connect.' She touched the pearls at her throat. His wife's pearls. 'The working class literally inside the bourgeois home. Literally inside your wife. Every thrust is political whether Cal knows it or not. And he doesn't, bless him, he just thinks he's shagging a fit older bird. But you know. I can see you know. The Schlegels thought they could keep the Basts at arm's length too. Invite them to dinner. Patronise them. Keep the mess outside. But the mess gets in, Rich. The mess always gets in. And once it's in your house and in your wife it don't leave. Forster knew that. The question is whether you connect or whether you just sit there in your fucking slippers and watch.'

Richard said nothing. His eyes were wet.

'I got three A-stars at A-level,' Chloe said. 'Just so you know. In case you were wondering how a girl from Heathfield Estate knows who E.M. Forster is.'

On the island, Sophie came. Not quiet. Not polite. She cried out, this ragged desperate sound, and her knees buckled and Cal had to hold her up while he kept going.

Richard opened his eyes. Watched. His cock ached.

Cal finished. Pulled out. Cum running down Sophie's inner thigh, catching on the lace top of her stocking. He wiped his cock on the tea towel hanging off the oven handle and tucked himself away.

'Banging,' Cal said. Picked up his whisky. Sat back down like nothing had happened. 'What time's Bake Off on?'

---

I told Sophie to get on her knees.

She slid off the island. Legs gone. Dropped to the kitchen floor like her strings had been cut. Broken wine glass two feet from her left knee. Blouse hanging open. Semi-naked, stockings laddered to shit. Cum on her thighs, both thighs, Jack's and Cal's mixing together and dripping onto the tiles.

'Face your hubby.'

She turned on her knees. Looked at Richard. Six feet between them. Her on the cold tiles. Him in his warm chair.

'Tell him what you are.'

She knew the drill. We'd done this in the dining room, in chambers, on the train. But this was different. Richard was watching. This was the one that mattered.

'I'm their slut,' she said. Quiet.

'Louder.'

'I'm their slut.' Louder but her voice cracked on it. Cos it's one thing saying it to us when her husband's in Singapore and it's another thing entirely saying it to his face while cum's dripping out of her and his wife's pearls are round the neck of a twenty-year-old hairdresser from Heathfield Estate.

'And what does that make him?' I pointed at Richard.

Sophie looked at the floor.

'Say it.'

'Nothing.'

'What?'

'He's nothing.' She looked up at Richard. 'You could have stopped them. You just sat there.'

Richard's mouth opened. Closed. Nothing came out.

'You sat there and got hard,' Sophie said. Something building in her voice. Not anger exactly. Years of it. 'They came into our home and took what they wanted and you let them. And you enjoyed it. I could see you, Richard. I could see your cock. You were turned on watching me get fucked on our kitchen worktop. What kind of man does that?'

Silence.

'The boring kind,' I said. 'The kind who knows deep down he can't compete. So he watches.'

I knelt in front of Sophie. Lifted her chin with my finger. She looked wrecked. Mascara down her cheeks. Lipstick gone. Hair stuck to her face with sweat. Beautiful in a way that annoyed me. This whole posh bird falling apart thing properly did my head in.

'Clean yourself up,' I said. Standing. 'We're done for tonight.'

I walked to the door. Touched the pearls at my throat. 'I'm keeping these.'

Cal grabbed the Macallan and two crystal glasses. 'For the collection,' he said to no one.

Jack stood over Sophie on the floor. She looked up at him. Even now, even after all that, the way she looked at him was different from how she'd ever looked at Richard. Something complicated in it that she probably couldn't have named herself.

'Alright?' Jack said.

'Yes,' Sophie said. 'Quite.'

Their thing. Not Richard's.

'See you Saturday,' Jack said. 'Football.'

He walked out. Cal followed. I stopped in the doorway.

'Nice meeting you, Rich. Been hearing about you for months. Well. Hearing you're shit in bed. That's about it.'

We left. Banged the front door. Cal's Golf started up, drill leaking out the windows. We pulled out the drive and the gravel crunched under the tyres and I watched Millbridge Rise disappear in the wing mirror. Big houses getting smaller. Street lights changing from white to orange as we crossed the river back to The Lanes.

'That was mental,' Cal said. Grinning. Swigging whisky from the bottle while he drove. 'His face though.'

Jack said nothing. Staring out the window.

'What's up with you?' I asked.

'Nothing.'

But I knew what was up with him. He felt something for her. Stupid boy. Felt something for a forty-five-year-old married barrister who was on her knees in her kitchen right now covered in his cum. Something he had no business feeling and it was gonna cause problems eventually and I'd deal with it when it did.

I touched the pearls again. Warm from my skin now. The clasp had SJC engraved on it. Sophie Jane Crawford. Not anymore.

---

Richard sat in his chair for twenty minutes after they left. His erection wouldn't go down. He unzipped his trousers in his own kitchen with his wife's cum and two strangers' cum on the marble and he wanked himself off in thirty seconds flat. Came on his own hand. Sat there looking at it. Disgusted. Spent.

Then he cleaned up. Mopped the floor. Wiped the marble with Dettol. Twice. Found the broken wine glass and put it in the recycling. Looked for the tea towel. Gone. The crystal tumblers. Gone. The Macallan. Gone. The pearls.