Being fucked by Alistair was fun and Robin was more than pleased he was so turned on by her in boys' clothes. But in some ways it had been more exciting when Alistair thought she was a boy. That look of hesitation in his eyes when he'd first seen her. The sense of anguish. Yes, their marriage solved both their problems but still... she missed the opportunities Robert Selby had had.
Robin wrote a few letters to Cambridge friends. When the parcel arrived Keating placed it by the plate at breakfast.
Robin began to open it; realised what it was, stifled a laugh, and directed him to take it upstairs.
That afternoon Alistair came to find her for their regular tete a tete, the one no one was allowed to interrupt. She was ready, lounging against the mantelpiece in superfine pants, a sharp linen shirt and braces, with cravat undone, the very picture of lewd innocence. Alistair stepped into the room, and paused.
"There's something different."
Robin rubbed her crotch.
"You have an erection?" Alistair choked, went scarlet, and Robin saw his own rise under the fall of his trousers. She had been right. She walked over to him, placed her hand on his shoulders and steered him towards the bed.
This time it was Alistair who was bent over; Alistair with his pants around his ankles while she stayed fully dressed; Alistair smooth and wet between his legs as Robin fucked him slow and hard and he moaned the way Robin had always wanted to hear.