Disclaimer:

This is a work which may contain details that 
are of erotic/graphic nature. If you are 
disturbed by such material, or if you are under 
the age of consent in your country, you are 
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Try, seduce me(MF, adultery)
by Qickless[qickless@fastmail.fm]


He has to make her shiver.

Slow, rumbling waves that start at red lips and 
slowly move down hesitant arms; a ripple at the 
waist when he touches her for a dance, a slow, 
moving blush when he stares deep into her eyes 
and says she's beautiful; a shudder when he 
pulls her in close.

Not close enough yet to feel those breasts 
quiver under his chest, just nearly close 
enough so that a touch of his palm on her back, 
on her hair, on her shoulder, a devious 
lingering finger on her ass that makes her 
think she shouldn't; but he moves away too 
quickly - the fingertips dancing over her back 
while he tells her how fat the mayor is and 
watches her smile and laugh and lean close, 
close into him - but only for a moment; only 
for a moment does he let her lest she turn away 
and leave him wanting.

He has to enthrall. Swanky red wine filled to a 
half-glass, an elegant shirt over crappy blue 
jeans, and some fresh cologne so she can lean 
over and smell him, and then breathe in, inhale 
and savor him.

He has to seduce. Some passionate red roses so 
that she smiles and listens to him and thinks 
he's nice and caring and so much unlike her 
husband.

A quick glance at her peeking breasts, at the 
alluring décolleté, at her conscious ass so 
that she smiles and blushes and twirls her legs 
close together and thinks he's daring and 
invigoratingly rude and so much unlike her 
husband.

She has to succumb.

Deep, deep inside her, between lips that so 
often host a nervous tongue, between arms 
clasped hard behind him, between her arching, 
inviting ass, she wants him. She wants him like 
a treat denied; she wants his arms about her, 
she wants him to kiss her till she burns, she 
wants him to hold her close and make her shiver 
and sob.

She knows it's wrong. She knows it's a no, no, 
no with an intensity that burns her crumbling 
hands and quickens the wine inside her. Oh, she 
knows too that she feels an arousal like never 
before. Not even the hazy visions of her first 
years with Michael come close. This man - this 
black haired boy with twinkling blue eyes makes 
her feel twelve years younger; he makes her 
laugh, blush and twitter like a twelve year 
old. He makes her want to pout her mouth and 
tease him for a kiss. He makes her check the 
hemline of her skirt ten times a minute to make 
sure it's not up to her waist.

But Michael! Oh! Michael! Michael! Michael! 
Michael and the kids, Michael and his tireless 
work, Michael and his love, Michael and the 
sweet little things he does. Oh! Michael and 
his quiet way of telling her she can't be 
anyone she wants. Michael and the way he 
slammed the door on her that time at Hawaii.

Oh! And Michael's apologies later. She told her 
confused, thirsting brain that she loved 
Michael. She loved Michael in a way that made 
her want to pronounce that word as three. But 
this man beside her - she knows with a 
certainty that dims everything else that he 
wants her, he wants to undress her, kiss her; 
he wants to... Oh! Fuck. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. 
Oh God! Besides... 

He has to prod her along. He has to gently lead 
her to the floor when he knows that it is one 
of the slowest songs of the night. He has to 
make her want his touch, moving away when she 
draws close; his an imperceptible shift 
backward so that she misses what she wants, 
hers a tentative step forward. That uncertain 
foot grows in warmth and fire and desperation 
as she asks and he denies until once when she 
pushes forward, he thrusts so hard against her 
that they are groin to groin - and then she 
lets out a gasp. Ah! A sweet, lovely gasp that 
comes from deep, deep inside her, and then he 
smiles.

She knows it's wrong, she knows it's undeniably 
wrong. She knows it's inevitable when she 
accepts his offer to go up for a drink. She 
knows that when she sees him smile when the 
doors close behind them. She knows even when 
the menacing sin is so great in her that she 
mumbles something and starts to leave.

Oh! She knows when she feels his touch on her 
hair. She knows when she shivers, ah... she 
knows when she's picked up, carried and laid on 
a soft white unruffled bed. She knows with a 
certainty that drives everything out the 
instant he starts to lick her toe.

Ah! It's wrong. It's so, so wrong. It's a 
mistake, a sin. It burns up her throat and 
quickens her pulse and her breathing until 
she's not breathing but gasping her breath out. 
It's wrong, so wrong that when he lifts up her 
top a little to get at her navel and slowly 
licks her there, there and there - ah... and 
there - the futility of her protests makes her 
cry. It makes her shiver and sob - quiet little 
sobs that quickly fade into gasps as she tries 
ineffectually, halfheartedly, with useless 
hands and half-voiced whimpers to make him 
stop.

To make him stop kissing her flaming navel, to 
make him stop moving his hands under her skirt 
and touching her panties, to make him stop 
clasping his hands around that despairing white 
cloth and moving it slowly down until she feels 
more naked than ever before. And then she gasps 
again.

When her breasts are on fire, she cries out. 
When her nipples so want his attention that 
they almost break open her bra, she whimpers. 
When her pussy dampens and wets her soft red 
skirt ripped up around her waist, she shudders. 
Her mind burns under the talented arms grazing 
her ribs. But he still wouldn't touch her 
there. Or there. Or there, there, or there 
until he has licked at her tongue, until he has 
smelled her hair, until he has kissed her eyes.

Deep, deep inside her, she knows it's wrong. 
But when he touches her sharpened, awakened, 
aroused, crying pussy, it's the wrongness that 
turns her on - it's the sin that makes her gasp 
and yell his name out. It's the cruel pleasure 
of infidelity that quickens her heart and makes 
her want more.

And when he finally gives her what she cried 
out for, when he finally delicately inserts his 
penis in, she can't breathe until he starts 
moving. She can't yell until he kisses her, she 
can't orgasm without telling herself that it's 
so much, much better. And she thinks of Michael 
while she feels the long, hard, thick, alien 
flesh in her and the inferno in her pussy, and 
sees her eager nipple in possessive hands and 
fiery confident eyes, and she orgasms and 
orgasms and orgasms because of the wickedness.

And he lies there, smiling, thinking of his 
conquest.

And she lies there, sobbing, thinking of 
Michael.

Then, he kisses her lips and adores her tongue, 
and she closes her eyes, shivering, relishing 
the wickedness. And feeling a finger teasing 
her cruelly aroused pussy.



--
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(qickless@fastmail.fm). This material may be 
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