Infidelity Games, Part 1

I’ve returned with a fresh story after a long absence. Andromeda is done with. That story has been told and put to bed. I hope Anna has a long and happy life. I’m moving on to a piece of contemporary erotica.

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You can call it porn if you want. That’s up to you. Be prepared for a one handed read.

I’d like to try something new with this story. I’ll read to you as you follow along. I hope to raise the bar for authors all over the steem ecosystem.

Open the dsound link and drag it off to a corner before clicking play. Then read along with me. Enjoy.

He kissed her cheek after throwing her weekender into the back seat. He waved goodbye as his wife drove off for a weekend at her sister’s. As she turned right at the next intersection, he breathed a sigh of relief. And of anticipation. Relief because he thought she’d never leave. Anticipation because his weekend guest was due any minute.

Chris returned inside as it started to drizzle. He only had just minutes to pick up the dishes and prepare for his lady friend.

Woman, girlfriend, lover, submissive, sex slave, slut. Weekend guest. Lady friend. Call her what you will. But after too many years of marriage, and too many kids in diapers, then soccer, then graduations, he needed to do this to keep sane. He’d opened his eyes one day and realized his life had degenerated into a loveless and sexless marriage with finances far too intertwined to break free.

It was raining so it wouldn’t have been a good day to cut the grass, or patch the sidewalk, or replace that rotted sill …

There was barely time to light candles on the mantle before the doorbell range.

He needed this.

Sandra, with makeup hurriedly applied but hair beautifully coiffed, stood at the entry way, looking behind her nervously that none of his neighbors were out and about to see her. She wore red heals and London Fog. Chris suspected that’s all she wore.

“Is it okay if I park out fr —”

Chris grabbed his woman, girlfriend, slave, what have you, by the collar of her trench coat had pulled her inside. He planted a kiss on her open mouth and dipped her before she could protest. Only when he was done did he reach outside to retrieve her weekender then slam the door, locking it from inside.
In no uncertain terms, she was his for the next two days.

He turned back to her. She stood watching him pensive, tentative, maybe afraid, maybe full of anticipation. She watched as he surveyed her up and down.

There was a sliver of a moment which they stared at each other. She, waiting to see what he had in store for her today. Yes, she’d stay the night but tomorrow she’d have to leave late afternoon and return to her own mundane life. He had those concerns too, but on top of those, he fought a moment of hesitancy, a moment of lingering self-doubt. All in a sliver of a moment.

Sandra made the first move to break the tension. With a wry smile, she reached and unbuttoned the top button of her London Fog.

He watched as one button after another popped open revealing her beautiful taut skin. She wasn’t dressed as he had suspected, but she did sport a black silk bra and matching black panties. He grabbed her ass and pulled her to him. Her sex pressed against his thigh.

Sandra gasped when he ground her sex along his thigh, directing her with handful of ass. He felt her heat along his thigh. He knew she needed it, and needed it now.

Chris abruptly grabbed her by the scruff of her collar and dragged her into his lair, or in day-to-day parlance, the living room; then pulled the coat off her shoulder and cast it to the corner. He admired her: her tender flesh, how her head reached just to his nose despite her three inch heels, her coiffed hair inches from the same said nose, the smell of her. Not perfume, just her. That alone brought him back to happier days if but for a moment.

Surprising her for a second time in so many minutes, he threw her down upon the sofa. As she landed face first unto the cushion, he lifted her by her hips into a kneeling position, butt prominently displayed high. As Sandra tried pull up up by her arms, Chris pushed her back down with a hand firmly on the back of her head. She struggled, squirm exquisitely with her hips, she even cried out once. But her cries were to no avail, and he still had his other arm circled around her waist with a firm grip keeping her bottom high up in the air.

“Stay still,” he commanded. She moaned in protest, tried once more time to squirm free, but gave up quickly.

Chris grabbed a length of rope. She didn’t know where he’d kept it, must have been just under the sofa, and with another hand, grabbed both her wrists behind her back and tied them tight. Tight enough to make it impossible for her to pull her dainty hands free, not so tight as to cut off circulation and ruin all the upcoming fun.

Then came the first smack on her bottom. There was no warm up. No warm: up as she was sure there’d be no foreplay.

Or this all foreplay? Another smack on her sheer silk panties.

“No, stop!” she protested.

He ignored her plea and gave her another hefty smack.

Sandra slunk her bottom down. He pulled it back up.

“Don’t move,” Chris told her after several more hearty thwacks to her rump. “I’ll be right back.”

She could have gotten up. It wasn’t the rope around her wrists that compelled her to stay, nor her butt prominently and embarrassingly high in the air. It was something else: something intangible, something curious that forced her to stay in place.

He returned a moment later with a black canvas duffel. She turned on her side to see what he pulled out. It was his favorite riding crop.

“I told you not to move.”

Sandra whimpered as he heard him above her. She closed her eyes, afraid, yet excited about things to come.

… to be continued …

Look for more Erotica, Science Fiction, and Fantasy at @joe.nobel
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All image credits:https://conchigliadivenere.wordpress.com/2017/08/25/luc-lafnet-1899-1939-belgian/
Luc Lafnet (1899 – 1939, Belgian)