Message-ID: <38729asstr$1034259002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
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From: "Qickless" <qickless@fastmail.fm>
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X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Thu, 10 Oct 2002 08:03:48 UT
Subject: {ASSM} Try, seduce me (MF, wife, adultery)
Date: Thu, 10 Oct 2002 10:10:03 -0400
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Qickless
qickless@fastmail.fm
My work is here: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/qickless/www
<1st attachment, "Wrong.txt" begin>
This is a work of erotic fiction. If you are
disturbed by such material, or if you are under the
age of consent in your country, you are advised to
stop reading.
This work includes mentions of adultery. If your
beliefs, religious or otherwise, resent the very
notion of a partner having sex out of wedlock, and
if you find such matters abusive to your arousal(as
it is to mine), you are advised to stop reading.
Minors who choose to proceed are advised to go to
www.scarleteen.com
Try, seduce me.
(MF, wife, 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.
--
This is my first post in a few months, so I'll
appreciate comments. Thank you.
Comments to qickless@fastmail.fm
My work at http://asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/qickless/www
<1st attachment end>
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