Chapter 160 - An illicit encounter and a very tempting naughty hotel f.u.c.k

Unlike my wife, she understood me. The deeper, visceral, s.e.x.u.a.l me.

That was apparent right from the start.

I'd seen her on social media and her wit and intelligence were magnetic. She was special and there was something about her tweets that struck a chord with me.

And her arse, of course. So tight. So smooth. So perfect.

And that look in her eyes.

She then announced in a deliciously cheeky post that she was opening an account on I'm Yours—that site where models post videos and photos for subscribers. I signed up, I suppose I had to and started to send her messages.

I couldn't believe it when she replied. Indeed, from that very first message of hers, there seemed an instant connection between us.

Now don't get me wrong, my wife is an honest and decent woman. She's gregarious, an achiever; pretty, too. But s.e.x with her has never had rocket fuel. Not that she's ever complained. She always comes on our Sunday morning f.u.c.ks. So do I, even though every f.u.c.k is pretty much the same.

But I've always needed more, s.e.x.u.a.lly. And the messages she sent on I'm Yours revealed a far deeper understanding of male s.e.x.u.a.lity—my s.e.x.u.a.lity.

Unlike my wife, she knew that I liked, needed, a partner who could be dominant. She knew I wanted a woman to be in control, but she also appreciated that I wanted to call the shots some of the time.

We chatted about some of my fantasies, which turned out to be her fantasies, too. Only she actually lived some of them out. She liked being a performer and liked to strip. I liked to watch. She was a real lingerie fan. And there's truly nothing that turns me on more than a really hot woman in beautiful lingerie.

So I sent her this really s.e.xy set via one of those wish list sites. I chose a classic black number: lacy bra, suspenders, stockings and the cutest of knickers with a heart shape cut out just above the p.u.s.s.y. I thought they would appeal to her sense of humour.

She loved the set, and particularly the knickers, and sent me some photos of her wearing it all. She even sent me some close-ups. I noticed that she'd trimmed her pubic hair so that a little puff of it was left right in the centre of that heart.

She told me it took her ages to get it right and she so nearly shaved off the wrong bit. 'LOL' we both commented in the exchange of messages.

And then she said I ought to see her wearing those knickers—the whole set—for real.

This was almost too good to be true.

She said she knew just the place where we could meet. It was very discreet, so she'd heard. A friend had told her about it. She suggested I could have a business meeting; my wife would never know. What harm would an hour of fun be? she asked. Didn't I deserve it after all those deadly boring f.u.c.ks at home?

This hour could be exactly as I'd like it, she said. For once I would be f.u.c.k.e.d just as I've always wanted to be f.u.c.k.e.d. I needn't initiate anything. Unless I wanted to. She'd happily take the lead throughout. And I could be f.u.c.k.e.d.

Totally.

She went on to describe the scene: I could be waiting for her on the bed. She'd enter a bit later in the black lingerie I'd given her. And then she'd do a little performance for me. I could even record it on my phone if I wanted. She said it would be the best ever wank bank material.

"We f.u.c.k, of course!"

I liked the smiley emojis she added at the end.

I asked if she was sure and she told me not to be daft and that she really liked me. She thought our s.e.x.u.a.lities were perfectly matched. We'd both have a lot of fun.

I asked if she did this with all her fans but she just laughed it off.

I then brought up the whole issue of money. I thought I ought to check. I wasn't too sure of the best way of mentioning it, so I fell back on humour and asked if I needed to triple my subscription to I'm Yours, to which she just sent a string of emojis. But she added she'd appreciate it if I could cover the cost of the room. They charged by the hour, apparently. Not that she'd used the place before, but a friend of hers had.

A couple of days later she said the room would cost 200 euros. I reckoned I could just about afford it, though my wife would notice if I wasn't careful: she did our monthly bank reconciliation. She always accounted for every single penny.

As it got closer to our rendezvous I found myself thinking more and more about her and how we'd spend that hour together. I thought about her body repeatedly. A colleague interrupted a daydream when asking if I wanted a cup of tea; I was gazing out of the office window wondering what it would be like f.u.c.k.i.n.g her up the arse.

Daydreams were complemented by night ones, too. I had dreams of coming in her mouth, over her b.r.e.a.s.ts, over her belly, in her face. Bizarrely, I once I dreamt that she asked if I had a cheque book. I recalled that in the dream I said nobody wrote cheques anymore. It seemed such an odd recollection from a dream in which she gave me the most professional of hand jobs.

Only a couple of days before we met I even had a wet dream. I was f.u.c.k.i.n.g her from behind and she was m.o.a.ning, "Don't come yet. For f.u.c.k's sake don't come yet. This is too f.u.c.k.i.n.g good. I want to ride your c.o.c.k forever…" At which point I came in my dream. And in my dream my prick turned into a hose and my come was gushing out of her p.u.s.s.y. In reality, I awoke to a real o.r.g.a.s.m. This was at three in the morning. A wet dream! At thirty-five! I'd not had one since my teens.

Tucked away in our spare room upstairs I logged into my account on I'm Yours hoping, desperately hoping she was online.

She was there, of course. She'd probably sensed that I'd be in touch. I reckon she wanted to contact me every bit as much as I wanted to contact her. I felt she wanted to f.u.c.k me as eagerly as I wanted to f.u.c.k her.

So I said how much I was looking forward to seeing her in the flesh. We joked about that word 'flesh', and I made sure she realised that s.e.x aside, I really was keen to meet her as a person, as a woman, and find out more about the real her. She said that would be 'nice'.

But it was difficult to put the s.e.x to one side. She was all about s.e.x. F.u.c.k.i.n.g amazing s.e.x.

As we chatted she asked me if I was going to film her on my mobile. I asked if she was sure it would be all right and she insisted it was just fine.

Then she asked if I'd look back on it afterwards and wank to it. I jested with her and said that was a very personal question and I couldn't possibly give her an answer. But I soon gave in to her teasing and said, of course, I would.

She asked how much I wanked while watching p.o.r.n. I replied the usual amount, I supposed. And then we got into this really interesting discussion about come shots.

I said that it always seemed odd to me that the p.o.r.n films I watched always ended straight after the guy had shot his spunk. I went on to say that the women in films often came first—absolutely nothing wrong in that of course—but after they'd come they then had to bring the guy to his climax, usually over her face. I said it was a shame that the action always ended there.

And then we talked about facials and the preponderance of films where guys come in the girls' faces.

She was the one to use the word 'preponderance'. She was bright. No doubting that. She also said that I should try out the p.o.r.n she watched as it was rather different.

Anyway, getting back to facials, she said—echoing my words about women coming first—that there was nothing wrong in them. She rather liked them. Watching them. And having a guy come in her face. That is if she was in her submissive role. I think she remembered that I really preferred to be dominated because she added that this wasn't very often.

She went on to remark that it would be funny if the roles could be reversed: the guy came first and the girl came second—on his face. I said that would be great. It would even the genders up a bit. Though I added that it really couldn't be quite the same…the girl could hardly shoot a lot of warm spunk over a guy's face.

You won't believe what she said next.

"She could always squirt!"

I said I'd never been with a girl who could squirt. I rather hoped she would have come back by telling me if she could do it or not. But she didn't.

This was such a hot conversation. Easily the hottest we'd had, and believe me, we had enjoyed some pretty steamy ones before this.

The spare room door interrupted me. My wife was bringing me the hot chocolate I'd left downstairs. "It's getting cold," she said, then asked: "How's it coming along?"

Ironic use of the word 'coming', I mused as I quickly brought up a doc.u.ment to cover the I'm Yours tab on my laptop.

"It's coming along really well. Won't be long," I replied.

She left saying that she'd paused the drama on the television so I wouldn't miss anything.

I pushed the door closed as she went downstairs.

Back online, I apologised for the delay. I said my wife was nagging me again. To which she said that tomorrow I could have a bit of relief. She always chose the right words.

I told her I had to go shortly, and she said that she understood. She always understood.

I didn't sleep much the night before we met. Partly it was because I was too excited. What guy wouldn't have been? Every time I thought about the appointed hour my c.o.c.k hardened. I played a bit with my prick, teasing out my pre-come and using it as a lube over my helmet. But I made a tactical decision not to slide out of bed and wank myself off in secret, as I didn't want to sap the energy out of the build-up.

I guess another reason I didn't sleep was because of the significance of what I was going to do with her. I was going to cross a line. A significant line. But I had significant and valid reasons. As far as my s.e.x.u.a.lity was concerned I was doing the right thing. I was realising my potential. For the first time in years, I was going to be s.e.x.u.a.lly satisfied. The pent-up frustration would be released. I deserved this illicit hour.

Moreover, this wasn't love. This wasn't an affair. It was just l.u.s.t. Shared l.u.s.t by two likeminded people.

Besides, she was witty, clever and hot as f.u.c.k.

I must have drifted off to sleep sometime in the early hours as the alarm roused me.

"You kept tossing and turning last night," my wife commented. "It's that meeting. You're on edge." After a pause, she said, reassuringly, "I'm sure it'll be just fine."

As I finished getting dressed she handed me my wallet. "That's a lot of cash," she remarked casually, without any sense of accusation.

"Taxis to the client and if the pitch goes well we'll probably head out for drinks afterwards."

And with a final slurp of tea, I headed out of the door to work and that all-important business meeting.

Unsurprisingly the morning in the office dragged, but eventually, lunch came and I was off—as far as my manager knew, to hospital for a check-up.

I caught a cab to the place we were going to meet. Well, a few hundred metres short, just to be on the safe side. I walked past the rather non-descript building several times checking it out from the corner of my eye. It was one of those large Victorian townhouses usually divided into flats. There was an intercom with several buttons by the door, which I assumed would be the way to get inside.

I was nervous and needed reassurance. I went on-line and messaged her.

"You silly old thing," she replied. "Press the button for the top floor. Dawn will buzz you in. Head up the stairs and go into room C. I'll join you there in ten."

I messaged back: "Thanks, Baby."

It was the first time I'd used her name in a message.

Meanwhile, my mind was buzzing. Was this place some dodgy, drug dealing den? And who the heck was Dawn?

But I couldn't stop now. There was too much to enjoy on the other side of the door.

My mind was urging me on, but my feet didn't move and I remained rooted to the pavement.

Then my phone pinged and a photo appeared in my texts. It was the heart-shaped knickers. Shortly afterwards another photo arrived. It was her p.u.s.s.y itself, her fingers had pulled the knickers to the side.

And that was enough to propel me forward. I never thought about the fact she was texting me for the first time. I didn't question the fact that she'd got my number, which I had never actually given her.

My mind was set on just one thing: the f.u.c.k of my life. An intense, decade-long craving drove me to press the button on the intercom. A reassuringly eloquent female voice welcomed me and told me to take the stairs to the top floor.

I dashed up, eager not to be seen, and was met by a smartly dressed middle-aged woman who shook my hand, ushered me through the door and told me that I was expected in room C where my companion would join me shortly.

I did as I was told, got undressed, lay on the bed, leaving the 200 euros by my side.

She could have been watching as no more than a few seconds later she came in. And she looked sensational in that lingerie. I'd mentally prepared myself to find her less hot in real life than on screen. But in reality, it was the opposite.

The hour that followed started just as expected. She did some stripper-like moves at the end of the bed, which I recorded on my phone for future wanks. When she pushed her b.r.e.a.s.ts together and pouted my c.o.c.k started to harden in eager anticipation. Inevitably my gaze was drawn to the heart in her p.a.n.t.i.e.s and that island of pubic hair, though the dangling strand on her gold bracelet grabbed my attention too. I recall thinking that would feel good if she gave me a hand job.

She stopped her little performance and reversed into me, presenting her tight, round arse and my free hand just had to stroke the smoothest of b.u.t.t cheeks. But soon she was directing my hands to cup her b.r.e.a.s.ts, before encouraging me to smack her arse.

She was crawling over me, pressing her flesh against me and slowly manoeuvred herself into a position where she could get her mouth on my c.o.c.k. She was worshipping my c.o.c.k with her tongue. I grabbed my phone to record the blow job of my life. She even throat f.u.c.k.e.d me.

She must have sensed I was approaching my climax because she stopped, pulled herself up to my face and commanded me to lick her p.u.s.s.y. She m.o.a.n.e.d as I flicked her c.l.i.t with my tongue. From this, it was inevitable that we would slip into the most delicious of 69s where I held my tongue on her c.l.i.t and just made the tiniest of movements, which she seemed to like as she sat up on me and pushed her p.u.s.s.y lips firmly against my mouth.

I picked up my phone as I really wanted to film our initial penetration. It was heavenly. She sat above me and slowly eased herself down my c.o.c.k. Then she bobbed up and down squeezing me each time she reached the top, holding me tight in her p.u.s.s.y.

The f.u.c.k.i.n.g was intense and created its own momentum and we were screwing each other any way we could. I do recall at one moment moving on top of her, pushing my body tight into her back and b.u.t.t and just f.u.c.k.i.n.g her p.u.s.s.y, sometimes hard and fast, but also super slow enjoying the big sensations you get from the smallest of moves.

I was convinced she'd come several times, but she kept pushing for more. I honestly think I came a bit when she was on top of me. I felt some of my come ease up my shaft and into her c.u.n.t. But she squeezed me super tight and astonishingly I remained hard. Very hard.

Finally, I could resist her sumptuous wetness no longer and had to push myself over the edge. I came with her astride me. And yet, that wasn't it. The moment my initial bursts of spunk had left my c.o.c.k, she slipped off me and raised her p.u.s.s.y to my face. She started to strum her c.l.i.t increasing the speed all the time until she came, too. But this was no female o.r.g.a.s.m I'd experienced before. She drenched me. I mean drenched. Clearly she could squirt. And she clearly delighted in both her o.r.g.a.s.m and my evident surprise.

And once her epic squirt ended, she grabbed the euros and left in somewhat of a hurry. That was a surprise as I was expecting a chat.

After she left, her juices still covered my face and I reflected on that exchange of messages about o.r.g.a.s.ms and role reversal. But with my s.e.x.u.a.l ache relieved my thoughts returned to real life and the need to head home.

It was on the train that her text pinged in. She thanked me for a 'truly memorable hour'. I replied that we really ought to do it again. She agreed but said it would cost a bit more.