After Sonia's stunt with Nate, we kept in touch--casual, scattered calls and emails over the next year, nothing heavy. Life pulled us apart; Tara and I were married, work was a grind, and Sonia's world stayed quiet until she dropped a bombshell: she was getting married. "I want you to meet him," she said, voice bright but edged with something I couldn't place. Work swallowed me whole--running my own team now--and I couldn't make it happen. She tied the knot anyway, and I figured that was that. Then, post-wedding, she reached out again, casual as ever, like no vows had changed a thing.
I'd built a solid crew at the office by then, and Sonia saw an angle. "Can you help my husband with a job?" she asked, all breezy. "Send him in," I said, curious despite myself. That's when John walked into my life--a nice, homely guy, raised like Sonia in a sheltered cocoon, but his was a village in South India, all quiet traditions and tight reins. Shy, soft-spoken, good-looking in a simple way, he was the kind of guy you'd never peg for her wildfire. She had him wrapped around her finger, though--worshipped her like a goddess, his virgin world cracked open by this horny, gorgeous woman who'd swept him up. I hired him on the spot; he was solid, joined my team, and kept his head down.
Sonia faded into the background after that, just a shadow I'd brush past when she picked John up from the office after work. We'd swap small talk--weather, jobs, nothing deep--and go our own ways. Months into their marriage, though, she got restless. One morning, I'm pulling into the parking lot when she's dropping John off, and instead of peeling out, she lingers, leaning against her car, all flirty smirks and wandering eyes. We chat--casual at first, work, life--but I catch the heat in her tone, the way she's playing me. Tara and I are rocky--marriage turning into a grind, intimacy starved out by routine--and Sonia's vibe hits me hard. "Meet me at my place for lunch," I say, voice low, knowing I'm crossing a line. She nods, and I head into work, counting the hours.
Lunch rolls around, and I ditch the office, drive home, skip going back. I'm sprawled on the couch, sweatpants loose, flipping through porn on my office computer--some hot, sweaty couple fucking like animals--when the knock comes. I yank my pants up, cock half-stiff, and let her in. She struts past, eyes flicking to my bulge, a smirk tugging her lips. We plant ourselves in the living room, chatting about marriage, life, the usual bullshit, but she wanders into my office, spots the porn paused mid-thrust. "What's this?" she grins, hitting play before I can answer. I sit at the desk, her dragging a chair beside me, and we watch--silent, locked on the screen. The couple's going at it, all slick skin and desperate moans, and her breathing gets heavy, loud, matching mine. My cock's stiff again, tenting my sweats, and I catch her staring, eyes locked on it.
"I can't do anything about that," she says first, voice firm, "I'm married now." I nod, "That's fine," keeping it cool, and we keep watching. But the heat's too much--she cracks, muttering, "Fuck it," and grabs my cock through my pants. I haven't fucked in weeks, and it feels good--real good. Her hand's rough, eager, and I drop my head back, letting her work me. She doesn't stop, jerking me harder, moaning loud like she's the one getting off. I shove my sweats down in one move, pants at my ankles, and she smiles--triumph, like she's won something. Her hand's on my bare cock now, stroking slow, and I'm lost, eyes flicking between her and the screen until the porn fades--I'm all about her.
