An Extended Invitation Vol. 01

AN EXTENDED INVITATION

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| Contents:

1.

Summary

2.

Author's Introduction

3.

Volume I:

The Affair

--

Chapter One:

An Aversion to Small Talk

--

Chapter Two:

Susan's Loophole

--

Chapter Three:

A Cork Floating in a Puddle

4.

Author's Afterword

5.

Volume II:

The Dinner

--

Chapter Four:

On Susan's Plate

[Preview]

6.

Uncensored Story Tags

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| Summary:

A young man's affair with a middle-aged hairdresser is quickly complicated, after her husband learns of his wife's betrayal.

Expect a story with a strong sense of acceleration and consequence, sustained across multiple instalments.

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| Author's Note:

Considering that this first instalment alone exceeds four-thousand words, it's fair to say that if you intend to read 'An Extended Invitation' to its completion, then this will be the first step on a long journey, one which we'll be taking together;

so why not stop a while now, linger and talk? Just you and I, dear reader.

The idea of writing long-form, serialized fiction has always been a compelling one to me, albeit a little terrifying; it's like the literally equivalent of tightrope walking, with all the risks and rewards that are associated with that. But there's a larger reason why I chose to write this story as an episodic series, one which goes beyond mere thrill-seeking.

All stories are one-way conversations. Serialized tales are no different in this regard, except for one aspect: the format demands that there are pauses in the conversation, which allows readers ample opportunity to participate in real time. In the age of comment sections, writing serialized fiction seems like an inherently social endeavour; well, that's what has motivated me in this instance, anyway.

So, of course, any and all feedback is greatly appreciated, including even the most nit-picky of comments. I can take it all in stride, dear reader.

(Also, I ought to mention now that I need to find myself an editor. If the material here interests you, feel free to reach out to me. I'd love to hear from you.)

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| ONE:

An Aversion to Small Talk

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A couple of years back, I had an affair with this older woman: a hairdresser, named Susan.

(This one's a long story, so buckle-up.)

It started online -- as most extramarital affairs do now-a-days, I suppose. After a few weeks of exchanging messages back and forth, Susan finally found the courage to send a photo of herself to my inbox. Even now, I can still remember the lump I had in my throat when I saw the attachment icon next to her email. I clicked on the file -- titled:

as_requested.jpg

-- then a few seconds later, the image of a blond, middle-aged woman appeared on my screen.

This is Susan

, I realized.

And she's gorgeous...

That was also the moment when I realized that her and I already knew each other; or, at least, we'd met before. Susan was my hairdresser

(surprise, surprise)

and had been for nearly a year, ever since I'd moved to the city and become a freshman.

This may be unnecessary for me to note right now, but I feel compelled to share this piece of context with you: never before in my life have I ever asked for a hairdresser by name, or even bothered to make an appointment for myself before showing up; that is,

not until Susan

. The experience of having my hair cut was always a gruelling one for me to endure; painful like a visit to the dentist, but twice as exhausting. This aversion of mine to hairdressers is ninety-nine percent due to the ceaseless small talk they inevitably force upon me; all that stilted conversation:

about family, about travel plans, about approaching holidays

. I'd rather have a tooth removed

any

day of the week.

But Susan was unlike any hairdresser that I'd ever had before. She didn't ask me directionless questions and she always seemed more than comfortable to share silence with a stranger. When Susan leaned forward to run her fingers through my hair -- which she did often -- her heavy breasts would rest on-top of my shoulders, sending shivers up my spine. More than once, she caught my eyes attempting to wander in the mirror, but said nothing about it.

I took Susan's business card and kept it tucked in my wallet. I know it may seem like a perfectly innocuous thing for one to keep in their wallet, but it felt like a dirty secret. Every time I opened my wallet to pay for coffee or for gas, I'd glimpse her face printed onto the card and then I would have the same recurring thoughts,

over and over

: filthy ones.

I returned to the salon a month and a half later, asking for Susan by name. She greeted me with a playful smile, so I guess Susan remembered me, too.

During my second haircut, something unprecedented occurred:

I enjoyed small talk

. And consequently, I learnt a lot about Susan. She was forty-three and living a comfortable lifestyle with her husband, who was a pharmacist. Susan told me that every Summer, they went on a road-trip together to las Vegas, where her husband gambled and drank and watched pay-preview movies, while she attended some annual seminar -- the name was something

New Age

sounding, I forget.

Anyway. After spending a few minutes staring at Susan's picture on my computer screen, with my eyes wide and my jaw unhinged, I noticed there was a message included, too: "How does Thursday after 4PM sound?" The lump in my throat started to swell.

Should I even reply to her?

I wrote Susan a long reply that night, but eventually decided not to send it. My plan had been to make an excuse regarding Thursday, then simply

ghost

her.

But the following morning, I reconsidered my plan. It was a shitty thing to do, anyway. Instead, I wrote a much shorter response, telling Susan the truth: "We've already got an appointment for Wednesday, at half past noon."

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| TWO:

Susan's Loophole

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Susan and I began meeting with each other two or three times a week, depending on her schedule. It was everything I had ever daydreamed about as a teenager: a series of clandestine rendezvous with a blond bombshell twice my age; meeting in cafes just before their closing time, or in vacant parking lots, after the street lights had all been turned off.

It really was the stuff of fantasy.

But, there was a hitch

(of course)

. Susan had this one rule and she was deadly stubborn about it: there was going to be absolutely

no

fucking. Of course, this prevented the two of us from

actually

having an affair. Her reasoning for this rule was, and I quote, that she didn't want me "stretching her out."

(I'm larger than her husband and he would have noticed, she claimed. I was skeptical about this and didn't realize until much later how true it was.)

This lead to the two of us finding a loophole, which then resulted in copious oral; like, an

extraordinary

amount of it. And for the time-being, that was enough for me. Truly.

I guess if I had to label this first phase of the affair, I'd call it the cock worshipping phase. I mean that rather literally, actually. It became some perverted, quasi-Religion to Susan. The ceremony of it involved sneaking out of her apartment late at night, wearing nothing but a night-gown

(without her panties or a bra)

, then meeting me in my car, just around the corner

(the short walk on a cold night would often make her nipples stiff)

. The ritual was always the same, too: Susan bending over my cock, as if she were bowing at an alter, then lapping away at my cock with her tongue, while my free hand separated her pussy lips, sampling the wetness there.

I never pushed Susan to go beyond oral, even if she was a terrible tease about it. This was because I knew that

sooner or later

, her defences would crumble all by themselves, without much effort on my behalf. It seemed inevitable, really. And besides, Susan sucked my cock with an enthusiasm that was startling, unlike anything I'd ever experienced before.

(You would have thought she managed to get to the age of forty-three without seeing a

real

dick in her life.)

As I said, for the time-being, I was content to simply enjoy my time inside her mouth for what it was.

One afternoon, I picked Susan up from the saloon

(she had told her husband it was a co-worker giving her a ride home, of course; I think by this point, Susan was becoming addicted to the thrill of lying to her husband.)

Across from her apartment building, there was a perpetually empty parking-lot, where we often stopped before saying goodnight. I found the darkest stall, then Susan climbed into the backseat and pulled her top off.

She was bent over her shrine, polishing my cock between her lips, when I felt my balls begin to throb, readying to empty themselves. Instead of cumming between Susan's lips, I put a finger below her chin, lifting it up so her eyes met mine; then, I asked her if "hubby had ever fucked her ass before."

Her mouth opened around the tip of my cock, like someone miming shock. Then finally, she answered: "no." I asked her if

anybody

had ever taken her ass before and again, she said "no", averting her eyes this time.

"Not ever?", I asked. Susan's face turned ember red, then her cheeks began to radiate heat. This was when I learnt something

very

interesting: Susan and her husband had been high-school sweethearts, once upon a time; and that through-out her whole life, Susan had only been with one man - well,

three

if blowjobs counted, which I told her they didn't. I also learnt the name of the man I had been cuckolding, which at the time, I really could have done without knowing:

Craig...

Susan told me the idea of trying anal had come up prior to their honeymoon, back in their early twenties, mostly because Susan's husband "wasn't very well hung"; but then, inevitably, the notion was abandoned and Craig never brought it up again.

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I filmed the whole thing with my phone.

The video starts with my cock pushing against the virgin bud of Susan's ass, causing it to wink at me hungrily. Her body tenses into stone, then Susan whispers back to me over her shoulder:

"be gentle, please."

In reply, I caress her arched back with my free hand, then slowly insert the head of my cock. The delicate flesh grips tight, pulsing to the rhythm of Susan's racing heart-beat. She turns her head over her shoulder again, with an alarmed expression. You can see Susan open her mouth to speak in the video, but she says nothing. I ask if she's okay. Re-watching the video, it's clear that her eyes answer

no

, but after a brief hesitation, she whispers: "Break me in.

Get it over with

."

I closed my eyes, reminded myself that Susan was another man's wife, then savoured the sensation of her asshole stretching around my shaft. With every inch I thrust deeper inside of her, Susan's moans seemed to increase exponentially, until her cries reverberated off of the glass windows.

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Later that night, just when I was finally ready to fall asleep, I got a message from Susan. It read:

'Send me the vid, pls. I can't sleep.'

So I did, without trimming a single second of the six minute duration. The attachment I replied to her email with was titled

as_you_requested.mov

.

Susan didn't respond. But she did stay up most of the night, playing and replaying the video, occasionally pinching her fingers together to zoom-in on the gapping

O

that was her asshole. She said the whole thing felt surreal, as if she were watching it happen to somebody else, even though Susan still felt sore -- and likely would for a couple days to come.

After watching the video for an hour, while her husband slept soundly beside her, Susan opened the bed-side drawer and retrieved her headphones. Listening to her own squeals was an intoxicating experience. It became impossible for Susan to remember which yelps had been out of pain and which had been out of pleasure.

She rolled her head to the side, making sure Craig hadn't woken up, then lowered her phone onto the bed and reached her hand below the sheets. Susan felt the thick nectar gathered between her lips, still listening to the sound of her own cries through the headphones. And that's when Susan began to rub her clit.

She came, twice. After checking one last time to see if Craig had woken up, Susan reached her hand further down and felt around the rim of her asshole. It was still blown-out and puffy feeling, but nothing that she thought wouldn't be gone by the morning. Then, Susan found a glob of cum with the tip of her finger. It still tasted sweet.

While watching the video one last time before bed-- now with the screen permanently zoomed-in -- Susan's finger-fucked her ass. First with a single finger, because she was anxious, but then with two. Eventually, she buried them all the way down to the diamond on her wedding-ring, reliving the moment I had taken her anal virginity. By the time the six minutes were over, Susan's wrist was wet from her gushing cunt.

After wiping herself down with the bedsheets and making a note to clean them tomorrow, Susan fell asleep.

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| THREE:

A Cork Floating in a Puddle

This next phase of our affair we can call the insatiable anal phrase, but it didn't last for very long. After fucking Susan's ass for nearly a month -- and savouring every second of it -- we were caught.

Actually, we were kinda caught twice; but the

first

time was a mistake. Pure bad luck, is all. The second time was a different story all together...

Susan was doing the laundry one morning and she put her cum-stained panties in the wash, loaded it with soap, then forgot to actually turn the machine

on

. She's forgetful like that, sometimes. Later that morning, Craig went to throw some of his things in the wash and noticed her spoiled panties. Apparently, all of this blew over easier than Susan had expected it to. There were a lot of questions asked of her, of course, but no actually recourse of any kind.

Phew. Close call

, I thought.

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The second time we were caught was more deserved. The two of us been flirting with danger, we'd be the first to admit that.

At around nine o'clock one night, Susan snuck out of her apartment to met with me. She had a cover-story to appease Craig, but I don't remember what it was. By this phase in our affair, she was making her excuses more and more obvious, almost daring him to call her on it. But that's just an assumption, of course; she could have just gotten lazy.

Susan sucked my cock in the backseat, then I filled her ass up to the brim with hot, sticky cum. This had become, for us, fairly routine. Over the month our affair lasted, Susan's asshole seemed to have become more elastic, adapting itself to my cock. I was now able to fuck it the same way I would have fucked Susan's cunt.

And that's when I surprised Susan by corking her ass shut with a butt-plug, while my cum was still bubbling up. Susan purred, then I explained to her what was going to happen next...

Susan walked back inside her apartment building, kissed Craig goodnight

(using the lips that had been wrapped around another man's cock less that fifteen minutes ago)

, then laid down to go to sleep, with my cum still corked inside her ass, drying slowly. Susan told me later that she had fallen asleep that way and that she'd "never had sweeter dreams."

But when she woke up, everything was a real

mess

: cum everywhere... I knew it had been a risk, but I thought the plug would hold.

I was betting on it, actually...

And after that night, I didn't hear from Susan for some time. The absence felt suffocating. At least once a day, I would find myself reaching for my wallet, to pull out Susan's business-card and look it over. But not a word from her.

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Out of the blue -- after nearly two months -- Susan sends me an email. The subject-line was:

an invitation to dinner

. And the contents were exactly that: instructions to meet at her apartment, at five o'clock sharp tomorrow afternoon. I accepted. It remains, to this day, the most surreal experience of my life.

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I arrived, on time.

Susan greeted me at the door, then Craig made the three of us cocktails:

Long Islands

, strong ones. This disarmed me and I was thankful for that. As you can imagine, I was on edge and didn't know where to expect the evening to go.

We sat together on the couch, each of us nursing our drinks, while Craig and Susan took turns recounting to me what had happened the morning after I corked her ass.

(This was repeatedly referred to as 'the incident' by Craig, which nearly made me burst out in laughter more than once.)

Craig started. He told me about waking up in the middle of the night and feeling something wet and sticky against his thigh. After a long moment of sitting there in the darkness, dumbfounded, he lifted up the sheets and discovered a puddle of cum. Craig paused to take a long sip from his cocktail, then chanced a sideways glance at Susan -- who appeared to be paying attention as if this were her first time hearing the story -- before continuing his account of the night.

Craig said he whispered something into his wife's ear, to make sure Susan was still fast asleep, then decided to investigate the matter for himself. Delicately, Craig pulled his wife's wet panties down a few inches, then spotted the loose butt-plug. It was the imitation jewel winking to him through the darkness that first caught his eye.

Another short pause to take a sip of his cocktail, then Craig finishes, his face now red and sweaty looking.

His wife's asshole had been still gapping slightly, leaking a slow stream of cum down onto the folds of her pussy. Craig said he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Then, he put the butt-plug down on the bed-sheets and looked at his hand. It glistened sleek in the moonlight. After jacking off, he tried to go back to sleep, with his mind still reeling.

Susan listened to this last part of Craig's story with a poorly concealed grimace on her face. After he had finished, she sat in silence for a long moment, cringing, while imagining her husband jacking off with another man's cum. Sensing the room, Craig excused himself to prepare dinner, while Susan and I stayed.

I took a big gulp of my drink, trying to forget what Craig had told us, then Susan picked up the story where her husband had left off. The morning after, they both woke up in a bed stained with cum. Susan said she made some attempt to hide it, because she didn't know Craig had already discovered the whole mess.