THIS STORY IS A CONTINUATION OF "SECOND FRIDAY" -- AS SUCH IT CONTAINS HOTWIFE/CUCKOLD THEMES. IF YOU DISLIKE THESE, PLEASE FEEL UNDER NO OBLIGATION TO READ FURTHER....
By the time she drew into the car park, she was finally aware of just how difficult it was going to be to extricate herself from the low seat and retain a shred of dignity, if there happened to be any observers. While it was true she'd had little choice other than to shed the raincoat, getting it back on would be all but impossible while sitting in the seat, especially pulling it down below her waist. She could at least tug down her dress without major damage, little as that might help. She'd just have to hope there was no one around.
The towel she'd sat on was damp directly under her; she'd been oozing onto it continually for the last forty minutes or so. She pulled it to one side, then threw it into the passenger footwell. She made a mental note that she'd have to retrieve that before Monday's school run.
The leather of the seat was instantly slippery against her flesh, and she quickly pulled the lace of her skirt down to the tops of her thighs. She took a deep breath, hoping to calm herself against both the fear of exposure, and the overwhelming aching lust that'd made the journey seem eternal. It failed. At least, though, her nipples had relaxed somewhat. When she'd left home they'd been aching with anticipation
She checked both door mirrors and the rear view -- she couldn't see anyone in the immediate vicinity. And, she acknowledged to herself, it wasn't about to get any better than that. With a mental shrug she pulled the door handle and swung her legs out. Raising herself half out of the door, she looked around. The car park was empty, and the planting hid the car from most of the windows. Safe enough. She completed the movement, standing upright. There was a cool breeze blowing. The thin lace of the dress provided no barrier to it. She felt her nipples tightening again, and goose bumps rising. She leant back into the car, took the raincoat from the passenger seat and pulled it on.
Moving as quickly as she could, she moved to open the luggage compartment. From the top of Taking the two bags, she slammed it shut. From the overnight bag, she took her high heels, and sat back onto the driver's seat in order to don them. The simple act effected a change in her mood; the tension about discovery seemed to fall away, and she felt a sudden surge of assurance. She was here to spend the night with her -- what, lover? Boyfriend? She intended to enjoy every second of their coupling, she enjoyed dressing provocatively to encourage him, and it was no-one else's business if she did.
Actually, she thought, that's not quite true, she thought. She pulled her mobile from her handbag, and typed an SMS:
"Arrived OK. All well. Love you"
and added a heart emoji. She stood upright, picked up her bags, and started toward the entrance. The bags made it hard to adopt the strut that she found herself trying to adopt; the gait that fitted her rediscovered mood. Once inside, she looked around. Her instructions had been clear -- to the top floor, then turn left out of the lift and the door at the end of the corridor. Entering the vestibule, she saw no-one. She felt almost disappointed at the lack of an audience.
She heard the "ping" from her phone, announce the receipt of a text; taking it from the bag, she found the reply.
"Good. Enjoy yourself!"
She was slightly torn about a reply. Should she take the time, or pursue her mission? There was a sense of urgency building...
She found the lift, and pressed the call button. She was shifting from foot to foot with impatience by the time the doors open. When she stepped in, she saw that the upper walls were heavily graffitied. Putting down the bags, she slipped the coat from her shoulders and picked up her phone. She was dressed, but minimally. Dark silk stockings, and a purple transparent mini dress over just a tiny pair of pants, her feet in red high heels. She leant back against the rear, and adopted a pose, legs crossed at the ankles, one hand behind her back, the other raising the phone for a "selfie". She snapped a photograph, and hit the "share "icon. She sent it as a reply to her husband's text, adding the caption "I intend to!".
She pressed for the top floor, and the lift began to move. Should she put the coat back on? The lift could stop at any moment, and she was hardly dressed for a public space. Her costume left little room for doubt as to her mission. She found she didn't care -- in fact she found a relish in the idea, picturing the reaction of a stranger as she sashayed past, looking like a complete slut.
The lift finally halted. She stepped forward from it without the slightest hesitation, turning left as instructed. She found the door and halted. She set her bags down, and taking a moment to compose herself, she rang the doorbell
****************
The second awakening of that morning was not so pleasant as the first. As she awakes, she's dimly aware of the sound of the running shower, but it's only when the front door slams that she's fully awake. In the half-minute or so it takes for the fog to fully clear, she becomes cognizant of the stickiness between her legs, and of the dampness beneath her. She's lying on a patch of sodden cotton. Her fingers probe for a less clammy place, and fail.
She sits up, her mind and body a conflict of satisfaction and soreness. Her surroundings are momentarily unfamiliar -- hardly surprising, she thought. She'd not been paying over-much attention to the décor last night. On a simple white bedside chest, she finds a digital clock. Eight am. Comfortably early for what faces her in the rest of the day. Late enough for him to have to have left for his training session.
She'd slept for another hour or so after her earlier wakening, and what'd followed. She'd been woken by warm pressure against her back, a probing at her tender vulva, and then his starting to enter. She'd been smoothly taken, luxuriating in the relaxed, sensual, coitus. They'd obviously both burned off the worst of any urgency the previous night. She'd enjoyed the slippery friction, there'd been no climax for her, but she was lambent with pleasure as he did, filling her again. They'd drifted back into sleep with him still in her.
Now she was conscious of the need to organise herself. Through half-open eyes, she spots the tissue box on the bedside table. She takes a handful, then presses them to herself to contain any flow. She winces slightly at the pressure.
She pivots her legs to the side of the bed, causing the thin duvet to slide down over the end of the bed. She stands in the narrow space between the bed and the wall, and almost immediately trips over one of her shoes, abandoned the previous night. She simply hadn't noticed how small the room was last night. At the door, she looks back at the wreckage of the bed. The sheets are completely dishevelled, with evidence all over them of the previous night's exertions. There are patches of sticky wetness everywhere, and there -- yes, a pair of parallel tears. Presumably done as she'd arched on her heels during a climax. Wearing heels in bed carries an inevitable risk to the furnishings.
Finding the bathroom is easy. The bedroom opens straight onto a short hall and the only other door leads onto the living room. Sitting on the toilet, she uses her pelvic floor muscles to expel as much of the contents of her vagina as she can. She's surprised by how much there is, given the state of the sheets. But then...she counted back. Yes, he'd come inside her twice, and once in her mouth. Once last night, once this morning. All three were recalled with a sense of delectation, and...what was it? Yes, that was it. Achievement. It'd been a monumental night -- she'd surprised even herself with her sheer licentiousness. Given the quantities of semen he'd been galvanised to shoot into her, he had to have felt the same way.
She pushes back her hair from her face, meeting resistance. In addition to general disorder, several strands had become tangled with something around her neck. She's still wearing the ornate choker she'd arrived in last night. In fact, she's still wearing all the jewellery she'd had on. Choker, earrings, bangles, rings. Suddenly struck with concern, she checks her ankle. The thin gold chain is still there. It'd been a huge thrill when he'd give that to her. A symbol of her depravity.
She stands in front of the mirror teasing the hair from the filigree. Unclipping the band from around her neck, and removing the rest of the trinkets -- well, most of them -- she turns on the shower. The flow is less generous than she'd like. She steps in once temperature stabilises. Soaping herself, she washes around her groin, scrubbing at her crusted thighs. She douches herself to remove the remains of his ejaculate, then checks herself for marks from last night's exertions. There are lots, but thankfully none that will show in public. She steps out, drying herself.
She walks naked into the living room, seeking her overnight bag. She finds it lying by the front door. Obviously dropped there almost as soon as she arrived, and ignored through the evening. Its position reflected the urgency of events after her arrival.
When she'd reached the door, it was locked. There'd been a moment of contemplation of whether the best option was to knock to summon him to view her in costume. She'd done so.
"Fucking hell!" had been his only words. He'd stood back, looked her up and down and repeated himself. She'd stepped in then closed the door, leaned one hand against it, the other on her hip -- noticed it was backed by a mirror -- and faced him. She'd noticed the dress had ridden up slightly, exposing her stocking tops. She made no effort to adjust it. She'd smiled, her eyes glowing, waiting what might come next.
What came aligned exactly with her hopes. He'd crossed the room in two steps and grasped her hips, crushing her back against the door. He pressed a leg between hers, spreading them. His hands were squeezing her buttocks and pulling her pelvis against his. She'd pushed against him and wrapped her arms around his neck. Their open mouths met in a wet kiss, his tongue pushed into her willing mouth. Their teeth clashed. Her senses were electrified. Could this be the moment when something she'd dreamed of for most of her adult life finally happened?
It was - probably. His urgency was obvious, but he seemed fixated on humping against her. She'd taken her right hand from around his neck (leaving her left caressing the back of his head) and slid it down to his groin. He'd been dressed only in tracksuit trousers and vest top. She tugged the top up and slid her hand down the waistband of this pants. He was completely rigid. One more push downward on the trousers and his penis was free, the head pressed against her stomach. The lace of her dress was no barrier to its heat.
Belatedly, he'd realised her intent. He'd pushed the dress up above her waist before his hand began to massage her mons. She'd thought immediately that her wetness would be obvious to him. She'd imagined her juices flowing over his fingers, and had known at last that her long held fantasy was about to come true. By this point his fingers were fully between her legs, tugging aside the crotch of her pants. She'd tried to speak, to tell him that there was access through the fabric, but he was still probing her mouth with his tongue. Then it'd ceased to matter. The head of his penis was sliding along her labia. Rational thought had all-but deserted her, replaced by a desperate need to be penetrated. The long-anticipated moment was near.
But not there yet. The angle was wrong for her to enter him -- their heights were too similar, his pelvis being only slightly below hers. He'd solved that, though, through a combination of bending slightly at the knee, and returning his hand to her rear, pulling her upward. It'd worked. She'd reached for his penis, placing it at her lips. He'd driven forward, and with one single smooth push, he'd managed to embed about half his length in her. He began to fuck her.
After so many years of fantasising, of aspiration, no, of yearning, it had finally happened.
Pure, raw, immediate sex. No communication, no foreplay needed, just unadulterated animal need. She'd been enraptured. Being taken without ceremony and to respond in kind. Conflicting ideas played in her head, each more exciting than the rest. That she'd created such a need in him in only seconds; that she was behaving like the most shameless sort of slut, and that worse she'd prepared and planned for it; and that she was loving every moment.
The result was inevitable. She'd felt the beginnings of climax from the first moment of contact, and it was building already. His head had dropped, his forehead on her collarbone, and she could hear his rhythmic grunting in time with his thrusts. She'd craned her head back against the door and shifted forward in the hope of his penetrating deeper, but it hadn't worked. Nevertheless, she began to give voice to her pleasure.
"Oh, God..."
