Suzanne's Lust

Notes:

1. This is a cheating wife story. I'd like your comments, but you don't need to point out to me it's a cheating wife story. I do realize this.

2. Let's not think it's anything more than a story, okay? I'm not particularly interested in your moral pronouncements of the characters within.

3. Let's not get carried away into assuming the story reflects the life I lead. It is fiction and that means these events did not happen. Repeat: did not happen.

4. I'm particularly interested in, then, on:

a) technique and/or style;

b) the associations of guilt and sexual desire, nd love and sexual desire.

This interest is reflected in many of my stories. The idea is simply that guilt can fuel desire (rather than limit it) and that love can dampen desire, rather than fuel it.

Such a thesis is far from radical - clearly most loving marriages see less and less sex. And clearly many men and women seek sex or sexual pleasure outside of their marriages.

I'm not here arguing for the rightness or wrongness of anything.

*****

I'm 25, married a little over a year to a great guy, I've got a great job, and generally life is good. I'm considered very attractive – tall (5'9"), slim, straight long dark brown hair, flat stomach, tight perfect butt, great legs, and firm b-cup breasts.

I have a large wardrobe and I'm not ashamed to add just a little sexiness to what I wear. My business suits are somewhat conservative, but I always shorten the skirts to several inches above the knee. When I'm out, sexy (but not slutty) clothes rule.

Like any normal human being, I of course fantasized about romantic sexual liaisons with various fantasy men. But fantasy and reality were kept separate.

I don't know what it was, but at some point I became consciously aware that I was open to an encounter with another man.

It wasn't, as far as I could see, any fault of my husband's. He's a good man. I have no complaints with him in bed. And I do love him. Things don't seem stale. He's as attentive as when we were dating.

It wasn't that I had some strange fetish. I didn't need to live out any bizarre fantasy.

It wasn't that I had the hots for any one particular guy. Of course, there are guys I find attractive. But I had no plan to try to get any of them into bed.

It was just a gut feeling I had that should the right guy come along with the right opportunity, I could see myself bedding him. It was a feeling that I could easily keep it as a separate part of my life, and not feel guilty, and not let it impact my marriage. It was a feeling I could handle it.

Now for most couples, it's not the kind of thing you discuss. So my husband had no idea of this general feeling I had. And really, I had no complaints as to our sex life. We had good sex and we had it frequently.

If I were to make a guess – it would be that I was attracted to a purely sexual relationship – a relationship where other feelings or emotions wouldn't get involved. It was, I guess, a wanting of pure sex just for the purposes of having pure sex. I was open to the idea of bedding some guy I found hot but had no other feelings for.

I didn't want to bed any guy at work. I didn't want to bed any friend. I just was warm to the idea of having sex with some as yet to be decided beefcake guy. I wanted "sex for the sake of sex". Really, it was a feeling no different than the guy who sees a prostitute; or spends an hour in one of those illicit massage parlours.

Still, it wasn't like I was actively hunting for a bed mate. I was just open to the possibility. And actually, I wasn't so very open to it. Guys don't care about wedding bands. Opportunities presented themselves, especially at the office. But as I said, I didn't even consider these offers. Frankly, bringing office baggage into the bed was a total turn off.

I only mention this because really I had insulated myself from the kinds of opportunities I'm claiming I was open to. I just wasn't in an environment where I was meeting potential bed partners. My evenings and weekends were with my husband. I wasn't ever "on the prowl."

I lived the routine of my life now self-aware that under some vague set of possible circumstances, I had this also vague desire to bed another man.

This awareness allowed me to reflect on my feelings. It was clear I felt no guilt. I felt no guilt, not because I hadn't cheated yet, but because I felt it was no reflection on the state of my marriage. This desire was totally separate from my commitment to my husband.

And yet I was also aware I wasn't fulfilling this desire because I wasn't allowing for such opportunities to occur. I wasn't cruising bars alone in the evenings. I rarely went on girls nights out with my friends – and when I did, I stayed with my friends.

The opportunity to meet a hot guy who wasn't a friend; wasn't a friend of a friend; wasn't a co-worker; wasn't a friend of a co-worker etc. simply wasn't there.

Unless I was willing to hit on some grocery store delivery guy, I'd have to make some change in my life in order to find such a guy.

I also began contemplating whether I wanted a one time fling or an ongoing relationship. I really wasn't interested in becoming emotionally attached to anybody, but I also realized that there was no reason to think that this desire for "pure" sex would be any lessened once it happened. I was pretty sure I'd want it again, if it were a good experience. So, if I did manage to find a successful candidate, the odds were if the first time it was good, I'd want it a second time. And having found someone who met my needs, it seemed a little crazy to cut him off only to start looking for someone else.

I decided, then, that I was therefore looking for an ongoing relationship rather than a one time fling, if the guy could deliver the goods.

So these were the parameters. I wanted another man in bed. I didn't want to change my life or lifestyle or impact my husband to get one. I wasn't going to suddenly be leaving my husband home at nights in order to find and fuck a guy. I wasn't going to abandon him on the weekends. I realized it would be difficult to find what I wanted.

My first conscious decision, then, was to alter my choice of clothing. Given how limited my opportunities were (limited by my own making), I decided I needed to make sure I was sending out the necessary signals to anyone that looked my way.

I consciously chose my sexier outfits. Again, I didn't want to look like a "whore" sign was flashing on my forehead, but I wanted to make sure that every live male who came my way got a glimpse of my thighs. I wore only the shortest of my skirts. When possible I unbuttoned an extra button on my blouse.

On the weekend I relegated most of my pairs of jeans to the back and only wore my tightest pair – complete with a few rips in them. I even purchased a really tight little denim mini, which was now back in style.

I consciously dressed sexier and I was conscious of the impact this had on men. Men have sex radar. You can watch it in action the way they suddenly turn their necks 90 degrees to see something not previously in their sight lines.

My second conscious decision was to switch fitness clubs. I realized that my current fitness club, because it was located in the building where I worked was eliminating the possibility of my interacting with potential sex partners.

Even if I had found some guy there, I'd be too afraid I'd be noticed by a co-worker. It would be just too risky to contemplate an ongoing sexual relationship with a guy who I might be seen with by a co-worker.

I told my husband one day that I was finding my fitness club too crowded and not very good. The next week I mentioned I'd found this club half way between work and home that I thought I might try. It actually wasn't any better or any less crowded. It just didn't have anyone I knew at it as members.

Not only would this place provide me with the opportunity to meet a guy, but it would also allow me the opportunity to wear those sexy little work-out outfits that I wouldn't have worn at the club in my office building.

My first purchase, then, was a couple of pairs of those little black spandex short shorts, and about 3 tight fitting slightly cropped white tank tops. At the new club, this was my uniform.

By my fourth day at the new club, I felt I was fully on the prowl. By the third week several guys had introduced themselves to me. I was aware some were warded off by my wedding ring. But it didn't feel right taking it off. Other guys weren't bothered by it at all. In their own minds I'm sure they thought they were just being nice. But it was clear to me, at least, that they were fishing for opportunities.

I've got to say, though, for any of these guys I didn't feel that my general urge for a bed partner had become a specific urge for any of these particular guys. I was nice back to them, but left it at that. I began to wonder if in fact I really did want to engage in extra-marital sex. Maybe, it was all just a little bit of getting a fantasy confused with a genuine desire. Maybe, really, cheating wasn't what I wanted. Maybe this was just a way my guilt mechanism worked.

A week later these thoughts were put aside. I was on a stationary bike. It afforded me this partial view of a guy. I could only see him from about the waist down. He was lying on a bench, doing reverse crunches. He was wearing a shirt and those tight bicycle pants.

From this view he looked inspiring. From the way the pants molded to his legs, you could see he was really strong and muscular. Usually guys wearing those bicycle pants are too skinny for my tastes. Not this guy.

He turned out crunch after crunch. He obviously was in excellent shape. I noticed, too, the bulge in front of his pants. Even if he were wearing a jock strap, it was clear the guy had a big package.

I rode my bicycle realizing he was the first guy that my general urge to fuck another man had turned into a specific urge to fuck that man. The bicycle seat pushed against my clitoris as I worked my legs up and down on the bike pedals. I was physically responding to what I was seeing.

I had the urge to just go over there and mount the guy. The tingling feeling that was mounting between my legs was making it impossible to continue riding. I decided to take matters into my own hands and got off the bike. I walked directly over to the stud.

Well – it caught me by surprise. I thought I was prepared for what I was about to do, but obviously I wasn't. I figured if the guy was half decent looking, I'd put myself near him, lift some light weights, and strike up a conversation with him. If the guy was half decent looking, I was interested in feeling the strength of the thrust those legs could deliver. If he was half decent looking, and all the guys here were at least half decent looking, then I would make him aware of my interest.

So I walked right over to him – around the pillar that had blocked my full view of him – and to my surprise the guy was black! Because of the pants, I hadn't been able to see the skin colour. I had assumed he was white! It put me off my game.

I hadn't had even considered an interracial sex relationship. In my mind, my fantasy guys were always white.

But what a physique on this guy! He was perfectly toned and muscular, with a fairly broad chest, but not too muscular; not too beefy. He was a fine specimen, even if he didn't match my in-my-mind fantasy guy.

I thought about it for a minute. My parents would have killed me if I had every dated a black guy. It's not that they were rabid racists – in fact the issue never came up. But you just knew not to push that button.

And now here I was realizing that I had been fantasizing about a guy who I didn't know was black. I needed to regroup.

Well he didn't give me time to regroup. He sat up said "Hi," and introduced himself. His name was Dave. He, like the other guys, was being "nice".

Dave's radar was clearly on. And fine physical specimen that he was, the fact that I was white didn't impede him or give him a second thought. Just as I was contemplating turning my game off, he was turning his game on.

We chatted as I lifted some light weights. He was probing. I, on the other hand, was carrying on two conversations at the same time – one with him; and one with myself.

Do I really want to pursue/be pursued by a black guy? I'd never been one of those girls with "jungle fever." But he was an absolutely fine physical specimen. And for some reason, there was something extra naughty about the interracial thing. I was beginning to dig the picture of our legs and arms intertwined.

He was only 22. He worked nearby in an office in a junior position.

He noticed the wedding ring and commented on it. Seconds later he made his move and asked me out.

Here – that quickly – I had my opportunity. I was immediately aware that right then and now I had a myriad of opportunities open to me. I could accept and it could eventually lead to something. I could accept and tell him I want him in bed right away. Or, I could decline or at least put him off.

I don't know what exactly it was, but I'd chalk it up to having been so worked up about him just moments earlier – I accepted his invitation, told him I wouldn't have so much time, and that I'd of course have to shower now.

He of course was very pleased. He knew what he wanted and saw he just might be getting it. He knew I knew too. We both went off to the showers.

I realized that I had bought myself some time. I could still just go out for a drink with him. But in the shower I shored up my conviction and decided to find out if he'd prefer to take me to his place.

After the shower, I wished I didn't have to put on my business clothes again. For business clothes they were hot, but I wanted a "fuck me" outfit now. Still, I left my suit jacket in my gym bag and unbuttoned an extra button on my white blouse. My gray skirt was certainly short enough to have an impact.

He was in the lobby already. He also was in business clothes. He asked me where we should go. I cleared my throat and asked him where he lived.

The rest, as they say, is history. We went to his apartment. It was about 15 minutes away. It seemed like an eternity. I was aware that even if we were fast, I'd still be a little late coming home. This reminded me to turn my cell phone off.

I sat down on his love seat couch, expecting a drink, but he too wasn't interested in delaying things further. He was on the hunt at the moment of conquest and the lust was burning in his eyes.

His mouth attached to mine and we spent precious minutes french kissing. He groped my breasts and undid the rest of the buttons on my blouse to get better access. I in turn massaged his thigh with my left hand and then slowly moved my way up to his crotch. God, I wanted it.

Still kissing and groping him, his hand made its way up my skirt and into my panties. Within moments he began to probe me with his finger. I responded immediately to his finger fucking. I looked down to see his black hand disappear into my panties. I had to brace myself against him as his finger penetrated me.

Eventually he broke away and led me to his couch. My legs were shaky. He made it clear he was to sit and I was to kneel. I wasn't going to argue. It was time to get a proper look at his big cock. It was time to get a taste too.

He undid his belt and I pulled his pants and underpants down below his knees. He wiggled to remove them completely. And there I was a young hot married white chick with her face inches from a large black cock – a cock that didn't belong to her husband.

I wanted to make this good for him. I wrapped the fingers of my right hand around the base of his rock hard cock and pointed it upward. My first target would be his balls. It was obvious he shaved them.

It's no secret that guys like getting head. But my personal experience is that oral attention to a guy's balls is what drives men wild.

I pumped him with my hand and stuck my tongue out. His eyes rolled back and he grunted as I began to lick his balls, giving each the attention they deserved. Licking turned into sucking. Each testicle found its way into the warmth of my mouth. The appropriate noises could be heard.

My black stud then reached down to hold my left hand, which I had been using against the couch to brace myself up. He didn't want to hold my hand. He went for my wedding and engagement rings. I was surprised. After a couple of tries he managed to get them off my finger.

He gave the rings back to me and pointed to the tip of his cock. A puddle of pre-cum was gently oozing from the tip. I understood what he wanted and rubbed each ring, one at a time, into the pre-cum and then put them back on my finger. I could feel the stickiness now on my finger. I liked the way he thought.

It was now time for some serious sucking. I licked the remaining pre-cum off his cock. Then I went down on it. Seriously down on it. My own juices were flowing seriously – there was something about the idea of my very white face with his very black cock in it that turned me on something fierce. I let my head do the pumping while I coiled my fingers around his saliva-soaked balls. I was periodically rewarded with more leaky pre-cum. He attached his hands to the back of my head. It didn't take long for him to get really close to cumming.

But he didn't cum. He managed to stop everything and drag me off to his bedroom. Our clothes came off quickly. He positioned me against his dresser, facing it. I was looking at myself in his mirror. I propped myself up with my arms, so that I was slightly bent over, and he positioned himself from behind me. Obviously, he wanted me to watch him fucking me.

He positioned his cock between my legs and began to thrust in. He wasn't very patient. Fortunately, I was wet enough to accommodate him. I wasn't used to a cock of this size. He began to fuck it into me.

His hands reached around me to grab at my breasts. His mouth attached itself to my neck. And then he did his best impression of a fucking machine. From the angle I was positioned in, I could see that cock fully jam into me and then pull out – again, and again, and again. It was perfect – exactly what I had needed.

I was aware that my juices were flowing freely on his cock. I was aware of his grunts and of his occasional words – mostly "take it," or "yeah." I was aware of my occasional groan.

His hands grabbed at my breasts. He thrusted deeply into me over and over again. His mouth ravaged my neck. My legs went totally limp. I was too far gone to support myself. But I was firmly impaled on his cock. In reality, it was his piston like cock holding me up.

Looking back, I now realize I had never been fucked in this position before. It's possible that could explain my reaction. It's possible it was the illicit sex. It's possible it was the size of his cock. It's possible it was the fact that he was black, but I was absolutely devastated by the orgasm he generated. I nearly blacked out. My head fell to his dresser.

He stopped the fucking to move me onto my back on his bed. He mounted me missionary style. I regained enough consciousness to again put some effort into the proceedings. I told him how amazing he was and how I'd never ever cum like that before. He just told me it was because I'd never satisfied my "jungle fever" before. Just like everything else, him saying this again pushed my buttons. Even though I had just had the most amazing orgasm of my life, I was again responding to him sexually.

His body was jus so muscular. He really was quite the stud – pounding away at me, between my legs, with my arms wrapped around him.

He planted his mouth over mine and simply pounded away. Minutes later I was quaking again – I can't tell you if it was as strong an orgasm or not, but the combined effects of the two destroyed me. I felt as weak as a kitten. I knew to just lie there and let him do what he wanted.