This is my first piece for Smutathon 2020, and is inspired by one of the story prompts Daire Faust tweeted last night! Hope you enjoy it.
“You know my husband hates you,” she whispered, as she slowly unzipped my suit trousers.
“I do,” I said, suddenly unable to drag my eyes away from hers. “To be honest, I thought you hated me too.”
I felt rather than heard a thump on the wall next to me. The party was in full swing, and while the spare bedroom was strictly for coats only, there remained a risk that someone else would have the same idea we’d apparently arrived at together, without discussion, five minutes earlier.
“Who says I don’t?” she said, with the same smirk on her face that I’d seen a hundred times around the dinner table, over drinks, late at night in her comfortable family home, surrounded by photos of her comfortable family life. It was different now. Of course it was.
For one thing, it wasn’t normally followed by her lips running up the underside of my cock from base to tip, drawing a bone-deep shiver out of me as I tried to think of a suitable response.
“What is this then? Why are y-“
“Shhhh,” she said, sitting back on her haunches and almost experimentally gripping my cock with one hand, as if assessing the physical reality of it. “For the same reason you are. Because I couldn’t not.”
I pondered that, in the split-second of coherent thought left to me before she took the first four inches of my cock into her mouth, as easily as she might pop a sweet in there. Did it really matter whether she hated me or not? Would this blow job – or the fuck we’ll have later in the passage down the side of the house, our cold breath twisting into soft, sinuous clouds around us as she braces against the rough brick and I pull her back onto my cock – feel any less good if she did?
There was a bark of laughter outside the door, and I flinched. She felt it in her throat, I think, because a low chuckle spilled out of her, and she broke off to smirk up at me again. This time her hand moved with greater purpose, jerking my cock toward her, using her saliva to really pump it hard.
“You’re a dickhead,” she said, in a tone that felt entirely too matter-of-fact. “But when your hand brushed against my arse outside the bathroom earlier…”
“Accidentally,” I protested, and meant it. One of the more boozed-up party guests had knocked into her, and I’d reached out to stop her falling, only to pull my hand back a little too late when it became clear she didn’t need any help.
“Maybe so,” she said, dipping down to suck the head for a few seconds, till it was shiny and swollen. “But from that point on, I-“
“Me too. I can’t explain it.”
“Why bother? Some things are just meant to happen. Were always meant to.”
And I know without a shadow of doubt that she’s right. I closed my eyes, and through the wall I felt certain I could hear her husband’s voice – always a little too loud, a little too sure of itself – rumbling across the room. I allowed myself to focus on it for just a few seconds, and remembered the flash of venom I’d seen in his eyes on too many occasions to just chalk up to the odd bad mood.
Was that why it felt so good to push my cock a little deeper into his wife’s throat? Why she moaned far louder than she ought to have done, even with the music and murmur of conversation, when my knees buckled and I filled her mouth with cum?
“Yes. Yes it is,” she said, reading the unspoken question in my eyes. “And I feel it too.”
She stood up and leaned into me, guiding my hand into her knickers, and shuddering as I dragged a finger along her glistening cunt.
“But I’m fine with that. I like having a problematic fave.”