Frolicme: Midnight Mood – Adult Sexual Story Of An Intimate Liaison

Frolicme: Midnight Mood - Adult Sexual Story Of An Intimate Liaison

Harry Marx sat at the foot of the stairs as drunk as he’d been in a while. Drunk enough to be there, drunk enough to have agreed, drunk enough to be led here to the bottom of Tom’s staircase at midnight, led here by the pair of damp knickers that still sat in his jacket pocket, scrunched and fragrant and feeding the coals of his banked-up lust. Lust for Felicity, his boss’s wife.

This had been building for a while. In the kitchen, Felicity held a full glass of water and leaned against the cool edge of the sink, feeling the countertop bite into her belly, the sharp edges hard against the crests of her pelvis. She looked at her reflection in the window and drained the glass. Tom had been away for most of the month, and Felicity had been very good. She’d stuck with her toys and her own fast fingers, stuck with strangled conversations mobile to mobile, the thing nestled in her pillows while she tugged and thrust and shared her needs with her absent, similarly gasping husband.

Tom, you terrible slut, she thought. I was a good girl once, but then you told me that I needn’t be. Felicity remembered Tom watching her watching Harry at the beach. That dumb summer barbecue, enlivened by Harry’s trunks. She’d been letting her idle mind – a little buzzed by cheap prosecco – drift over Harry’s tan torso under his Tommy Bahama shirt, and had felt her mouth open slightly when she noticed the length of him, the easy movement of his half-curled cock in sea-damp black. She wanted suddenly to be in the surf with him, naked as a seal. And then Tom laughed in her ear and said:
“Quite something isn’t he?”

For half a year or more, Harry had been in their bed. It was Tom, at first. The whispered fantasies. Harry’s hands under her dress, tracing her outlines through a whisper of tights. Her hands in his flies in a stock cupboard. Harry’s cock in her mouth, Harry’s come spilling down her shaking legs. At a wedding, they went to, after hours at a conference, on the back stairs at work. She had to admit they weren’t far from her own. And then last month the invite had landed. A weighty old-school thing on glossy card stock. The 150th anniversary of Gallowglass & Rudd. Dinner at Aubrey’s with dancing to follow. Tom couldn’t go – off to Berlin – but everyone else would be there for sure. Tom had scribbled on the back of it as he left. “Now’s your chance.” Yes, this had been building for a while.

Felicity looked at her phone. At the several queries from Tom. She could hear the increasing poutiness in each unanswered one. Though she knew she would share this, tonight it was hers alone. Maybe Harry’s too. Rinsing the glass and setting it by, she recalled her frankness, the complete lack of flirt. No ambiguity. She’d been watching all night, watching the swirl of singles and marrieds that orbited him. The flicked hair and the touching, the laughter, the doe eyes. In the end, she’d gone to the loo and sat there for a while, fast fingers flitting over and under her soon soaking lace. On her return, fairly fizzing with her half-finished wank, she’d tucked the damp morsel into his jacket pocket. Left navy-blue lace poking out, her knickers as a pocket square. The young lass from accounts had gone white with shock and acknowledged defeat.

Felicity tick-tocked out of the kitchen. Harry was sitting in the hall, looking angry, tired, a bit drunk. He scratched his nose. She hip-swayed up to him and reached for his hand, drawing him up to his feet. Leaning in, she drew him down for a kiss. He was hesitant at first, till she laugh-growled into him, pulling him, so they both hit the wall. His hands grew more eager on her silken dress, snagging on the hook of her hip, up over her breast to her throat. Grabbing his coat collar, she bit his lip.

Felicity swelled with delight at the feel of him, at the hard ropes of muscle in arm and in hand, at the thickening might of him pressed to her thigh. But most of all Felicity swelled with delight at her power, at the strength that spilt over from some well under her ribs. She was full of lightning and storm and sweet flooding need and a delighted impatience at his diffident ways.

It was she who hitched up her dress, pulled up the silk and bared her hips and her buttocks and parted her slicked-furred thighs and it was she who guided his hand, so his thumb found the crease of her hip and – Oh! Those sudden stiff fingers hooked under and in.

Frolicme: Midnight Mood - Adult Sexual Story Of An Intimate Liaison

She found him, tight and rigid under his slacks, and she rubbed at him while his fingers explored. Callouses snagged at the soft skin of her thigh, and his fat thumb pressed at the crux of her slit, and she grew somewhat swimmy as his fingers pressed home. She fumbled with belt and shirt and ran her hand over the rigid flats of his belly and palmed the swelling head of his imprisoned prick. Her mouth watered at the thought of it, wet as she was below and she swung slow to her knees, feeling the coolness of midnight on her soaking spread self.

Belt buckle and buttons and a swift rip of zip and she pushed down his trousers and tugged at his shorts. It seemed as if she would never uncover it, though his heat burned her cheeks and his deep salty smell spun her head. Then with a startling spring, his cock swung free, bouncing up suddenly and nudging her chin, and she laughed and tried to fit him into her mouth. God. She could not even encompass the whole of him, could not close her fingers around his still thickening shaft. On her knees, she worshipped. She worshipped herself and the power that she had, her power over him and his straining cock. Mouth and hands moving she worked at him, pulling and sucking and letting him fuck. Letting him fuck her mouth, fingers clamped in her hair and hips pumping, she felt him fill her mouth and the top of her throat and she let herself gag, felt her throat draw him in. Her nose slowly buried in the deep musk of his groin, her fingers clamped around the sweet sweep of his arse. And then, when she could feel in the tension of his trembling skin, in the hard ripple of him over her teeth, and in the desperate catch in the back of his throat. When she could feel through those signs that he was as full as could be she let him slip out, and marvelled again and what she had wrought.

This magnificent man was a trembling thing. Twitches fluttered across his ridged stomach and along his beautiful thighs. The glorious swell of his backside shuddered under her hands. But above all that, standing proud as a horn, its lavender curve springing from his tight curls and tight balls, was his straining cock. Wet with her spit and glossy, it was hot and hard. A glass tusk sheathed in warm velvet. Running her hands up his length and kissing his balls, it lay alongside her nose and reached above her head. In all her adventures with things that might fit, man or vibrator or hairbrush or dildo, she had never, ever, had anything like it inside her before.

She stood then, smiling sweetly, her mouth red and bruised and this time he needed no direction. He spun her around and smacked her. A stinging slap that coloured the swell of her arse and she smiled wickedly as she bent forward onto the stairs.

She leaned on the newel post, grasping it in both hands as he took her. He. Was. So. Thick. She was as wet as could be, she felt like hot oil from ribs to knees, a bright swirling whirlpool of want and need and yet, and yet. And yet stretched. A slow pushing and spreading and filling, filling her, the tusk of him finding and filling every space, fitting neatly, snug, everywhere.

With her eyes half shut, her mouth was a wild red open gasp, crying with a new voice her pleasure at this new, gorgeous, discomfort. And then – dearfuckinggod – he moved. The long slow thrust was over, and he moved outward. It was like the weight of the tide. And as inexorable. Another new squeal, a gurgle, a groan. She felt herself move, she stretched self chasing his retreating thickness. She heard herself cry, longing to be so filled again. And then he did so. Again. And again. And again. Faster and harder and he drove her down onto the stairs, nose in the carpet. She grasped at her arse and spread herself wider to take even more of him. His breath came ragged as he grabbed the hook of her hip and held her, pulling her onto him with each thrust. She gaped and shook, gasping. Saw the scribble of lipstick smeared on the stair carpet, felt the prickle of burn on her cheek. Impossibly, she felt him swell still more, and with it the faltering thrust as he got – nearly – too close. Leaving him glossy and trembling, unsteady, she pulled away and ran upstairs, laughing wildly under her breath.

Her marital bed lay unsullied, the linen carefully chosen for this transgressive act. A virginal white for this new departure. She stripped off her dress and, wearing nothing but hold-ups and the slick of their fucking, unfolded across it, a near-naked nymph awaiting her satyr. He appeared in her doorway, backlit from the stairs and stripped off his trousers and shorts. He walked around the bed, proud and eager, cock bobbing and hunger burning in his eyes. He spread her.

Frolicme: Midnight Mood - Adult Sexual Story Of An Intimate Liaison

Harry settled on the bed and, stroking himself, laid his tongue to her cunt. Her stomach twitched, and her nipples tightened as his tongue and his lips danced. She felt boneless and hot as if she was one eager muscle squeezing tight on herself. Grinning weakly and panting she pulled at his collar. She wanted to be full again, but his tongue was so good… she fell back and feeling herself spin and convulse, dug hard at her taut nipples, squeezing as hard as she could. Her hips twitched and thrust with a life of their own, and she felt herself flooding and bit her lip as she thrashed, squeezing his jaw in her bruising release. But he pressed on, tongue and fingers, and she felt her back arch and gripped his face harder as she rose off the bed. She rode his face through a second spasm, a third, then a fourth and then dragged him up to her and, growling, demanded his cock.

He curled up beside and behind her and tilted her pelvis away, slick cockhead sliding along her hip as he did so, blunt fingers parting. His hand covered hers on her breast as she pinched and she felt him nudging, pressing, the ridge of him hard against her keel. Felicity, increasingly drifting in a fog of sensation and lust, let her free hand drift to her fur and his slick head and guided and tilted and pulled, feeling him enter and spread. She let out a sigh like a seabird, and he slid all the way home. It was delicious this bound up, constrained, tightly-fixed fuck. His hand found her throat, and his arm lifted her leg, and slowly his thrusts and her fingers, her pulse and their breath combined in a rush and a rolling thunder like the surf she’d imagined so long ago. They were one thing. A glorious monster tightly curled amid her marriage bed. Ridges of muscle and deep soft wet clasping, shuddering, heaving and muttering, gasping.

Their voices mingled ridiculous things, but so seriously meant in their tangling sin. She was stretched and wide-open as she’d never been and his hand closed still tighter on her shivering throat. She echoed his grasping in the roots of his hair, and their rhythm grew faster as she ran out of air. The moments of drowning and surfacing flew, and her face darkened and within her, it grew. Huge and powerful it rose up from the depths, and her inner eye watched it, while she stroked and begged. At first it was deep and dark, distant, outside her. A dark mass rising in a skein, a veil, of fast bubbles through dark water. With each thrust and each stroke it grew closer, rose into the sunlit water within her, gold and green, rushing and bursting within her, and she saw herself rise through the foam a slick mermaid, head back, water streaming in arcs off her pearl-scaled sea-self and calling out in the hoarse glee of a gull.

She came back to herself on all fours and smiling, happy to feel him nearly there too, thicker and hotter and his rhythm breaking. She thrust back at him, and his great hands pulled at her, taking handfuls of arse as he hurled himself into her, worshipping her. With her last orgasm past, she was free just to feel him alone. The glorious closeness, the gift of it all. He filled her delightfully and she felt him twitch and stutter and swell, and she could almost feel his balls tighten as he began to come. With stumbling, fumbling, shaking hands, he spun her on her back and their eyes locked as he, too, raced the wave crests and burst through the foam. He came hard, fist knotted on his magnificent cock, curled over himself in a single flushed clasp of every fibre and bone. His come flew upon her, in three, four, five, six spasms, kissing her hotly from belly to throat.

Felicity stroked her fingers through it all, stirring it, stroking. As she smiled at Harry’s still gasping face, she recalled that Tom would return tomorrow. Perhaps she wouldn’t shower, but just meet him, welcome him home like this…sticky and ready and eager for more.

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