It was going to be a dark and stormy night in Cape Town. The weather service had issued stern warnings: gale-force winds, torrential rain, and a chill that would seep into every corner of the city. People scrambled to prepare, stocking up on food, water, and, for the fortunate few, firewood for their hearths. A city braced itself for the storm.

I left work early, slipping out into the grey afternoon at 14:00. The clouds churned overhead as I made my way to Woolworths. Snacks, wood, and a comforting dinner — it was all I needed to survive the weekend. At least, that’s what I told myself. But the thrill of the coming night buzzed beneath my skin.

My wife’s voice crackled through the car’s Bluetooth as I drove home. Her flight from Johannesburg was grounded indefinitely, the storm halting all incoming flights. “Don’t worry about me,” she reassured, her voice tinged with concern. “Just take care of yourself — and my plants.”

“I’ve got it all covered, love. Snacks, supplies, and a primed generator. You know me — I thrive in chaos.” My attempt at humour coaxed a laugh from her before we said our goodbyes.

Pulling into the driveway, I spotted the car waiting there. My pulse quickened. Ali had beaten me home. Seeing her stepping from her car to mine sent a jolt of anticipation through me. As she slipped into the passenger seat and kissed me, the storm seemed a world away. Her lips, soft and inviting, carried the promise of a weekend we’d remember forever. That smile brought back memories of how we met.

—

We met eight months ago, on a quiet night when I was scrolling through the darker corners of my secret Twitter account. My private oasis, a place where I could shed the skin of the devoted husband and lose myself in sin and the taboo, had always been my refuge. That night, I found Ali.

Her profile picture was a calculated tease: a close-up of her gorgeous green eyes. Enough to captivate but not enough to give everything away. Her bio read, “Good girls go to heaven. I prefer the other place.” It was her pinned tweet, though, that hooked me — a slow, sultry video of her licking a popsicle, her lips glistening as she murmured something filthy in a voice like honey. The comments were filled with lustful praise, but I didn’t bother to read them. My fingers moved instinctively, following her and sending her a witty DM. I have always been good with words, and I hoped my introduction would cut through the usual, dry messages she must get all the time

Her reply came within minutes: “Well, hello, Daddy. I was wondering when you’d find me.”

From that moment, it was like we’d known each other forever. Her messages were a potent mix of flirtation and filth, each one pulling me deeper into her orbit. We talked about everything — our favourite kinks, the fantasies we were too ashamed to admit to anyone else, the darkest corners of our desires.

“You’re married,” she typed one night, the words stark on my screen. “Does she know you like this stuff?”

“No,” I replied. “This part of me doesn’t exist for her.”

“Good,” she shot back. “Because it’s mine now.”

The power in her words sent a thrill through me, a mix of submission and rebellion that I hadn’t known I craved.

It didn’t take long for things to escalate. By the second week, Ali was sending me videos — short, raw clips that left little to the imagination. Her camera angles were tantalisingly amateur, the lighting just enough to highlight the curves of her body and the glint in her eyes.

One video stood out above the rest: Ali on her bed, the straps of her tank top slipping down her shoulders as she pushed a vibrating toy against herself. “This is for you,” she whispered, her voice breathy and edged with need. “I want you to watch this at work. I want you to think about me while you sit in that boring meeting.”

And I did. The next day, I sat in a conference room, nodding along to a presentation while my phone buzzed in my lap, the memory of her cries echoing in my head.

I started sending her pictures in return — nothing too revealing at first. A shot of my belt buckle undone. My hand wrapped around myself under the desk. But as her encouragement grew, so did my boldness. I sent her a video of myself in the bathroom, stroking myself to the sound of her last voice note, while my wife prepared dinner just a room away.

Her reply was instant: “God, I love how dirty you are. She has no idea, does she?”

“She doesn’t,” I admitted the thrill of the confession nearly as intoxicating as Ali herself.

“Good,” she wrote. “Because I want to ruin you for her.”

Three weeks after that first message, we decided to meet. Ali insisted we keep it simple — a coffee shop in a quiet part of town. When she arrived, I recognised her immediately: her white sundress fluttering around her thighs, her hair tied back in a messy ponytail. She looked every bit an innocent college girl, but when she smiled at me, the wolf beneath the sheep’s clothing was unmistakable.

We didn’t even finish our coffee. The moment we were back in my car, her façade dropped. Her hands were on me before I’d even pulled out of the parking lot, her lips pressed to my neck, her whispers sending shivers down my spine.

“Take me somewhere,” she demanded, her voice low and commanding.

We didn’t make it far. In a secluded corner of a parking garage, we tumbled into the back seat. Her dress was off in seconds, her body warm and trembling beneath my hands. She pulled me on top of her, her voice a breathy plea: “Show me what I’ve been waiting for, Daddy.”

It was wild, desperate, and completely unrestrained. Every moan, every touch, every thrust felt like a rebellion against the life I thought I’d wanted. And when it was over, as we lay tangled together in the cramped space, she looked up at me with a smile that could have made the devil blush.

“You’re mine now,” she said, her fingers tracing lazy circles on my chest. “And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

—

Back in the present, the heavens opened as we kissed, the rain hammering the car with unrelenting force. It was as though the world outside dissolved into a curtain of water, isolating us in our cocoon of sin. My hand found her small breast, cupping it gently, feeling her hardened nipple press against my palm. Ali’s moan vibrated against my lips, the sound more intoxicating than any whisky.

I pulled back slightly, studying her face. Her big, anime-like eyes sparkled with mischief, a succubus veiled in innocence. Her allure lies in the way she shifts so seamlessly — assertive one moment, submissive the next, and then demure — all as if she’s testing which version of herself will captivate me the most. The rain masked the outside world, but the storm between us needed no cover. “Want to make a run for it and unlock the door?” I asked.

“Yes, Daddy,” she replied, her lips curling into a wicked smile. The nickname became a private indulgence between us, a shorthand for the dark and twisted bond we shared.

She reached for the house keys in the door pocket, her tank top slipping open just enough to tease me. My breath caught as she glanced up, catching the growing tension in my expression. With a playful bite to my hard cock through my pants, she hopped out into the downpour and ran for the door.

—

Ali unlocked the door, and I followed with our supplies. It was her first time in my home. The stars never really aligned for us to have her stay over. Our affair was limited to my car, her car and hotels around Cape Town. As she explored downstairs I built a fire. She had shed her rain-soaked clothes and left them in a pile by the front door. I’ll hang them up to dry later I thought. She was always more comfortable naked. Ali was fidgeting with the stereo, connecting her phone. The fire crackled to life, its warmth spreading across the room as the storm raged outside. Ali’s favourite songs drifted from the stereo, and she started to dance by herself. The song is a sultry backdrop to her hypnotic movements. She danced slowly, her hands tracing the curves of her body with deliberate intent. Her wet hair clung to her skin, glistening in the firelight. She moved like a predator, aware of my gaze and the effect it had.

She rushed into my arms as I got close. She stumbled slightly as she navigated unfamiliar furniture and the carpet. “Watch out, you’ll hurt yourself,” I say. She just giggled and snuggled against my chest. In that moment she looked so innocent. Vulnerable. “I’ll always catch you,” I murmured, the words carrying a weight I didn’t fully understand. It wasn’t just lust binding us — it was something darker, something I couldn’t name but couldn’t resist. “I know you’ll do Daddy” she replied, her voice sweet and pure.

I took a sip of the drink I had in my hand. The whisky warmed my throat as Ali snuggled closer, her naked body pressed against my side. The fire painted flickering patterns across her pale skin, highlighting every curve, every hollow. Her eyes caught mine as I set my glass down. She read the intent there instantly. A sly smile spread across her lips, and she shifted, her body a tantalising invitation.

“You’re insatiable,” I murmured, tracing a finger down her spine.

“For you, always,” she whispered, her voice a blend of innocence and wickedness.

She pushed me back, and I fell onto the couch. Her movements were deliberate as she straddled me, her damp hair falling in dark waves around her face. She unbuttoned my pants and snaked my cock out of it. I clumsily kicked them off. She guided my cock into her wetness. I let her set the pace, her hips rolling with practised ease. The room filled with the sound of rain, crackling fire, and her soft moans. It was intoxicating, a heady cocktail of lust and the storm outside, a symphony of chaos that mirrored the tempest within us. “I want you on top of me,” Ali said. I wrapped my arm around her and in one movement she was under me.

Ali shifted beneath me, her breath catching as I slid my fingers deep into her, her slick heat gripping me with every movement of my hand. The way her body responded, tightening around me as though pleading for more, was intoxicating. Her skin was flushed, her lips parted, and her breath came in shallow, desperate gasps.

“Don’t stop, Daddy,” she moaned, her voice dripping with raw need. Her gaze dropped to my right hand, where my wedding ring glinted in the flickering firelight. The contrast was obscene — the cool, unyielding metal against her warm, yielding flesh. “I love feeling that inside me,” she breathed, her voice trembling.

I hesitated for a heartbeat, the weight of what we were doing pressing down on me. The ring was a symbol of my other life, the life I was betraying with every touch. But here, with Ali’s wetness coating my fingers and her body trembling beneath me, it became something else entirely. A badge of sin. A perverse promise.

Her hand slid over mine, her nails lightly grazing my skin as she guided my movements. “Do you feel how wet I get for you?” she whispered, her lips brushing my ear. Her breath was hot, each word dripping with wickedness. “Knowing you’re still wearing it? Knowing it’s hers?” My fingers plunged deeper into her, curling slightly to find the spot that made her cry out. The ring dragged against her inner walls with every thrust, sending shivers through her. Her wetness soaked my hand, dripping onto my wrist and filling the air with her intoxicating scent — earthy, musky, and undeniably hers.

Ali’s hips bucked against my hand; her movements erratic as she chased her release. Her moans grew louder, her voice rising in pitch until it was a breathless symphony of lust. “Fuck, Daddy,” she whimpered, her nails digging into my shoulders. “I’m so close. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

I didn’t. My fingers worked faster, sliding in and out of her, spreading her open as I watched her unravel. Her body arched off the couch, her head thrown back, and a deep, guttural moan tore from her throat as she came, her inner walls clenching tightly around my fingers and the ring.

I didn’t stop, prolonging her pleasure as her climax rippled through her. Her juices coated my hand, slick and warm, dripping onto the blankets beneath us. The scent of her orgasm filled the room, mingling with the crackle of the fire and the steady rhythm of the rain outside.

When she finally came down, her body trembling and her breath hitching, she pulled my hand to her mouth. Her lips parted, and she took my soaked fingers into her mouth, her tongue swirling around them as she cleaned every trace of herself off me. The cool metal of the ring clinked softly against her teeth.

Unable to resist the pull of her lips I kissed her. “You taste like heaven,” I murmured.

Her eyes sparkled as she leaned in, her kiss hungry and demanding. Her tongue slipped into my mouth, tangling with mine, as she pressed herself closer. Her hands roamed my chest, her nails scratching lightly as she marked me as hers.

“You make me feel sinful and on fire,” she said between kisses, her voice breathy and raw. “And I love that she has no idea what you’re doing to me. What I’m doing to you.” Her words sent a fresh wave of desire crashing through me. Ali was more than a lover — she was a force of nature; one I had no hope of resisting.

“You’re mine when you’re here,” she said, her voice trembling. “And I love knowing that every time you touch her, you’ll think of me.”

Her words were a brand, searing themselves into my mind. The contrast of the metal against her heat, the weight of the betrayal — it was all too much, and yet I knew I’d never stop craving it.

—

Later that night, as we lounged by the fire, Ali disappeared upstairs. I assumed she was fetching a blanket in my room or changing into one of my oversized sweaters. But when she returned, my breath caught in my throat.

She stood in the doorway wearing one of my wife’s black lace chemises. It clung to her lithe frame, the sheer fabric leaving little to the imagination. The delicate lace barely concealed her taut nipples and the soft curves of her hips. The hem brushed the tops of her thighs, teasing the eye with every subtle movement.

“What do you think?” she asked, spinning slowly to show off every angle. Her bare skin peeked through the intricate patterns, the firelight catching the sheen of her hair and the wicked gleam in her eyes. “Does it suit me?”

Words failed me as she sauntered closer, each step deliberate, her confidence radiating. She stopped just short of the couch, her hands resting on her hips, the chemise dipping low enough to reveal the swell of her breasts.

“I think it looks better on me,” she teased, her voice a seductive purr. “Don’t you agree, Daddy?”

I reached for her, pulling her onto my lap in one fluid motion. The lace was soft against my hands as I explored her, my fingers tracing the delicate patterns, lingering over the peaks and valleys of her body. “You’re trouble,” I murmured, my lips finding the curve of her neck, kissing her skin that smelled faintly of my wife’s perfume.

“And you love it,” she shot back, grinding against me with deliberate slowness. Her heat pressed against my arousal; her movements were unhurried but maddeningly precise. “You love that I’m wearing this. That it’s hers.”

The audacity of her actions sent a jolt of heat through me, the forbidden nature of the moment stoking the fire between us. Her hips rolled harder, and I gripped her waist, my hands sliding under the lace to feel her bare skin.

“Fuck, Daddy,” she whispered, her voice thick with lust. “Do you think she’d scream like I do? Do you think she’d beg you the way I do?”

She reached down, freeing me from my pants, her small hand wrapped around me with practised ease. Her lips brushed against my ear. “You know she couldn’t take you like this. She couldn’t handle how filthy you are.”

With one swift motion, she sank onto me, her body enveloping me in tight, wet heat. We both groaned at the sensation, the chemise riding up her thighs as she began to move. Her hips worked with a rhythm that was both teasing and relentless, her body rising and falling as she took me deeper with every thrust.

“Fuck, Ali,” I gasped, my hands gripping her hips, urging her on.

“Say it,” she demanded, her voice a low growl. “Say I’m better than her. Say I’m the one you need.”

“You’re fucking perfect,” I groaned, my voice strained as her pace quickened. “Your pussy is better than hers. You are better than her”.

Her laughter was sharp, mocking. “Damn right, I am,” she spat, her nails digging into my shoulders. “She doesn’t even know how to make you feel like this. She doesn’t deserve you.”

Her words were blasphemous, a sacrilege that only heightened the thrill. “Fill me, Daddy,” she begged, her voice breaking. “Fuck, I need it. I need you to cum in me. Mark me. Make me yours.”

Her movements became frantic, her breath hitching as she lost herself in the pleasure. “She’ll never know,” Ali whispered, her lips brushing against mine. “She’ll never know how good you feel inside me. How much you need this.”

The sheer filth of her words pushed me over the edge. My grip tightened on her waist as I thrust up into her, burying myself as deeply as I could. Her cry was primal, her body clenching around me as I spilt inside her, the heat of my release mingling with hers.

As she collapsed against me, her body trembling and her breath ragged, she looked up with a wicked grin. “That’s my Daddy,” she purred, pressing a kiss to my jaw. “I’m never letting you go.”

—

Later, as we lay entwined on the couch, her head resting on my chest, a quiet settled over us. The storm had lessened, the rain now a steady rhythm against the windows. Ali traced lazy patterns across my skin, her nails just barely grazing me.

“Do you ever think about what comes next?” she asked suddenly, her voice thoughtful.
I glanced down at her. “What do you mean?”

“This. Us. It feels like we’re always teetering on the edge of something… dangerous.”
Her words hung in the air, charged and fragile. I tightened my hold on her, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Danger can be thrilling,” I said, deflecting with a smirk.

Her laugh was soft, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re good at pretending, Daddy. But sometimes I wonder… do you ever regret it? Us?”

I paused, the question cutting through the haze of contentment. Did I regret it? The lies, the secrets, the weight of knowing this couldn’t last forever? “No,” I said finally, my voice firm. “You’re my escape, Ali. My freedom. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep this.”

She studied me for a moment, her eyes searching mine. Then she smiled, a small, knowing curve of her lips. “Good,” she said simply. “Because I’m not letting you go.”

—

It was late on Friday evening, the fire reduced to embers, when Ali turned to me with a mischievous glint in her eyes. We had been watching a show on Netflix. “Show me where you sleep,” she whispered, her voice a silken challenge.

For a moment, I hesitated, the weight of her request settling over me. The bed I shared with my wife wasn’t just furniture; it was a symbol of promises made; and vows exchanged. But Ali’s hand slipped into mine, her touch electric, and all thoughts of loyalty burned away in the heat of her gaze.

We climbed the stairs in silence, the creak of each step an unspoken declaration of betrayal. In the dim light of the bedroom, Ali slid out of my wife’s chemise, her bare skin glowing in the soft moonlight that filtered through the curtains.

“You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?” she murmured, her fingers trailing over the duvet, her voice dripping with wicked intent. “How it would feel to have me here, where she sleeps.”

I didn’t answer, couldn’t. Instead, I pulled her to me, our mouths meeting in a clash of need and guilt. Her lips were insistent, her hands pulling me closer as the world narrowed to the heat between us. The sheets crumpled beneath us as I laid her down, her hair fanning out like a dark halo. The scent of her, strawberries and sin, mingled with the faint traces of my wife’s perfume still lingering on the pillows.

Ali’s legs wrapped around me, her nails raking down my back as I entered her. Her breath hitched, her hands gripping my shoulders as we moved together. The room was filled with the sounds of us — soft gasps, murmured words, and the rhythmic creak of the bed. Each thrust was deliberate, each movement another fracture in the foundation of the life I’d built.

At her urging, we shifted, her body supple and eager as she guided me into something more intimate, more primal. Ali’s petite frame hovered over me, her thighs framing my face as she leaned forward, taking me into her mouth with a confidence that sent a shiver through me as she lowered her pussy to my eager mouth.

Her taste was intoxicating, the warmth and softness of her pressing against my lips as I explored her, my tongue tracing patterns that had her hips trembling. Her moans vibrated against me, muffled but no less potent as she moved, her rhythm matched mine in perfect, sinful harmony.

The position was electric, a convergence of sensations that left us both on edge. My hands gripped her hips, pulling her closer as her movements grew frantic, her need and mine building into something unstoppable.

“Stop. Stop.” I pleaded as I loosened my mouth from her dripping pussy. “I don’t want to cum yet. I have other ideas”. “Ooohhh” Ali said, “Tell me more”.

“I’ll show you.”

I scooted out from under Ali and got behind her. She knows what is next. She lowers her shoulders and lifts her butt. I grabbed some lube from the bedside table and squirted a dollop in my hand. I spread it all over my shaft. Positioning my cock against her perfect little asshole, I pushed forward.

Ali moans. A deep, animalistic moan. Deep, guttural and whorish.

My grip on her hips tightened as I thrust into her, each movement deliberate, primal, and unrelenting. Her back arched beneath me, her breath hitching with every impact, her cries mingling with the storm’s lingering rhythm outside. The tightness of her asshole gripped me, pulling me deeper with every motion, our bodies perfectly in sync. Her nails raked the sheets, grabbing fistfuls, her moans rising in pitch, urging me on, demanding more. The tension coiled tight within me, building to an inevitable crescendo. With one final, shuddering thrust, I buried myself fully in her tight little asshole, my release overtaking me in a surge of blinding intensity. I released my cum deep inside her. The heat of it, the sheer rawness, left us both trembling, our breaths mingling as I collapsed forward onto her, her sweat slick and warm.

When we finally came apart, gasping and trembling, her smile was equal parts mischief and triumph. “You’re too good at that,” she teased, her voice breathy and raw.

“And you’re too much trouble,” I countered, pulling her face to mine, the taste of her still lingering on my lips.

Each thrust into Ali on my wife’s side of the bed felt like a deliberate act of desecration, an unholy ritual marking sacred ground with sin. The faint trace of my wife’s perfume still lingered on the pillows, mingling with the scent of sweat and forbidden lust. The sheets, once a testament to vows exchanged in love, became a canvas for betrayal, soaked with the evidence of our rebellion.

The juxtaposition of Ali’s youthful, reckless energy against the familiarity of my marital bed was intoxicating, a visceral reminder of the boundaries we shattered with every gasp, every movement. This wasn’t just sex; it was blasphemy, a deliberate erasure of fidelity as I carved my mark into the space meant only for my wife, leaving behind an indelible stain of desire and defiance.

— 
 
Saturday morning, as the storm raged on after intensifying overnight, Ali pulled me into the bathroom. The tiles were cool beneath our feet, a stark contrast to the heat of the water cascading from the showerhead. Steam rose around us, cloaking the room in a veil of intimacy.

She pressed me against the cold tile, her wet body sliding against mine, her curves perfectly moulding to my frame. The water traced the lines of her figure, streaming over her shoulders and down the hollow of her back, each droplet accentuating the softness of her skin.

“You’re mine here,” she breathed, her lips brushing against my ear. Her voice was low, possessive, and sent a jolt of desire through me.

Her hands roamed over me, bold and confident, exploring every inch of my skin as though claiming it for herself. My hands found her hips, fingers digging into her slippery flesh as I lifted her effortlessly. Her legs wrapped tightly around my waist, locking us together as her back pressed against the cool tile.

The contrast between the heat of the water and the chill of the wall only heightened the sensation as I positioned myself at her entrance, her body trembling in anticipation. With one fluid motion, I entered her, her slick heat drawing me in completely.

Her gasp turned into a moan, her head tipping back to rest against the tiles as her fingers tangled in my hair. The storm outside raged louder, the thunder echoing like a primal drumbeat to our movements.

I gripped her thighs, holding her securely as I thrust into her, each movement deliberate and forceful. The sound of water splashing around us mingled with the rhythm of our bodies, her cries muffled but still urgent.

“God, yes,” she whispered, her voice trembling with each movement. “Don’t stop, Daddy. Please don’t stop.”

Her nails raked down my shoulders as she clung to me, her hips rolling in time with mine. The steam enveloped us, the heat and humidity making it hard to tell where I ended, and she began.

When her release finally overtook her, her body convulsed against mine, her moans swallowed by the sound of the storm and the water cascading over us. I held her tighter, burying myself deeper as her muscles clenched around me. The sheer intensity of the moment left us both gasping for air, clinging to each other as the water began to cool.

As the storm continued outside, the bathroom became our sanctuary, a place where nothing else mattered but the fire between us.

— 
 
By mid-morning, the rain had softened to a persistent drizzle. We had breakfast, and I showed her around my house. We discussed some of the photos and art I had on the walls and had a spirited debate about photography. We found ourselves in the study. I was looking for a book to give to her. It was a place of order, of focus — until Ali decided otherwise.

She perched on the edge of my desk, her bare legs crossed, a wicked smile on her lips. “Does she sit here?” she asked, her fingers tracing the grain of the wood.

I didn’t answer at first. Words felt inadequate as I stepped closer, my hands finding her thighs, parting them with deliberate slowness. She leaned back, her hair spilling over the polished surface, and the sight of her laid out like that, surrounded by books and papers, was enough to undo me. “Sometimes, when she is working from home”.

Ali’s voice was soft, teasing. “Careful, Daddy. You wouldn’t want to knock anything over that she would notice.”

The dim glow of the desk lamp illuminated the room, casting long shadows across the surface of my wife’s meticulously organised office. Ali perched on the edge of the desk, her bare legs crossed, a mischievous grin playing on her lips as she reached for a pen, twirling it idly in her fingers. The act was innocent enough, but the look in her eyes betrayed her intentions — a mix of mischief and provocation that sent a shiver through me.

“This is hers, isn’t it?” she asked, holding up the pen, its familiar weight a stark reminder of its owner. She set it down and reached for something else — a ruler, its edges gleaming faintly in the light. “Do you think she’d mind if we borrowed a few things?” She put down the ruler and picked up a bulky stapler. Her voice was light, teasing, but there was an undercurrent of defiance, a deliberate act of rebellion against a woman who didn’t even know she was being betrayed. As Ali leaned back, the desk creaked beneath her, the stark contrast between her lithe frame and the sterile office tools heightening the surreal nature of the moment.

I picked up the ruler and playfully slapped her tits through her t-shirt. She gasped, grinned and hastily pulled her shirt over her head. “Harder, Daddy, and get my nipples too”. I pulled back and slapped again, five times in quick succession on each breast. She winced and smiled. Ali loves a little bit of pain. “Slap my clit too”. She shimmied out of her shorts and hopped back on my wife’s desk. She spreads her legs lewdly. Her pussy is wet and glistening. I lift the ruler and whack her clit. Hard. This time she screams and quickly rubs her clit and almost immediately her scream turns to a moan.

She takes the ruler from my hand and puts it back in the holder. We smile at each other. When my wife comes back, she’ll touch it. I pick up the pen, uncap it, and I start writing on her body. She pushes her tits forward and I write ‘Daddy’s Girl’, ‘Whore’ and ‘Slut’. She giggles, proud to be branded.

“Put her stapler inside me,” she says. She grabs it and shoves it in my hand. She spreads her legs again. I grip the stapler and push it against her wet pussy. Ali reclined on the desk, her legs slightly parted, the faint hum of the storm outside providing a rhythmic backdrop to the tension in the room. “Do you think she’d notice?”

I stepped closer, my gaze locked on hers. The line between playfulness and defiance blurred as she reached for my hand, guiding it and the stapler harder against her pussy. The cool surface of it met the warmth of her skin, and she gasped softly, her eyes darkening with something deeper than amusement as it slid inside her. Her pussy stretched around the stapler. I moved it in and out of her like a dildo while she rubbed her clit. “Put it back and fuck me, Daddy”.

I lifted her hips, pulling her to the edge as I entered her. The desk creaked beneath us, the papers crumpling and sliding to the floor. Her laughter was a melody, punctuated by gasps and moans as we moved together, our passion consuming the sanctity of yet another space. I came deep inside her pussy, and as she hopped off the table, cum dripped from her pussy onto my wife’s new carpet. “Oops!” she giggles impishly.

I think we need to do this more often,” she said with a grin.

—

It was early evening on Saturday, and the storm outside had eased to a gentle patter. The house felt cocooned in its own bubble, the fire still crackling faintly from last night’s embers. We had spent the afternoon napping, snacking, watching shows and making out. Ali now lay sprawled across the Fatsak, her bare legs stretched out, her fingers idly scrolling through her phone. She was catching up on Tweets and posting some nudes she took of herself in my shower and on my bed. She was watching some porn too, and I watched her hand slide into her pants often, rubbing her clit and fingering her pussy. I was reading a book she recommended. She looked at me once and playfully licked her fingers before going back to her screen. She glanced up at me as my phone buzzed on the coffee table.

The name on the screen sent a jolt through me. My wife. “It’s her” I say to Ali

She sat up instantly, her interest piqued. “Answer it,” she said, her tone lilting with mischief.

“I should — ”

“Do it,” she urged, crawling toward me on all fours like a predator closing in on its prey. Her grin was devilish, her intentions unmistakable.

With a steadying breath, I picked up the phone. “Hey, love,” I said, keeping my voice light, and steady.

Ali, however, had no such restraint. She slipped between my knees, her eyes locking onto mine as she tugged at the waistband of my sweats. My heart raced, but I didn’t stop her. I couldn’t.

“How’s it going there?” my wife asked, her voice warm and familiar. “The storm hasn’t been too bad, has it?”

“Not too bad,” I lied, my voice catching as Ali freed me from my clothes. Her fingers wrapped around me, her touch soft, teasing. “Just… keeping busy, you know. Reading. Watching movies.”

Ali’s grin widened as she lowered her head, her tongue flicking out to taste me. My grip on the phone tightened, every nerve in my body electrified by the sheer audacity of the act. My cock was hard.

The lewdness of our actions is evident in my hardness. Ali licked my shaft from top to bottom and back, rubbing my cock against her face, pre-cum streaking across her cheek. She bobbed her head up and down on my cock as I spoke to my wife.

“That’s good,” my wife continued, oblivious. “I was worried about you being alone.”
Alone. The word hung in the air as Ali took me deeper, her mouth warm and wet and perfect.

Her eyes never left mine, shining with a mix of mischief and triumph. She loved this, loved being the younger, forbidden woman. Loved the power she held in moments like these.

“I’m fine,” I managed, my voice strained but steady. “The generator’s running. Plenty of snacks. Nothing to worry about.”

Ali hummed around me, the vibration sending a shiver up my spine. She was testing me, pushing me to the edge, her movements deliberate and unrelenting.

“Good,” my wife said. “I’ll try to get home as soon as the flights resume. I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” I said automatically, my words a mask for the storm of sensations coursing through me.

Ali’s hands gripped my thighs, her nails digging in just enough to make me shudder. She pulled back slightly, her tongue swirling around me before taking me deep again. The sound was obscene, the wet, rhythmic noise nearly audible over the phone.

“I’ll let you go,” my wife said after a pause. “I am going to Mom’s for lunch.”
“Yeah,” I said, swallowing hard. “Just… catching up on some reading.”
“Alright. Love you.”
“Love you too. Send her my love too”

The call ended, and the phone slipped from my hand onto the couch. Ali released me with a soft pop, her laughter light and wicked.

“You’re terrible,” I said, though the grin on my face betrayed my words.

“And you love it,” she shot back, licking her lips. “You love how filthy this is. How wrong it all is.”

She wasn’t wrong. The thrill, the betrayal, the sheer audacity of it all — it was intoxicating.

Ali continued licking and sucking. She wanted my cum. It belongs to her after all. Every drop. She lifted her head, gasping for air, spit trailing from my cock to her mouth. She lowered her head again, but this time she licked my balls, sucking them into her mouth.

At the same time, I push my leg out, positioning my barefoot under her pussy. She feels it and instinctively knows what to do. She grinds her wet pussy against my foot, moaning as she does.

I let out a low, guttural moan, and that only seemed to spur her on. She licked my balls and ventured lower. Her tongue seeking out my puckered asshole. She kissed, licked and sucked, forcing her tongue inside me.

“Yesss, fuck Ali” I moaned.

Her tiny fist blurred up and down on my cock. “I’m going to cum!” I exclaim. She let go of my asshole and look into my eyes. It is wild with lust. “Cum in my face, Daddy” she purrs. I look at her pretty face and can’t hold on. I release my while-hot cum and thick, ropey spurts land on her face. Her forehead, cheek, nose and chin are coated. She sits back, slowly grinding on my foot as she scoops the cum from her face into her mouth, grinning wickedly.

—

By Sunday afternoon, the storm had passed, leaving the city drenched and shining in the twilight.

We spent the morning in my marital bed again. The storm outside had calmed, but inside, the air between us was thick with unspoken words and undeniable pull. We made love — not the frenzied, desperate fucking of earlier, but something slower, more deliberate. Every touch, every kiss, every movement felt purposeful, as though we were memorising each other in ways that transcended the physical. Her eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, the rest of the world ceased to exist. It was beautiful in a way I hadn’t expected — two dark souls seeking each other, finding solace in a connection that defied morality and reason. In her arms, I wasn’t just escaping my life; I was merging with someone who understood the shadows I carried, who mirrored my own chaos and made it feel like something whole, something profound. The sheets around us bore the evidence of our shared passion, but at that moment, they also held the fragile truth of who we were when we were together: raw, exposed, and deeply intertwined.

Later, after we showered and had some tea, Ali stood by the window, wrapped in one of my oversized sweaters. She looked out at the world beyond, her expression unreadable. I came up behind her, sliding my arms around her waist.

“It’s going to be hard to say goodbye,” she murmured, leaning back into me.

I didn’t answer immediately. Instead, I held her tighter, memorising the feel of her against me, the scent of strawberries lingering in her hair. “We’ll have this again,” I promised, though the words felt like smoke. “Soon.”

She turned in my arms, her eyes bright and unyielding. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Daddy.” I kissed her then, pouring every unspoken thought, every forbidden feeling into the connection. For now, this was enough. For now, we were all that mattered.

As I watched her drive away later that night, her taillights disappearing into the distance, the house felt too quiet, too empty. The storm was gone, but its aftermath lingered — both outside and within.

I poured myself another whisky and sat by the fire, letting the silence seep into me. The thrill, the guilt, the longing — they were all tangled together, as inseparable as she and I.

And I knew, without a doubt, that I’d chase this storm again.

—

After many years of writing filthy captions reflecting my desires for my Twitter account MrWednesdayZA, I decided to bite the bullet and write my first full-length erotic story. It is long. I wanted to flex my muscles with a long story. My next ones will be shorter, and expand on the world I created.