She occasionally came into Nashville alone and sat in a quiet bar, listening to some live music, and wondering if some man would hit on her or buy her a drink. Sometimes she took off her wedding ring, sometimes she kept it on. This time she kept it on. She had raven hair and blue eyes. She was petite and lean with smaller breasts and a high and tight ass. She would wear short dresses, this time it was red, her favorite color, the hem falling at her mid thigh.
She sipped her Moscow Mule and surveyed the half filled bar: some couples and some college aged men quickly getting plastered. It looked like another boring night, until he sat down next to her. While the idea of being hit on excited her, she was a shy person in real life. She kept her wild side online and with her husband. She peeked at him out of the corner of her eyes. He was broad chested, wide shouldered with large hands with long, slender fingers. He wore jeans and a black, fitted shirt. She was in her mid 40s, she figured him to be a bit older, head shaved closely with blue eyes. He has a strong jaw. She glanced at his left hand, a ring. She sighed and settled in to finish her drink and go.
“Booker’s on the rocks,” he told the bartender, a cute young blonde.
She served him and he took a sip. She liked the way his hand held the glass, his hand dwarfing it.
“Here’s the problem,” he said to her, leaning in slightly. He smelt of soap, and she could smell the bourbon on his breath. “You see all these people?” He waved his hand around the bar. “Every single one of them has their faces stuck in their phones. No one lives in the moment.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “My name’s Miles. I sound like a grumpy old man.” He locked eyes with her, blue eyes on blue eyes. He had an intensity that made her heart race. Then he laughed a contagious laugh.
The ice broken, they sat and chatted for what felt like minutes, but was really hours. He was married, in from the west coast on business. They talked about marriage, and music, and sex. As the conversation grew more intense, he started to move in closer. He placed a hand on the back of her neck lightly, and she felt herself get wet. His hand moved like a roaming animal, from her neck to her bare upper back, to her mid back, where she knew he felt no bra strap, to the small of her back, and finally her upper buttock and hip. Her breathing got raspy, and her face flushed. No one other than her husband had touched her like that in many years.
“Life is meant to be lived,” he said, taking his hand from her buttock and resting it on her bare thigh. It was warm, with smooth skin, he gripped her thigh and she worried she would drip through her dress. “Don’t you agree?” he said.
Her head spun as she felt his hand slowly migrate up her inner thigh, closer and closer to her honeypot. Her legs instinctively spread to make room for his hand. She felt the cold air of the room in her ever more exposed thighs as he pushed the hem of her dress ever higher.
She was torn. The wilder part of her hoped someone would see her pussy being exposed, but the small town part of her was mortified. In either case, she grew wetter and her breath grew ragged. He leaned in and kissed her, tongue penetrating her mouth simultaneously with a finger slipping between her glistening lower lips and into her warm and tight pussy. She was grateful his tongue filled her mouth as she would not have been able to stifle the moan she emitted. Her body shuddered. She could taste the bourbon on his tongue, strong and gripping.
He drew her wetness up around her stiffening clit. He whispered in her ear, “My hands told me the story of your lovely body, no bra and no panties. It was prepared to be conquered and worshipped. I want you to come for me, right here, right now.”
He looked into her eyes, his gaze was so intense. She felt her excitement build as his hand moved quicker and quicker. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the cute blonde bartender approached to ask if they wanted another drink, then turn away embarrassed, realizing she was interrupting a moment, how intense a moment she had no clue.
She felt him slip two fingers then three in her tight pussy. It was impossibly stretched and filled. “Good, he whispered in her ear. If you can take three fingers you have a chance of taking my cock.” He guided her small hand to his thigh, where she felt a thick and throbbing cock.
That tipped her over, she came, feeling her push contract around his fingers. Her head fell to his muscular shoulders. He waited until her spasms stopped the slowly withdrew his hand, fingers slick to the base.
He stirred his bourbon with one of the fingers, then took a sip of her from a glass. She hadn’t even told him her name.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/uyn7o3/wild_nights_are_calling_pt_1_mf_cheating_public