Daddy's Sweet Addiction

My hands tremble as I clutch the steering wheel. I try to inhale the vanilla-scented air in my Cooper mini as I attempt what my therapist and many others describe as the number one cure for tension: breathing exercises. But it isn't helping.

After my third attempt, I have been unable to go beyond three.

I relax into the embrace of the seat and try to distract myself from the world beyond my windshield.

I see a tattooed man and a well-dressed woman who is twice smaller than he is. Their lips are pressed against each other, their hands almost tearing each other's clothes. It is as though they can't wait to get to their room. Something about their urgency tells me that they aren't a married couple.

I soon lose interest as I am drawn to a man in a suit getting out of his car. My heart leaps to my mouth. His sleek black hair looks like Frank's, and the way his jacket fits, even the long legs seem almost familiar.

What is he doing here?

Is he here for the same reason that I am?

Had he also privately messaged the female partner?

What if he sees me?

I lean close, hoping to get a clearer view of him. Beneath my black dress, my heart is beating a strange staccato.

When he turns, my heart settles to an almost normal beat. It isn't Frank; it isn't my husband. I drag my hands over my face again and exhale. If this nervousness doesn't kill me, I doubt if it would make me stronger.

There is no reason I should be here. But since a week ago, I haven't had a lucid thought that doesn't involve what I am about to do tonight.

But the story started way before a week ago.

My husband had just returned from Denmark after one of his expeditions as a marine biologist. We were kissing, our lips devouring each other like flames consuming fire and wood. My negligee, the red silk with the black lace he loved, was giving way underneath his exploring hands.

His backpack narrowly missed my feet as I slipped the handle from his shoulder; I was drunk, intoxicated by his scent, sweat mixed with sandalwood. And I showed it in the way I sucked his tongue, gobbled his saliva, pressed my body against his, and whispered it in between the kiss.

My body, which had endured two months of self–pleasure, was responding to the touch of a human. My nipples were so hard they hurt as they grazed against the hardness of his chest. My silk panties were like the soil underneath a rainy sky; they were soaking wet. My clitoris was throbbing as if protesting the assault that my fingers and the humming buddy in my closet had put it through. It wanted flesh, turgid flesh with the warmth of flowing blood; it wanted my husband's cock.

When you're hungry for a thing and ravaged by thirst, the entire world stops; time no longer counts. So, I can't tell how fast it took us to tear our clothes off each other. To stumble and fumble as we made our way from the doorway where I had flung myself at him to our bedroom.

But we were on the bed in no time; I remember a pillow was propped beneath my hips, and I remember my legs spread like dessert.

I remember my chest rising and falling like the waves in the videos my husband showed me. I remember tugging at the silk sheets I had put there after he called me at the airport. I can't remember if my eyes were open or closed or if I was even breathing.

But I can remember the thrills of pleasure that coursed through my body as my husband delayed, as he kissed the insides of my thighs. At the same time, his fingers drew lines over my swollen and pulsating pussy lips.

"Frank, just fucking eat me up," I begged as I reached for his head. I might be the slimmer one; Frank, with all his muscles, was the faster one. He moved so fast that my fingers caught only air. I grasped again and missed again.

I remember biting hard on my lip and fixing him with puppy eyes, hoping he would do my bidding. As he smiled and moved his head towards me, I thought he was about to dive into the meal between my legs. I was wrong.

He moved towards my face, his hands letting go of my shaking legs. I was faster this time. I moved away just before he came for a kiss.

I had waited for days, thinking about him while touching myself. I wasn't in the mood to be kissed, so I wrinkled my brow into a frown.

"Okay, you win," he rasped and pressed my thudding chest back to the bed. With his elbow, he parted my shaky legs. And before I knew it, his lips formed a hungry 'o' over the throbbing lips of my vagina.

A hungry moan curled its way out of my chest as my hand grabbed a fistful of his black hair.

"God, I have so missed you, Frankie."

I don't know if he wanted to reply or if my hand had forced his face down to my legs, but his wet, warm tongue knifed my throbbing lips apart.

I tasted blood as my teeth clamped against my bottom lip. My legs tried to clap together, but they couldn't. My toes curled and dug into the sheet. Pleasure, waves of it, pushed my hips towards him. I was a flag, fluttering in the wind.

He took control from then, a sailor at the helm of affairs. He spread my legs and performed a pantomime of licking, nibbling and sucking. My husband had become a ballet dancer, and my vagina had become his wooden, smooth dance floor. I grabbed my boobs, crushing my throbbing nipples between my thumb and index finger. Managing to breathe and groan, I almost burst with pleasure.

My groans were transformed into a weird rhythm of guttural moans and rapid teeth clattering. Combined with the sound of hungry tongue sweeping over wet vagina, we both were making music. It was a combination of slurps-slurps and tap-taps. It was like waves slamming against a rock face. Only there wasn't a slamming yet.

Moments later when Frank had stirred a storm inside my body with his tongue, lips and two fingers, I was sated and hungry. I was satisfied, yet my body was screaming for more. Sated because my body had been invaded by another finger apart from mine. Hungry because I wanted his cock. I wanted my husband to pound me till I fell asleep spent from pleasure.

Twenty minutes later, limp cock in my hand and sweat plastered all over our bodies, we were both staring at each other. Disappointment was heavy in the air between us.