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A sailor brings his friends to meet his married sister.
She caught her breath, feeling a moist warmth gathering as his wicked fingers traced the edge of her white cotton panties. She felt bad about cheating on Alan, but reasoned that this was partially his fault. If he had a little more stamina in bed and actually made her orgasm once in a while, she wouldn't be so damn horny all the time. But, on the rare occasions they made love, he always so wimpy and finished way too early. As she'd confessed to a girlfriend after one-too-many glasses of wine, making love with Alan was all "thrust, thrust, squirt".
"I bet I could make you cum right here," he whispered, his eyes sparkling mischievously. His restless fingers were brushing against her panties now, stroking her swollen lips through the damp cotton bringing a soft mew of pleasure from her lips.
"No," she said, unwilling to admit how aroused she was, unwilling to admit that he was right.
"Fooling around like this in public turns you on, doesn't it? Come on, admit it," he said.
"Stop, please Todd," she moaned, closing her eyes, unable to meet his knowing gaze. She had a sudden image of him sliding her panties down over her hot thighs, tugging them off over her white trainers and stuffing them in his pocket, removing the last barrier between his fingers and her throbbing pussy. The thought of him freely exploring her slick folds as she sank her teeth into his shoulder to suppress her hot sobs of pleasure, making her climax here in this public bar like a common slut was so naughty and dangerous that it left her feeling giddy.
She ran a hand up over his arm, and squeezed his shoulder as she felt his thumb stroking her through her damp knickers. As her body surrendered to the delicious sensations, she noticed the bartender running a damp cloth along the long mahogany bar as he drifted towards them. Regaining her senses, she sat up straight, crossing her legs and quickly tugged her skirt back down.
"Anything else to drink, folks?" he asked cheerily.
"No, I think I've had plenty, we're just going," Sandra said, grabbing her handbag and heading for the door as Todd followed, grinning triumphantly.
Twenty minutes later, she was lying back on his bed, her hands hooked under her knees, her feet waving in the air as her young tennis coach licked her shamefully wet pussy enthusiastically. Through half-open eyes she could see a trail of discarded clothes leading to his bed, and his semi-erect cock swaying heavily between his muscular thighs, a promise of things to come. She ran a hand through his dark, curly hair and moaned contentedly, letting her feelings of guilt be swept away by the sheer pleasure.
Dr Alan Hemmings rolled the pill between his fingers as he examined it. It was small and smooth and appeared to be perfectly black, but the edges had a deep vermillion sheen when he held it up to the dim light of his study. There was strict security at the lab but he'd managed to smuggle three of the precious pills out by hiding them in the half-eaten bean salad that Sandra had prepared for his lunch, amongst the kidney beans and black olives.
Sandra had said she was tired before going to bed early and now the house was quiet and still. He wasn't surprised she was tired; the private detective he'd hired had told him she'd spent more than an hour at her tennis coach's flat. Of course, he'd suspected she'd been having an affair for some time, but he was still shocked to hear it from someone else, to see the pictures of them laughing and joking together as they strolled back to his flat. He picked up the photo's that were scattered over his desk, shuffling them together, and rapping them against the desk so they formed a neat stack before slotting them into the bottom drawer of his desk.
Although he was angry with her, he was mature enough to accept that part of the blame was his.