Chapter 1: Sin in the Shadows
Kyrie was a mid 30's woman that is blessed, or is is cursed, with a 36 H chest that always took prominent focus whenever she interacted with guys. Because of this, she rarely got together with guys so she had become very comfortable with satisfying all her needs with her expansive toy collection that kept her shaved, very tight and extremely wet pussy through her multi orgasmic sessions. Her red hair and 36-24-36 body would be the desire of any man, if they actually paid attention to something besides her huge tits. Red hair, green eyes and soft and silky smooth pale white skin, she was a true goddess. Tonight however, her toys weren't going to be enough. She needed to feel human flesh inside her. She wanted to feel a real cock going down her throat as she deepthroated it and most importantly she wanted to feel a man cuming inside of her multiple times tonight, to feel it leaking back out of her. Tonight she was on the prowl.
The saxophone sighed into the smoky air, a long, low note that wrapped around the room like velvet rope. Mark felt it coil in his chest. He traced a finger around the rim of his whiskey glass, the ice long melted, and let his gaze drift again to the woman at the bar.
She was a shock of color in the monochrome room. Her hair was a cascade of copper and flame, tumbling over shoulders left bare by a simple black dress. She was listening to the bass player, her head tilted, a faint smile on her lips as her fingers kept time on the stem of her wine glass. Every slight movement was deliberate, potent. When she shifted on the stool, the fabric of her dress pulled tight across incredible curves. He couldn’t look away.
His own wedding band felt heavy, a cold, tight circle of gold. He twisted it absently, a decade-old habit. The silence in his house these days was a physical thing, a wall he and Eleanor built together, brick by silent brick. Here, the silence was different. It was full. Full of music, of whispered negotiations, of potential.
She turned her head.
Her eyes found his across the twenty feet of dim space. They were a startling, lucent green, even in the low light. He should have glanced away, played the part of the polite, married man. But he was tired of playing parts. He held her gaze. A beat. Two.
Then, the corner of her mouth lifted. Not a full smile, but a slow, knowing curve. She looked him over, from his salt-and-pepper hair to the open collar of his shirt, and her appraisal felt like a physical touch. Deliberate, unhurried. She picked up her glass, took a slow sip, her eyes never leaving his. Then she set it down.
She crooked a single finger.
It was barely a motion. A simple beckoning. His heart hammered against his ribs, a sudden, trapped rhythm utterly at odds with the smooth jazz. Every sensible thought shouted a warning. He ignored them all. The weight of the ring, the weight of the silence at home—it all fell away as he stood, his legs somehow carrying him across the lounge. The space between them seemed to contract with each step, the noise of the club fading to a dull hum.
He stopped before her, the polished wood of the bar at his back. Up close, she was more vivid. A faint dusting of freckles across her nose. The scent of jasmine and clean skin.
“You’ve been watching me for three songs,” she said. Her voice was lower than he’d imagined, smooth as the whiskey he’d been nursing.
“I have,” he admitted. No point in denial.
“Why?”
He could have lied. Could have offered some bland compliment. Instead, he heard himself say, “Because you look like a memory I’ve been trying to recall.” The honesty of it startled him.
Her green eyes softened, just a fraction. She patted the empty stool beside her. “Sit. Tell me your name.”
“Mark.”
“Kyrie.” She offered a hand. Not for a handshake, but her fingers lay palm-up on the bar. An invitation. He placed his hand in hers. Her skin was warm. She didn’t shake it, just turned his hand over, her thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles, over the band of gold. She didn’t comment on it. She just touched it, a thoughtful look in her eyes, before releasing him. The gesture was more intimate than a kiss.
“You’re unhappy, Mark,” she stated, turning back to her wine.
“Is it that obvious?”
“To me it is.” She took a sip. “The way you hold your shoulders. The way you drink your drink, alone, like it’s a job. You’re somewhere else. I’m looking for somewhere else tonight, too. Just a different kind.”
He was silent, disarmed. The bass line thumped softly, underlining the pulse in his throat.
“I don’t do… complications,” he finally said, the word feeling inadequate.
Kyrie smiled, a real one this time. It lit up her face. “I’m not asking for your life story, Mark. Or your future. I’m just offering tonight. A conversation. Maybe more, if the conversation is good.” Her gaze was direct, unashamed. “I like what I see. I like the look of a man who knows how to think, and,” she paused, letting her eyes drift down his frame once more, “who looks like he remembers how to feel. With his hands. With his mouth.”
Heat flushed through him, sudden and undeniable. It had been years since anyone had spoken to him like this, with such frank desire. Eleanor hadn’t looked at him with wanting in… he couldn’t remember.
“What do you want?” The question was a rough whisper.
She leaned in closer. The jasmine scent intensified. “I want to be touched. I want to be tasted. I want to forget my name for a few hours. I want to hear you lose your breath.” She leaned back, watching the effect her words had on him. “It’s simple. You just have to decide if you want it, too.”
The saxophone player began a new solo, a languid, aching climb. Mark looked at her—at the confident set of her mouth, the fearless green eyes, the incredible swell of her breasts rising and falling with each breath. He thought of his empty car, the long drive back to his dark, quiet house. The unbearable weight of another night of nothing.
He reached for his wallet, threw a few bills onto the bar for his untouched drink.
“Where?” was all he said.
Her smile deepened. She slid off the stool, the movement fluid. The hem of her dress rode up her thigh for a second. She didn’t pull it down.
“My place is five minutes away.” She took his hand again, lacing her fingers through his. Her touch was electric, decisive. “Come on.”
She led him through the haze of the lounge, past the murmuring couples and the solitary dreamers. He followed, the cool night air hitting his face as they reached the door a shock after the club’s warmth. On the sidewalk, she turned to him, pressing close. Her body was lush and warm against his.
“No condoms,” she whispered into his ear, her breath hot. “I’m safe. I require my partners to be. Are you?”
He nodded, mutely. The clinical question, asked with such sensual directness, made his head spin.
“Good.” She brushed her lips against his jaw, not quite a kiss. A promise. “I want to feel all of you. And I want you to feel all of me.”
She took his hand and placed it firmly on the lush curve of her hip, guiding him down the street. The city lights blurred around them. He was no longer Mark the husband, Mark the unhappy man. He was just a man, following a thread of fire into the dark, his wedding band a distant, forgotten moon under the streetlamps.