Chapter 3: A forbidden drink
The anxiety about what to wear was a gnawing, three-day torment. Sarah stood before her wardrobe, ignoring the safe choices: tailored trousers, sensible blouses, the elegant but motherly dresses she wore to school events. She didn’t want to look like she was trying, but the desperation to ignite that predatory gleam in Ethan’s eyes was a physical ache.
She settled on black wetlook leggings that she had bought from a sexy online brand, the material like a second skin, highlighting every curve and so tight that zip that went all the way to the crotch, easy access she mischievously thought. A semi-sheer green patterned blouse that showed the lace of her bra beneath. The final touch: a pair of pristine, expensive white high-heeled court shoes, severe and suggestive all at once. She looked at her reflection in the bedroom mirror—a stranger, poised on a precipice. The shoes made her legs look endless, dangerous. She put the outfit in her bag and the next morning dressed in a sensibel work outfit.
“Drinks with the girls from work tghis evening,” she said to Rory as she headed to the station, the lie smooth and practised on her tongue. He nodded. “Have fun, love. Don’t be too late.”
The casual dismissal was the permission slip she both craved and despised.
The workday was a blur of meaningless data and muted office lights. At five, her heart began its frantic drumbeat. After the train she walked to a pub and in its tiny, dank bathroom, under a flickering bulb, she changed. She folded her sensible work skirt and blazer into her bag. The cool, slick fabric of the leggings whispered against her thighs as she pulled them on, the tightness around her crotch exciting. She applied a darker lipstick, smudged her eyeliner. The reflection in the smudged metal mirror showed a woman capable of anything.
The Verdigris Bar was all dark brass and deep green velvet. The air was thick with the murmur of after-work crowds and the clink of glass. She saw him immediately, at the far end of the bar, a beer resting near his elbow. He wasn’t watching the door. He was studying the amber liquid in his glass, utterly at ease, as if he had never doubted her arrival. That confidence, that lazy certainty, made her stomach clench. Her heels clicked as she walked.
He turned his head just as she reached the stool beside him, a slow, deliberate motion. His gaze travelled up her legs, over the clinging fabric, and finally to her face. A slow, smug smile spread across his features. “Sarah.” His voice was a low purr that cut through the ambient noise.
“Ethan.” Her own voice sounded thin. She perched on the stool, her body rigid.
He caught the bartender’s eye with the barest flick of a finger. “Glass of the white wine for the lady.” He rasied an eyebrow to check then turned fully toward her, his knee brushing against her leggings. “You look... tense. Sexy but tense”
“I’m not,” she lied, accepting the wine he paid for with a crisp note.
“Of course you are.” He leaned in, his lips so close to her ear she could feel the warmth of his breath. The scent of him was dizzying. “You’ve been wound tight since you walked in here thinking about the gym. About getting caught.”
She stiffened, her knuckles white around the stem of her glass. “I wasn’t—”
“You were.” His whisper was a velvet-covered blade. “You were staring at the bulge in my shorts. Don’t deny it, Sarah. I saw you. You were actually mesmerized by it. Just staring.” He laughed and took a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving hers. “And ... grinding that sweet married pussy on the bench like a cat in heat. That’s the real you, isn’t it? All prim and proper outside, a bit of a slut underneath.”
Her cheeks flamed. She should get up and leave. Her legs refused to move.
“I like this, by the way,” he continued, his fingers tracing an idle pattern on her thigh over the slick fabric. “You dressed up for me. Little black, tight... see through on top. Flashin your sexy underwear. Made san effort for me. So you could show off what you're offering me.”
“I didn’t dress up for you,” she managed, the protest feeble even to her own ears. “It’s just... a normal outfit.”
He laughed, a low, soft sound of pure amusement. “Bullshit. You got all done up because you knew I’d be looking. You wanted me to see these legs, imagine them wrapped around me.” His hand slid higher, his thumb pressing into the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh. “You got yourself off thinking about that picture I sent, didn’t you? My hard cock in my shorts. Have you seen one that big before?”
Sarah took a gulp of wine, the room tilting slightly. She laughed. His arrogance was melting any resistance. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
His hand crept higher, his fingertips now brushing the seam of the leggings at her crotch. He paused there, applying the faintest pressure. His voice dropped to a rough, intimate growl. “Answer the question, Sarah. That night in your living room. Looking at my fat cock. Did it make you wet?”
She swallowed, her mouth dry. The memory of her own climax on the couch was vivid, shameful, electrifying. She gave the barest nod.
“Say it.”
“Yes.” The word was a whisper of surrender.
“Yes, what?” His fingers pressed harder, a promise and a threat through the thin material.
“Yes, it made me wet.”
“Good girl.” His hand retreated, leaving a brand of heat on her skin. He leaned back, studying her, a predator assessing his captured prey.
His eyes, dark and unblinking, held hers over the rim of his glass. The noise of the bar faded into a dull, distant thrum. “Did you touch yourself again after that?” he asked, his tone conversational yet utterly focused. “After you sent me that juicy little picture, have been slipping your fingers into that wet cunt thinking about me?”
Sarah’s breath hitched. Her heart was a frantic bird against her ribs. She gave another slight, involuntary nod.
“Use your words.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. “Did you play with yourself with your fingers, pretending it was me?”
“Yes.” Louder than she meant to. The admission was torn from her, equal parts humiliation and thrill.
His hand, which had been resting on his thigh, moved. It came to rest casually on the bar between them, then slid onto her leg. His fingertips pressed into the shiny, synthetic material of her leggings, right at the juncture of her thighs. The pressure was firm, deliberate, claiming. “Good. Because I thought about you and that picture a lot. The sight of you all slick and open.” He shifted on his stool, his own thighs spreading slightly. “Tell me, Sarah. Do you have a toys at home? A dildo? You look the type."
She blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. “I… what?”
“A big dildo,” he repeated slowly, as if explaining something to a child. His fingers began a subtle, circling motion on the fabric, the heat of his touch seeping through. “Some rubber cock you use when your husband isn’t fucking you right. Do you have one my size?”
A shocked, breathy laugh escaped her. “No,” she whispered. “Nothing… well, yes. Something like that.”
“Something like what?” he pressed, his thumb now applying a sharper pressure right over her clit. She jerked slightly, a bolt of sensation shooting through her. “One as thick as me? As long?” He leaned in again, his lips brushing her earlobe. "I'd love to watch you riding that. Moaning my name."
Sarah blushed.
“Would you like to see it properly? Not just a picture through shorts. The real thing.”
Her mouth was parched. She could only manage a strangled sound.
“Would you like to feel it?” His voice was pure gravel now. His hand shifted, his palm pressing fully against her, she was pushing her groin back against his hand. Through the tight fabric, he could feel the heat of her, the softness giving way beneath the pressure. “You're grinding again, Sarah." He smirked. "You want it, don't you?"
His voice was a low vibration against her ear, more felt than heard. She could only nod, a sharp, frantic dip of her chin, her gaze locked on the condensation sliding down her wine glass. Her whole body hummed with a treacherous electricity. The pressure of his palm against her through the sleek fabric was an anchor point, a hot brand holding her in this shameful, thrilling moment.
He pulled his hand back slowly, leaving a phantom heat. “Finish your drink,” he commanded, his tone shifting to something casual, almost dismissive. He swallowed the last of his beer and stood, his frame towering over her perched form. The abrupt change left her disoriented, the bar noise rushing back in. He was already turning, assuming her compliance.
“Wait,” she breathed out, the word barely audible.
He paused, looking back over his shoulder. His eyes were dark pools in the dim light. “You coming or not?”
She fumbled for her clutch, her hands unsteady, and stood. The wine was a warm, sour knot in her stomach. He didn’t offer his hand, didn't touch her. He simply walked toward the exit, and after a heartbeat of dizzying panic, she followed, the click of her heels on the hardwood a traitorous echo of her own steps.
The evening air outside was cool, a shock after the bar’s warmth. He led her to a parked motorcycle, a sleek, black machine that looked as dangerous as he did. He handed her a helmet. “You’ll have to hold on,” he said, a smirk playing on his lips. She climbed on behind him, the leather seat cold against her thighs. When the engine roared to life between her legs, the vibration traveled straight to her core. As he pulled away, she had no choice but to wrap her arms around his hard torso, pressing herself against his back.
The ride was a blur of speed and night air. They left the town center, winding through darker streets of terraced houses. He stopped outside a small, narrow home with a bike propped by the door.
He killed the engine, and the sudden silence roared in her ears. The house was unassuming, its brickwork stained with damp, a single light burning in a downstairs window. Sarah’s legs felt unsteady as she dismounted, the helmet awkward in her hands. Ethan took it from her, his fingers brushing hers, a casual contact that sent a jolt up her arm. He nodded toward the peeling black door. "Come on."
The interior was a shock of bachelor chaos—a worn sofa buried under discarded clothes, the stale, yeasty smell of lager and instant noodles hanging in the air. Music thumped from a room down the hall. A man emerged from the kitchen doorway, holding a can of beer. He was about Ethan's age, mixed-race with close-cropped hair and the same gym-built frame, wearing only track pants. His eyes, sharp and appraising, swept over Sarah from her heels to her face.
"Ethan, mate," the guy said, a slow grin spreading.
"This is Sarah," Ethan said, his hand finding the small of her back. His touch was possessive, a brand through the thin blouse. "The lady I told you about."
Sarah's cheeks burned. What had he told him? That she was a married woman from the gym? That he's caught her staring at his cock and rubbing herself? That she’d sent him a picture of her pussy? She felt the housemate's gaze linger on the tight, glossy fabric of her leggings, the sheer blouse revealing her lace bra.
"Nice to meet you, Sarah," the housemate said, his grin widening. He took a sip from his can. "Want a drink? We've got lager, or I could make something stronger."
Ethan’s hand pressed firmer against her spine. "No, we're good. We're just going upstairs to chat."
The housemate chuckled, a low, knowing sound. "Chat. Right." His eyes flicked to Ethan. "Don't wear her out, brother. Sounds like you've got a lot to... discuss."
"Fuck off, Jamie," Ethan said, but he was smiling too, a shared masculine joke at her expense.
Jamie raised his hands in mock surrender. "Just saying! Have fun with your... chat." He winked at Sarah, a gesture that made her stomach flip with a mix of humiliation and a dark, unexpected thrill.
Ethan guided her toward the staircase. The stairs creaked as he followed her up. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum against the thumping bass from Jamie's room below. The hallway upstairs was dark, lit only by a strip of light under one door. Ethan pushed it open.
His room was sparse: An ikea bed, small wardrobe and cheap chest of drawers.
The room smelled of him: clean sweat, cheap detergent, and the lingering, musky scent of young male skin. It was overwhelming. A single, unshaded bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a harsh, unforgiving light on the crumpled sheets and the posters of athletes plastered on the wall.
He closed the door behind them. The click of the latch was definitive. The thumping bass from downstairs was now a muted, rhythmic throb in the floorboards. Sarah stood frozen just inside the room, her clutch bag hanging limply from her fingers. She was staring at the bed, her mind a white noise of panic and desire.
“Take that off.” His voice came from directly behind her. It wasn’t a suggestion.
Before she could turn or speak, his hands were on her. They landed on her shoulders, rough and decisive, and spun her around to face him. Her back connected with the cool, plaster wall beside the door with a soft thud. The impact stole her breath.
Then his mouth was on hers. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a conquest. His lips were hard, demanding, his tongue forcing past her teeth before she could even think to resist. The taste of him—beer and a faint hint of mint—flooded her senses. One of his hands tangled in her hair, pulling her head back to deepen the angle. The other groped her, palm roughly kneading her breast through the sheer blouse and lace bra, his thumb grinding against her nipple.
He pulled his mouth from hers, his breath hot and ragged against her cheek. “Fuck, Sarah,” he growled, his voice thick. “Look at you. All dressed up like a present just for me.” His hips pinned her to the wall, and she could feel the rigid, undeniable length of his erection straining against the denim of his jeans, pressing insistently into her belly. “You feel that? That’s what you did. That’s all for you, you dirty fucking MILF.”
His hand slid from her breast down to her backside, gripping her ass through the slick fabric of the leggings. He squeezed hard, pulling her pelvis tighter against his. “God, look at this arse. Perfect. Bet your husband doesn’t grab it like this, does he?” He ground himself against her again, a slow, deliberate rotation that made her gasp. “Bet he doesn’t make you feel like this.”
His free hand slid around her hip, over the front of her leggings. She felt his fingers find the clasp at the waist, the small metal popper. He flicked it open with a practiced ease that sent a jolt through her. The sound of the zipper being dragged down was obscenely loud in the small room. The cold air of the room hit the exposed skin of her lower stomach.
“Little tiny knickers,” he sneered, his fingers dipping below the waistband of her leggings. They slithered over the satin of her small, expensive thong. “You wore this little scrap of nothing for me, didn’t you? You knew I’d have you out of these tight pants. You knew.”
He didn’t bother pulling the underwear aside. He simply pushed the narrow band of fabric into the crease of her sex, his fingertips finding her through the damp silk. A sharp, shattered moan escaped her lips. Her head fell back against the wall, her eyes closing.
“Oh, fuck me,” he breathed, a note of triumphant awe in his voice. His middle finger pressed harder, the silk now soaked and clinging. “You’re fucking dripping. Absolutely soaked.” He pushed the fabric aside and slid two fingers inside her without warning. They entered her easily, a blunt, stretching invasion. “Jesus Christ. This married cunt is pulsing for me. Say it.”
She couldn’t speak. Her hips arched against his hand of their own volition, seeking more of that devastating friction. He crooked his fingers inside her, pressing up, and a broken cry tore from her throat.
“Say it!” he demanded, his mouth back at her ear, biting the lobe.
“Yes!” she gasped, the word mangled. “I’m wet. I’m wet for you.”
He worked his fingers in and out of her, a rough, swift rhythm that made her legs shake. The slick, filthy sound of it filled the space between their ragged breathing. “All that juice,” he grunted. “All this slick, hot fucking juice just from thinking about my dick. You’re a greedy little slut, Sarah. Admit it.”
“I’m a slut,” she choked out, the admission both a sacrilege and a liberation. She was clinging to his shoulders, her nails digging into the hard muscle beneath his t-shirt. Her world had narrowed to the push and pull of his fingers, the grind of his denim-clad cock against her thigh, the crushing weight of his want.
He withdrew his fingers slowly, making her whimper at the sudden emptiness.