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The chime of the church door seemed to echo the conflict within me. Sister Agatha’s words about resisting temptation, about the sanctity of marriage, still hung in the air as I stepped out into the cool night. My women’s group was a haven, a weekly affirmation of my faith and my commitment to Thomas.
Then I saw him. He was emerging from the pub across the street, laughter spilling out around him and his friends. He was a silhouette at first, broad shoulders and a confident stride. But as he turned, the streetlight caught his face – sharp jawline, eyes that crinkled at the corners even when he wasn’t smiling, and a shock of unruly dark hair. He was magnificent. And he was looking directly at me.
the conflict within me
He peeled away from his group, a smile playing on his lips. “Good evening,” he said, his voice a low rumble that sent a tremor through me. “It’s getting late. Can I walk you home?” My first instinct was to refuse. I was a married woman, and this man…this man was gonna be trouble. But his gaze was so intense, so unwavering, that I found myself hesitating. “That’s kind of you,” I finally stammered, “but I don’t want to impose.”
“No imposition at all,” he insisted, falling into step beside me. “Especially not on someone as lovely as you.” The walk was agonizing. He talked about his time in the army, his tours overseas, the camaraderie he found with his fellow soldiers. He was charismatic and worldly, a stark contrast to the quiet predictability of my life with Thomas. My guilt grew with each step, each shared breath.
At my doorstep, he stopped, his hand brushing mine. “I enjoyed our walk,” he said, his voice husky. “I’d like to see you again.” Panic flared in my chest. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He leaned closer. “Just one kiss,” he murmured, his eyes searching mine. I recoiled. “No. I can’t.” But he didn’t retreat. He moved again, slowly this time, his hand cupping my cheek. His lips were warm, insistent, and for a moment, I stood frozen, my mind battling against my body’s desperate yearning.
He kissed me again, deeper, more urgent this time. The world tilted. My vows, my faith, Sister Agatha’s warnings…they all faded, consumed by a primal need. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, surrendering to the forbidden pleasure.
The rest of the night was a blur of stolen kisses, whispered words, and the shattering of everything I believed in. The soldier, whose name I learned was David, was a whirlwind of passion and intensity. His BBC stretched my tight pussy beyond the realm of what I thought possible and I came at least five times. He made me feel alive, desired, and utterly (utterly) wicked. I must never tell another soul for the remainder of my days.
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