Mike and Emma's Tale Book 2
Copyright© 2024 by Melissa Jewels
Chapter 7
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 7 - Marriage is all about discovery, right? For Emma and Mike, that discovery led them to cross a line they never thought they’d approach. They’ve taken the plunge, but now what? Do they go back to their normal routine, pretending it never happened, or keep exploring this strange, exciting path they’ve stumbled onto? How far can love stretch before it breaks?
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Romantic True Story Cuckold Sharing Slut Wife Wife Watching MaleDom Rough Spanking Swinging Interracial Black Male White Female White Couple Exhibitionism Facial Masturbation Oral Sex Squirting Tit-Fucking Voyeurism Slow
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One month later...
The smell of burnt coffee and stale doughnuts hangs in the air of the teachers’ lounge, a familiar, comforting scent that’s become synonymous with survival.
The coffee machine — a relic from the Stone Age— gurgles and splutters, spilling a steaming cascade of caffeinated goodness into my favorite mug— the one with the dancing flamingos and the slogan “ Keepin’ it Real.”
The last bell has rung, the halls are empty, and the only sounds are the distant hum of the copy machine and the occasional chatter from the teachers’ lounge.
I add a splash of creamer and head back to the relative quiet of my desk in the staff room, my heels clicking on the linoleum floor like a metronome keeping time with my weary thoughts.
I’ve just finished shepherding my little flock of first-graders out the door, the chaotic energy of twenty-five six-year-olds leaving me feeling drained but strangely energized. It’s a feeling I never experienced in the corporate world, a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration that’s both addictive and a little bit terrifying.
I settle at my desk, the surface cluttered with stacks of papers, colorful drawings, and a half-eaten box of animal crackers. Mr. Davis’s latest email—a scathing rebuke of my “agenda” and my “failure to instill values” in my students —sits unopened in my inbox.
Ugh. I don’t have the energy to deal with him right now. Maybe later, when the caffeine kicks in.
Things are still ... tense. Not as explosive as they were a few weeks ago, but the undercurrent of judgment, of suspicion, lingers like a bad smell.
He’s backed off a little—thanks to the principal—but I can still feel his gaze on me, a constant, unwelcome reminder of his disapproval.
There are moments, like this, when I wonder if I made the right choice, leaving the corporate world behind to become a teacher. If I’d stayed with Mike at the firm, maybe ... well, perhaps life would be simpler. Less ... emotionally charged.
But then I think of my students, their eager faces, their infectious laughter, the way their eyes light up when they finally grasp a new concept, the pure, unadulterated joy of a perfectly executed cartwheel on the playground. And I know there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
“Hey, Emma, you done with those reading assessments?”
I look up to see Sarah, my fellow third-grade teacher, standing in the doorway. She’s holding a stack of graded papers, a triumphant grin on her face.
“Not quite,” I sigh, gesturing towards the mountain of work still looming before me. “Still a few more to go.”
“Coming to the lounge for lunch?”
“Think I’ll skip it today. I had a late breakfast.”
“More power to you.” She shudders. “Cafeteria tacos ... not exactly my idea of a gourmet meal.”
We chat for a few minutes - about the upcoming school play, the challenges of teaching fractions, the latest episode of our favorite reality TV show—a welcome distraction from the ever-present weight of work and... other things.
When the door closes behind her, a wave of peace washes over me. The quiet, broken only by the hum of the overhead lights, is a welcome reprieve from the constant buzz of activity that fills my days.
I dive back into the grading, my pen scratching across the paper, a familiar rhythm that calms my restless mind. Subject-verb agreement, multiplication tables, the importance of using adjectives ... the building blocks of a third-grader’s education. Sometimes it feels like I’m building a world, sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph, and the thought is both daunting and strangely fulfilling.
But after an hour of deciphering eight-year-old handwriting and trying to figure out if “happy” is a better adjective than “good,” my brain needs a break.
I wander into the teachers’ lounge, refilling my coffee mug and chatting with Janet, the kindergarten teacher, about the joys of glitter glue and the challenges of dealing with a few over-enthusiastic children.
Back at my desk, I contemplate my options. I’ve got a few minutes to myself before the next round of lesson planning, and I’m not sure what to do. I could catch up on emails, start organizing next week’s reading list, or...
I glance around the staff room. It’s empty, everyone else is out for lunch or hiding in their classrooms. My desk is tucked away in a corner, the screen shielded from prying eyes.
A tingle of excitement, of something forbidden, runs through me. I hesitate for a moment, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then, with a deep breath and a click of the mouse, I open a new, private browsing tab, a familiar path to a forbidden destination.
Research. That’s what I’ll call it. Educational purposes.
I type in the familiar words— “hotwife,” “BBC”— click on a link, and the world of online forums and chat rooms dedicated to the hidden world of desire opens before me.
I’ve been down this rabbit hole before. It started with Mike sending me links, articles, forum posts, a few weeks ago, back when our little ... exploration ... was just beginning.
He’d bombard me with links to websites, videos, images of women ... with men. And not just any men. Big men. Muscled, powerful, men who knew how to use their size. Black men, mostly.
And the women ... they were... uninhibited.
At first, the images, the stories, shocked me, even repulsed me a little. I’d been horrified. Disgusted. Those images, those acts ... seeing those women, their bodies entwined with men who were ... they felt so far removed from my own life, my own experience.
But after ... after that night, with Marcus, I’d felt it, too.
God, I’ll never forget that first time, the way his cock felt ... so big, so full, stretching me open in ways I didn’t know were possible. The sheer overwhelming power of him.
It was like ... a reawakening. A discovery of a part of myself I didn’t know existed.
The way he held my hips, his hands firm but gentle ... the way he looked at me, a mix of hunger and a tenderness that made my heart pound...
It’s true what they say, I think, a blush creeping up my neck. Once you’ve experienced that ... well, it feels really good. Mike ... he’s a good lover, a great lover, actually. He’s attentive, skilled, knows my body, knows how to make me come. We’ve always had a good sex life. Fun, playful, passionate.
He’s a handsome guy, my husband. I’ve seen the way other women look at him, the appreciative glances, the flirty smiles. Even some of my colleagues at school, the married ones, have confessed to having a little crush on him.
But Marcus ... he’s different. There’s a ... a presence to him. A raw, masculine energy that makes me feel ... feminine. Vulnerable.
Wanted.
And even at his age ... he’s in incredible shape. His abs are like granite, his arms like sculpted pillars, his whole body a testament to strength and virility.
He’s like ... a walking, talking romance novel cover. It makes me wonder what he was like when he was younger, in his prime...
I shake my head, banishing the thought. Focus, Emma.
You’re here for research, remember? Not to fantasize about your neighbor’s ... anatomy.
It’s been a few weeks since that night in our living room. Weeks of awkward silences and avoided glances whenever we’ve crossed paths with Marcus in the hallway or the elevator.
I’ve avoided him, at least. Mike hasn’t. A couple of times, he said. At the gym, at a bar, just like they used to.
And I can’t help but wonder what the hell they talk about. It used to be so simple, so easy, back when Marcus was just a friendly neighbor, a drinking buddy, someone we’d invite over for dinner or a casual game night. But now ... how can they just ... go back to that? After what’s happened?
And sometimes, late at night, when Mike is sleeping soundly beside me, I’m struck by a crazy thought—maybe they’re planning something. Another “session,” another opportunity for me to be ... used. I know it’s absurd. Paranoid.
But, with my husband’s newfound ... enthusiasm ... for this whole... thing ... well, I wouldn’t put it past him.
I’m not ready for that, not yet. Not after the intensity of last time, the things I said, the way I lost myself in him ... the shame still lingers, a hot flush that creeps up my neck every time the memory surfaces. And Mike’s relentless teasing ... it doesn’t help. He thinks he’s being playful, slipping in a “good girl” or asks if I’m missing my “daddy,” his eyes twinkling with a dark amusement.
It makes me want to both laugh and crawl under a rock and die.
God, I feel like such a prude. Even after everything.
I scroll through the forum, my eyes skimming over the posts, the confessions, the pictures, stories of other women—wives, girlfriends—who’ve embraced this lifestyle.
The words— BBC, hotwife, voyeur ... they jump out at me now, no longer foreign, no longer shocking.
I still don’t fully understand it, this whole ... thing.
And most of all, I don’t understand Mike. What he gets from it? It’s one thing to enjoy a little fantasy, a bit of roleplay in the bedroom. But to actually want to see your wife with another man ... it baffles me.
And the way I felt... God, the things I did, the sounds I made...
It was as if a part of me, a part I never knew existed, had been unleashed, a wild, untamed creature that took over, consuming me, possessing me. And the most disturbing part of it all, the part I still can’t wrap my head around, is... he loved it.
Marcus had demanded my attention. His gaze, his touch, his words ... they’d been solely focused on me. But I felt Mike watching. Felt the heat of his gaze on my skin, heard his quickening breath, the rustle of his movements as he touched himself.
He’d been so turned on, watching me, hearing me moan, seeing me... surrender. The intensity of it- all had fueled my own desire and pushed me further than I’d ever gone before.
It makes no sense.
A man watching his wife with another man.
But in those few glances I snatched of him, those fleeting moments when our eyes met across the room, I saw it.
The desire.
The hunger.
The undeniable truth of it.
I scroll through the forums, my mind a whirlwind. It’s a jungle out here, a labyrinth of confessions and fantasies and information overload. There are so many terms, so many variations, so many different perspectives on this whole lifestyle.
And then there’s the whole... race thing.
Why does that even factor into this?
Why do the things Marcus makes me say ... the words that spill from my lips when he’s inside me ... why did they feel so hot, so charged, so utterly wrong— and yet, so incredibly right?
It didn’t make sense. My brain, my upbringing, my whole worldview rebelled against it. And yet ... there was no denying the arousal, the thrill that coursed through me whenever he growled those words against my skin, the way my body responded to his touch, to his blackness.
It didn’t make sense. My brain, my upbringing, my whole worldview rebelled against it. And yet ... there was no denying the arousal, the thrill that coursed through me whenever he growled those words against my skin, the way my body responded to his touch, to his blackness.
It was a puzzle I couldn’t solve.
But there’s a no denying—a small, secret part that’s been awakened by all of this—that likes it. Likes the forbidden nature of it, the taboo thrill, the way it makes my body respond in ways it never has before.
I want to understand it. To unpack it, to dissect it, to figure out why this ... this whole crazy thing ... is so damn hot. I needed something... anything that could shed light on the darkness I’d stumbled into.
But it’s like trying to find a single grain of sand on a beach. There was so much information— conflicting opinions, personal anecdotes that made my head spin, endless threads on forums with titles like “BBC Addiction” and “My Hotwife Confession.”
It was too much to process, too unorganized, a jumbled mess of opinions and confessions that leaves my head spinning.
I knew about open relationships. That made sense to me, on an intellectual level at least. Two people agreeing to explore outside their relationship, to have their cake and eat it, too.
But this... this was different.
This was about ... him watching.
It was about Mike.
I’d badgered him about it, relentlessly.
We’d talk for hours, dissecting his desires, his fantasies, my own reactions, our relationship, our history ... And by the end of it, I’d still be lost, more confused than ever.
I think back to all the conversations we have had over the past few weeks, all those late-night talks, fueled by wine and a desperate need for understanding. I’d press him, again and again, to explain it to me. To make me see it from his perspective, to help me understand what he got out of watching me with another man.
“Jesus, Emma... “ he’d said one night, after I’d spent an hour trying to pry an answer from him, a coherent explanation for his... enthusiasm. “You’re starting to sound like me— all confused and frustrated.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, despite the unease twisting in my gut. “Yeah, well...” I’d thrown a pillow at him, my frustration a poor mask for the deeper fear. “Now you know how it feels.”
“Well, now you know how every guy felt in high school trying to figure out what girls want.”
I’d huffed in frustration, then pulled him down on top of me, the need to feel him inside me, to reclaim that intimacy as our own, overwhelming all other thoughts. And we’d fucked, right there on the living room floor, the tension, the confusion, the unspoken questions dissolving in a wave of shared pleasure.
But even in the heat of the moment, in the throes of passion, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were treading a dangerous path, a path that could lead us to a place we couldn’t come back from.
I look back now on those first few weeks after ... after that night— the tears, the recriminations, the desperate attempts to make sense of what we’d done. And the incredible sex, the way Mike and I ... it was different then. More ... charged.
To be fair I don’t think even he fully understands it.
This whole thing ... it’s like someone flipped a switch. A switch labeled DESIRE. And now we’re both caught in the current, swept away by a force we can’t control, a need that seems to grow stronger with every passing day.
We can’t get enough of each other, our bodies a constant source of comfort and exploration, our lovemaking a tangled mix of the familiar and the forbidden.
But it was those two times, the times right after I’d been with Marcus, that were the most... intense. It was something else ... falling into Mike’s arms, the taste of another man still lingering on my lips, the feel of him... his size ... still a phantom sensation within me...
It felt like a ritual, a reclaiming.
Mike’s touch, his love, a balm on the raw edges of my soul. There was this ... possessiveness to his touch, a desperation in his kisses, a need to ... to reclaim me, that I’d never experienced before.
And in those moments, as we move together, our bodies a symphony of need and forgiveness, I feel ... whole.
And it felt so damn good. So damn... fulfilling.
I keep scrolling, clicking through link after link, a digital voyeur peeking into the hidden world of other people’s desires.