Mike and Emma's Tale Book 2
Copyright© 2024 by Melissa Jewels
Chapter 8
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 8 - 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
Getting ready for a date with my husband shouldn’t be this complicated. But as I stand in front of my closet, staring at the array of dresses, skirts, and tops, I’m paralyzed by indecision.
Old Emma or New Emma?
It would be fun to vamp it up tonight. To slip into that new dress Mike bought me. The one that’s silkier, shorter, lower-cut than anything I’ve ever worn before. To see the way heads turn at the restaurant, to feel the heat of those male gazes on my skin. I know I’d enjoy it. I’d enjoy the power, the attention, the knowledge that I could make them want.
But after everything...
I just want to be normal again.
Or at least, I want to prove to myself, and maybe to Mike, too. That I’m still the same girl he fell in love with. That the events of the past few weeks, the lines we’ve crossed, the dark desires we’ve unleashed ... that they haven’t fundamentally changed me.
So, I reach for a familiar dress, a simple, black number that hits just above the knee, the one I wore on our third date. The one that made Mike say I looked like Audrey Hepburn. I smile at the memory, a pang of longing for a time when life felt simpler, less... complicated.
I apply my makeup. Mascara, a touch of blush, a swipe of my favorite cherry-red lipstick, and twist my hair into a loose bun. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and for a moment, I’m startled by how ... normal I look.
There’s no visible sign of the turmoil within, no telltale marks of the desires that have taken root, no hint of the woman who eagerly took another man’s cock into her mouth, who begged to be called all those filthy things.
Old Emma. That’s who I see in the reflection. And the truth is ... Old Emma would have been horrified by New me. She would have judged her, condemned her, labeled her a slut, a cheater, a woman lost to her own depravity.
I can’t help but smile at the naivete, at the black-and-white morality I clung to for so long.
I’m not that girl anymore.
The world isn’t black and white. It’s a thousand shades of gray. And I’m learning to navigate those shades, to find my way in a landscape that’s both exhilarating and terrifying, a place where desire and shame, love and lust, coexist in a delicate, dangerous balance.
I grab my purse and head for the door.
Le Chateau lives up to its name. Plush velvet booths, crystal chandeliers, a murmur of conversation laced with expensive perfume and the clinking of champagne glasses. The air practically buzzes with money and privilege, a world I never thought I’d inhabit with such ease.
We’re seated in the plush lounge, sipping cocktails as we wait for our table.
“This place is quite fancy.” Emma says, her eyes wide as she takes in the surroundings. She’s looking beautiful tonight, understated but elegant in a simple black dress that hugs her curves in all the right places. She went for a more... classic look.
“Yeah, well...” I grin, squeezing her hand. “We’re fancy people now, aren’t we?”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile playing on her lips.
“Don’t worry, they accept credit cards here. I checked. Twice.” I tease, knowing she’s worried about the cost, about my impulsive spending habits.
“You’re such an idiot,” she shakes her head, but there’s a fondness in her voice, a smile playing on her lips.
“That’s why you love me.” I grin, raising my glass in a mock toast. “To financial ruin, and the good times that lead us there.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Finally, our table is ready. The hostess, a tall, elegant woman with a soft smile, leads us to a secluded booth in a corner of the restaurant, away from the noise and the prying eyes. The atmosphere here is more intimate, the lighting soft and romantic, and as I slide into the plush leather booth across from Emma.
“Good evening. My name is Jorge, and I’ll be your server this evening.” A young man with a charming smile appears at our table. He hands us menus. “Can I interest you in some drinks to start?”
“What’s your best wine, Jorge?”
“Our sommelier highly recommends the Chateau Lafite Rothschild. A 2016 vintage. Excellent body, complex notes of black currant and cedar...” He goes on to describe the wine in excruciating detail, and I can’t help but grin. This guy is smooth.
“We’ll take two of those,” I say, my gaze flickering to Emma. “What about you, babe? Wine, okay?”
“Sure, that’s fine.” She smiles, her attention already on the menu, her fingers tracing the elegant script.
Jorge disappears, and Emma and I fall into an easy conversation. Work, her students, the new book she has reading. Normal, everyday stuff. It feels... good.
The wine arrives, and I watch as Jorge pours it, his eyes lingering on Emma’s legs as he bends down. I see his gaze travel upward, from the curve of her calves, to the gentle swell of her hips, to the hint of cleavage exposed by the neckline of her dress.
He recites the evening’s specials, his voice smooth, professional. Then he gives us a few minutes to decide.
“What’s the branzino like?” Emma asks, pointing to a dish on the menu.
“The branzino is pan-seared and served with a lemon-herb sauce and seasonal vegetables, madam,” he replies. “It’s one of our most popular dishes.”
“What vegetables does it come with?”
“It’s a medley of seasonal vegetables, ma’am. Asparagus, bell peppers, zucchini ... all roasted to perfection with a hint of rosemary and garlic.”
“I’ll have that, please.”
“Excellent choice.”
“And Jorge?” I lean forward, meeting his gaze. “If you’re done ogling my wife, I’d like to order, too.”
He flushes, a wave of embarrassment crossing his face. “I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to...”
“Hey, nothing to be ashamed of.” I grin. “She’s incredibly beautiful. I get it. But ... maybe ... quick peeks only? And keep in mind, I’m the one who decides on the tip.”
He cracks a shy smile. “Got it, sir. And ... If I may. She is gorgeous.”
“Oh, I know.” I wink at him. “I’ll take the steak.”
Jorge scribbles down my order, his gaze carefully averted this time, and hurries away, almost as if he’s fleeing the scene of a crime.
Emma’s foot connects with my shin under the table, a sharp, unexpected jolt of pain.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“Stop doing that!”
“Doing what?”
“That thing you always do.” She rolls her eyes at me, a look of exasperation on her face.
“What thing? I’m not doing anything.”
“Scouting out prospective candidates for your ... your little fantasy. Honestly, Mike...”
“Is that what I was doing?” I try to keep a straight face, but a grin tugs at the corners of my lips.
“Oh, don’t play dumb with me, mister. I know exactly what goes on in that crazy head of yours. Behave yourself.”
“I am behaving.” I grin, reaching for her hand under the table. “Besides, I saw the way you were looking at him Em. All those smiles, those lingering glances...” I tease, “You totally dig him.”
“I was just being polite.” She rolls her eyes.
“Uh-huh. And I’m the King of England.” I laugh. “He was totally checking you out.”
“He was not.”
“He was, Em. Come on, don’t even try to deny it. You saw the way he was looking at you, right?”
“He was looking around, Mike. He probably checks out all the girls who come in here. I’m sure he’s got his pick.”
“Yeah, well...” I grin, a mischievous thought crossing my mind. “Maybe he’s got a thing for... milfs.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Wait ... are you saying I look... old?”
I laugh, squeezing her hand reassuringly. “No, of course not! You look gorgeous, as always.”
“Good. Because if you start calling me a ‘milf’...” Her voice trails off, a playful threat hanging in the air.
“But ... milfs are hot, aren’t they?” I continue to tease, knowing I’m pushing my luck, but unable to resist. “All those younger guys, wanting a taste of that experience...”
“I thought milf means...”
“It is older woman with a younger guy. You know, like Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher ... that sort of thing.”
“I know that!” She huffs. “But I thought it had to be, like ... over a certain age. Like forty or something.”
“Ha! Semantics, babe. It’s all relative. A woman of 29 can be a milf if she’s sleeping with her 17-year-old student. A woman of 39 can be a milf if she’s sleeping with a 25-year-old pool boy.”
“So, what if the woman is just, like, a few years older?” She pauses. “You think that still count?”
“Totally counts!”
“Nope. That’s not how it works.” She shakes her head.
We argue back and forth for a few more minutes, our voices getting louder, until we both realize how ridiculous the conversation is. Then we both start laughing.
We really are a mess.
A different waitress, a young blonde woman with a friendly smile, arrives with our food.
“Enjoy,” she says, setting the plates down. “Can I get you anything else?”
“We’re good for now. Thanks.”
As she turns to leave, Emma gives me a pointed look.
“What?”
“You were totally checking her out.”
“I was not!”
“You were!”
“You’re just saying that because I caught you ogling Jorge.”
“I was not ogling anybody!” she protests, her cheeks flushing. “And besides, are you saying she’s not ... I don’t know... attractive?”
“Of course she’s ... she’s pretty ... but I wasn’t looking at her like that.” I take a sip of my wine, trying to sound casual, even though I can feel the heat of her gaze on me, the challenge in her eyes.
“You’ll never admit it, will you?” She sighs, shaking her head.
I just smirk.
We dig into our meals, the conversation flowing easily now, the earlier tension fading
“Damn, this is good,” Emma says after a while, her fork hovering mid-air as she savors a bite of her branzino. “Worth every penny.”
“It is good,” I agree, my own steak perfectly cooked, tender and flavorful. “Best steak I’ve had in ages.”
Jorge reappears at our table. “How is everything tasting? Is there anything else I can get for you?”
“We’re good for now, thanks.” I say.
“Perfect. Just let me know if you need anything at all.”
He lingers for a moment, his gaze lingering on Emma again, before finally retreating.
“See?” I say, the moment he’s out of earshot. “Told you he was checking you out.”
“Stop it, Mike!” She laughs, rolling her eyes. “The whole world is not ogling your wife! Not as much as you’d like to believe, anyway.”
“Oh, come on, Emma. You saw the way Jorge was looking at you. Every time he came to the table ... his eyes went straight to your...” I gesture vaguely towards her chest.
“You’re imagining things. It’s all in that crazy head of yours.”
“Is it?” I grin, enjoying her flustered reaction. “Tell you what, how about we test my theory? You pull your dress down a little ... just a little ... flash a bit of cleavage, and I bet that poor waiter will lose his mind.”
“Are you mad?” She stares at me, her eyes wide with incredulity.
“No, I’m serious!”
“Mike, it’ll be too obvious. He’ll definitely...”
“I’m not saying he’ll just look! I’m saying he’ll lose his mind!”
“And I am saying you are ridiculous.”
“Come on, Em ... where’s your sense of adventure?” I grin, watching the wheels turning in her head, the challenge sparking in her eyes. We’ve never done anything like this before. This public, this brazen. But I can tell she’s tempted. And the thought of her, my wife, flaunting herself like that, pushing the boundaries ... it sends a delicious thrill through me.
“What happens if I’m right though?” she asks, her voice low, a hint of mischief in her tone.
“Hmm ... I like the way you’re thinking.” I pretend to ponder for a moment, tapping my finger against my chin. “Okay, how about this: Whoever wins gets to ... ask the other person to do something. Anything. And the loser ... well, the loser can’t say no.”
She considers it, her gaze flickering across the restaurant, as if taking in the competition- women in their low-cut dresses, the strategically placed cleavage.
Then she turns to me, her lips curving into a slow, seductive smile and nods.
“Deal.”
She reaches for the neckline of her dress, those delicate fingers playing with the buttons for a moment, a deliberate tease, before pulling it open. It’s not a dramatic reveal, not a full-on flash, but it’s enough.
The fabric parts to reveal the upper curves of her breasts, the creamy smoothness of her skin, the lacy edge of her bra a tantalizing border. I can see the outline of the cups, a pale pink against her skin.
I watch, my breath catching in my throat, as she pulls it down further, revealing the glory of her cleavage. Giving me a glimpse of the darker areola peeking out, her nipples soft, taut points of desire. I can see the top of her bra, a deep red lace that matches her lipstick.
“Think this’ll do?” she asks, her voice low, a husky murmur that makes my blood rush south.
“Maybe a little lower.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Mike!” She laughs, rolling her eyes. “Might as well take the whole damn dress off at this point!”
“Now that is an idea...”
“Shut up!”
We fall back into conversation, chatting about the food, the movie we saw last week, some gossip about one of her colleagues.
I’m half-listening, my attention divided between the conversation and the growing anticipation in my gut, the awareness of what’s about to happen.
And then Jorge is back, hovering nervously at the edge of our table.
“Can I interest you in dessert this evening? We have a lovely selection...” His voice trails off as his gaze lands on Emma, and I see him fumble with his notepad, his cheeks flushing crimson.
I clear my throat. “Jorge?”
He stands up straight, his gaze darting away from Emma as if he’s been caught doing something wrong. “Yes, sir? Can I get you anything for dessert?”
“What do you have?”
He recites the list of desserts, his voice rushed, his words jumbled. Dolce torino, crème brûlée, some kind of berry tart ... I ask a few questions, pretending to be interested in the details while I watch the poor guy struggle to keep his eyes on anything but my wife’s cleavage.
“What’s the tiramisu like?”
Jorge takes a step towards her, leaning in as he explains, “It’s a classic Italian dessert, madam. Layers of ladyfingers dipped in espresso, mascarpone cream, and a dusting of cocoa powder.”
“Oh, is that so?” She smiles sweetly, then points to another item on the menu. “And what about the ... the cheesecake? What kind of crust does that have?”
“Uh, it’s a ... a graham cracker crust, madam.” His voice is barely above a whisper now, his face flushed, his gaze darting everywhere but... there.
“Interesting...” Emma continues, her voice taking on a playful lilt, “And what about the...” She leans in closer, giving him an unobstructed view. “What about the vanilla mousse? Is it good?”
“Yes! I mean ... yes, madam. It is.” He practically squeaks the words, his eyes wide, his face the color of a ripe tomato. I’m almost impressed by his restraint. Almost.
As he stumbles through describing the mousse, Emma’s smile widens. I can see the mischief in her eyes, the sheer enjoyment she’s getting from his obvious discomfort. She’s totally playing with him, and the sight of it, her power and confidence, sends a thrill through me that’s as dark as it is undeniable. It’s fucking hot to see her like this, in control and having fun with it.
Emma ponders the dessert menu for a moment, tapping a perfectly manicured fingernail against the crisp, white linen. Then, with a slow, teasing movement, she straightens her back, pushing her chest forward. Fabric of her dress stretches taut across her breasts, those hard, inviting points visible under the thin material.
“So, Jorge...” Her voice is playful and coy. “What would you recommend? For a girl with ... a sweet tooth?”
Poor Jorge practically jumps a foot, his gaze darting to her face, then down to the menu, then back up again, a visible struggle playing out on his flushed features. “Well, madam ... we have a very popular Tuscan bean moussecan. It’s ... it’s very ... good...”
“And what is that exactly?”
“It’s a ... a light and airy mousse, made w-with ... egg whites and...” He fumbles with his notepad, his voice cracking a little. “And whipped cream. And ... there’s a hint of ... of ... chocolate shavings on top.”
“Oh, honey ... did you hear that?” I lean forward. “It’s got chocolate in it! And you love chocolate, don’t you, baby?”
Her cheeks flame crimson, a shade that has nothing to do with blush or candlelight. “Mike...” She silences me with a look that could melt steel.
She turns back to Jorge, a sweet smile on her lips. “I’ll take that, please.”
“And I’ll have the apple tart, please,” I say, enjoying the show a little too much.
“Very good, sir.”
He scribbles down the order, his hand shaking slightly, and then practically flees, his body bumping against a nearby table on his way out, dropping his notepad. I watch as he scrambles to pick it up, his face a mask of embarrassment.
“That was...”
“Fun,” I finish for her, a smug grin on my face.
“Crazy and stupid,” she corrects me, shaking her head.
And then, there’s a commotion from across the room. We both turn to see Jorge sprawled on the floor, a tangle of limbs and dropped dishes.
One of his colleagues helps him to his feet. “Jorge, what the hell are you daydreaming about?”
Emma and I exchange a glance, and then we’re both laughing.
“Told you.” I say smugly.
“Yeah, yeah ... Mr. Know-it-all.”
“Looks like you lost our little bet.”
“Okay, fine. I lost. What’s my punishment?”
“I’ll ... I’ll think of something good.” I grin, my mind already racing with possibilities.
“It better not be too...”
“Too ... what? Naughty?”
“Ugh, I should never have agreed to this.” She groans, burying her face in her hands.
“But you did,” I say, a playful challenge in my voice. “And you’re going to love it. Trust me.”
“Fine.” She sighs, her shoulders slumping slightly. “But I’m blaming you if this ends in disaster or, God forbid, jail.”
“Sure blame away,” I rise from my chair. “Be right back, babe.”
And as I make my way towards the bathroom, I can’t help but smile. This is... fun. This new dynamic, this playful exploration of our desires ... and silly games.
It’s dangerous, it’s reckless ... but it’s also exciting. And maybe, just maybe ... it might even be good for us.
Who knows?
I finish up in the bathroom, wash my hands, and head back to our table, feeling a lot lighter, both physically and ... well, mentally, I guess.
But as I round the corner, I see him. Jorge. He’s standing beside our table, leaning in close to Emma, his face flushed, a nervous smile on his lips. She’s laughing at something he’s said, and I see her pull her neckline back up, no longer flashing.
What the...
I slide back into my seat, trying to appear nonchalant, even though my pulse is quickening, my mind already jumping to conclusions. Two plates loaded with desserts are now on the table.
“I hope you enjoy the desserts.” He hurries away not waiting for response, and the moment he’s gone, I turn to Emma, an accusing glint in my eye.
“What was that about?”
She grins, pushing one of the dessert plates towards me. “He brought me an extra dessert. On the house.”
“Is that so?” I can’t keep the smugness out of my voice.
“Wipe that smug grin off your face, Mike. You won.” She picks up a spoon, dipping it into the chocolate mousse, and takes a bite, her eyes closing in pleasure. “Mmm ... this is good.”
“So? What were you two talking about?”
“Nothing, really.” She shrugs, taking another bite of her dessert. “I felt a little bad ... thought I might have teased him a bit too much before, so I apologized. Told him it was just a silly game you and I play. You know ... to keep things interesting.”
“Why’d you do that? He was loving it!”
“Mike, stop.”
“Okay, okay.” I hold up my hands in mock surrender. “But seriously ... what else did you talk about?”
“Nothing. Just ... stuff. Turns out he’s a college student, working here part-time to pay the bills. He’s new to the city, just moved here from Ohio or something, doesn’t really know anyone...”
“Whoa, hold on ... you didn’t get his number, did you?” My voice is teasing, but a flicker of... something ... twists in my gut.
“Oh my God, Mike! Stop it! I was just being nice.”
“Yeah, nice.” I chuckle, reaching for my own dessert. “Looks like you two really bonded. Maybe I should just head home and let you two...” I can’t resist teasing her, the image of her flirting with the young waiter, all innocent smiles and batted eyelashes, playing on a loop in my mind.
“Stop it! Seriously, Mike ... what do you think is going to happen?” She rolls her eyes at me. “Like he’s going to whisk me away to his dorm room and bend me over his bed?”
And suddenly, the image is there in my mind. Emma, bent over, her ass high in the air, her dress bunched up around her waist ... and ... his hands on her hips, his young, eager body pressed against hers...
Fuck.
I try to push it away, but the thought lingers, a dark, thrilling spark in the back of my brain.
Maybe I have lost it.
“Mike?”
“Huh? What?”
“Where did you go just now?”
“Oh ... nothing, I was just...”
“Oh my God, you were picturing it, weren’t you?”
I shrug. “Come on, Em, you know I’ve always been ... a visual person.”
“A pervert you mean.” She reaches across the table and swats me on the arm, this time with a little more force. “You’re shameless, Mike. Seriously.”
“Ow! Stop it...” I rub my arm. “Just appreciating the view, that’s all.”
She settles back in her chair, a resigned sigh escaping her lips. “Just ... behave yourself, okay? Finish your dessert and try to ... I don’t know ... control your stupid thoughts?”
“Can’t make any promises. You know how my brain works.”
She gives me that look. The one that says she knows me better than I know myself. Then she shakes her head, a small, fond smile playing on her lips, and digs into her chocolate mousse.
I do the same with my apple tart, the sweet, tart flavors a welcome distraction. The conversation flows easily, naturally, like it always has. We talk about work, neighbors, about the upcoming holiday season, our voices a low murmur in the elegant atmosphere of the restaurant.
For a few precious moments, the weight of the past few weeks, the secrets we’ve shared, the lines we’ve crossed ... it all fades away.