The pre-dawn light filtering through the blinds painted stripes across Evangeline’s back as she lay spooned against her husband, Chuck. His breathing was deep and even, the kind of oblivious slumber that had become both a comfort and a cage. Her phone vibrated softly on the nightstand, a clandestine pulse that sent a thrill, sharp and illicit, straight to her core.
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It was a text from Azazel, her gym god, the one who had ignited this wildfire within her with just a few well-placed words and a knowing smirk. "God forbid a girl have hobbies." The memory of him saying that, his eyes locked on hers across the bench in the crowded weight floor after she’d offhandedly trashed Brenda from spin class – everyone knew Brenda was screwing the tennis pro – still sent a shiver down her spine. It was the perfect blend of playful challenge and underlying heat that had cracked the virtuous facade she’d carefully maintained for years.
Their first time had been a reckless, exhilarating blur in the echoing emptiness of the men’s showers. The chlorine tang in the air, the slick tile beneath their bare feet, the forbidden thrill of their bodies tangling under the lukewarm spray – it had been a primal explosion of lust. A forgotten mop bucket in the corner had been their only witness, a silent accomplice to their sin.
Since then, stolen moments and breathless texts had become their currency. And this morning, Damien’s message was pure gold.
Azazel: Evangeline. You haunt my dreams and my waking. I can't force you out of my head. My only temporary relief is orgasm, but I can't come close to what you do to me, here by myself. Look what you've done.
She enlarged the gif. It was a mirror selfie, showing his gym body, wearing only a black tank top pulled up to expose his eight pack. His cock was cuffed in a pair of handcuffs. He flexed his cock, and nade the dangling cuffs dance up and down. He swung his hips and his cock head bounced off his navel.
Azazel: I can't wait to hit your belly button piercing again. I want to attach a little charm bracelet bell there so I can really ring your bell.
Her breath hitched. A visceral image flashed in her mind: Azazel’s dark head dipping between her thighs, his tongue tracing the line of her navel piercing, the rough scrape of his stubble against her skin. Teasing her as he continued slowly up her body until he kissed her, grazing her opening with that massive pipe of his. Her clit throbbed, a needy ache that resonated deep within her pelvis. She clenched her thighs together, a gasp caught in her throat.
Chuck shifted slightly behind her, his arm tightening around her waist.
Lost in the haze of her lust, still sleepy, she started to wake him. She froze, her heart hammering against her ribs. He mumbled something in his sleep and settled again. Her hand had almost touched his shoulder when she abruptly came to her senses. What the fuck was she thinking? As if on autopilot, she was about to show him the sexts. Why? Because it was awesome, and she often awakened him at dawn with cute animal videos or crazy dance moves on tik tok or the latest fresh hell on the news. She loved him, and she loved sharing her life with him. She hated that she couldn't share this, too. But she was trained to be a good girl, so she was also deeply ashamed of herself.
The urge to roll over and shove the text in his face and confess was almost unbearable. A perverse curiosity, a wicked desire to see his reaction, clawed at her. Chuck, with his quiet, almost unsettling acceptance of everything she did, the way his eyes sometimes held a strange, unreadable quality… a suspicion had been growing in her mind, a dark, thrilling possibility she hadn’t dared to fully acknowledge. Could he… could he actually want this? She had heard a few guys were. The thought was a dangerous spark in her greedy tinderbox.
Later that day at work, the fluorescent lights hummed overhead as she stared blankly at her computer screen. A notification popped up on her phone. Her stomach lurched with anticipation. Please be him, she silently pleaded. But it was Chuck. A mundane question about dinner. A wave of disappointment, sharp and unexpected, washed over her. It was pathetic, this constant craving for Azazel’s attention, this gnawing emptiness when his texts didn’t arrive. She rushed to the loo, hiding bitter tears.
That evening, after a boring dinner with Chuck, where his usual placid demeanor seemed almost… accepting, she retreated to the bathroom. The marijuana edible she’d taken before dinner were starting to bloom in her system, heightening her senses, blurring the edges of her guilt.
The hot spray beat down on her skin as she lathered her body, her fingers tracing the outline of her belly button piercing, her tits, her neck. Damien’s words echoed in her mind, mingling with the thumping pulse between her legs. She slid a hand down her slick abdomen, her fingers finding her swollen clit, already aching.
This is so fucked up, she thought, her fingers working rhythmically. I’m lying to my husband, sneaking around like some cheap hussy. But the self-reproach was weak, drowned out by the rising tide of pleasure. A dark, thrilling part of her reveled in it. She was bad. A slut. A baddie. A villain. And the forbidden nature of it all only amplified the sensation.
Her breath hitched as she imagined Azazel’s hands on her body, rough and demanding. She pictured their encounters in the locker room, the hurried, desperate fumbling, the stolen gasps against the tile wall. “There’s some whores in this house,” she hummed under her breath, the lyrics of Cardi B’s song a perverse anthem to her transgression. “There’s some whores in this house.” And she was the whore, slick and needy under the water, driven by a desire that had shattered her carefully constructed life.
The edible intensified the sensations, each stroke sending waves of pleasure through her. Your honor, I'm a freak bitch, handcuffs, leashes. She squeezed her eyes shut, Azazel’s body filling her mind, his lips curled into that knowing smirk. Switch my wig, make him feel like he cheating. The guilt was still there, a dull ache beneath the surface, but for now, it only served to intensify the raw, unapologetic pleasure of being a bad, delicious slut. Put him on his knees, give him some' to believe in. The water pounded, washing over her, cleansing nothing but her defiled flesh, and she arched her back, lost in the intoxicating filth of her secret desires. Never lost a fight, but I'm looking for a beating.
As orgasm broke over her like a wave hitting the rocks, she whimpered aloud, and in that moment, she decided she would shop for bell charms on her phone, in bed, once Chuck was asleep. She knew she'd have trouble falling asleep, what with the racing thoughts that afflicted her lately.
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