A Night to Remember: Forbidden Sparks at the Hotel

It was one of those glittering corporate bashes that make you feel like you're in a scene from a Bond film—except, you know, with more PowerPoint decks and less martinis shaken, not stirred. The venue? A decent London Hotel, all crystal chandeliers, velvet drapes, I was there representing dressed to kill in my favourite little black number—a sleek wrap dress that hugs every curve. Underneath? Hold-up stockings, gripping my thighs with that delicious silicone band matching satin lingerie, the kind that's all lace edge.

Let's call him Richard—the senior manager from upstairs, the one with the corner office. He was seated next to me at the long, candlelit table, all sharp grey suit , crisp white shirt unbuttoned just enough at the collar to hint at the tanned chest beneath. Salt-and-pepper hair. From the moment the appetizers hit the table he was on me like a shadow. It started innocently enough. "You look ravishing tonight," he murmured over his wine glass, I laughed it off, crossing my legs under the table. As the speeches dragged on his knee brushed mine. Accidental? Hardly. Then his hand, warm and sure, landed on my thigh beneath the starched tablecloth. No one noticed; the room was a haze of small talk and silverware. But I did. His fingers traced lazy circles on my bare skin, just above the lace of my hold-ups, inching higher with every sip of Bordeaux. My breath hitched, heat pooling low in my belly as I pretended to nod along to the after-dinner chit-chat. "Tell me," he whispered, leaning in so his breath ghosted my ear, "what's a woman like you doing wasting her evening on spreadsheets when you could be... elsewhere?"

His hand had wandered bolder, slipping under the hem of my dress, fingertips grazing the satin edge of my panties. I should have swatted him away, played the good girl. Instead, I parted my thighs just a fraction, letting him feel the damp heat there. His eyes darkened, that predatory gleam flashing. "Excuse us," he said to no one in particular, standing with that effortless command, offering me his arm. , I took it. We slipped away from the table, weaving through the crowd like conspirators, the bass of the jazz trio masking the thunder of my pulse.

He led me down a hushed corridor, past gilded mirrors and velvet ropes, to the disabled loo at the far end. The door barely shut before his mouth was on mine, hungry and demanding. Hands everywhere: mine fisting his shirt, his cupping my arse, bunching the fabric of my dress up over my hips. "Fuck, you're exquisite," as he backed me against the cool marble sink. My wrap dress parted like a secret unfolding, the ties loosening under his urgent fingers. He hitched it higher, exposing the satin thong clinging to my wetness, the stockings framing my thighs like an invitation.

No time for niceties. His belt buckle clinked open, trousers shoved down just enough, and then he was there—hard and insistent, pressing against me. I gasped as he hooked my leg over his hip, the slit in my dress making it all too easy, and with one thrust, he buried himself deep. God, the stretch, the fullness... I clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into the wool of his suit as he set a rhythm that was all raw need. The mirror behind us fogged with our breaths, my reflection a wild-eyed mess—hair tousled, choker askew, lips swollen. He fucked me like he owned me, each snap of his hips grinding against that spot that made stars burst behind my eyelids. "So tight," he groaned, his free hand sliding between us to circle my clit through the satin, now soaked and useless. I came first, shattering around him with a muffled cry, walls clenching like a vice.

But he wasn't done. Not by a long shot. He drove deeper, harder, chasing his own edge, until with a guttural curse, he slammed home one last time—hot and pulsing, spilling deep inside me, filling my pussy with his release. We stayed locked like that for a breathless moment, his forehead against mine, the air thick with the scent of sex and expensive cologne.

As we straightened our clothes—me smoothing my dress with trembling hands, him tucking himself away with that smug, satisfied grin—he knelt suddenly, right there on the tiled floor. Before I could protest, his fingers hooked into the waistband of my panties, sliding them down my thighs in one slow, deliberate pull. The satin whispered against my skin, cool and slick with us, and he pocketed them like a trophy, folding the damp fabric into his suit jacket. "A memento," he said, voice husky, eyes locked on mine. "Something to remind me of how you taste."

I slipped out first, legs wobbly in my heels, the absence between my thighs a delicious ache, his cum trickling warm down my skin as I re-joined the party. He followed minutes later, cool as ever, raising a glass to me across the room with a wink that promised round two someday.

I stumbled through our front door, still buzzing from champagne and... well, let's just say a certain senior manager's undivided attention. The cab ride home was a blur of city lights streaking past like shooting stars, my thighs slick and sticky, that tell-tale trickle between my legs a wicked reminder of what I'd done. No panties—Richard's little souvenir tucked away in his pocket, leaving me exposed under the hem of my wrap dress, the satin lingerie clinging damply to my skin like a lover's last kiss.

The house was dark and silent, save for the distant hum of the fridge and the soft snore drifting from our bedroom. Hubby was sprawled out under the duvet, one arm flung over his head, I kicked off nothing heels stayed on, and padded in, the click-clack of my stilettos on the floor The door creaked open, and there it was—that sleepy smile spreading across his face as his eyes fluttered open and adjusted to the sight of me.

"God, that dress," he murmured, voice thick with sleep and something darker, hungrier. He propped himself up on one elbow, gaze raking over me like he was seeing me for the first time: the way the black fabric moulds to my curves, the choker glinting like a badge of mischief, the slit flashing stocking-clad thigh with every step. He loves me in this dress

sauntered over to his side of the bed, hips swaying. Fully dressed—heels, dress, all of it—I gripped the duvet and yanked it back in one teasing tug, exposing him to the cool air. There he was, half-hard already just from the sight of me, his cock twitching against the soft cotton of his boxers like it remembered exactly what comes next. I didn't waste a breath. Dropping to my knees beside the bed, I hooked my fingers into the waistband and freed him, that familiar weight springing into my palm—warm, velvety, mine.

Leaning in, I took him into my mouth with a slow, deliberate swirl of my tongue, tasting the salt of his skin as I sucked him deep. He groaned, hand threading into my tousled hair, not guiding but holding on for dear life as I worked him—lips sealed tight, hollowing my cheeks, bobbing with a rhythm that had him thickening against my tongue in seconds. I hummed around him, the vibration pulling curse from his lips, until he was rock-hard, pulsing, ready to burst.

I rose, kicking one leg over to straddle him, the mattress dipping under my weight. My dress rode up automatically, the wrap ties loosening like an afterthought, and I positioned myself above him—hold-ups whispering against his thighs, the absence of panties making it all too easy to sink down. The head of his cock nudged my entrance, slick with his remnants and my own endless want, and I impaled myself in one fluid motion, gasping at the stretch, the fullness that felt like coming home. He filled me perfectly, bottoming out with a shared moan.

"Ride me," he urged, hands settling on my hips, thumbs tracing the exposed skin where dress met stocking. I did—oh, I did—rolling my hips in lazy circles at first, grinding down to feel every inch of him stirring the mess inside me. Then faster, heels digging into the mattress for leverage, the slap of skin on skin punctuating the quiet night. Leaning forward, my hands braced on his chest, I caught his eye and whispered, "Do I feel wet tonight, love? Slippery?"

His eyes widened, then hooded with that delicious mix of surprise and arousal. He thrust up to meet me, testing, fingers slipping between us to feel where we joined. "Christ, yes," he growled, voice rough as gravel. "What have you been up to, you wicked thing?" And that's when I spilled it all, every filthy detail, painted in breathy confessions as I fucked him harder, chasing that building coil in my core. "There was this man at the table... his hand on my thigh under the cloth... fingers teasing higher while everyone talked shop." Bounce, grind, his cock dragging against my walls, hitting that spot that made words tumble faster. "He took me to the loo, hitched my dress up just like this... fucked me against the sink till he came deep, hot and thick inside me." Hubby's grip tightened, breaths coming in sharp pants, but his eyes? Pure fire, loving every word, every bounce that smeared Richard's claim with his own possession. "He took my panties as a trophy... left me dripping, walking back to the party with his cum leaking down my thighs."

The telling pushed us both over—me clenching around him like a fist, shattering with a cry that he muffled with his mouth, and him following seconds later, hips snapping up to bury himself to the hilt. "Mine now," he grunted, spilling into me, adding his spunk to the cocktail already warming my pussy, pulse after pulse until we were both spent, slick and sated.I collapsed onto his chest, his arms wrapping around me like a promise, the dress still half-on, heels dangling off the bed.