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The Heat of the Night © 2011 • Designed by

Excerpt "Triangle" by Pynk

I had shed my black satin bra and panties that were tossed along the white tile floor.
My panties were laced with the scent of lust.
It was just after midnight.
The oval jetted tub for two contained only one.
The flickering candlelight added to the seduction.
I just couldn’t resist touching myself.
The sweet scent of the black-cherry bubble bath filled the master bathroom. My surrendering body soaked in the lap of luxury, from the tip of my rosy red toes to the crack of my round behind, and up the width of my back to the top of my shoulder blades. I leaned against the tub. The pulsating jets hit all the right places. Every single one of them.
My hands were lost beneath the sudsy water. Suds that hid the sight of my self-pleasure. I was on fire while my husband of ten years slept just outside the door.
I touched myself with fingers that probed beneath hot water that was no match for the heat seeping from between my legs. Slow-moving steam arose from the water’s surface, slowly seeping into my skin, causing my face to sweat, giving off a warm mist, saturating my hair that was pulled back into a bun.
I opened my legs to explore myself more. More finger-fucking. More solo-love. More masturbating. My fingers knew me well.
My one hand rubbed along the soft womanly design of my full, slippery lips. Surrendering lips that guarded the entry to my vagina, framing my womanhood. My middle finger had already found its way inside, and then my index finger, and then my ring finger, probing my walls with curiosity as if my wish was their command.
My only wish was for an underwater orgasm created by the unbridled fantasy in my head. The vision of the one we met earlier that evening. My thoughts were extreme.
My thoughts were of her.
It was a Sunday and my husband Marcel and I would usually go watch football somewhere. We live near Dallas, Texas and he’s a Dallas Cowboys fanatic. I went along just to be with him. I can take it or leave it, actually. But I watched the game with him because he asked me to. I enjoyed pleasing my husband. Something my mother never did for my dad.
My runway model friend named Piper Owens was dating a new guy named Tyrone. He was a chocolate, bald track runner whose voice said he was country as a dozen eggs. He spoke like he was hung like Mandingo. Knowing Piper’s style, he also had a little money. She invited us to his house in Richardson, Texas, eleven miles from our house in Plano. His place was new, large, and filled with people.
After about an hour into being there, a woman walked in. I saw Marcel look at her. Most of the men did. But, what I also noticed was that she looked at me. I turned back toward the view of the game, trying not to stare, but she didn’t try not to at all. I took in her sight and gave a smile. She smiled more. I looked away. I looked back. She was still smiling.