With a satisfied sigh, I sat back on the loveseat and spread my thighs, my hand releasing my erect cock, which along with my balls thumps softly on the leather cushions beneath me as I beheld the beauty slowly moving to the music before me.

To the tune of a sultry, Latin-inspired electronica instrumental, her narrow hips swayed and curled, the faint thickness around her waist pinching up a little with each gyration.  The thin veil of purple fabric that hung from the front of her gold belt swayed in kind with her hips, giving brief glimpses of her innermost thighs as her entirely exposed legs guided her languid movements.  Above her belly, her full breasts twisted back and forth, her plumped-up cleavage a delicious display between the very low-plunging (and very high-cut) gold cups of her top, occasionally giving flashes of her under-breast.  Her arms stretched and retracted in slow, serpentine movements, and her face beamed even with her downcast eyes, her wide, thin lips red with a dark stain, her eyes lined with blue shade, her ears sporting hoops of metal.

My gaze traveled down her body...then slowly back up again, but this time I didn't look at her face.  I looked at her neck, which sported a wide, brass collar, its decorative clasp clutching a thick, heavy link of chain.  The next link and the next and the next stretched almost straight out, but with her movements, it occasionally slackened and then tightened again, making soft, metallic jingles and clanks.  More links and more stretched the five or so feet across the carpeted floor, above my legs, and above my chest...right to where my hand tightly clutched its middle, the slack piled off to the side of the loveseat that was my throne.

I watched her dance for a few more seconds...then I moved my arm back, tugging firmly on her chain. Her eyes fluttered open, and her lips parted to a small, dark gap as she stopped dancing and looked at me. I gave her chain another small but firm yank, and without a word, she walked to me, the tall, thin boots around her calves softly pressing onto the carpet.

She moved in between my legs, twisting slightly to her right as her right thigh brushed along the inner length of my left, and tilting over, she lifted her left leg up, bent it at the knee, and twisted forward so her leg slid alongside my naked torso, the fabric of her front skirt sliding over my cock, the big buckle to her belt cool where the metal met my lower stomach. She leaned forward steadily but slowly, her naked stomach pressing against my full gut, the fronts of her scantily-clad breasts pushing into my own soft chest, the cold metal brushing against my left nipple causing it to stiffen up.  She breathed evenly, her cleavage rising and falling, and she looked into my eyes with a look somewhere between reluctance and longing.

"Good girl," I said, and leaning in, I angled my head and opened my mouth, and proceeded to lick right across her lips, making her gasp and shut her eyes.  I slid my hands slowly onto her hips and around her lower waist and pulled her more firmly up against me, moving my face alongside hers to whisper by her ear before licking the lobe, "Good little Angela..."

"Thank you, Master," my sister-in-law groaned.

***

I think Angela already knew I was interested in her long before that Thanksgiving, but I wouldn't learn that until far into our affair.

My wife's family is the typical Italian-American group. That day at her parents' house, they were all yelling at each other with such volume and intensity that you'd think they were in a heated argument, but they were only exchanging stories and thoughts - just loudly. Even so, for me and for Angela, the volume got a bit too high, as our own families were a far cry from loud Italians, and we would sometimes find excuses to step out of the echo chamber.

I had just come out of the bathroom, my stomach overfull from the massive meal, and found Angela sitting on the sofa in the living room, watching the TV that had been left on while everyone was in the dining room. She met my gaze as I passed the noisy doorway, and I rolled my eyes and shook my head, and chuckled when I saw her do the same thing.

Sitting down in the chair next to the sofa, I said, "Another holiday in paradise, eh?"

"That's why I always make sure I can come to these," Angela said. "I need some peace and quiet."

"I'm sure it's so different than home for you, too."

Angela's slender shoulders rose and fell, and she inclined her head. "Night and day."

The adopted mother of a five-year-old and an eight-year-old never had a break, I knew all too well, thanks to my own sister's family. I couldn't imagine Angela dealing with that, on top of being such a busy business partner and town chamber head. All the more power to her, though--she managed to stay cool, calm, and not to mention in good shape, with very few lines of stress wrinkles touching her angular, pretty face.

"Is your house as calm and peaceful as mine?" she asked.

"Probably a lot noisier and more chaotic, judging by your logic."

Angela snorted and shook her head, and as a loud, male voice shouted into the room, her whole facial expression changed. "Angela!" barked Mark, her husband.

"Yeah?" she called back, and I watched with sad wonder at that look on her face; she was simultaneously on alert, like a clerk at a store being addressed by their manager, and a combination of annoyed and...scared? No--not even scared. Sad.

"Didn't the Olsons come on that Friday?"

"Saturday!" she shouted back, and I watched as her body seemed to collapse in on itself, and her floral-patterned dress, which had fit her form so perfectly earlier, seemed to sag around her. When Mark didn't say anything else, she looked back at me, and, I swear, she looked less like her thirty-nine-year-old self and more like a little girl sulking after being scolded.

I swallowed hard, tempted to change the subject, but instead heard myself whisper, "Are you okay?"

Angela closed her eyes and nodded quickly. "Yeah. Yup. Yes."

"Oh. Good. For a second there I thought you weren't."

She shrugged. "I'd not say it if I wasn't."

Thinking quickly, I said, "Good. Because I wouldn't listen, anyway."

When she gave a confused frown, I curled my lips in a silent smirk, and my God, how her face seemed to softly glow. "I definitely wouldn't share how I was feeling with you, anyway."

"As you shouldn't. Especially not over texts or anything."

She mirrored my smirk as she said, "Yeah, those would be risky, anyway. Good thing you don't use Spectre, either."

"I don't even know what it is."

"Just some anonymous messaging app. Good for playing message tag."

"Well thank you. I'll be sure to avoid that one."

"Good. Never know when some, ah..." She looked down for a moment, licking her thin lips, then said, "...when someone with a screen name like 'bannedshe' might be looking to vent on there."

It went on like that for a few minutes, with us coyly "avoiding how to properly spell" that name, and me changing the subject by taking out my phone and scrolling the app store.

"Bannedshe," soon after, received a message from "muckraker," and then we put away our phones and watched the TV in silence until my wife came in and asked if we were ready for dessert.

And so it began.