It had been twelve hours since she fucked me and I was still feeling the effects. Flashes of her heavenly body riding my lap on the sofa stung my mind at breakfast, amid household minutiae with my wife. I barely listened, head brimming with visions of flung back hair and gasps as I pawed the incredible breasts of a woman I didn't know at her breathless insistence.

The recollection had me hardening beneath the forgotten bowl of cornflakes. Though we hadn't been in the same room, every short message that appeared on my laptop made me believe we were. Sipping vodka in my home office, warming both my thoughts and libido, I stirred in my underwear anticipating each erotic moment she conjured.

She was a sensational writer, starting slow. Teasing. Building tension. Telling me we'd snuggle on the couch before clambering onto my lap, trailing tiny kisses across my throat and gently scraping her teeth over my earlobe. I could almost feel it all. Her fingertips drifting beneath the T-shirt up to my chest. Tender kiss, smouldering at first, becoming fiery. Tongues. Lips. Teeth. Hands clutching at one another, bodies crushing as passion swelled along with my cock at each sordid line of text drawing me further into her wonderfully filthy mind.

I'd freed my prick and stroked its length. Nothing existed but her words. I hung on every detail that popped onto the screen, minute by delicious minute, hardening fully in my fist, head swimming with dirty imagery she painted. When she laid my hands on her clothed breasts I could sense her heart beating beneath. Faster when she stripped our tops.

Although the entire two-hour conversation was an escalating, mind-blowing tease, teetering on our respective edges throughout, two aspects still floored me as I failed to focus on breakfast.

The first was after removing her bra, erect nipples brushing my chest, she said, working her way up until one was level with my taut exhalations. She wrote:

Bite it, please. I want to feel it sting...

I pictured the pebbled cherry hovering an inch from my lips, dark waves of hair framing it, tickling my cheek. Waiting, despite her grinding impatiently against my bursting erection. Quivering.

As her nipple slipped between my lips, I drew it into my mouth and sucked, teeth clamping over the tip. Biting. A low groan in her throat spilled into the room when I increased the pressure, her head thrown back, grabbing my neck as I lit her insides with flashes of pain soothed by a swirling tongue.

She whispered in my virtual ear, You've no idea how wet you're making me right now.

I gave her more. Bit harder until she begged to taste me. Slid to her knees and pulled my jeans and underwear down, circumcised cock springing free for her to lick, scratch and bite. She cupped my balls in her warm hand. Lapped at the same pre-come I smeared over my flared tip, imagining being engulfed, nudging her throat as she gazed up into my eyes and took every inch. Repetitive. Dirty. Needy. All teeth, lips and glistening saliva. In a frenzy, I grabbed her head and used her mouth until the surging pressure peaked.

Until I snapped, seconds from climax.

Yanking her off my throbbing cock by her neck, I stood and shoved her back onto the couch, watching her chest heaving, beautiful and alluring and flushed, fire raging behind wide eyes. I sank to my knees, unbuttoned her and tugged downwards.

That's when she dropped the second bombshell of the evening.

Got a confession to make...Not wearing panties under my jeans. I'm so wet and making a terrible mess.

At the recollection, I had an identical reaction under the breakfast table as twelve hours earlier; my cock jerked and I oozed pre-come.

I stood sharply, cutlery clanging crockery as I apologised to my wife, mumbling I needed the bathroom. Pacing from the room, taking the stairs in threes, I slammed the door, tugging my engorged cock free.

Leaning over and gripping the sink, chrome tap catching flashes of the wild reflection behind my glasses, I replayed my one-handed messages: my gaze feasting on her drenched pussy lips. Splayed. Plump and inviting as I spread alabaster thighs, leaning forward to bury my tongue in her wet snatch and taste her divine elixir.

So close, she wrote. Delirious.

I imagined her masturbating furiously, home alone while her husband was out. Fuelled her desperate touches by describing the way she writhed against my mouth, breathtaking groans ringing around her living room as I kissed and licked her beautiful, dripping cunt. How I ran my tongue up her delicious folds, snaking over the hood, its contents begging for attention, my chin slick with her sweet nectar.

Words poured into the tiny messaging conduit between our distant houses. A stream of ones and zeros in endlessly explicit configurations that carried more excitement than I'd experienced in months at home:

I need you out of control. Want you to come all over my face. Let me drink every drop as I eagerly slather my tongue over your lips and jumping clit.

She urged me on. Please. Harder. I can't take much more.

At my rising orgasm in the bathroom, I squeezed my eyes shut, recalling.

You grind against me, grabbing my head to pin me to your soaked entrance, holding me exactly where you need me most. I wrap my lips around your clit and suck, nibbling the edges and feel you bucking, writhing, moaning, wetness tumbling onto the couch from your hot slit.

At my desk I came hard when she did. In the sink, slashes of pearly white the same shade as the porcelain fired towards the plug, ragged breathing sucked through gritted teeth.

My heart hammered. Everything was wrong. Right. Conflicted. Devotion to my wife skewered by the tainted blood thundering through my heart that I feared belonged elsewhere.

To my unseen muse.

To my gorgeous, filthy secret.