I stroll into the party and immediately sweep the room. I'm looking for him. I don't know who he is, or what his name is. All I know is that he is married and here with his wife. I am hunting. I'm good at this. I am young, not beautiful but passably attractive, with a presence that, when activated, makes one with reasonably keen perception aware that I am capable of doing unmentionable things and just might be immediately available. I've come here tonight to mix, mingle, have a few drinks, and get fucked. Hard. By him.

But first I have to find him. A first and second trip around the room, into the adjoining spaces where people are gathered in the usual knots, and back again yields nothing of interest. I am patient. Experience teaches that before the party even begins to wind down I will find him.

I sip my champagne and feel the warmth infuse my body and mind. I engage in a few brief conversations, but don't linger in one spot too long. There are more important things to accomplish. I travel the circuit again, still no candidates. The crowd is somewhat dowdy and quite uninteresting. Just when I'm beginning to think that tonight won't be a success, I see him.

Tall, older, probably twice my age. Standing with a perky blonde, soccer-mom type, talking to another vanilla-looking couple. My mark is reasonably handsome, in decent shape. No one you'd glance at longingly on the street, but more than passable. He looks bored. I adjust my view to confirm – the blonde's wedding ring glints in the light. His wife.

Perfect.

I wait, circulating discreetly while keeping an eye on the two couples. His bored expression deepens; he's not engaged in the conversation at all. His eyes begin to sweep the room and he spies another friend, breaking away from his little group and walking across the room. I move to intercept, bumping into him and spilling my drink. He apologizes profusely, and I protest that it's no big thing. He's clearly embarrassed by his clumsiness, and so I look directly into his eyes with the most seductive gaze I can muster and offer to let him make it up to me by getting me a new drink. We head toward the bar, but I suggest we go to the one out on the patio, where it's cooler. He agrees, and we step outside into the cool night air.

There is only a sparse crowd out here, and no line at the bar. My champagne glass refilled and his whiskey refreshed, we engage in conversation. The mundane cocktail party kind. I flirt, shamelessly, touch his arm while laughing at his lame witticisms. I'm oozing sexuality at this point and notice his demeanor has changed. The fish is evaluating the bait. I tell him how handsome he is, how smart, and how I wish I could find a man like him. I stand closer, too close, and gaze up at him. This is the moment of truth.

Would you like to take a little walk, I ask. Before he can answer, I take his hand and lead him to the pool house. I know this property well. There's a little changing room on the left side. We enter. He doesn't protest. I push him to the wall, kiss him with force, drop to my knees quickly. In a flash, I have his cock out. It is nearly rock hard. This is going to be too easy. I assault it with my tongue until he is hard enough to burst, and then stop, pull my top over my head, and unsnap my bra, exposing my breasts. I stand, kiss him deeply again, stroking his shaft covered in my saliva. He kisses me back greedily now. I push away and drop my skirt to reveal that I'm not wearing anything beneath. He gasps as he surveys my sex – the pouty lips, the immaculately groomed landing strip. I turn to face away, bend over, hands against the wall for support, and spread my legs. I hear his pants drop and he needs no more invitation. I feel his cock against my lips and then he hesitates. I finish the job by pushing back against him and exhale deeply as he enters me. Soon we find our rhythm. I'm crying out dirty things, telling him how big he is, how hard, asking him if his little wifey fucks him the way he needs. I beg him to pull my hair, choke me, call me names. I'm fucking you the way she won't aren't I? You like your dirty little secret whore, don't you?

I cum hard, pushing him out, squirting all over the pool house floor. I turn, hop on a counter, and pull him into me again. I cum twice again, each time he slams back in. The smell of sex is everywhere. Suddenly his pace quickens and his expression becomes more intense. The moment I know all too well. I wrap my legs around him to pull him in deeper and lock him in place and beg him to cum in my pussy, to give it to me, to claim me as his own. He grunts and cries out and I feel spurt after spurt as he empties himself into me. I scream in orgasm one last time and kiss him even more fervently.

We uncouple. I smile and tell him that was amazing. I suggest he dress and leave first. He nods. I look down, his white cream oozing out of me, and command him to look at what he's done. He kisses me hard and dresses quickly, rushing back to the house. I linger, masturbating to one final orgasm, then dress and follow at a discreet distance.

Back at the party, all put back together, I seek out his wife, introduce myself, and engage her in friendly get to know you cocktail party banter. I feel her husband's cum trickling down my leg and smile.