Susan stormed out of the house that Saturday morning, her fiery red hair streaming behind her like a banner of defiance, a vivid contrast to the gray fog of frustration clouding her mind. At 26 or 27, her body cradled the budding life of our first child, her belly a gentle curve beneath her modest blouse. The disagreement—its details now lost to the haze of memory—had ignited a rare spark of rebellion in her deeply conservative soul. She slid into her car, the worn leather seat creaking beneath her, and peeled away, the engine’s steady hum a soothing counterpoint to the storm in her heart.
The road stretched before her, a narrow ribbon of asphalt winding toward Lake Erie, where it dead-ended at the state park overlook. The air grew crisp as she neared the water, carrying the sharp tang of lake brine and the earthy musk of damp sand. She parked, her hands trembling slightly on the wheel, and stepped out. The wind tugged at her blouse, pressing the fabric against the swell of her pregnancy, and she inhaled deeply, tasting the faint mineral bite of the lake on her tongue. The vast expanse of water shimmered under the late morning sun, a restless mirror of her own unsettled thoughts. She sat on a weathered bench, her fingers tracing the rough grain of the wood, and let her mind drift—away from me, from our home, from the rigid moral compass that had always guided her.
The purr of an engine broke her reverie. A sleek Porsche, black as a moonless night, glided past, then slowed and doubled back. Susan’s hazel eyes widened as she recognized the driver: LL, the charismatic Black ER doctor she’d worked alongside in the hospital’s frenetic chaos. His skin gleamed like polished ebony in the sunlight, and his smile—broad, confident, edged with mischief—cut through the haze of her mood. He pulled up beside her car, the Porsche’s low growl fading to a murmur, and leaned out the window. “Susan? What’s a pretty thing like you doing out here all alone?” His voice was smooth, warm, like honey over gravel, and it stirred something deep and unbidden within her.
They talked for thirty minutes, the conversation flowing effortlessly—hospital gossip, the absurdity of their shared shifts, the quiet beauty of the lake. Susan found herself laughing, the sound bubbling up unbidden, her earlier anger dissolving into the breeze. Then LL tilted his head, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch. “Come by my place. It’s just a mile up the shore. No pressure—just a change of scenery.” Her heart thudded, a traitor to her usual restraint, and against every fiber of her devout nature, she nodded. “Okay,” she murmured, climbing back into her car, her palms slick against the steering wheel as she followed him.
The house was a marvel, perched on Lake Erie’s edge like a jewel in a crown. Susan stepped inside, her sensible nurse’s shoes clicking on the hardwood floor, and the scent hit her first—cedar and leather, mingling with a faint trace of LL’s cologne, spicy and masculine. He gave her the tour, his voice a low, intimate cadence as he gestured to the living room with its plush velvet sofa, the gourmet kitchen gleaming with stainless steel, and the library lined with books she ached to touch.
Her fingers brushed the spine of a leather-bound volume, the texture cool and supple, and she imagined the late nights he must spend there, lost in thought. The bedrooms came next, and her pulse quickened as they entered the master. A waterbed dominated the space, its surface rippling faintly, so like the one we shared at home—yet different, with baffles that promised a firmer, more controlled sway. She could almost feel it beneath her, the gentle rocking, the cool kiss of the vinyl against her skin, and a flush crept up her neck.
They settled in the living room, sinking into the sofa’s embrace. LL’s laughter filled the space, rich and infectious, and Susan felt her guard slip further with every shared story. The air between them crackled, charged with an unspoken tension. She caught the way his eyes lingered—on the curve of her lips, the flush creeping up her pale, freckled cheeks, the swell of her breasts beneath her modest blouse. Her body, heavy with pregnancy, felt suddenly alive, electric, as if his gaze could peel back her layers and find the woman beneath the nurse, the wife, the mother-to-be. The lake lapped at the shore outside, a rhythmic whisper, and the scent of brewing coffee drifted from the kitchen—bitter, grounding. Susan sipped from a mug he offered, the heat seeping into her palms, and savored the way it mingled with the faint salt still clinging to her senses.
But the mood shifted. LL slid closer, his knee pressing against hers deliberately now, no longer accidental. His dark eyes glinted with a hunger that twisted her stomach—fear mingling with a darker, unfamiliar thrill.
“You’re tense, Susan,” he murmured, his voice a velvet snare, low and insistent. “Let me help you relax.”
Her breath caught, her conservative instincts screaming to pull away, but her body betrayed her, rooted to the spot.
“I—I shouldn’t,” she stammered, her hands fidgeting in her lap, brushing the swell of her pregnant belly. LL’s smile widened, predatory yet disarmingly warm.
“Shouldn’t doesn’t mean you don’t want to,” he countered, his hand sliding onto her thigh, firm and unyielding. The heat of his palm seared through her skirt, and she flinched, but didn’t push him off. Her mind spun—this isn’t me, I’m not this woman—yet the ache between her thighs pulsed stronger, a traitor to her vows.
He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, his breath hot and spiced with that cologne she’d smelled earlier.
“You’ve been good for so long, haven’t you? Let me show you something else.”
His persistence wore at her resolve, each word a chisel against the wall of her morality. She shook her head weakly, but his hand slid higher, fingers tracing the edge of her panties beneath her skirt.
“LL, no—” she started, but he pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her, then replaced it with his mouth. The kiss was hard, demanding, his tongue prying her lips apart, tasting her resistance as it crumbled. She tasted coffee and something primal on him, and her hands, meant to push him away, clutched his shirt instead.
He pulled back, eyes locked on hers, and stood, tugging her up with him.
“Come on,” he said, leading her to the couch’s edge, his grip on her wrist unrelenting. She stumbled, her nurse’s sensibility warring with the heat pooling low in her belly. He sat, unzipping his pants with a casual confidence, and his cock sprang free—thick, dark, and already hard. Susan’s eyes widened, a flush creeping up her neck.
“I’ve never—” she whispered, thinking of you, of the boundaries she’d never crossed with me.
“First time for everything,” LL cut in, his tone coaxing yet edged with command. He guided her hand to it, wrapping her fingers around the pulsing heat, and she gasped at the weight, the velvet hardness so foreign to her.
“Suck it,” he urged, his hand on the back of her neck, gentle but firm, pushing her down.
She resisted, lips trembling, but his persistence won out.
“You’ll like it, Susan. Trust me.”
Her knees hit the floor, and she hesitated, the musky scent of him filling her nose—raw, intoxicating. Then, against every fiber of her being, she parted her lips and took him in. The taste was salty, overwhelming, his thickness stretching her mouth as he groaned above her. Her tongue moved awkwardly at first, then found a rhythm, spurred by his low, approving growls. She’d never done this for me, never even considered it, but here she was, sucking him deeper, her gag reflex protesting as he pushed her head down further. “Good girl,” he rasped, and when he came, the hot rush flooded her mouth. She swallowed instinctively, the bitter tang coating her throat, a secret she’d never share with me.
He didn’t let her recover. Pulling her up, he shoved her skirt to her waist and yanked her panties down, the fabric tearing slightly.
“LL, wait—” she protested, but he spun her around, bending her over the couch arm. Her pregnant belly pressed into the cushion, and she felt exposed, vulnerable, yet dripping with a need she couldn’t deny. He entered her in one brutal thrust, his cock stretching her tight, untouched depths. She cried out, pain and pleasure blurring, her nails digging into the velvet as he fucked her hard, relentless. The couch creaked under them, the lake’s whispers drowned by her gasps and his grunts. He gripped her hips, leaving marks she’d later hide from me, and when he finished, she felt his heat spill inside her, a forbidden claim on her body.
But he wasn’t done. Dragging her to the master bedroom, he shoved her onto the waterbed, its baffled surface rocking beneath her. She tried to crawl away, her conservative soul clawing back to the surface, but he pinned her wrists above her head, his weight crushing her protests.
“You’re mine for now,” he growled, stripping her blouse open, buttons popping free and scattering across the floor. Her breasts, swollen with pregnancy, spilled out, and he sucked one nipple into his mouth, biting until she whimpered. He fucked her again, slower this time, the bed swaying with each thrust, her body yielding despite her whispered “no’s.” His hands roamed, squeezing her ass, slipping a finger into her tight rear entrance—something so alien, so taboo, she sobbed at the intrusion, yet arched into it, her body betraying her mind.
Before she left, he took her one last time, standing against the library wall. Books toppled as he lifted her, her legs wrapping around him out of instinct, not choice. He pounded into her, her back scraping the shelves, and she came—unwillingly, explosively—her cries muffled against his shoulder. When he set her down, her legs shook, her body a map of his conquest: lipstick smeared, thighs slick, morals shattered.
The drive home was a haze of sensation: the cool leather of the seat against her thighs, the lake’s scent fading into the familiar pine of our neighborhood, the echo of LL’s voice in her ears. When she stepped into our bathroom, finding you in the tub, she was a different Susan—flushed, alive, her conservative shell cracked just enough to let something wild peek through. She spoke calmly, recounting a sanitized version of the day with a practiced ease, but beneath her words, the truth simmered: the thoughts she’d buried, the scents she’d breathed, the tastes she’d savored, and the forbidden thrill she’d felt, if only for a fleeting, electric afternoon. Her womb carried his echo, her skin still burned with his touch, and her soul bore the weight of a Susan I’d never know—a woman who, for seven hours by Lake Erie, had stepped beyond the bounds of the wife and mother I thought I understood.
