Thread: Driving Mrs Manson (Jack Stalker and KatherineMinola)

Julianne dropped the picnic basket on the floor of the senator's office, the blood rushing from her face as she watched her husband of 25 years screw two of his interns. She pivoted and rushed from the room and out the front door, down the steps, and into her car, slamming the door before revving the engine and peeling out as she sped away. Angry and hurt tears trailed down her cheeks, and she brushed them away with an impatient hand. Un-fucking-believable! The bastard had promised her after the last time that he was done with philandering. He'd promised. The asshole. She shifted her car and sped faster into the dark night. Sure, she wasn't 22 anymore, but she worked out, ate right, took care of herself, and maintained her figure. She'd even offered to get a breast implant since he seemed to prefer big-breasted whores, but he'd refused, saying that it wasn't appropriate for a senator's wife or the wife of the future president. Headlights appeared behind her, and a nondescript black car edged Julianne off the road. She recognized the suited man in the car, Scott Eastman, one of the agents assigned to her husband's secret service detail. Sighing, she pulled over, expecting the younger man to scold her for driving recklessly. He was a nice kid, handsome, and always considerate when the others obviously considered her a chore. Suddenly, her door was yanked open, and rough hands grabbed her, pulling her out of the vehicle and slamming her against the car. Her breath whooshed out, and she winced at the impact, pain whipping through her. Scott? she sputtered, trying to catch her breath. What are you doing? But her words fell on deaf ears as the man studied her, his eyes devouring her with obvious desire, and a new sensation crept up and down her spine. Pink blossomed on her cheeks, and he finally looked into her eyes. I saw everything, Mrs. Manson, Julianne, he ground out. I saw you stumble across your husband fucking those whores, and I saw you run out of the place. Why did you run Julianne? Was it because you were disgusted? Embarrassed? Angry? She didn't answer because her words caught in her throat as he wrapped one hand around her neck, holding her in place. His other hand slid down her body, his fingers gliding between her B cup breasts, over her stomach, and down to her silky-covered mound. A soft whimper escaped her lips as his fingers eased beneath the hem of her panties, brushing the heated flesh of her thigh, his other hand leaving her throat and tugging down her blouse and bra, exposing her pale breasts to the moonlight. Her breath caught in her throat as he gripped her breast, squeezing and pinching its flesh. Wh...wh...what are you doing? she squeaked, her body at war with her mind. Common sense told her to knee him in the groin, to fight, but her body had other ideas. Ignoring her, Scott continued growling in her ear, Or was it because you were feeling guilty, because seeing those whores get fucked made you think about how much of a whore you wanted to be? How much you wanted a man between your legs? How much you wanted to get fucked? he asked, his right hand sliding between her legs. She heard a sudden rip, and she felt the cool night air kiss her naked mound. You're a hot, attractive woman, Mrs. Manson, he said. He continued his dirty litany, and her body trembled, aching for more. Tell me, Julianne, tell me how badly you want to fuck. Tell me how you want just as much action as your dim-witted husband. Tell me how you crave hard cock, hot tongue and probing fingers. Scott's hands were bold, and he stroked her slit with sure, aggressive movements, rubbing against her silky folds while his other hand continued to squeeze her breast, pinching her nipple as he leaned in and kissed her. The kiss was far from sweet, but it didn't lack in passion or intensity. it was a brutal kiss, punishing, taking what he wanted, and in that moment, Julianne felt more alive than she'd felt in all 25 years of her marriage. She kissed him back with sudden fervor, her arms no longer hanging limply at her sides but sliding up his arms and snaking around his neck. Her hips arched as he stroked her heated slit, moisture gathered in her aching cunt. As though lured by the siren's call, Scott's finger grew slick in her moisture, and she felt his digit probe deeper. Her eyelids fluttered, and her breathing grew erratic as her hips bucked. But common sense finally seeped into her consciousness, and she gently released her grip on him, her hands resting on his chest, and slowly pushed back. Scott, stop, she whispered roughly, her voice thick with desire. We can't do this.