He'd totally understated his looks. All I can do in the entrance to the opulent hotel bar is steady myself, gawp and take a shaky breath. Tabby at work's been catfished enough times that I know men can be all Brad Pitt in the profile picture and Benicio Del Toro in person.

But this guy? Off. The. Fucking. Charts.

He's right where he said he'd be, when he said he'd be. Towards the far end of the curved bar with a tumbler of vodka; condensation forming on the nearby bottle of tonic. With one foot on the brass bar rail, his gunmetal suit stretches deliciously across his firm behind.

The piped piano music washes over me as panic grips. A host of emotions claw at my judgement and knot my stomach: primarily fear. Fear over what the hell I'm doing meeting him. Fear it's too soon. Fear I may have overindulged from the minibar. Fear my husband might discover I'm not actually out with the girls, and I'd lied about staying at Clare's to sleep it off tomorrow.

Nausea wells. Choirgirls shouldn't lie, nor commit adultery. I'd lost control. Let events snowball.

Doubt erodes my moral foundations. I inhale. Oxygen fizzes, clarity forms. I reassure myself of the reasons. That the opportunity to freely experience the unknown is worth every risk. That it's not entirely selfish. I'm doing it for us; to learn about myself, my desires, my limits in a safe setting. Using it to shatter our marital rut and lay new bedrock.

Just twenty-four hours. That's what he promised. A one-time deal. If you had one wish, Elaine, what would it be? I'd barely hesitated at the keyboard.

Right now, I'm less sure.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I take another deep breath that I know swells my chest beneath the inky scoop-neck dress, then reopen them. He's still there. Magnificent. Dangerous. Exciting.

Now or never. Time for Game Face.

I will my jangling nerves to calm, release the doorframe and stride towards him. I'm aware of every step, the heel-toe that's usually second nature suddenly alien and awkward. The gap closes until I stand alongside him, the tang of his aftershave piquing my senses. A few days of dark stubble fades alongside his ears where the smooth expanse of his scalp begins. Fuck, he's sexy. Manly.

He'd kept me on edge all day with the barrage of messages. Each time my phone pinged over the clattering computer keyboards and ebb of conversation in the open-plan office, I'd snatched it up to read the next one.

I'm going to make you peel off your dress as I watch.

The mere notion thrilled me. Being wanted. Commanded. He knew what it meant to hang up my halo. To trust him, against a lifetime of what he termed institutionalised repression.

Bastard made me wait for the next message. The only other time twelve minutes had seemed like three weeks had been during Lucy Mulligan's swimsuit column pitch.

Shaking, I'd turned my attention back to the computer. Scrolled past meaningless content I didn't even recall writing. The muted ping distracted me all too easily.

You think you know desire? Wait until I kiss every inch of your skin tonight. And tomorrow. Make you quiver beneath my stubble. Shove you back on the bed, climb between your legs and devour you.

Fuck. As if my panties hadn't already been toast. I squirmed in the office chair. Seeped more. Damn material was practically glued to my pussy, waxed at his recent request. I craved to relieve the tension but his follow-up message warned:

Don't think about touching yourself. Every intoxicating drop is mine.

I tried to focus on the PC, but my "5 sexy style tips for the summer" article couldn't hold my attention. I wrote a paragraph. Deleted it. Pecked at the keyboard to edit a word on the previous page. Deleted the entire paragraph instead. Searched the web for inspiration and found none, despite having the entire wealth of human consciousness at my fingertips.

My phone pinged.

I want your hands gripping my scalp as you clutch me to your pussy and scream.

My mind was fuelled. Images tumbled. Thoughts, scenarios, the heat of our exchange, the brush of his kisses as we rolled naked and hot and sweaty on the hotel bed. His words were always filthy poetry. I ached for him, yet we'd never met.

Until now.

Now it's real.

I pray he won't notice my hands shaking as I slide my Union Jack clutch bag onto the speckled quartz bar, so he knows it's me. Trying to play it cool above the unrelenting belly fluttering, I attract the barman's attention.

"Glass of Shiraz, please."

He nods. Fetches the bottle. "Small, medium or large?"

My brain says large but my mouth thankfully overrides. "Medium." If I have much more I'll likely throw myself at Scott's feet, tear open his fly and suck his cock right here.

As the glass fills with red, I glance to my right. Catch his eye, shimmering pearlescent blue irises I could dive into. I flash a smile. "I made it."

He nods and picks up his drink. "So did I." His baritone matches his persona perfectly. I swear my stomach flips at just those three words. He turned up. He wants me. And I want him. Big time.

Desire burns. For reasons only alcohol can explain, I need him to know. Had told myself as I sat facing the dresser mirror adjusting the dress straps that I was going to wait to reveal the surprise, but it's bursting to escape.

The barman slithers my drink across by its base and I lean to my companion. Hush my voice near his ear. "And I'm not wearing panties."

I straighten and catch his open-mouthed stare that turns into a broad grin. He takes a slug of spirit and I watch his throat ripple. The barman coughs.

"Four fifty, love."

I continue to stare at Scott, the electrical connection growing between us. He reaches into his trouser pocket. "I'll get it." He slides the note across without breaking eye contact with me.

Picking up the glass by the stem, I mouth, "Thank you," and take a sip. The tannin coats my cheeks and throat and I swallow. "Isn't this exciting? You and me. Finally!" Scott retrieves his change and puts his wallet away. "I mean, I know we've talked about it a lot, but when I got up this morning I still couldn't believe the day was here. I looked at myself in the mirror and said, 'Don't be nervous, Elaine, it's just a date,' but I know it's more than that because of our..." I scan his strong fingers for the wedding ring. There's just a vague imprint. "… situation. I mean, those messages you sent me. God. I've been a mess at work all day. A mess. Every ping, I'd snatch up the phone and read your words over and over and… leak. God, so embarrassing, but that’s the effect you have. Just this incredible heat. I'm surprised I've not been fired, haha. I've been jittery and on edge and­—"

His warm hand on the back of mine silences my rambling. "It's okay, Elaine. Breathe!"

I look away. "God, am I babbling?" I take a healthy swig of wine. Maybe half. Swallow. Breathe in. Lift the corners of my mouth but the smile won't stay.

Raising his hand from mine, he picks up his drink. Sips. Returns it to the coaster and squares it with the back edge of the bar. Hovers his fingertip above my hand and lets a single drip of icy water roll across my knuckle. I shiver. Pull back and tuck a stray wisp of tawny hair behind my ear. "God, look at me. I'm a wreck. Should we…?" I pick up the glass and drain the rest. Probably a mistake. "Should we do this like you said?"

He turns to me fully, smiles and nods, reaching to brush my forearm. I swear a chunk of me melts inside, tumbling through my body, carried with my thumping pulse. I clutch for my bag and fumble the clasp. Retrieve one of the keycards and slide it onto the bar.

"4109. I'll be ready," I lean in again and whisper, "Sir."

Turning, I make a catwalk runway show of leaving, swaying my hips and praying I don't topple: the wine and minibar combo's dulling my periphery. The only thing keeping me sharp is the adrenaline spike.

The elevator journey's a blur. As is the gaudy carpet lining the fourth-floor corridor. And the green light on my door lock.

Only perching on the bed, arms stiff gripping the edge of the mattress seems real. Then I wonder if I should be presented on the bed properly. Sitting? Lying? Sprawled across it? Legs open? Closed? Fuck, fuck, what are his expectations? Am I decent, or indecent enough?

I scurry to the bathroom and flick the light, the fluorescent tube ignition flashing then stabilising. Gripping the sink bowl, I stare at the jittery, reflected mess. Finger rake my hair. Good enough, despite having no idea what he has in mind; how far he'll push me in the next twenty-four hours.

The main door lock disengages and my thoughts stall. He breezes past and pauses. Steps in, and is within a foot of me by the time the soft-close mechanism latches. He stands behind me, eyes fixed on mine over my shoulder. He can surely detect my thudding heartbeat; quickening when he steps in and scoops my hair back. I shiver. The sweetness of flavoured tonic sliced by the sharpness of gin fizzes my senses as his lips brush my neck.

Being under his spell is so anti-me. Across town, my husband tends to the kids and prepares dinner while I prepare to sin. What began as flirty fun over the internet has led me astray. Infected my virtue.

As if detecting my wayward thoughts, my phone pings from the bedroom. He's probably seeking reassurance on what cheese best tops spaghetti, or to tell me he loves me. I shut my eyes and try to will away the guilt as Scott walks his lips to my ear, his breath hot.

"Are you wet?"

I bite my lip. Nod.

"Show me."

He takes a single pace back. Waits.

I tremble as I cinch the dress up either side of my hips, each millimetre of skin cooling in the air-conditioned space, then flooding with warmth as I reveal myself. Curvy hips. Tummy definitely not as toned as it could be. I pause below my breasts capped with stiff pink nipples straining against the lacy bra fabric, until he indicates to continue, slowly.

Cleavage.

Shoulders.

Sculpted biceps.

Forearms.

Letting go, the dress pools alongside my heels and he steps in again. Kisses a shoulder blade. In, down my spine alongside the cascade of hair. A follicle trail rises with each caress until he's kneeling on the bathroom floor. He taps the inside of my ankle and I step apart. Obedient. Trusting. His.

A thumb rolls up my leg. The other mirrors it until he reaches the swell of my bum. Fingers press into flesh and I inhale sharply as the digits slither forward along my slick lips, transferring their wetness.

"My, you are wet. Is this mine?"

My voice catches. "It's all yours," hastily adding, "Sir," as he insisted I should in earlier messages.

He cannot conceal the smile behind his voice. "Everything?"

I focus on my reflection. Breathe out. "Everything."

He rolls his thumbs back from the edges of my leaking pussy and grips my behind. Peels me apart and I swear his gasp is louder than mine. I barely have time to reflect before my senses are overwhelmed. His tongue slithers between my thighs, nose buried in my exposed ass and I fall forward, the cold rim of the porcelain deforming my stomach.

I catch the edges and grip tight as he plunges his tongue between my lips. Lapping. Scooping my honey that seems to have no beginning and no foreseeable end. Unparalleled wetness tumbles as he utterly devours me, stray droplets he doesn't catch drizzling down my bare thighs.

The unholy sounds my pussy emits as he licks and slurps are beyond depraved. And that's before he slides his tongue up from there to smear copious juices around my knot. I've never experienced anything like it as his tongue swirls, flutters and begins probing my tightest entrance. Involuntary moans take over, tense and laboured at first, becoming staccato as they reverberate around the room at his relentless onslaught.

My animalistic groaning mostly drowns out the ringtone as my husband does his usual trick of phoning if I haven't answered a text within a few minutes, in case the message hasn't got through. Another pang of guilt fades when Scott's tongue alternates from slithering in my back door to lashing my needy cunt as I paw the mirror and snarl way past the phone ringing out and the companion double-beep of the answer machine notification.

With his face still buried in my ass, he glides hands up my figure to grip a fistful of swishing hair, tugging my head up. Fuck, the angelic wife's evaporated. I've never seen anything quite like the abandonment on my face. Lips parted, breath fogging the glass, each moan in sync with the swabs of his ravenous tongue, I let him drive me places I never dreamed could exist. Climbing. Teetering. Soaring. Until my world starts to close in.

Unlike the gentle waves of orgasm under my own circling fingertips or when my husband and I sporadically make love, this crescendo is a barroom brawl. Snooker cues snapped, pints tossed, glasses smashed, heavy and rippling and suffocating in its ferocity, I wail and slap my palm to the mirror as my insides clench time and again. Frozen, almost paralysed, mouth agape, I rock and shudder as he continues to savage my ass and slit with his tongue, snorting and inhaling my heady mix of musk and silk even as the sensitivity peaks and I cry out.

Abruptly, he stops. Stands. Leaves me dangling in delicious ecstasy, the rushing of blood in my ears masking the clink of his belt buckle being undone.

Still draped over the sink amid the drifting orgasmic high, I await the dull tip of his cock. Anticipate it. Need it in my still quivering cunt. The cool leather strap snaking around my neck yanks me from the blissful reverie. He loops it, passes the end through the buckle and tightens.

Fingertips gradually circle to my front, up over a fabric-clad nipple, crossing the belt to my chin and lifting so my eyes meet his, sparkling with desire. "That's better. You ready to show me how much of a good girl you are?"

I nod, unsure of what good-bad scale he's using. Mine's warped. He tugs me by the collar and shoves me to my knees in front of his monstrous cock.

Fuck, it's beautiful. Deadly. Sculpted veins that surge with lust, with need as I obediently open my mouth and accept his tip. Though no stranger to fumbled blowjobs with the lights out, the starkness of his shaft under the harsh light and texture of his chamois skin gliding over the encased steel beneath is electrifying.

I take him inch by inch. Some primal urge consumes me, some need to prove I'm not the same loving wife I was yesterday, perhaps to distance myself from her so I can lay blame elsewhere. Absolve myself. His length disappears and I don't stop. Even when I cough and draw back, spit strings looping and splashing to the tiles, I go at him again and again as he encourages me. "Good girl. Take it all. Nice and wet so it'll slide into your pretty ass."

My eyes widen. Say what? He strokes my cheek and smiles down at me. "Stand."

Slithering off his dick, I do as he commands. Quake in front of him, heart pounding as he runs his fingertips up my thigh through my dripping slit and paints my body in nectar until he feeds his digits to me. I suck, hungrily, sweetness dancing on my tongue.

"Turn around."

My eyes leave his as my body corkscrews fluidly to face the mirror.

There's pure lust in his expression. An edge. "Bend over."

When I lean down, that's when I catch sight of it and my stomach lurches. His phone, alongside the sink, voice recorder app on the display.

"Press record."

My aim isn't steady but I manage to tap the correct area. The waveform pulses as he speaks. "What do you want, Elaine?"

Composing my quivering voice, I offer, "Your big cock."

"Where?"

"Here. Now."

"Where?"

I swallow. "In my. My… ass. Sir."

The swat rings out and I shriek, heat eddying from the strike point to my clit.

"This ass?"

"Y-Yes, Sir."

His cock presses to the hole he was tonguing, then slips down between my lips to penetrate me, sinking deep, thoroughly coating him in my juices. I groan as he fucks me. Three, four, five powerful strokes, then pulls out and repositions himself at my puckered hole. The pressure mounts and I gasp as my rear splits. Nudging inside, millimetre-by-millimetre, he spits on his disappearing length and I furiously chew my lip, gasping, cawing as he invades. As he ruins me, exactly as I need.

The pain swirls, heightens then ebbs when the huge head of his dick is sucked into my darkness. He pauses as I adjust, the microphone catching my tiny sobs of pleasure that paint the picture of who I am inside. I stifle a groan as he begins forging deeper, inner muscle popping to gradually accept him until he's fully embedded.

He hisses. "What are you?"

"I'm a… dirty little slut."

"Yes you are. Where's my cock?"

"Up my ass."

"And what do you want?"

My voice is hollow. "To fuck me. Fuck my ass, Sir."

He spanks my other cheek and I yelp. Withdraws. I groan, straightening a little to watch us. He grabs the dangling strap of the belt and pulls, pressing in again. Out. In. Picking up speed, my ass clutches him, starting to want it more and more. My groans deepen, rasping, needy as another crushing orgasm bubbles to the surface and spills into the bathroom.

Scott grabs my ass cheeks with both hands, the belt clanking as each thrust hammers into my tightness and I beg for it deeper, harder, plead for him to spank me until my cheeks glow, unashamed even as my phone pings again from the other room. Kids tucked up in bed. Celebrity Chase on TV. Hope you're having a lovely night.

I curl fingers between my legs and mash my clit. Furious and frantic, pursuing the climax that threatens to rip me in two, I crash my ass against him and wail as he shoves into me, groaning. My face deforms against the mirror and I allow the delicious decadence of our act to flood through me, his cock pulsing, embedded in my winking ass, our rhythms syncopated yet complementary.

Fuck knows how long I hang, sandwiched between his gradually softening length and the mirror as his phone captures every sordid whimper and cry and squelch of my debauchery. I can barely project how I'm going to survive the remainder of the time I've pledged allegiance under his spell. But one thing's certain: I'm already a changed woman. Fire lit. Ruined and raging to explore every ounce of sexuality I have in me while I still can.

We disentangle. He redresses, collects his phone and says I should rest while he nips to the bar for a bottle of champagne and two flutes. All I can do is nod.

As the soft-close clicks shut, I splash water on my face, rake my hair, pick up my dress, kick off the heels and pad to the bedroom, collapsing on the huge bed. I roll on the sheets, smiling, laughing, unable to believe in barely an hour just how dirty I'd already been. How much it was going to revolutionise my marriage after the full twenty-four hours were up. To take charge. Reinvigorate. Reboot our lust.

Scooching to the headboard, I scrabble for my phone in the clutch bag. Scroll to the messages.

The colour drains from my face.

From Scott: Sorry Elaine, running late. Please wait for me. x

Missed call: Scott.

Shaking, I stab 'Answerphone'. Tinny piano music floats behind his voice. Hi. Just got here. Where are you?

I hit red. Scroll.

From Scott: If you've got cold feet I'll understand. Please call. x

The phone tumbles to the sheets and I hug my knees, mind whirling. I never confirmed his name. The gin should have registered. The lack of wedding band. And his initial surprise. Fuck.

The lock disengages.

FUUUCK!