Where We Would Meet

We'd meet at a bar on a busy night. I'd have given you dress requirements in advance and so would expect them satisfied.

From shared descriptions and perhaps a photo or two we'd also both have an idea of how to recognize our date.

I see you.

I sit down at a stool next to you and pleasant small talk is made, as ritual.

I mention I have a reservation made at a place in walking distance, dinner for two. At this point, as an experienced woman I've given a polite way for my date to bail if she wishes by giving a plausible excuse. So far in life that has never happened on me, haha.

In the happy path we leave the bar together and walk to the restaurant, side by side. This might be my first chance as a man to check out certain aspects of your outfit and body. I have no shame and like to seize opportunities.

I step behind you a little and look down to focus on your ass in the microskirt, seeing all there is to see there. I make clear to you what I am doing.

You might be so bold as to shake your butt in a saucy way, the better to entice me.

If you do I take it as a Sign and decide to be more bold. I learned long ago that bold men, of the right caliber, tend to make women wet. I intend to gauge this, early.

I grab your hand -- perhaps the very hand with your wedding ring on it -- and adjust our course. I turn and lead you behind me into a dark alley where I assume we'd have a little more privacy.

Without asking permission I push you up against a wall, with your back to it. I pin you there with my hands on both your shoulders. I look straight into your eyes. I see no anger. I hear not a peep of complaint. In the terms of old Hollywood I do appear to be "In Like Flynn" -- despite you being some other's man wife. Heck maybe that too like him, haha.

I release your shoulders, and with my right hand I place it down under the front of your skirt. I am a confident man and I know what I will discover there.

No panties.

No pubic hair.

Slicked wet slit.

Flesh warm and swollen.

Metal jewelry on your  genitals -- though by touch alone I may not be able to discern the exact details, and the alley is dark.

I am a man with no shame and have a sense for how women like to be treated at times, and so I decide on how to proceed.

I kneel down.

I tell you to lift up your skirt in front. You can tell from my tone I expect obedience.

You obey.

I can now see your most "private" of places. A fine little pussy, in my judgment, and no doubt quite experienced, and having taken countless men's cocks in the past, both before and during your current marriage -- as all ideal wives/sluts should, in my opinion.

And I get clarity on the metal jewelry. I discovered that both your labia were pierced in several places, and metal rings threaded through them. There are so many rings it seals your cunt out from all intercourse, in effect. And a few padlocks confirm that.

A small brass property tag makes clear your true owner -- just two initials, I assume those of your husband.

I have mixed feelings about this. I am extremely turned on by how your pussy looks, and the fact you'd willingly expose it to a strange man like me, outside your marriage, and in public, especially in a dark alley at night. That takes a level of risk-taking, lack of inhibition and frankly near nymphomania that can take my breath away. And believe me it would be a compliment not a criticism, especially in that moment with your hairless wet twat mere inches from my face like that.

"I'm sorry, its just a precaution on a first date," you say to me. "But you can take my plug out if you like. I would prefer to have your cum inside me before the hotel room."

I move fast.

I stand up. Flip you around. I reach under your skirt in back and find the plug's handle after a little fumbling. Grab it and pull it out, slowly.

"Let it go, little whore," I growl in your ear. "Make it easy for me."

You do help.

Eventually it comes out. I was a Boy Scout once and come prepared -- helpful when the grown man expects to cum often -- and take a tissue from a pocket to wrap the smooth metal green-jeweled plug, and then tuck it back in my pocket.

"Please... I need it," you beg.

And then I undo my belt buckle and belt, unzip, unleash my cock -- erect, long, thick, symmetric, clean, leaking precum already -- place the cock's head between your buttocks. Against your shy little asshole. Then press, firmly.

I take it slow at first, to be careful.

You groan, and mewl a "Yes..." like a classic slut.

I realize the passage is lubed. And this dirty hole is not exactly virgin. Your sphincter spreads and widens easily and so I then ram my cock up your ass the rest of the way, fast and deep.

"Oh!" you exclaim and shift your whore-ish hips as if to help take my cock in better.

And then I begin to my fuck my married whore in earnest, and the proper way: up her ass, face pressed against a wall, in a dark alley, our dinner reservation at an expensive restaurant on hold, and somewhere across town your loyal and long "suffering" husband waits for us, at the end of our private date til then, in a hotel room. Where it has been made clear that if he cannot see evidence of at least one load of men's cum inside your ass before we arrive, he will chain your wrists to the ceiling and whip you.

Whip you while I watched, and was jacking off my own hard penis as he did so. And no doubt there would be more depravity as well.

If your husband was absolutely satisfied with my behavior and gentlemanly treatment of you, his loving wife, then and only then, would he unlock your cunt ring padlocks and allow me to fuck you.

And I would.

I wouldnt want to leave the hotel until I shot my cum up your twat, and while your husband watched.

I only hope that the dinner reservation didn't get skipped over entirely. Because a real man needs a good steak and wine in order to really fuck a woman properly. As a nice bonus, even if the fucking doesn't happen, a man has had wine and steak. Win or win!

And so... that is what I would do.

One scenario anyway.