Evan - Portrait
The text was from Evan this morning, a picture of Emily like this one, sitting on the edge of a chair in a hotel room, wearing a blouse, a skirt, nude hose, and work heels. Pretty, feminine, almost innocent.
That's what the text said. "She looks so innocent, doesn't she?"
A prompt asking for a response. "Very much so," I said.
"Her clients assume the same. Ironic, of course, considering all the things she did last night. Ironic, considering the last thing she'll do this morning before leaving."
I couldn't resist, something he must know. "What's that?"
"She's sitting on the edge of the chair waiting for me to come sit. She'll kneel, of course. I'll spread my legs, but she'll wait; she'll ask permission. It's powerful, hearing a woman ask to suck your cock."
"I can only imagine," I said.
"She'll look so innocent sitting in her meeting, like she looks now. Her clients will have no idea the last thing his sweet, innocent, married woman did before she left to meet them was to give her boyfriend a slow, careful, blowjob."
"Tell her I love her," I said.
"I will. She knows."
There was a long pause after that. The three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again. Evan was typing something, then deleting it. Finally, the next message came through.
ReplyDelete"She's asking if you want details."
My thumb hovered over the keyboard. The hotel room in the photo looked expensive—soft morning light coming through half-drawn curtains, her legs crossed neatly at the ankles, hands resting primly in her lap. The picture of professional poise. The kind of woman you'd trust with your company's biggest account.
I typed back: "Only if she wants me to know."
Another pause. Then a new photo arrived.
This one was taken from a slightly different angle. Emily was still sitting on the edge of the chair, but now her blouse was unbuttoned just enough to show the lace edge of her bra. Her lips were parted, eyes looking up toward the camera with that same soft, almost shy expression. But there was something else in her face now—something knowing. Something that made the "innocent" act feel deliciously obscene.
Evan's text followed immediately:
"She's on her knees now. Asked so sweetly. Said 'Please, can I suck you?' like she was asking for a glass of water. God, the contrast is insane."
I stared at the new photo. My wife. My beautiful, composed wife, who right now was probably supposed to be reviewing quarterly reports or preparing slides for a client presentation.
Another message from Evan:
"She's taking her time. Slow licks first, like she's savoring it. Looking up at me the whole time with those big doe eyes. The same eyes she'll use in the meeting when she smiles and says 'We're so excited to partner with you.'"
I could picture it too clearly. Emily in the conference room later, legs crossed under the table, wearing the same nude hose and heels, speaking in that calm, professional tone while the taste of him still lingered faintly on her tongue.
My phone buzzed again.
"She's being very good and very thorough. Wants me to tell you she's thinking about you while she does it. That this is for both of us."
I swallowed hard.
"Tell her she's perfect," I replied.
"She's humming around me now. That little sound she makes when she's really into it. You know the one."
I did know the one. The soft, contented little mm-hmm she made when she was lost in it, like she was tasting something exquisite.
Evan sent one more photo. This one was closer, more intimate. Emily's mascara was just slightly smudged at the corner of one eye. Her lipstick had started to fade around the edges. She looked up at the camera with flushed cheeks and wet, shining lips.
"She's close to finishing me," he wrote. "After this she'll fix her makeup, smooth her skirt, and walk out of here like the perfect little professional. No one will ever know her mouth was just full of another man's cum ten minutes before she shook their hands."
I typed back with slightly shaking fingers:
"Make sure she swallows every drop. Then tell her I love her... and that I'm proud of her."
Evan's reply came quickly:
"Already doing the first part. She just moaned when I read her the second. She's such a good girl for us."
The last message from him that morning was a short voice note. I pressed play.
There was the faint, wet sound of Emily's mouth working, then her soft, muffled voice pulling off just long enough to whisper breathlessly:
"Tell him I love him too... and that I'll be thinking about this all day."
Then the wet sounds continued until the note ended.
I set the phone down, heart pounding, already imagining her walking into that client meeting—poised, elegant, untouchable.
And only we would know exactly what kind of woman she really was