What You Do to Me - Sex Stories

What You Do to Me

... without you really doing anything that is naughty.” Her dark hair swung enticingly as she nodded. “I’ve told you that I wouldn’t ask you to do anything you don’t want. I mean that. And, I promise to always have you back in your world by five. I don’t want you to ever regret our spending time together.” Two days later, we attended a matinee concert in a small theater. Afterwards, we had a single cocktail in a dark hotel bar before going to a little hole-in-the-wall eatery. Again, we hadn’t touched, other than my gentle guiding hand in the small of her back as we entered the door. “Now I can tell everybody I took you to a hotel,” I chuckled lightly as we sat down. “Don’t you dare! Besides, it was just the lounge.” “You needn’t worry, Cheryl,” I said easily. “I never talk to anyone about our encounters. They’re for you and me alone. Have you told Jack?” “No,” she said simply. “Why not? We haven’t done anything wicked yet.” “Yet? Do you think we’re going to do something wicked? We’re not, you know.” “I nodded. “Then why haven’t you told him?” Her little shrug was kind of cute. “He’s a bit controlling. He might not like it, knowing that I’ve been meeting you. It’s a tiny little secret that I’ll be keeping to myself.” “So, do you think what we’ve done is kind of wicked?” I chuckled. “No,” she said softly. “But he would want me to stop if he knew, and I don’t want to.” “Still enthralled by the thrill?” I smiled at her. Her eyes met mine. “Some of that,” she admitted. ++++ We ...

... found a small park with a circular walk, a little fountain, and some benches. We walked the circular path, enjoying the atmosphere and being with one another. We sat on one of the benches and watched the few people strolling or seated in the grass on blankets, conversing or reading. “So,” I asked, screwing up my courage, “Tell me all about your relationship.” Cheryl intertwined her fingers and looked down. “It started with a lot of fire and commotion,” she said with small, sad smile. “But then,” she sighed, “I guess real life intruded. He works all the time. I’ve just become part of the furniture. He’d be astounded to learn that I feel like I’m just a fixture to provide for his needs; cooking, cleaning, and making a home for him.” “And sex,” I stated. She shook her head. “You can’t ask me that.” I reached over and took her soft hand in mine. “I did, though.” “You would think,” she began, then stopped. “He’s always so tired. It’s not his fault.” “He doesn’t make love to you anymore?” This time her eyes flashed with a hint of anger. “You’re too forward. That’s not something I can share with you.” “But you can, if you want to,” I informed her. “You miss it.” “Of course I do,” she said. “I try to avoid think about it.” “Sometimes you can, but other times,” I shrugged, “You really wish somebody would make you feel wanton and sexy. You miss the excitement.” “What makes you think you can read my mind?” she asked, an edge to her tone. “You are an attractive woman. You deserved to be ...