I am writing this here in the library. This is a fictional account of true events what I mean by this is this happened about 10 years ago it is true this is a story i wrote based on that, I have added plenty to make it a more erotic story so it is ture but I felt it belongs her because the way it is written. Please let me know if you want me to continue this story on to the next time they met at a hotel to have a more full sexual adventure.
The bar was humming with low music and the restless energy of a Saturday night crowd. Shawnee looked radiant in the glow of dim lights—her laugh easy, her presence magnetic in the way it drew eyes without her ever trying.
That was when they appeared. A couple, polished and confident, slipping into the space beside your table as if it was meant for them. He had that aura some men carried naturally—the kind that made people shift slightly to accommodate, without being asked. His wife was pretty in her own right, smiling easily, her attention tilting toward you while Shawnee’s eyes had already found him.
Introductions were smooth, casual, but the undercurrent was anything but. Conversations forked naturally—his wife leaning toward you with an easy warmth, while he slid closer to Shawnee. No one declared it, but the shift was undeniable: the evening had split into parallel tracks.
You found yourself nodding, sipping your drink, half-hearing his wife’s words but aware that across the table Shawnee was leaning in, her eyes catching his with a mix of mischief and something warmer.
Already, it was beginning.
The timing felt too precise to be coincidence. His wife excused herself with a warm smile, her perfume lingering in the air as she slipped toward the restroom. The moment she disappeared, he leaned closer to you, his voice steady and matter-of-fact.
"I want to show your wife my car. Do me a favor—keep mine busy when she gets back."
It wasn’t crude, and it wasn’t asked as permission. It was delivered as if he already knew you’d agree. His gaze never left Shawnee, and she met it with a playful arch of her brow.
"What do you want to show me?" she teased, though her smile gave away that she already understood.
His lips curved into a smirk. “It’s not really about the car.”
Her laugh was soft, nervous and excited all at once, and when he rose from his chair she followed with barely a pause. He guided her with a casual hand at the small of her back, steady and sure, and together they disappeared into the low thrum of the crowd.
Almost seamlessly, his wife returned, sliding back into her seat across from you. She didn’t glance around, didn’t seem to notice their absence—or perhaps didn’t think anything of it. Why would she?
She leaned in easily, picking up your earlier thread of conversation as though nothing at all had shifted. Her laugh rang warm, her eyes bright, enjoying herself in your company.
And all the while, you knew—out there in the dark, Shawnee was already beginning something the wife beside you couldn’t imagine.
The night air was warm, filled with the muted hum of traffic and the faint bass from the bar. He walked with Shawnee at his side, his hand still low at her back, guiding her without ever looking like he needed to.
Shawnee tried to play it off with a little laugh. “So what kind of car am I supposed to be impressed by?”
He smirked, fishing his keys out of his pocket. “It’s not the car I want to show you.”
The locks clicked, and before she knew it, he’d swung open the driver’s side door. He slid in smoothly, leaving the passenger side open for her like an unspoken invitation. Shawnee hesitated only a moment before stepping in. The door shut behind her with a muffled thud, sealing them away in their own little world.
He settled back in the seat, one hand casually on the wheel, the other moving without ceremony to his belt. The sound of the zipper lowering was quick, natural, like he’d done this before and expected it to go exactly this way.
Shawnee’s heart thudded. She leaned closer, her voice low. “So… this is what you wanted to show me?”
He gave a quiet laugh, his eyes fixed on her. “Don’t act surprised. You knew the second we walked out here.”
Her breath caught, but instead of answering, she lowered her head. Her hand brushed his thigh, then steadied herself as her lips parted and found him.
The quiet of the lot filled with the wet, steady sounds of her mouth working him, her head rising and falling in practiced rhythm. He let out a low groan, one hand sliding easily into her hair.
“That’s it… damn, you’re sucking me good,” he murmured, the calm confidence of a man fully in control.
Inside, back at the bar, his wife had returned from the restroom. She slipped back into her seat across from you, laughing at something you said, sipping her drink. She leaned in like nothing was missing, completely untroubled.
Meanwhile, outside in the car, Shawnee trembled at the words spilling from his mouth, her lips wrapped around him.
“Yeah… you’re ready to taste me, aren’t you?” he said softly, and she could only nod, her mouth still full, eager to prove him right.
Outside, the car holds its breath.
Shawnee settles into the rhythm he sets—unhurried at first, then more certain, her shoulders relaxing as she finds the pace he likes. One of his hands stays on the wheel as if they’re idling at some midnight light; the other rests in her hair, not forcing, just steering her gently, approvingly.
“Good,” he murmurs, voice gone rough around the edges. “Just like that… don’t you stop.”
The windows haze over, blurring the parking lot to watercolor. The faint thump of the bar drifts through the glass, a backbeat to their secret. He tilts his head against the headrest, eyes half-closed, letting praise spill out in low, confident threads.
“That mouth… you knew why I brought you out here, didn’t you?”
A soft hum answers him.
“Yeah. That’s why I picked you.”
Her tempo tightens when his breath does. His fingers flex once at her nape, an involuntary tell, and the easy command in his tone fractures with need. The cabin fills with the small, unmistakable music of urgency—breath catching, a seat creaking, the near-silent shiver before a wave breaks.
“Stay,” he whispers, the word more exhale than sound. “Stay with me.”
The moment crests. His hand holds her there, not harsh, just claiming; his other hand leaves the wheel to brace against the console as he sinks into the release he’s been moving toward since he first said “car.” He shudders, audible in the quiet. She doesn’t pull away. She rides it out with him, patient and sure, until his shoulders ease and the world clicks back into place.
After, he lets a beat of silence pass, the two of them breathing in unison. Then his thumb strokes the hinge of her jaw—an absentminded thank-you that says as much as any word. She shifts back into her seat, smoothing her hair, reapplying a soft swipe of gloss by the light of the dashboard. He tucks himself away with the same smooth nonchalance he used to unzip. A private thing, neatly folded.
“You’re trouble,” he says, smiling at her mouth.
“You asked for trouble,” she answers, smiling right back.
He opens her door first, then his, letting the night air rinse the scene. The fogged glass clears in their wake.
—
Inside, the bar is all easy light and uncomplicated laughter. His wife has returned from the restroom and slipped into conversation with you as if nothing in the world has shifted an inch. You gesture toward the dance floor. She accepts without even glancing toward the door, her fingers light in yours as if she’s known you years. She tells you about a recipe she’s trying next week; you tell her about a playlist Shawnee loves. She laughs, head thrown back, completely at ease.
It’s not that she hasn’t noticed the absence; it’s that there’s no alarm in it. Her husband has always carried a charge. You? You’re safe. Polite. The kind of man who stands a bit straighter when she spins, who keeps an eye out so she never bumps a shoulder on the way back to the table. She likes that about you—the way you make the room feel orderly.
Time slips. Two songs. Maybe three.
When they return, they do it like a pair coming back from fresh air: unhurried, unannounced. He finds his wife’s shoulder with an affectionate squeeze, then drops into the chair beside her as if he’s been there all along. She turns toward him with that unstudied smile you’ve been curating in small ways—refilling her water, keeping the conversation warm. He’s looser now, brighter, as if someone straightened the line connecting his spine to the night.
Shawnee slides in close to you, knees touching under the table, a glow tucked into the edges of her expression. Not a broadcast—just a secret you’re fluent enough to read. She rests a hand on your thigh, a casual touch that lands heavy for what it means: I’m here. I’m good. Thank you.
You talk about nothing for a while. The band switches to a song everyone knows; a few tables sing along under their breath. He leans to say something in his wife’s ear; she blushes, playful. Shawnee laughs at a joke you only half-tell, her fingers drawing an absent-minded circle on your knee under the linen.
No one names the contrast. No one needs to. It’s threaded through the way he taps the table to the beat, through the way his wife lines her straw with her lipstick, through the way Shawnee’s shoulders have lost that last ounce of tension. The room is exactly as it was and nothing like it at all.
When the checks come, you’re quick with yours. He’s quicker with theirs. The couples stand. Goodbyes are exchanged with a lightness that belies the weight of what’s already happened and what it will fuel later. Outside the bar, the night peels you in different directions.
—
In his car, his wife buckles in and watches him with a fond look. “You’re in a good mood,” she teases.
“Had a great night,” he says, and the way he takes her hand promises the rest.
He’ll kiss her at a red light. He’ll pull her close as soon as their door shuts behind them. The charge he carries home from the lot will pour straight into her—she’ll only know it as a sudden insistence, a welcome heat.
In your car, Shawnee leans in, head on your shoulder as the streetlights slip past. “You were sweet,” she says softly. It’s a simple sentence carrying a hundred others. You kiss her forehead. The glow she brought back from the parking lot warms your collarbone.
You don’t ask for details. You don’t need them. The fogged glass, the steady hand, the way she smiled when she sat back down—your mind can sketch the rest without a single crude word. You drove the cover. You held the room open. Everyone got to breathe.
And that is how the night is meant to work.
The drive home is quiet, Shawnee leaning against you, her hand resting light on your thigh. Neither of you need words; the night carries its own rhythm.
Inside, the house is still. You kick your shoes off by the door, and she takes your hand, leading you to the bedroom. The lamp clicks on low, throwing a warm glow across the room. You sink onto the edge of the bed together, kissing lazily, the kind of unhurried affection that feels like second nature.
She presses closer, her lips soft against yours, her fingers tugging at your shirt until it slips free. Her hand trails down, pausing over the thin cotton of your underwear. A mischievous smile curves her lips as she strokes you through the fabric, steady and patient, kissing you the whole time.
You don’t say much—just a few stuttered breaths, a soft groan as her hand moves with practiced ease. She watches your face as you tense, her strokes never faltering, until the release comes hard and hot against her palm.
She laughs softly, wiping her hand on your thigh in a playful, teasing way. “Such a good boy,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to your cheek.
Then it’s simple—no drama, no lingering tension. She curls up against you, head tucked under your chin, as though this was always how the night was supposed to end. Within minutes, her breathing evens, pulling you along with it.
Content. Complete. As natural as sleep itself.
The light filters in slow, warm through the blinds. Shawnee shifts against you, stretching like a cat before curling back into the crook of your arm. For a while it’s just the comfort of quiet breathing, the lazy drift between sleep and waking.
She tilts her face up, kissing your shoulder before murmuring, “He was… amazing.” The words aren’t weighted, just part of the stream of thought that spills out when she feels safe. “The way he touched me, the way he talked… I can’t explain it. It just felt so… right in the moment.”
You hum softly, fingers tracing idle patterns along her arm. There’s no judgment in your silence, only presence. She knows that, which is why she can say it without fear.
After a pause, she adds almost shyly, “I gave him my number. I hope that’s okay.” Her eyes search yours, not with guilt but with a quiet need for reassurance, for your calm steadiness to wrap around her.
You kiss her forehead, the gesture as simple as breathing. “It’s okay,” you tell her, because you mean it.
She smiles, relief softening her features, and snuggles back down into your chest. No big discussion follows, no weight dragged into the light. Just the two of you, wrapped together in the softness of morning, letting the night fade naturally into the day ahead.