The discreet affair in Seattle

Hi ISS readers, I am Krish. I am 40 and an executive working and settled in Seattle (USA). I am a loving husband and a father of a young son, but I am so tired of living this monotonous life. I long for sexual gratification, but I also intend to ensure some stability for my family, too.

That’s where I met Kanika, a 38-year-old woman in pursuit of a sexual interest. She’s 38, clever, self-assured, and pretty. We understood each other on the spot, and both had an alignment to keep things discreet. She did not want to risk her family commitments for a scintilla of happiness that we both were chasing.

We had an instant spark – not to mention one we couldn’t ignore. It got started with a paid discreet extramarital affair site in the US.

One day at work, I was bored and frustrated, so I logged into one of the extramarital affair dating sites. Within minutes, I was on a profile called Kanika, and we were talking about similar interests, like me, in our profiles.

I asked her in a random manner through the premium message, “What are you looking for in men here?”

The response came almost instantly.

“I crave a man who takes control. Someone who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to take it.”

Reading it twice, the words coursed through my veins.

“Control, huh? I can handle that,” I said. I kept thinking about it. How far was too far? I took a deep breath then typed, “What constitutes being ‘taken’ for you?” I tossed in a winking emoji, thinking, ‘What if she doesn’t respond? What if she does?’

Then her reply popped onto my screen, “Blindfolded. Hands tied behind my back. Helpless.” The words were blunt, deliberate, and my penis reacted to them before my brain could. This was more than flirting.

“And what would you want me to do while you’re … helpless?” I typed the words, weighing the weight of every letter. “How far would I go depending on the team I’m tangoing with?” I responded with anticipation that she would disclose more to me.

A few seconds later, she started posting her picture to me via the album share feature of the dating app. In the photo, Kanika was lying on her bed, soft and inviting as she splayed out her curves.

A silk scarf was tied around her eyes, the fabric stark against her skin. Her breasts were full, nipples taut, and the shadows between her legs hinted at something I couldn’t stop staring at.

I zoomed in my lens and tracked the lines of her body with my eyes, my breath catching in my throat. My penis pushed up against my slacks, the fabric suddenly too tight, too restricting.

Just then, the reminder of the work meeting popped up on my desktop, and I knew it – I needed to go to work, with a nice apology to Kanika and a commitment that we will continue to talk.

I completed the meetings very late at night, but still had the picture of Kanika, blindfolded and vulnerable, etched into my memory. The silk scarf, exposed skin, invitation to take control – all over again.

When I reached home and entered the shower, and shut my eyes, attempting to drown out Kanika’s body, but it didn’t help. Her face with a blindfold on, her parted lips, her hips bent; it burned into my mind.

Finished showering, I went to sleep next to my wife, who was in deep sleep, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how I had been flirting with Kanika. I quietly logged into the dating app and found her online.

I messaged her to open up again and be flirtatious, “I missed you a little bit in my day.”

“A little bit?” In her playful tone, she asked. “Or a lot?”

I could almost imagine her leaning back in her chair, smirking and daring me honestly. I closed my eyes, breathing heavily, deeply, almost before I knew it was an answer that she had chosen.

“Okay, a lot,” I typed. “What now?” The message came, and I froze. Her reply pierced all the tension.

“Now, you tell me what you really want.” I flinched. And the question hung there, heavy and dangerous.

My wife moved next to me, her hand grazing mine, in sleep. I pulled away, guilt stabbing at me all of a sudden. The excitement of this, the secrecy, the forbidden – it was already pulling me in.

I typed quickly, “I want to see you. I want to touch you. I want to taste you.” I stopped, then said, “I want to fuck you as though I have to because my marriage depends on it.”

The long silence was thick and stifling, and I waited for her response. I felt I could not breathe anymore.

Then the screen lit, and her reply was instantaneous, like a flash in the dark.

“Good,” she wrote. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

I looked at the screen. I could see my heart racing, and knew I could never turn back. Her message blared across my screen, slicing through the darkness like a knife.

“Tell me,” she wrote in a daring tone, “what exactly you want to do when you taste me.”

Now, I swallowed hard, the question on my mind. My wife moved beside me, holding her breath. I looked at her, then at the screen, my fingers shaking as I typed.

“I want to taste every inch of you now,” I replied, words flowing out more quickly than I might have dared to think of. “Starting with your neck, those soft little hairs at the base – then your shoulders…”

I paused, heart pounding, thinking whether to go too far. But her reply came rather quickly, and that fiery word lit something primal in me.

“Down to my breasts,” she said, her voice a low murmur in my brain. “Tell me about my breasts, Krish.” I paused; my mouth was dry, thoughts were running all over the place.

How exactly could I say what I’d only imagined?

“They’re perfect,” I typed, deleting and retyping until it felt perfect. “The perfect handful. I want to have them in my hands, to press gently, to tease your nipples until they’re hard.” My jaw closed as I slammed ‘Send,’ the truth hanging in the air like a confession.

“And then?” she said, her voice tough and persistent. I was almost able to see her grin, lips rolled up in such a way as to make my stomach turn.

I wrote, my fingers moving, “I want to suck on them in waves until you are moaning and begging me to stop. I want to keep them moist and swollen, wanting more.” The words were weird, electric, not my words. But those were mine, and I couldn’t take them back.

She replied immediately, “And where does your tongue wander after my breasts, Krish?” That question loomed large, laden with the expectation.

My chest constricted, my breaths shallow and uneven, as if the room had suddenly run out of oxygen.

“Lower,” I said, my fingers trembling over the screen. “I want to kiss your navel right down to your thighs, wetter than ever before, hungrier than ever, until you’re squirming beneath me.” The words felt like threats, like a thread strung loose. They were electric.

“Tell me more about my stomach,” she said, the low, methodical quiet of an adult savoring each syllable. “What do you see? What do you taste?”

I shut my eyes, the image on my side burning behind my lids – the smooth curve of her belly, the slight rise and fall of her breath.

“I see perfection,” I wrote. “A canvas of soft skin, crying out for exploration, for a title.”

“The taste?” she pressed the point across, teeth biting me, teeth pushing back. “What does my skin taste like, Krish?”

“Like honey,” I said. “Sweet and warm, with a little salt. I want to lick all of you and you’ll shake, and you will beg me for more.” A long thick silence broke between me, and I questioned whether I’d gone too far.

Then she sent another message, “Don’t end at my belly, Krish. You got my whole body to play with.” I was sweating in cold due to excitement and nervousness. “Then I’m going south,” I kept typing. “To the beautiful joints. Your thighs came apart, your heat rising to meet me.” The cursor blinked, taunting me.

Her message was very harsh, and to her, it was one such line: “Tell me what you’ll do when you’re there.”

My fingers trembled and I typed, “I’ll kiss your thighs,” I wrote, “beginning at your knees, working my way up, teasing and tasting until you are begging me to stop.” The words were the boldest.

Her reply was instant. “And what will you find when you get there, Krish? What are you looking for?”

I closed my eyes, picturing soft, fragile skin. “A sweet, swollen paradise. I wanna bury my face in you, savor every sip of your nectar.” It was as if the response were all in one person and all together sending a shot through my bloodstream.

The screen flashed again, and her words blazed down the dark, “Show me, Krish. Show me what you would do with your tongue.”

I was shaking but still replied, “I was going to part your lips with my fingers, and then I would slip my tongue inside, feeling every inch of you, the sweetness, the saltiness, the heat.” These words seemed dangerous, electric, self-evident. “I’d pull at the end to tease your clit with the tip of my tongue,” I continued, “flicking and swirling, getting you going with excitement until you’re begging me to stop.”

As my heart raced, I continued, ”And then,” I typed, breath catching in my throat, “I’d suck on you, hard and deep, till you’re moaning and arching your back, your body trembling with pleasure.”

Her response was immediate, “Tell me about the sounds I’m going to make, Krish. What would I sound like when you’re eating me?”

“You would groan; you’d gasp. You’d scream my name,” I replied.

Then her reply came, “Just think of my fingers, Krish. What about my hands while you’re down there?”

My breath caught. I took a breath out, surprised by the question. By now, my hands were already under my trousers, jerking myself so slowly back and forth. I asked her frankly, “Are you playing with yourself?”

Her reply came instantly, “Of course, and I am loving it. 5 minutes for the Grand Finale. Please pace your jerking as you go.”

She was so smart; I was bemused because she knew what I was doing. “Your hands?” I typed.

“Yes, my hands. What would you do with them?” she replied.

I wrote, “You’d clutch the sheets. You’d run your fingers through my hair, pulling me in closer, forcing me on, telling exactly what you want, what you need. You’d reach down and touch yourself, leading, showing me along, until all at once you’d explode in my mouth.”

I received a message and dropped the phone on the bed, my hands shaking as I had just liberated myself and shed a great load of sperm in my trousers. The silence hung dense.

My wife’s breathing was steady alongside me, much better than the chaos in my head. The phone buzzed again.

“You are amazing, man. I never had this kind of orgasm with my husband as we had real sex. You made a huge fire inside me.” I chuckled at the sentiment and replied that from the Bollywood film Mann, “Aaag to lagni hi thi, petrol jo sath tha.”

We laughed at it both and ended our talk by promising to push it a little further in the coming days.

*****

Well, this is my account of sexting with Kanika. In the next episode, I will tell you how we met in a hotel, which was a more steamy experience.

If you are a female reader who shares some of the same interests as mine in Seattle or West Coast USA, or engages in similar sexting around the globe, then please reach out to me at [email protected].

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