Crossing the Lines | Original Story By Herman Kingsley | Edited By Roselyn A. St. Claire

                                                              Image by SoraAI

There are certain—and quite a lot of—unwritten rules in life that you never try to cross. But we’re human. And sometimes curiosity, temptation, or timing leads us to break the very codes we swore we’d never even bend.

Certain connections were made when my child attended preschool, and some of those friendships continued well beyond those early years. One day, during a casual conversation with a fellow parent-turned-friend, she asked if she could float me a few personal questions. I said sure, not thinking much of it.

I never expected her to ask if I’d ever been unfaithful—and how many times.

I told her the truth. I’m no angel, and if she wanted the full story, I wasn’t hiding anything. What happened next caught me completely off guard. Seconds after that confession, she sent me a set of explicit selfies—her chocolate brown body on full display. She looked good. No—she looked damn good. Perky breasts. Smooth skin. And every inch of her was enticing. I won’t lie, my interest was piqued. Of course I’d thought about sex. But this was different. We were both married. The stakes—and the taboo—were already sky-high.

She lived down south, so my ideal scenario was to get a hotel room somewhere nearby and let her come by as a guest. She agreed. We picked a simple weekday. Off-season. Quiet hotel. Minimal eyes. Maximum privacy.

I checked into room 225 and sent her a WhatsApp with the details. An hour later, I heard a knock. And there she was.

She walked in casually, dressed in a light summer dress that hugged her curves in all the right places. Just enough makeup to enhance what was already working. I welcomed her in. She sat on the bed. I sat in an armchair. We chatted for a bit, but I couldn’t help but notice she wore no bra—and based on how she shifted, no panties either. She had come prepared.

After a few deep sighs and glances at her watch, I asked what was wrong. She said time was limited, and we should get started.

She lay back, and I climbed on top of her, slowly moving up to her lips and kissing her softly. She smiled under my kiss as my hands roamed her body. I slid her dress up and over her head, folded it neatly, and set it on the side of the bed. I asked what she wanted first.

"Oral," she replied.

“Sixty-nine or just me between your legs?”

“The latter.”

I spread her thighs wide and went down on her like a man possessed. She held my head between her legs and rolled her hips into my face, clearly enjoying it. Her taste, her scent—everything was intoxicating.

Feeling her lose herself in it, I turned the heat up—sucking, nibbling, pulling on her clit until her moans filled the room. I slipped two fingers inside her, then brought them to her lips. She sucked on them hard, whispering how sweet she tasted. I agreed.

Moments later, she asked me to enter her.

I moved up slowly, licking my way along her body, stopping at her breasts—sucking each one before she reached down and guided my cock inside her. She took a deep breath and held it until I was fully inside. Then she exhaled.

“Do it hard,” she said softly, “but passionately.”

I didn’t hold back.

I pounded her with intensity and purpose. She said she liked it rough. And it showed. Her body responded to every stroke. We went at it for nearly twenty minutes before I asked if she’d come.

“Many times,” she said breathlessly.

I held back my own climax as long as I could—fearful someone might hear us—but eventually, I couldn’t stop it. I told her I was coming, and without hesitation, she sat up and took me in her mouth, sucking every last drop. I held her head gently as the sensitivity kicked in. When she finished, she smiled.

“That was good,” she said. “We should do this more often.”

And we did.

Different hotels. Secluded beaches. Empty parking lots. The pleasure was one thing, but the secrecy—the thrill of hiding—took it to another level. Every time, the risk made it hotter.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. On paper, it crossed every line we claimed to respect: friendship, marriage, parenting circles, trust.

But the thing is… sometimes the lines blur. And when they do, you don’t always step back. Sometimes, you cross them—eyes wide open.

_______________________________________________

Closing Thought:

Some lines aren’t meant to be crossed—but desire doesn’t ask for permission. It creeps in, challenges your morals, and dares you to taste what you swore off. And once you do, there’s no going back to pretending you’re above it. You’re not. You’re in it. And every time after that, it gets easier to forget where the line ever was.