This is the beginning to a series of erotica I wrote, involving an Ebony Goddess who ends up being seduced by a passionate demon, and cuckolding her often distant and unavailable husband. The rest of the story will be released later, along with an audio to go with the story. In the meantime, enjoy. Part II will be up tomorrow.
Demon Seduces Ebony Cuckold Wife Part One
The Singapore skyline glittered like scattered diamonds against the velvet blackness. Up here, on the sixty-fifth floor, the city’s humid pulse softened into a distant thrum, replaced by the cool whisper of air-conditioning and the low thump of curated lounge music. Glass walls offered a dizzying panorama; neon signs painted streaks of color across the dark harbour, and the Marina Bay Sands complex floated like a futuristic ship. Imani traced the condensation on her chilled glass of Sauvignon Blanc, the coolness a stark contrast to the warmth radiating from her skin beneath the sleek silk jumpsuit she’d chosen for tonight. Date night. Except Marcus had gotten that urgent call just as their appetizers arrived. Again.
“Client emergency, babe. You understand.” His kiss had been perfunctory, distracted. “Order dessert. Charge it to the room.” And he was gone, swallowed by the elevator before her protest could fully form. Understanding warred with a familiar pang of disappointment. She did understand the pressures of his finance job. But understanding didn’t fill the empty seat opposite her, and this was not how Imani pictured spending her vacation. Alone.
She sighed, swirling the pale gold wine. Her reflection shimmered faintly in the glass wall – long, wavy black hair cascading over one shoulder, deep brown eyes that usually held warmth now looking pensive, the elegant lines of her silk, backless jumpsuit accentuating curves she still appreciated. Forty felt good, secure. Career solid, life comfortable. Yet… comfortable could feel an awful lot like stagnant sometimes. Especially in the quiet moments, like this one. The adventurous spark she’d always nurtured felt dimmed, banked beneath the routine of a good, predictable marriage. Even the sex, which had always been just enough, had settled into a sporadic rhythm. Safe. Predictable. Dull.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
Imani startled, turning towards the impeccably dressed bartender leaning slightly over the polished counter separating the bar seating from the main lounge area. He held a cocktail glass filled with a vibrant, sunset-hued liquid – oranges bleeding into deep pinks, garnished with a curl of dehydrated pineapple and a single, perfect orchid.
“This arrived for you,” he said, placing it carefully before her with a small, professional nod.
Imani blinked. “For me? Are you sure?” She glanced instinctively towards the entrance, half-expecting Marcus to reappear, grinning sheepishly with a belated romantic gesture. But the doorway remained empty.
“Quite sure,” the bartender confirmed. “Compliments of the gentleman over there.” He gestured subtly with his chin towards the far end of the bar.
Her gaze followed the direction. He sat alone, silhouetted against the city lights. Not Marcus. Definitely not Marcus. This man was younger, maybe mid-thirties, with an athletic leanness visible even beneath a perfectly tailored, dark linen shirt left casually unbuttoned at the collar. His hair was a tousled, dark brown, with a hint of stubble on his face. As she watched, he lifted his own drink – something dark and amber in a rocks glass – in a silent, unhurried salute. A slow, confident smile touched his lips. Not leering. Not demanding. Just… acknowledging her notice.
Heat crept up Imani’s neck. Flattered? Absolutely. Startled? Definitely. Guilty? A tiny, unwelcome flicker. Imani found herself annoyed by the feeling. She managed a small, polite nod in return before quickly looking down at the exotic drink. It smelled faintly of passionfruit and something smoky. Tempting. Dangerous.
“Do you know him?” she asked the bartender, keeping her voice low.
“Only as a guest, ma’am. He arrived shortly after your husband left. Said he admired your…” The bartender paused, searching for the right word. “…presence.” He offered a discreet smile and moved away to attend to another customer.
Presence. Not just her looks, though she knew they were part of it. She’d caught hungry eyed men staring at her breasts before, or the way the fabric of her dress clung to her ass. Imani chose her clothing quite deliberately, with a devil may care attitude. She loved feeling and looking sexy, but this…. presence, caught her off guard slightly. The word resonated differently. She took a hesitant sip of the cocktail. Tart, sweet, complex, with a surprising kick of ginger heat on the finish. Like the man himself, perhaps.
She felt him before she saw him move. A subtle shift in the air, a breezy gush to her right. Then he was there, sliding gracefully onto the stool Marcus had vacated just twenty minutes earlier. Close, but not intrusively so. He smelled clean, like expensive soap and warm skin, with a faint, intriguing hint of sandalwood.
“Imani,” he said. His voice was smooth, lower than she expected, carrying easily over the music without being loud. It held a warmth that felt genuine.
Her eyebrows shot up. “How do you know my name?”
He chuckled, a low, pleasant sound. “The bartender is discreet, but not immune to polite inquiry when confirming a drink order for a stunning woman.” He held out his hand. “Emry. With a ‘Y’. Pleasure to meet you properly.”
His handshake was firm, dry, his fingers long. His eyes, now that she could see them clearly, were a startling shade of hazel brown, flecked with gold and green, holding hers with an unnerving directness. There was intelligence there, and a spark of… something else. Amusement? Challenge? She couldn’t quite pin it down.
“Emry,” she repeated, withdrawing her hand perhaps a fraction too quickly. She toyed with the stem of her wine glass. “That’s… unexpected. Thank you for the drink. It’s beautiful.”
“It suits you,” he said simply, his gaze lingering on her face, taking her in without making her feel objectified. “Vibrant. Complex.” He took a sip of his own drink, his eyes never leaving hers. “Singapore’s a city best appreciated beyond hotel bars, even spectacular ones like this.”
Imani felt a flutter in her stomach. Where was this going? “It’s my first time here. My husband’s working.”
“Ah.” Emry nodded slowly, acknowledging the mention of Marcus without judgment. “Hence the solo contemplation against the backdrop of the universe.” He gestured towards the breathtaking view. “A shame to experience it alone.”
“I’m fine,” Imani said automatically, the well-worn phrase slipping out. But was she? Sitting here, nursing disappointment while the city pulsed with life below?
Emry tilted his head, that perceptive gaze seeming to see right through the polite deflection. “Fine is a terrible waste of potential, Imani.” He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the bar. The movement brought him fractionally closer. “Look, I know this is unconventional. You’re married. You’re clearly intelligent and discerning.” He gestured towards her untouched wine. “Sauvignon Blanc, not the flashy cocktail. Classic choice.” A small, appreciative smile touched his lips. “But I saw you sitting here… radiating this quiet energy. Curiosity, maybe? A hint of restlessness?” He paused, letting the observation hang. “I’m just a visitor too. Business wraps up tomorrow. Tonight, I planned to find somewhere truly special for dinner. Authentic Peranakan, maybe, down in Katong. The kind of place guidebooks miss but locals swear by.” He shrugged, disarmingly casual. “Going alone feels… incomplete. If it’s not too forward, I’d love to take you to dinner so we can experience it, together.”
He paused, letting the invitation hang unspoken in the air between them, thick with the scent of passionfruit and sandalwood and the distant city.
Imani’s heart hammered against her ribs. This was insane. Reckless. Everything her sensible, forty-year-old self screamed against. Dinner? With a devastatingly handsome stranger? While her husband worked? The potential fallout flashed through her mind – Marcus’s hurt, the betrayal, the unraveling of the comfortable life she’d built.
But beneath the fear, something else surged. A fierce, almost forgotten yearning for spark. For conversation that crackled, for an experience that wasn’t pre-planned or predictable. For feeling truly seen, not just as Marcus’s wife, but as Imani. The adventurous woman buried beneath years of comfortable routine. And Marcus had once again left her alone, with an ache that lingered, and a longing for something that was missing from her life.
Emry watched her internal struggle, his expression calm, patient. No pressure. Just an open, intriguing possibility laid bare.
“Just dinner?” Imani heard herself ask, her voice sounding strangely detached. The words hung there, a fragile lifeline thrown to her conscience.
Emry’s smile deepened, crinkling the corners of those mesmerizing eyes. He raised his glass slightly. “Just dinner,” he replied, hand to his chest. “Though I confess, I would like to get to know you past dinner, if you’ll allow it. And… maybe this is out of place but, an exceptional woman like you… I can’t understand how your husband can stand being apart from you.” He leaned back slightly, giving her space. “Think of it as… cultural exchange. Two travelers sharing a meal in a fascinating city. No expectations beyond good food and hopefully, good conversation.”
He made it sound so simple. So harmless. Just dinner. An adventure confined to a plate and polite chat. Imani stared into her wine glass, then lifted her gaze to meet his. The warmth, the intelligence, the sheer aliveness in his face was intoxicating. More intoxicating than the passionfruit cocktail, more compelling than the solitude of her hotel room.
The silence stretched. Her fingers tightened around her glass. She picked up the vibrant cocktail Emry had sent – the taste of tart sweetness and ginger heat – and took a long, deliberate sip. “You know what? I accept, dinner with ahh.. another traveler sounds lovely.”
A slow, answering smile spread across Emry’s face, understanding dawning in his hazel eyes. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Something glowed just under the surface in Emry’s eyes. Only for a second, then it was gone. Like a cats eyes glowing in the night, when the light catches them. But what Imani saw was alien for a human, and Emry wasn’t a cat. She brushed off the thought, it could have been the twinkling from the flickering lights in the bar. And her curiosity about Emry was more important to her right now, than tricks of the light.
Imani placed the cocktail glass down with a soft clink on the polished bar. She slid off the stool, her silk jumpsuit whispering against the leather. Her legs felt strangely steady. Her voice, when it came, was clear, decisive, carrying a tremor she chose to ignore. “Alright, Emry with a ‘Y’,” she said, meeting his gaze directly. “Show me Katong.”
I hope you enjoyed part one of the story. Stay tuned for part two where Imani gets pulled deeper into the city, and into betraying her husband with this handsome stranger. If you’d like to read some of my other blogs you can find me over at Ebony Goddess Mindfuck. Enjoy all the horny spooks, I know I am. *wink*
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