You can't. You won't.

You are too far gone to even think of resisting. Whimpering, you fumble at the tiny thong you're wearing. You wriggle, lifting your hips enough to tug the tiny garment down over your thighs. You hook your thumbs under the edge of your underwear, about to tug them down when the sudden memory of Troy flashes through your mind. Troy, who even at a party, is working. Working to provide you with a better life. And here you are, grinding your panty clad pussy against his boss's hand. Here you are about to tug those same panties off so your husband's boss can see your married pussy. Tears spring up in your eyes. Your cheeks burn hotter than ever before and your stomach knots. Bile rises in your throat as the shame nearly overwhelms you.

You look up at Mr Longstreet and shake your head, eyes wide. "No...sorry...I can't...I have...I'm married. Please...I can't...I have...I have to go...Sorry..."

You push away from him as you stammer your apologies. He watches you impassively, leaning back on the bench, spreading his arms across it. A small smile plays across his lips. You fumble as you stand, sliding out from behind the table. You fumble at your dress, giving Mr Longstreet a perfect view of your ass, framed by the red panties he very nearly had you out of before you tug the dress back into place, covering your shame. You spin on the spot, looking for an escape. "I have to go! Sorry"

Mr Longstreet nods. "No apology needed. Until next time Mrs Edwards."

The thought of next time makes your stomach flip and you turn, lurching out of the party. You fumble in your clutch, pulling out your phone. Shame, anxiety, adrenaline and arousal make your hands shake as you type out a quick message to Troy:

<Sorry babe. I think I might have had too much to drink. I'm not feeling well. Getting a cab home.>

A few moments later, he gives you a reply.

<Are you sure? Are you alright? Need me to come find you?

<No. It's alright. Just a bit unwell. I'll see you when you get home. Love you. x>

<Love you too. x>

And with that, you're out of the party. You struggle to breath, chest heaving as you suck in the cool, outside air. You step up to the curb, hailing down the first cab you see. You throw yourself in the back, giving the driver directions home. Only then do you realise you're shaking. You stuff your hand in your mouth and close your eyes, trying to ignore both the shame and the arousal as you make your way home.