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Tuesday morning dawned with a deceptive innocence, just another ordinary college weekday. But not really. My parents had already left for work, their usual morning routines creating a comforting, predictable rhythm that now felt alien to the storm brewing within me. University classes, once the unwavering focus of my structured life, were a distant, irrelevant thought. Today, my only appointment was with Hudson, and the exhilarating, terrifying secret we shared. I knew he was working from home, and more importantly, his wife was away, leaving the path clear for our forbidden rendezvous.

I moved through my room, a familiar space that now felt charged with a new, illicit energy. As I pulled out my clothes for the day, my hands instinctively gravitated towards my typical conservative attire: a knee-length floral skirt, a modest blouse that buttoned high on my neck, and a light cardigan. It was the uniform of the pious, unassuming daughter my parents knew, the good girl who wouldn't dare stray from the straight and narrow. Yet, as I dressed, the fabric felt almost like a costume, flimsy armor against the burgeoning sensuality that now simmered just beneath my skin.

Each button of my blouse felt like a deliberate act of concealment, a physical reminder of the secrets I now carried. As I adjusted the collar, my mind replayed the events of the past few days, a vivid, almost hallucinatory reel of forbidden memories. It started with the mortifying accidental photo - my nude fitness selfie, meant for no eyes ...

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