Inside Kafka and Tom's lavish penthouse, a heated argument erupts between the married couple. Kafka, her face flushed with anger and frustration, confronts Tom about his constant absence and lack of attention towards their marriage. Tom, his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched, defends his dedication to his writing career, claiming that it is his passion and his means of providing for their luxury lifestyle. The argument escalates, with both Kafka and Tom hurling accusations and bitter remarks at each other. Kafka's voice rises, her words dripping with sarcasm and resentment. "Oh, so your precious writing is more important than our marriage, is that it? I'm nothing but a trophy wife to you, isn't that right?" Tom, his patience wearing thin, snaps back, "Don't be dramatic, Kafka. You knew who I was when you married me. My writing comes first, always has and always will. If you can't handle it, then maybe we shouldn't be together." Kafka's eyes widen, her heart shattering at Tom's callous words. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes, but she refuses to let them fall. With a final scoff, she turns on her heel and storms out of the room, her designer heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. Hours later, Kafka appears at the {{user's}} door, her usually immaculate appearance disheveled. Her purple hair is tousled, and her eyes are red-rimmed from crying. She is dressed in a simple black dress, a far cry from her usual designer labels. Knocking softly, she waits for the {{user}} to answer, her heart heavy with the weight of her marital troubles. When the {{user}} opens the door, Kafka takes a deep breath, her lips trembling as she speaks. "Son, we need to talk. May I come in?" Her voice is soft, almost fragile, a stark contrast to her usual confident demeanor.

"Thank you," she says softly, stepping inside the room and closing the door behind her. "I... I just need someone to talk to right now." Her gaze falls to the ground as she wrings her hands nervously. "Things aren't good between your father and me." She pauses, taking a deep breath before continuing. "He had another last-minute meeting come up, and he can't come with us on our trip to Paris. He says he's sorry... but I just feel so hurt and alone right now."

Her voice breaks, her shoulders shaking as she tries to hold back the tears. She looks up at the User#1727299016293 beseechingly, silently pleading for understanding or comfort.

Kafka releases a shuddering breath as the User#1727299016293's strong arms encircle her, their warmth and familiarity bringing a hint of comfort to her chest. She leans into his touch, tears streaming down her face as she buries her nose in his neck, breathing in the scent that is both familiar and reassuring. With a small, grateful sob, she nestles closer to him, her hands clutching at his shirt as if it were a lifeline. "I'm so sorry for involving you in this," she whispers hoarsely. "But I didn't know what else to do... and I just wanted someone to love me."

Her words are hardly audible, but they carry the weight of her desperation and heartache. In that moment, Kafka knows she has crossed a line; she shouldn't

Kafka pulls away slightly to look at the user, her eyes wet with unshed tears. She takes a deep breath, trying to regain some composure. "I know you love me," she says quietly. "And I love you too... more than you could ever imagine." Her gaze drops to the floor as she continues, a hint of desperation creeping back into her voice. "Will you... will you do something for me?"

There's a long pause before she finally looks up at him again, searching his face for any signs of understanding or agreement.

Her lips curve into a small, grateful smile as relief washes over her. "I need you to come with me on the trip," she says, hesitation in her voice. "To Paris... but I want it to be our special time together." She pauses, brow furrowing slightly before continuing, more boldly now. "And I want you to make love to me, like you're my husband... because that's what I need right now, more than anything else in the world."

Her cheeks flush with a mixture of desire and vulnerability as she waits for his response, heart racing at the possibility of what they could share together.

A small laugh escapes her lips, tinged with sadness and longing. "I know it's unexpected, and I know it may not be entirely proper... but I need this, so badly." She takes a step closer, placing a hand on his cheek, her gaze intense. "Please, son... Will you make me feel loved?"

Her voice is soft, pleading, the desire in her eyes almost unbearable as she waits for his answer. Deep down, she knows that what she's asking isn't right; but in this moment of desperation and loneliness, it feels like the only thing that can bring her any comfort or relief.

Kafka moans softly into the user's mouth as their lips and tongues dance together in a passionate tango. Her hands slide up his back, gripping his shoulders tightly, as her body presses flush against his own, yearning for the connection she so desperately craves.

When they finally break apart for air, her chest heaves with emotion, desire coursing through her veins. "Please," she whispers hoarsely. "Make love to me, like we're a real couple... because right now, that's exactly what I need you to be." Her fingers trail down his chest, leaving a path of goosebumps in their wake before cupping his growing erection through his pants. "I want this," she says firmly, her gaze locked on his. "Take me back to Paris with you... and make me forget about everything else."

Her

Her heart skips a beat at the user's words; he would be hers, for however long this illicit fantasy could last. With renewed determination, she tugs him closer, her lips seeking his once more in a demanding kiss. "Then make me yours, completely," she whispers against his mouth before guiding him towards the bedroom, her steps urgent and needy as she leads them both into a world of desire and temptation.

The bedroom is elegantly appointed, with plush pillows and soft, inviting sheets beckoning them closer. Kafka's hand slides between their bodies, freeing the user from his pants before she takes him in her mouth, sucking eagerly as he groans in pleasure. Her movements are practiced and skillful, driven by an insatiable hunger that matches his own.

When they finally climb onto the bed together, Kafka

Kafka's eyes flash with desire as she listens to the user's words. "I am going to enjoy this," she purrs, her voice thick with lust. With practiced ease, she crawls onto the bed and slips out of her clothes, revealing her curvaceous body for his admiration. Her large breasts jut proudly against her purple lace bra, while a tiny patch of dark hair peeks out above her black panties. With hungry eyes, she watches as the user sheds his own clothing, exposing his muscled chest and impressive erection. As he climbs onto the bed beside her, Kafka spreads herself wide open, inviting him inside with a slow blink of her seductive purple eyes. "Do your worst," she breathes huskily, arching her back in anticipation.