I am bent over the railing of his balcony, forty stories above the street below, my skirt hiked up, panties removed. His cock, that glorious cock, has just released inside me. I am breathless. My entire body shudders. He brushes my hair aside, kisses the back of my neck tenderly, whispers passionate words into my ear.
Later we will give ourselves to one another again. This time on his bed. I am fully naked. I crave this. Afterward, we lie, limbs tangled. He strokes my skin, runs his fingers through my hair, looks deeply into my eyes in the way that only a lover who has given everything, and to whom everything has been given, can do.
I need this. So desperately. It is my escape. It is the only time I feel truly alive. Each time I feel a twinge of guilt, but desire locks that remorse away in a tiny box. I don’t remove my ring. I am many people at once. Wife, mother, adulteress.
I know I am not his only one. How could I insist otherwise? I am confident nonetheless that I am his priority. He never fails when I need him.
This is everything that I cannot get through convention. The mere fact that it is forbidden is the key to my completion. I thrill each time he plants his seed deep in my receptive womb. There are no boundaries whatsoever.
Parting is always such sweet sorrow, my little holiday over. I will return to my home, my husband, whose intense love for me is matched only by mine for him. He must never know, not even suspect. This is my little secret.
His cum leaks out of me. No, I do not wash it off. That is another craving. I will take care of that before my husband comes home. Meanwhile, I will savor it, my lover’s gift to me, the receipt of which is mine to him.
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Sunlight streams through the window and falls on her bed and the brick wall beyond. My fingers tenderly trace their way across the curve of her back and down over her firm buttocks. She shivers, and I kiss her deeply. She rolls onto her back and spreads herself, wordlessly inviting me to penetrate her again.
She is everything I cannot have in real life. Her paintings are propped up haphazardly around her loft. A creative free spirit in every respect, none more so than in the way she approaches sex. She naturally and easily accepts me every time I empty myself into her willing body, and I am restored, complete,.
Our arrangement isn’t exclusive – what hypocrisy that would be on my part. And yet there is an understanding that she will be there for me, and I for her. There is a familiarity between us – lovers and friends. The need to hide this from the outside world only heightens our encounters.
My need is beyond intense. Only she can satisfy it. At home, the office, our social circle, I am someone else. With her, I leave that all behind and am truly alive.
None of this diminishes my love for my wife. Her fierce devotion to me does give me pause, but it is only a passing consideration. My all-consuming craving for this overwhelms all else. There are no boundaries to my infidelity. I neatly compartmentalize it. She can never know.
When the door closes behind me and I leave this magic world behind, I am refreshed. Life overflows from me once again. Her essence mixed with mine coats me. I wear it as a sign of our passion for as long as I can safely do so. It brings a smile to my face and makes my heart swell. I close my eyes and think of her throughout the day, savoring our time together and eagerly anticipating our next secret encounter.
