After fifteen years of marriage, you feel like a stranger to me. I watch you lift a wineglass to your lips during dinner, a gesture you've made countless times in my presence, yet it's now utterly unfamiliar. 

Because you are.

When did it start? Months ago? Years, maybe? I can't pinpoint the exact moment you began drifting away. We don't fight about sex or money; we have plenty of both. There's no obvious wedge between us. No bone of contention we've been gnawing.

Still, the distance widens, day by day.

I ache to bridge that gap, but I fear if I mention it, you'll smile in bewilderment, then say, "What are you talking about? We're fine."

Instead of open communication, I resort to sneakiness. This afternoon, while following you through the city, I feel like I'm stalking my own wife. You left the office a short time ago, oblivious to the fact that I was waiting. I almost lost you in rush-hour traffic. 

And now you're here, your car parked nearby. You climb these steps in uncomfortable shoes, your dress too short for professional attire. It's a new outfit, I realize. Who are you trying to impress?

I'm growing reckless, trailing you in plain sight. If you were to glance over your shoulder, you'd spot me bounding up the stairs after you. How would I explain? 

I couldn't. Maybe I hope to be caught. Maybe I want all the ugly suspicions and doubts dragged out into the open.

But you don't look back. Your stride is purposeful, and it eventually carries you to an upscale apartment building. 

I don't know anyone who lives here. When you texted me that you'd be home late, you didn't mention what would be keeping you. You didn't use the tired excuse of project deadlines or a business dinner. 

I haven't yet caught you in a lie.

Maybe you're checking on a sick colleague. No, that can't be it. You would have brought flowers or comfort food to offer your friend. 

I rack my brain for an innocent explanation but can't think of a single one. At the building's entrance, you pause for an instant, and I freeze. Though people mill around us, I could easily be spotted.

Then you disappear inside. Of course, I can't follow you. My pulse thuds at my temples. Despite the early summer breeze, I flush hot, and my skin grows clammy. Sinking down onto a nearby bench, I lean forward. The urge to retch is almost overwhelming.

I wait fifteen minutes, then thirty. An hour passes before I climb to my feet and head back the way I came. The crowd has thinned, and it's too risky for me to stay out in the open.

You don't get home till almost nine. I'm sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a Scotch, when you stroll into the room. 

"Sorry I'm so late!" you say. 

I immediately notice that you don't look at all tired. In fact, your mood is downright buoyant.

"Busy day?" I ask, my tone mild.

"Absolutely crazy. I had to—"

I abruptly stand, and the sudden movement surprises you into silence. I can't let you finish that sentence, can't let you explain where you were tonight. I'm almost certain you won't mention an apartment building just a few miles from your office. 

I thought I wanted to know for sure; a lie would be concrete evidence of your betrayal. But now that the moment has come, I find I'm too weak to see this through.

Instead, I close the distance between us and kiss you with a passion I haven't shown since we were newlyweds. My lips mute your startled cry. 

Slowly, you relax into the kiss. Your arms slip around my neck, and when I press your body firmly against mine, you don't resist.

I lift you off your feet, which prompts you to shriek, "What are you doing?"

"Having my way with you."

Once I've sat you down on the edge of the table, I grow impatient, yanking up your dress. You release a giggle, almost nervous-sounding. I slide my palms along your thigh-high stockings, my fingers inching closer to the crotch of your panties. Those are new as well.

You open your mouth as if to protest, then think better of it. "What's gotten into you?" 

I groan upon finding the silky fabric of your underwear damp. "I skipped dinner, and I'm starving," I reply.

You don't stop me from stripping you of your panties. Hooking the undergarment onto my finger, I let it dangle between us.

"These are very sexy for a day at the office," I say. 

Your smile slips just a little. You watch, wide-eyed, as I bring the panties to my face and inhale deeply. Of course, I detect only your scent. Extending my tongue, I taste only your juices. You're far too careful to let another man come inside you.

Sitting in a chair before you, I spread your legs wide. My stare is riveted to your cunt. I tell myself I'm the reason your clit is swollen and your inner folds are flushed the deep red of arousal.

I give you a long, teasing lick. My tongue lingers at your entrance, which a secret lover might have recently claimed. You whimper as I finally circle your pearl. 

Peering up at you, I study your expression. You appear almost pained; I've seen that look when you're struggling to make a difficult decision.

"I'm already so excited," you tell me. "I guess it's made me a little sensitive."

"Too sensitive for this?" I wrap my lips around that tender bud and suckle. The sensation makes your hips buck. When you weave your fingers through my hair, I expect you to force me back, but you let me continue.

And I devour you. I don't often stay fully erect when eating you out, as my attention is focused solely on your pleasure. But tonight, I'm hard and ready, and the urgency with which I lick and suck, and then finger you, betrays my need. 

You orgasm beneath my tongue, your body wracked with spasms. Again, I suck your clit, harder this time, and you release a low scream.

I start leaking precum at the sound of you begging. 

"Please, I can't... No more!" Another tremor courses through you.

You're normally not satisfied with just one orgasm from oral. Once you're primed and in the grip of arousal, I can make you come again and again. 

So I have to wonder if someone else has already satisfied you tonight.

Rising to my feet, I kiss you hard. You reach between us to stroke my cock through my pants. 

"I'm going to fuck the shit out of you," I whisper against your lips.

You yield to me completely. When I lift you off the table and then turn you around, your demeanor is almost submissive. Without being told, you lean forward, resting on the table so I can take you from behind.

My hands are shaking as I free my cock. Unable to control myself, I thrust hard inside you. 

"Oh, God yes!" Your fingernails claw at the tabletop. "I've needed this, baby."

You don't sound like a woman who was fucked just a little earlier. As I drive myself into your wet pussy, a relieved groan emerges from my throat. I've needed this, too. Needed to know you haven't strayed, and that I can still reduce you to a quivering, panting mess.

I'm rough, hammering you into the edge of the table, but you beg for it. 

"Take it, you dirty slut!" I say through clenched teeth. You gasp at the filthy talk, which I've never dared to indulge in before. Your hair is hanging in your face, and you make wild, unrecognizable sounds. 

"I'm gonna come again!" you choke out. Before I can reply, your muscles tighten around my cock. Feeling each contraction, I know I'll last only a few seconds longer.

I'm still rutting away, still holding your hips in a punishing grasp, when I climax. Desperate to stay connected with you, I give a few more frantic thrusts. Your body trembles beneath my hands, trying to twist itself into unnatural angles. It's been a long time since I've witnessed an orgasm take you apart like this.

Afterward, I'm slow to pull out. Before you can stand, I draw you into my arms and plant a kiss on your hair. You let out a low, contented laugh, then move to cup a hand between your thighs.

"I need to shower," you tell me. 

"Go on, then. I'll make something quick for dinner."

Our conversation during the meal is lighthearted; we veer away from any serious topic. You drink a little too much Chardonnay and become giggly until exhaustion sweeps over your muscles. I notice your shoulders visibly slump.

A little later, I'm in bed and scrolling through my phone when you step out of the master bathroom. Completely naked, you begin your nightly ritual of slathering expensive moisturizing cream all over your skin. I watch as you place your foot on the edge of the bed, close to my hip. At first, my gaze is drawn to your smooth pussy. When you're spread like this, I can see your inner folds.

"Enjoying the view?" you ask with a grin.

"Very much." My stare travels along your thigh. Halfway between your groin and your knee is a faint pink mark, misshapen and about an inch long. I hadn't noticed it earlier, for it was hidden beneath your stocking.

Sitting up, I graze the blemish with my fingertip. "What's this?"

You angle your head to look. "Hmm, I don't know." Your tone is light, dismissive. "You must have gotten a bit carried away in the kitchen."

"I didn't do this to you." While caressing your skin, I lift my head to meet your eyes.

You effortlessly hold my gaze. Shrugging, you say, "Maybe my stocking chafed my skin."

Once you're in bed beside me, I turn off the lamp, and we settle into the dark. Your hand finds my face before we share a goodnight kiss. 

"Thank you for this evening," you whisper.

I'm sure you can hear the smile in my voice when I say, "It was truly my pleasure."

You lie so close that I feel the heat emanating from your skin. Like the mark on your inner thigh, the distance between us is now small, almost imperceptible. 

But still there.