After years of marriage, I’d sometimes catch myself asking if what we had was real love or just a contract we both signed under pressure. We had a home, some stability, and a rhythm—but the sex had always been flat, almost obligatory. And in the back of my mind lingered an old doubt: she hadn’t been faithful when we met, so had she ever really been mine?
Funny thing is, our paths always seemed to cross. Jogging track. Supermarket aisle. Even near my workplace. Like the universe was determined to keep us bound together. Eventually, marriage just… happened. Not from fireworks, but from a checklist. She wanted boxes ticked; I provided the pen. But my heart never stopped scanning the exits.
And at work? Flirtation lived in the air. Nothing serious—until her.
She wasn’t much younger, but she carried herself with a kind of quiet fire. The way her eyes lingered. The way her hips moved when she walked past my desk. I’d glance, she’d catch me, and instead of being offended, she’d tease:
“You like what you see?”
“Hell yes,” I’d shoot back.
That was our rhythm for months—playful, harmless, or so I told myself. Until the day she asked if I was heading to lunch.
We strolled, browsed shop windows, and landed at a small restaurant. She laughed when she realized she hadn’t brought cash. I waved it off, told her I had it covered. The smile she gave me—part gratitude, part invitation—stuck with me long after.
Weeks later, she called on my day off. No agenda. Just: “Wanna hang out?” I said yes without thinking.
When I opened the door to her, something shifted. She was in a cropped workout top and skin-tight leggings that left little to imagination. Still, sex wasn’t on my mind. Not at first. But when she lay across the small bed in my office, biting her lip, I knew.
The kiss started slow, almost cautious. Then deeper, hungrier. My hands slid beneath her shirt, fingers brushing nipples already taut. Her bra was flimsy—gone in a heartbeat. She moaned when I sucked her breasts, and for the first time in years, I felt alive in someone’s touch.
Her tights fought me like armor, but I peeled them away, kissed her soft mound, and breathed her in. Her legs fell open like she’d been waiting all day. I went down on her, slow, steady, tasting every tremor as she came against my tongue. Twice, maybe three times.
Then she surprised me—pushing me back, eyes locked. “My turn.”
She freed me from my belt and wrapped her lips around me, deliberate and unhurried until my body begged for release. I reminded her I had no protection. She shrugged: “Bareback. I’m good.”
Her confidence lit a fuse in me.
When I slid into her, it wasn’t just sex. It was escape. Tight, warm, wet—her body welcomed mine like it had been waiting forever. She moved with me, not under me. Matched my thrusts. Claimed me with her moans.
When I warned her I was close, she pulled me deeper, whispering: “Finish inside me. I already took care of it.” Plan B, she explained. Hours ago. Like she’d known where this was heading.
I came harder than I had in years, buried in her, shaking, undone. She didn’t stop—flipped me, rode me with intent, placed her breasts in my mouth, and came with a cry that left us both collapsed and laughing in the silence after.
We showered together, steam and soft jokes filling the space. It wasn’t our last time, but it was the one that branded itself on me.
After that, things blurred. Skirted Sundays at work turned into stolen oral sessions in quiet corners. One wild afternoon, we drove to Jabberwock Beach, fogging up the car with our sweat and nerves.
She always led. I followed into something reckless, intoxicating, and too good to deny.
Even now, years later, if I close my eyes, I can still taste her. Still feel the shift in that moment—the line between loyalty and desire snapping in two.
Original Story by Herman Kingsley
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