At the same time, there’s a sense of fullness, differently than when he fucked my pussy, or shoved his dick into my mouth. This is… a kind of intimacy I never shared with anyone else. A kind of connection I crave. Raw, overpowering, honest.
“Your ass… oh, yeah. Give it to me. I know you want to.”
He growls and places both hands on either side of my waist. I hear the sound of his balls slapping my ass with each thrust, each plunge. I push through the pain and follow his rhythm, swinging my hips against his, taking his cock in my ass like a good slut.
He glides his hand up my body, and soon, he reaches my neck. I’m not sure what he’s trying to do, but, he maneuvers me in such way that he drapes his body over mine. Still fucking me hard, he touches my neck.
He wraps his hands around my neck, timing each thrust with squeezing my neck a bit. At first, I blink, confused. Maybe I’m in way over my head sleeping with a man so much older than me. Maybe it was a mistake, and—
“Let’s come together,” he says, cutting my thoughts.
When he chokes me, the air is sucked out of my lungs, and then he slams his dick, I’m so overwhelmed—my hormones all over the place, and soon I let go, and a ball of fire forms in my core and fast tracks all my cells, spreading through me as I cry his name out, trembling.
He withdraws his cock and rams into my asshole one more time, and this time, he lets go. He fills me with his hot, sticky cum, a generous load. He groans out loud, jerking his body over mine, and we both fall on the mattress, spent.
I wait for my heart go back to normal, until I turn my face to his. “When can I see you again?”
Three weeks later…
I parkmy car in the garage, and take a deep breath. I look at my surroundings, the other cars next to mine, the workbench I’d put up but rarely use. Slowly, I turn off the ignition. These days I take a long time to drag myself out of the car.
When Britney asked me if I wanted to see her again, I told her no. After what we shared that night, I couldn’t possibly keep it going. Feeling guilty, I drove her to the house she shares with roommates, then came home and told Susan that I had car problems which was why I was so late coming back. I also promised myself to try harder.
I am not a cheater. I mean, yes, I am now. But I never cheated on a partner before, and even if a part of me reminds me that Susan is no saint, I can’t carry on an affair. I need to do better.
I’ve been trying. For the last weeks, I’ve been going to the marital counselor, arriving home early from work, trying to be a more present husband and father. I even had sex with Susan once, the first in six months, which she considered a breakthrough.
I thought of Britney the entire time, and worse, thought I was betrayingherby having sex with my wife—which is ridiculous, I know. But it’s also true.
For so long, I punished myself for not working as hard at my marriage as I should, but now that I have, I don’t know if I want to. I don’t love Susan. I like her a lot, and respect her as a wife and mother. But that’s the extent of my feelings for her.
The idea of not seeing my kids grow up—not being there with them every day—hurts me, the real reason I’ve kept this going even though I feel like I’m an impostor. Is it fair, though, to feel utterly miserable in a relationship that lacks any kind of passion?
I finally force myself to get out of the car and walk across the garage. I sigh.
When I open the door, I reach for the light, but as I flick it on, I hear a loud “SURPRISE!” with a pop sound. My heart skips a beat, and I see my coworkers from the law firm and longtime friends. Susan holds a big cake with the numbers 38 on top, and my kids are clapping, excited.
Everyone starts singing Happy Birthday, and I shrug, waving them off.
I appreciate the gesture, but something feels off. I eventually walk up to Susan and join the fun, and by the time they’re done singing, I glance at the candles. “Make a wish,” someone shouts in a joking tone, probably Todd from Human Resources. I look at him, and my heart stops again—not because of Todd, but because of the woman next to him. Her.
I swallow, but my tongue gets stuck on the roof of my mouth. She glances at me, with a sad twinkle in her eyes. She’s wearing a pink top and jeans, and her hair seems a tad longer than when I last saw her. I drag my gaze away from her, because of all places, this is not the right one to gawk at her.
Why is she here?
Then, I hear my kids talking to her and connect the dots. My wife probably hired her to watch Max and Charlie during the party so we can mingle. Makes sense.
After that night with Britney, I told Susan to use our other babysitter, a fifty-year-old receptionist from my work who could always use more walking-around money like she said. But Susan probably thought it’d be in poor taste to hire that lady to be the sitter in an event where a lot of other higher ups from the firm would attend.
As I move around and hug my children, chat with friends and kiss Susan on her cheek, I can feel Britney’s eyes on me, and worse—I like it.
Heat radiates from my chest, and I know I’m being silly. Her simple presence here jeopardizes everything in this room. My family, my friends, my job. What would people say if they found out I fucked the sitter, while married? A much younger sitter.