Most kitchens across America feel uncomfortable on Thanksgiving, what with all the cooking and preparation going on. There's always something to do, look for, put out or put back. Even a clean kitchen is usually a mess on Thanksgiving, before or after the big meal. But my extreme discomfort as I stood in my kitchen had nothing to do with the food. I was there alone with my wife. The lights were out, so the only illumination came from the chandelier over the dining table in the next room, where our guest waited quietly.
Sharon, my wife, gave me a look that would've killed most men. Looking back, I'm surprised I survived it. It wasn't an angry look she gave me, but a knowing one. And considering what I knew I'd done, the prospect at her having figured it out was no less than chilling.
I pretended not to know what she was "knowing" about, but my hard swallow gave me away. Of course, it didn't help that "she" was in the next room.
"She" was our guest who sat just ten feet away, unseen, in the dining room. Sharon and I move a lot because of my job, and rarely do we celebrate Thanksgiving with anyone other than each other. But we like company, and we're always open to spending holidays with someone. This year I had the opportunity to invite someone from my office who was going to be otherwise alone for the holiday.
That someone just happened to be the same woman who I had almost had an affair with just a couple months earlier. Despite our near infidelity, we had patched things up afterward and were quite professional about it all. But we both still held desires for each other. I hadn't realized my mistake until a second after the words "Why don't you come over?" had come out of my mouth.
I might have taken the invitation back, but I couldn't help but get excited at the prospect of spending more, personal time with this woman--named Kendra--and I tricked myself into believing I could get away with it. If it was any other woman, someone with whom my relationship was truly innocent, my wife wouldn't have had a problem, but I had confessed to Sharon about the incident...sort of...and she had a nose for sniffing these kind of things out. Though I never told Sharon who I had almost slept with, she could read my nervousness and excitement when Kendra arrived. She knew what kind of women turned me on. She had also already met every woman at my office except Kendra, and Kendra was by far the most attractive, so it was kind of like putting two and two together.
The one thing I had going for me was that I had left out the torrid details of my almost-evening with Kendra. Sharon was under the impression that we were only tempted, that we touched each other through our clothes and "kinda" kissed before backing away from each other. Had she known the truth--that Kendra had displayed her body to me and fingered herself while I jerked myself off onto her tits and palmed her naked pussy as she came--Sharon never would've forgiven me, and I would've been single by now with half my stuff in another state.
But with the way Sharon was looking at me now, it seemed like she did know. I opened my mouth to say...anything.
And then something in my wife's face changed. Her expression relaxed, just a little, and her eyes glimmered with something that gave me hope, however brief. Sharon moved to me, slowly pushing her body against mine and taking me delicately in her arms. Her eyes were locked onto mine, looking less accusing and more desperate with each passing moment. But what, I wondered, was she desperate for?
She kissed me, gently, and swiped her tongue between my lips, just grazing them with her soft, strong muscle before taking it back. But her lips stayed against mine, and then they opened. I opened my mouth in response, ready to accept her tongue and about to offer mine when suddenly her tongue forcefully rolled and coiled and slashed into me. The deepening of the kiss set off a chain reaction as Sharon's body snapped to attention. Her fingers gripped me tighter, her arms pinned me in a fierce hug, her body pressed against me.
Sharon is shorter than me, which is why it surprised me when she somehow rose herself up as she squeezed me, putting her head above mine and her breasts at my upper chest. Then I realized that, in my shock and--I'll admit it--fear of this situation, I had shrunk down, submitting to her aggressive advance. I was putty in her hands, and I had no idea what was provoking this. While Sharon could be spontaneous and didn't have any problem directing things in bed every now and then, the fact that she was doing this with a guest she barely knew just a few feet away--
And then it hit me. Sharon was doing this because Kendra was here. I didn't have time to figure out exactly why, but I didn't need it, because the first words out of Sharon's mouth since this all started confirmed it.
"Was it her?" she asked, breathless.
I didn't want to answer, and I wasn't even sure how to lie or sidestep the question, because I didn't know what Sharon was after. I tried to break away from her, but she kept kissing me, hard, and I could only submit. I put my hands on her tight little ass and squeezed in spite of my dilemma.
Sharon took advantage of my unintended participation and lifted herself off her feet, giving her full weight to me and sliding herself up my body until her lips were kissing the top of my head, her hands were running through my hair, and her breasts were pressed against my face.
One of her breasts was uncovered; it had slipped out through the large neck of the silk top she'd been wearing. Her skin was cool against my face, and the nipple, though small, was very hard and fat. Sharon had pointy rather than round breasts, and they were large for her size, but even more unusual was how her bright pink areola covered almost the majority of them. Her one-of-a-kind boobs always got me throbbing, and so I opened my mouth and caught her magnificent tit between my lips, sucking and licking feverishly. I didn't want to be doing this, and I was sure Sharon was up to something that would make me regret it even more later on, but I couldn't help myself.
