At its inception, this story was a Snapchat conversation to my married boyfriend. He was camping with his wife and kids, and I wanted him to be thinking about me while he was with them.
Who are you thinking about? Tell me everything... I love getting comments on my stories
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So he was going away for the weekend with his family for a boy scout camping trip. So what? I was totally cool with that—mostly.
I mean, I'm not
that
type of mistress who thinks her lover will leave his wife for me. I'm astute enough to know that most of the things he tells me are lies. Not malicious, however! Mostly. We both weave little lies for each other, building and escalating the fantasy of our illicit relationship. Nevertheless, he never talks shit about his wife—even an adulteress like me won't fuck around with a man who doesn't respect his wife.
Regardless of how cool I like to think I am, I still feel pangs of jealousy. I know that he twists the truth for me, so I always wonder what truths he tells to Mrs. Wifey. I imagine he tells her that he's been missing her (because he was secretly spending time with me.) I simmer, thinking about him whispering honeyed suggestions in her ear. I burn as I tally words he would undoubtedly whisper into her thighs before he goes down on her.
That was the odd thing too. I often daydream about their sex life together. Does he tell her that she is so perfect she must have been made on a computer? It's what he told me. I fantasize about him plowing into her. I wonder if she feels his sweat drip on the small of her back when he fucks her from behind. Sometimes I lay in my apartment and touch myself, fantasizing about how much she gets off on his dick.
So was I still one of
those
girlfriends and just had my own flavor of crazy? Mostly.
The truth is, I like fucking married men. I'm never looking for a boyfriend, so it works out great that they are already committed to someone else. I'm not trying to be someone's stepmom and break up a family. Married guys are usually more mature—I love the confidence that comes from being a dad.
Since it's a long holiday weekend and I was able to leave work early this afternoon. Walking through the door to my apartment, I drop my keys, laptop bag, and all my fucks by the front door. Breezing through my living room, I drop my mail on the kitchen counter to sort later and head towards my bedroom.
In my bedroom, light filters through the blinds, casting striped shadows across the walls. My big white, puffy comforter contrasts with the exposed brick walls. House plants sit in pots on the floor and hang in the windows.
Flopping down onto my velvety-soft duvet, I reach into my bedside drawer, withdrawing an ornate box. Resting on my stomach, I pop open the lid and remove a lighter and a joint. Rolling over onto my back I light up and take a long, slow hit.
Mr. Friends With Benefits and I met a couple of years ago at work; different departments, but our work was related. We were members of a few group chats and would sometimes send each other private messages to poke fun at our dim-witted colleagues.
Over time, the messages had slowly gotten sassier and then saucier as we started talking outside of the office. It wasn't long into our textship that we reached a saturation point of desire and couldn't deny our explosive chemistry any longer.
Why am I still in my work clothes?! It
'
s time to get this weekend started...
A full-length mirror hangs in my closet; I check myself out in the mirror before I undress. Weed gets me hot under the collar. I am not above giving myself a sexy striptease.
Making eye contact with myself in the mirror, I slowly unbutton my blouse, revealing smooth, glowing skin. I drop my shirt to the floor and bite my lip, reaching behind my back to unhook my bra. Lowering each strap separately, I expose my nipples to the soft afternoon light—cupping my breasts, lifting them, squeezing them. A low moan builds in my throat as I pinch my nipples, feeling the spark and sizzle deep inside me. Cocking one hip to the side, I slowly slide down the zipper of my skirt—taking my time, feeling the vibration of every single tooth. Hooking my thumbs into the waistband, I spin slowly, my hips undulating as if attempting to keep a hula-hoop aloft. Bending over with my ass pointed at the mirror, I admire the sight. Round ass cheeks frame a barely-there, black thong, a mound where the fabric covers my pussy. Sliding my panties down my legs, heels still on, I exposed my puffy lips, already slick with anticipation.
Mr. Sexy Texty hadn't come into the office today. Instead, he spent the day packing, driving, and setting up their campsite. It turned me on to picture him being outdoorsy—arms bulging as he carries equipment from the car, building the tent, pounding the stakes into the ground, lighting the campfire. I can practically feel the wind that would ruffle his hair, a sheen of sweat on his brow, an animated twinkle in his eye.
Returning to my bed and settling into the softness, touching myself, I wove a fantasy. I laid down with my legs bent out to each side—my feet pressed together like a frog—my pussy exposed, begging to be touched.
Reaching down, I flick each nipple, watching them harden and contract, goosebumps forming. Arching my back into my cupped hands, I pinch and pull, moaning as my skin began to flush.
Sliding my hands down my stomach, I rub my palms over my inner thighs, opening them further, spreading my pussy open. Trailing my fingers along the creases of my thighs, I push my hands together, squishing my outer lips together, letting the pressure build.
When I can stand it no longer, I dip two fingers in my wetness, smearing juices all over my skin. I bring myself closer and closer to a climax—pulling back again and again. For over an hour, I touch, slap, pinch, and caress myself, refusing to fall over the edge. Over and over again, I imagined innumerable illicit scenes and scenarios pushing me harder and harder.
High from the weed; high from my haze of lust; high off of my envy, I reach for my phone.
They weren't going far off the beaten path. I knew that my guy would have cell service at the campsite they'd selected, but not on the extended hikes they'd planned for the long holiday weekend. From stories he told me about previous trips, I estimated that they would try to finish eating while it was still light. I pictured him washing up from dinner or sitting in a camp chair near the fire.
I start texting...
