Last week:
When I arrived at home that first Thursday night, it was only when I greeted my wife as she reclined reading in bed that I realized the magnitude of what I had done. In fourteen years of marriage, despite an occasional temptation and a half-drunk making out featuring an unfinished handjob at a Christmas party, I had not actively considered cheating on her. But as I kissed her hello, hoping that no vestige of my earlier encounter remained for her to sense, it all came home to me. To my surprise, instead of feeling guilty, I felt liberated. There seemed no need at that moment for one to impinge upon the other. I saw at that moment no reason why I could not savor the memory of my encounter and still love my wife.
During the week, I resisted the urge to contact my classmate, to follow up and see if she would do what I had asked... demanded... of her. I was determined not to let the facade of cool I had erected crumble. So, on the day before class, I sent her an email with a two-word message, no signature:
Conference room.
* * *
I come to class early, so I can be waiting for her, watching her enter, seeing how things might go. While I wait, I engage in idle chitchat with my classmates and, when she arrives, it is all I can do to tell my interlocutor to shut the hell up so I can stare. She walks in like she owns the place which, as far as I'm concerned, she does.
My request has been granted; she wears a black skirt that hugs her hips and is tight enough that the apparent absence of panty lines sends blood rushing to my crotch. Her calves are muscular without being bulky, hallmarks of a runner born, a runner who might have trouble with the two-inch black heels she's wearing. Beneath the blue cotton top, her breasts bounce freely as she walks and I am struck by the notion that a thin layer of clothing is all that stands between me and her naked skin, skin I badly want to experience with my eyes, my hands, my mouth. Her hair hangs free, a wreath for her face, and I imagine it spread out across a pillow.
At no point as she crosses the room does she acknowledge me and, to my credit, my jaw does not drop. If I were to stand up and applaud, as I feel I should, I'm sure the rest of the room would notice my arousal. Thankfully, the situation does not call for that. When she sits, she finally turns her gaze in my direction, and the force with which it falls upon me is almost palpable. She does not smile, nor does she frown, she merely meets my eyes, holds them for a second, and then is gone.
The minutes until the break crawl by. Though I am engaged in the discussion, I am also painfully aware of her presence, of her compliance (as it seems) with my wishes, of the way she moves her arms and tilts her head as she speaks. As her lips move, it is difficult not to remember them pressed against my own and wrapped around my cock as she knelt before me in the darkness of the classroom. I find myself wondering how she remembers the experience, wondering if she is getting wet thinking about it as I struggle against a conspicuous erection.
When the break arrives, she is first to go and I feel the exhilaration and the despair of anticipation. I, too, leave and, oblivious to whether anyone is watching, I turn away from the body of my classmates, walk down the hall and around the corner to the conference room. The door is cracked open and, as I open it, she is slowly illuminated in the light of the hall. I step in and close it, so that her face is bisected by the sliver of light from the doorway.
There is no signal, no greeting. My mouth is upon hers, lips and tongue greedily seeking. She returns my kiss with equal ardor, insinuates herself against me. I raise my left hand to a breast, cupping it, weighing it, thrilling to the hardness of her braless nipple, which stands erect, as though straining for my touch. As I rub my thumb across it, she moans into my mouth and rubs my hardness. The breast becomes the center of my awareness, as I wonder whether I can make her come just by my attentions to it. Whatever I'm doing, it seems to be working as she desperately grinds against me; I'm in danger of coming myself.
Pulling away slightly, but continuing with the breast, I stick my right hand up her skirt. Her thighs are silky smooth and, as I trace one finger lightly up the inside, she moans ever so slightly. Goosebumps erupt in the wake of my touch which tracks higher until it reaches not the fabric of panties, but the wisps of her pubic hair. My finger seeks out her wetness, and she is sopping, finds her slit, and traces up and down, finding first her clitoris, and then the opening of her sex.
I slip my middle finger into her, sliding in and out, feeling her cunt pulse around it. Her breathing has become labored and I sense she is on the verge of an orgasm. Hoping to help her along, I seek out her clit with my thumb and, with a small amount of rubbing and the lightest of touches, I feel her tighten around my finger so much that I feel I will lose circulation. My mouth stifles her cries as her whole body tenses like a bowstring and then, the arrow flying, releases. Only then do I pause to look at her.
