Getting Away with Cheating - 750

This story was written for the 2025 Literotica 750 Word Challenge, below this line are exactly 750 words:

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My life was always perfect. I have the greatest kids in the world, three of them, and the most beautiful, loving, faithful, and supportive wife anyone could want. I had a wonderful job, so was able to provide for my family without any financial worries. Life was just perfect.

Which is what makes it baffling as to why I would cheat on my wife, Eleanor. I love her with my entire being -- she IS my life. But when Rachel came onto me, making it clear that she was mine for the asking, well, you have to see Rachel, who is a walking wet dream if ever one existed. My wife's a B cup, and I do miss bigger breasts. Rachel's are fantastic, perky, bouncy, and fully D's, with nipples that poke out a 1/4" when aroused.

And her ass! Perfection. She always had to bend over for some paperwork when the opportunity for me to admire her derriere came along. Then she'd come over to show it to me, pressing those melons against my arm, then rubbing them against me as she reached around to present the document.

And her fragrance was intoxicating, jasmine, musk, and some essence that seemed to inflame my groin. Relentless in her pursuit, I foolishly didn't run away fast enough. It seemed destined I would fall for this Jezebel.

It didn't last long. Other than the joy of playing with those hooters, it was disappointing. Eleanor was sexier to me, even after 15 years of marriage. Screwing Rachel was like playing Wack-a-mole. She didn't stay in one position for more than a minute. First, we're doing missionary, then she hops up and goes 69, shoving her dripping pussy into my face while she gobbles on my penis, slobbering drool all over my groin and lower stomach, something I found off putting. I'd try to bring her off without swallowing too much of her secretions, but it didn't matter. An instant later, she'd bounce up on all fours, wiggle that butt and demand to be fucked. I would inconspicuously wipe the drool off on the sheets as I got behind her. I would slam into her, trying to get off before she can... Nope, there she goes, pulling me down to spoon behind her, reaching to put me back in her. My God, woman, just stop for a minute. Please.

But I disappointed her, too. She begs for anal, every time, but it's not for me. It's dirty and smelly! I just don't want it. Then there's the frantic bunny fuck thing she does. I know I'd be in her ass for two seconds and she'd be switching to another position. Ass-to-mouth? Would she then want to kiss me? Or would she put my dirty cock back into her? Would she want to 69 again? Or want me to start rimming her? I'm sorry. Just not for me, thanks.

So, we only met three times. Between the guilt I felt cheating on Eleanor, and the frustration of the constantly changing position (and I forgot to mention that continuous commentary on the action! It was like fucking Howard Cosell), I found that it just wasn't worth it. Rachel seemed sad, but agreed, she felt guilty cheating on her fiancé, Raymond, as well.

I had thought that I had gotten away with it when Rachel came to my office in a panic. She was pregnant!

What if it was mine? Would she try to fool Raymond? Would she want child support? How would I hide this from Eleanor? I spiraled down in a depression that consumed me, to the point Eleanor was asking me what was wrong? Was it work problems? Did someone die? "Oh my God," my wife sobbed, "Do you have cancer? Are you ill?"

My loving wife, breaking down at the mere thought of me hurting or being ill. How had I ever cheated on her? I tried to smile and buck up, assuring her that there were just some work problems that I would handle. I began bringing home flowers and chocolates and taking her out dancing. I prayed she'd forgive me when the other shoe dropped.

Then Rachel called me. "You're off the hook. The doctor says the baby's blood type is 'B'. I'm 'A' and you're 'O'. Raymond's the father."

"No, 'A' and 'O' can have a 'B' child. Eleanor's an 'A' and all three of my daughters are 'B's. You have to be wrong." I said.

Then I slowly repeated, "You...have...to...be...wrong."