Stag Fill-In

For the next few days I fretted about how I was going to get out of the house on Saturday night. I decided I would stage an argument. I had done that before. Early in our marriage we had seldom argued, but once my husband lost his job and I became to sole breadwinner, our arguments became more frequent.

Often I would storm out of the house, get in the car and drive around. Sometimes I would stop by and visit my girlfriends from work, especially the single ones. A year ago I stopped by Marcia's place on a Friday night and caught her just as she was leaving. She said she was going out dancing and asked me if I wanted to join her.

I agreed and followed her in my car to a seedy bar on the wrong side of town. The place was crowded. It was mostly a white crowd, but there were also a number of blacks. A few of the guys knew Marcia and some came up to talk. Drinks were ordered, but I stuck to cola. Marcia was soon up dancing, and so was I. It had been years since I had danced. I loved it. I couldn't get enough.

After about two hours, Marcia took me aside and said she was leaving. She pointed to one of the guys. I got the picture. Not really wanting to, I gathered my things, said my good-byes and also left. Luckily, when I got back home, my husband was already asleep. I realized that my clothes smelled of smoke so I hid them and went to bed.

About a month later I had another fight with my husband. This time I immediately went to Marcia's place. She wasn't there, but it didn't matter. I knew where I was headed. Again I had a great time at the bar. The guys seemed glad to see me. This time, though, my husband was still awake when I returned. He immediately noticed the smell of smoke on my clothes. "Where have you been?" he asked. "I went out dancing," I answered, storming past him and going straight to bed.

I was determined not to make that mistake again, so I began stashing a sexier set of clothes and some make-up in a bag in the garage. That way when we fought, I could storm out of the garage, grab the bag, and then dress the way I wanted to at the bar. Before returning home, I would stop on a quiet side street and change my clothes. That way I could avoid bringing the telltale odor of smoke back into the house.

Over the next few months I found my way to that bar every time I fought with my husband. Sure, sometimes I had to fight the guys off at the bar too. Who could blame them? I was quite a tease. Sometimes they tried to take liberties. Sometimes they tried to go too far. But at least at the bar I felt alive. With my husband I felt dead. It got to the point where I actually looked forward to fighting with my husband.

A couple of months ago things came to a head. It was later in the evening. I had been slow dancing with one of the guys and had let him get a little frisky. When he tried to kiss me, I had kissed him back, and in the dim light of the dance floor I had let him play with my boobs. In the past few weeks I had let a few of the others do similar things. I rationalized it by telling myself that I had done that much and more while I was still in junior high, but of course I wasn't married back then.

Anyway, he asked if I wanted to go somewhere more private. I did. I really did. After months of teasing the boys at the bar, I wanted to go somewhere private, where we could lay down comfortably, and make out like teenagers. I had no intention of having being unfaithful, but I was hot and lusty and I hungry for a man's touch.

He took me to his car. It was far from ideal, but it was the best we could do. He drove to a darkened corner of the parking lot. Then he reclined the passenger seat and climbed beside me. We began kissing, softly at first. Then the kisses became hotter and wetter. His hands were dancing all over my body. Impatient, I grabbed his wrist and directed his hand under my sweater. He needed no further encouragement. For the first time in years, a man other than my husband was massaging my tits.

I felt him growing hard. I unzipped his pants, reached inside and began stroking him slowly. I knew I was playing with fire. I was on fire myself. He reached between my legs. I was wearing tight jeans. He tried to undo them. I resisted. "Just touch me," I said. He used his hands, applying expert pressure. I was soon on the verge of orgasm. I stroked him faster and faster. We both came at the same time. It reminded me so much of high school.

We lay there in each other's arms as the passion subsided. He cuddled, caressed and kissed me, making me feel special. He soon had me aroused again. This time I let him unzip my jeans so that he could slip his hand inside my panties. I was rewarded with a shattering orgasm. With his own need becoming urgent, I took him into my mouth. When I felt him begin to shudder, I pulled him out and let him come on my face, hair and clothes. Then I pulled him to me and kissed him hard. It was wildly exciting for both of us. When he tried to arouse me for a third time, though, I knew I either had to leave or let him fuck me in that dark parking lot. I chose to leave.

I haven't been back to the bar since. I knew then that if I returned I would be unfaithful. Well, it has happened. I've been unfaithful, though not at the bar.