The Anatomy of My Affair

I teach second grade, have been married for eight years, and I am the mother of two girls.  I always have considered myself an honest and moral person.   I believe in marriage and am what most people would think of as a good wife and mother.  I am PTA president and teach Bible study on Sunday.  I have always been critical of women who are unfaithful to their husbands, and I never thought I could do that, never even considered it, but I am currently having an affair with a man I work with.   There may be no way to justify what I am doing, but I am still doing it and have been for six months.  At first I felt guilty, but that feeling seemed to eventually drift away.

He has deep blue eyes, a long-muscled swimmer's body, and a George Clooney smile that make my panties wet.  I am not interested in marrying him.  I just enjoy having sex with this person.  We teach at the same school and are in rooms next door to one another.   We were going to PTA meetings together and our drives home got longer and longer, more personal and intimate.  We sat and talked, drove and chatted, then we parked and petted, like teens.  I didn't intend for that to start, but once it began it gathered speed, went wild on the curves, then when it hit the straightaway it couldn't be stopped.

Now I don't want it to.   I am caught up in what I said I didn't believe in, but now I don't have control over it.  At first I hated that I was being unfaithful to my husband, who is a good man and didn't deserve to be cheated on.  I don't believe he has ever been unfaithful, he probably doesn't ever consider it, and I have no reason to doubt him.  He is a good father.  He trusts me, and that hit me the hardest.  It wasn't that he was ignoring me, but our sex was pedestrian, dull and uninspiring.

I meet my lover in the park and we kiss.  He holds his body close to mine and the excitement is almost unbearable.   "Will you come with me tonight?" he says.

I nod.  "Until about ten."

"I will say I am at my sister's," I tell him.   We kiss, and I am in rapture.  I suddenly understand how other women do this, and I lose my guilt and distress over what I am involved in.   When we arrive I let him take my clothes off, let him kiss each part of my body, and I tell myself I am looking out for my own pleasure, my own sexual needs.

I let him put me on the bed and enter me, then I arch to meet him and moan as he fucks me in earnest, thrusting into my body with rapid strokes that put me in ecstasy.

In fifteen minutes he scoots down my nakedness and puts his mouth over my sex.  His tongue snakes into my vagina and I gasp, tightening my fists and holding my eyes closed, planning to savor the rhapsody in totally intimate moments.

When I finally come, it is with a rush that overtakes me like my husband's sex never has.  I tell myself it is my right to feel this way, and suddenly I don't doubt that it is okay to let this man give me such pleasure.  All the remorse has been drained from me, and I smile at the pleasure I am receiving as he pushes into me.

He kisses me as I languish in the afterglow, and I kiss him back.   I have read the articles about women having affairs and their guilt, but amazingly mine has vanished with the exhilaration I feel as I come, as I savor the sensation of this man's lovely cock inside of me.

"I'll drive you back to the shopping center where you left your car," he says.

"Okay," I tell him, sorry we have to part, but I understand we must.

How have women through the ages done this to their husbands, committed the sin of adultery?  I now know and don't care to admonish myself for doing it.   I am in heaven and that is all I care about.  I am looking out for myself, and that is the measure that matters to me.  I am seeing to it I get sexually satisfied.

For years I had belittled women who justified their affairs with self interest, but now I am using that same reasoning to rationalize my own actions.  I tell myself it is only right I get to feel so good doing something so natural and that feels so perfect.   As he is fucking me I don't have one thought of my husband or the children or anything but how good it feels at the moment.  I only think of how good it is, how pleasant the climax is that rocks my core.

I now know what it is that makes women lay with other men.  I celebrate the reverie that overtakes my body and mind.   Having an affair is no different, I tell myself, than savoring the private taste of chocolate on a cold December day.   How have women secretly enjoyed sexual pleasure from men who weren't their husbands?  I now know and it doesn't give me pause.

When we meet in the parking lot of Macy's, I just get in his car and don't chide myself even one second when I let him kiss me, or put his hand on my breasts.  When I crawl under him in the hotel bed, I don't feel an ounce of guilt.   When he comes in me without a condom, I simply feel the pleasure of sperm swimming through me and accept them with joy.  My tubes have been tied for years, so there is no worry about that.

"Did you enjoy it?" he asks me.

"Oh, god, yes," I gush.  "Fuck me again," I say, using a word I have never uttered to my husband, ever.   "Eat me," I beg.  "Make me come again.  Fuck me deep.  Make me a slut," I urge.

"You are not a slut," he says.

"I don't care," I say, meaning every word.

We part at our cars, and I put the packages from the trunk into the front seat so they will be there to take into the house as items I have gotten that day, rather, like I had, in reality, the week before.   I check the speedometer to make sure the distance driven doesn't set off alarms.

Inside my house I give myself over to being a housewife once again and not a mistress to a married man.  I say the words of a wife and mother and try to forget I have just fucked in a hotel and relished the feel of another man's erect cock.

I have learned to compartmentalize being a wife and mother and PTA president and the mistress of a man more sexually exciting than my husband.  And now I know how they have done it, the women who have come before me, who I have criticized so scornfully and dismissed as weak and thoughtless, selfish and insensitive, hedonistic and self-centered.   I now accept that I am one of them without remorse.

"Is your husband home," he asks me on the phone and I say yes, that I have two or three hours before I have to be home.  "Okay," he says, "I'll see you in five minutes."  And my pulse quickens with the promise of two hours of lovemaking in the bed of my lover.

I hurry to the usual spot and take the key from my purse and unlock the door, then once inside I let him undress me and kiss his way to my mound.  He reaches toward me with his stiffness, and I spread my willing legs and arch to meet his thrust.  He is in me and I am only thinking of that: not laundry, not groceries, or cooking food, or tending to other people's wants.  It is just my own needs since no one else seems to care enough to focus just on me.

I lift my leg and push my hips to meet his forward sliding shaft.   I say his name and hear my own, and I smile at the sound.   When we're done I dress, then fix myself in the mirror.  I must be right, without the blush, or the hint of razor burn or the smile of a woman who was satisfied all afternoon.

When I enter the house I've checked myself, and I am normally wearied by the humdrum of the day.   I smile and kiss hello, then tell of made up things that taxed my day.  I hardly think of what really tired me out, the energy-sapping orgasms I had in a sweaty bed.

That night I refuse the affections of the man who I married citing the headache I don't have.  "I am just so tired," I say.  "It was such a taxing day."  I leave out that I am tired because I fucked like a harbor whore for two hours straight under a young and virile man.    I feel no guilt that I felt so good because I tell myself I deserve every climax, every silky sigh, every wonderful sensation.

"You look tired," my husband says.  "Let me massage your neck.   You seem so tight."  I let him, and I thank him, and I privately also thank the man who came in me and gave me an afternoon of orgasms in a hotel bed that cost as much as five hours of someone's labor.

I don't lecture myself for having sex with someone I am not married to, because I am convinced now it is only right a woman should be allowed to feel that good.   As I drive to our meeting place, I think of parking at the Macy's parking lot to get my parking ticket validated before he meets me there to pick me up.  I park next to an empty spot so he can slip into the spot next to me.   Out of the corner of my eye I see his car pull in beside my driver's side window, and I think ahead to the pleasure I am about to get in the room we have reserved for the afternoon.

Once at the Hotel Seaside he parks next to the room and we kiss before we get out.  At the door he puts his arm around me and I shiver from his touch, anticipating what he is about to do to me.  Inside I stand and let him undress me, letting him remove my blouse, slip my skirt down, and pull my panties off my hips, letting them fall to my ankles.   I stand naked for him to admire.

"You like?" I say.  He simply nods.

I shiver again as he holds me and grips my naked bottom in his hands.  I let him put me on the bed and spread my legs for him to move between.  I feel his hardness touch my labia, and I push my hips forward to meet his penis.  I feel it slip into me, pushing my lips apart and going deep into me.   I don't think regret or disapproval and I moan with the pleasure of his cock filling my insides.   He gives a few quick pushes and I groan with delight as I am full of him.

Our mutual cadence increases and I smile as he gives me what I yearn for.  There is no pangs of guilt or regret or conscience as I let my lover fuck me in our motel room.  I don't think of family, or work, or the man I vowed to be faithful to.  I am a woman having an affair and I don't apologize for the pleasure that I am feeling.   I forgive the women I have condemned for doing what I am doing.   It is a feeling I am grateful for, thankful to the man who is giving it to me on an afternoon I am supposed to be shopping, and I only think of the pleasure in my pussy I am feeling this moment.

As I drive away from the mall parking lot, I tell myself that sex isn't the most important thing in a marriage, that men have been having affairs for years without society condemning them, and possessiveness is not a positive.  I think about monogamy and the animal kingdom, how many animals thought to be monogamous are, in fact, not.   I do not have guilt about what I spent the afternoon doing, and I understand I just had an afternoon of private, personal pleasure that hurt no one, brought no one physical pain, or took property from others.

Am I rationalizing my bad behavior?  Perhaps, but I  enjoyed private moments I no longer feel guilty about.  My conscience is clear, and I tell myself I can be a loving wife, a good and caring mother, and still have personal pleasure I keep for myself, that I revel in for just me.  Like a favorite meal you enjoy without the involvement of anyone else but you.

When I get home I feel good to be with people I love without having to get approval for my thoughts.  I have an intimate friend of my own and keep him to myself.  It may not be for others, but it seems to be working now for me.  I am a sexual person who relishes the bond with someone else I care for, and as long as I can feel that exclusive connection with another person, I will.  That is the fabric and composition of my affair.