This is the third part in a series. I didn't make much of an attempt to make it stand alone, so it may not make much sense without, at least, part 1. This sort of story is not for everyone, it involves absolutely awful behavior which is neither endorsed nor condemned. If infidelity, large age differences in partners, rough sex or deceitful actions bother you it's best to skip this one. However if, like me, you tend to enjoy the more unsavory flavors of sexuality you may enjoy :)
(Also, I wrote this is the present progressive tense to give it a different feel in relation to the other chapters)
*****
It seems that the banalities of an insatiable illicit affair are not enough for me...
Finally figuring out how to set a password on my phone, I put it down on the kitchen counter and breathe a sigh of relief at the accomplishment. The irritation and effort is worth the time it took to effectively apply the setting. You have to be extra careful when you're having an affair. This particular affair is more than just the run of the mill and completely average lapse in moral judgement. This is the sort of affair that can lead to being ostracized. Heck, by the end of this I could be led to the center of town to be branded with a scarlet "A" forever exposed as a harlot.
The affair is with my son's friend from school, a boy twenty-two years junior to my forty-four. The danger of it all is enough to send wicked chills down my spine, put wonderful knots in my stomach before radiating all through my body. The dizzying effect is heightening my sexual senses while proportionately dulling my restraint. There is something so delicious about such depravity which makes it irresistible to me. I feel reborn as a purely sexual being.
Within the span of mere hours, on that fateful May long weekend rainstorm, we had become intense, playful and passionate lovers. I have never fallen so hard on the spot for any man. Usually it takes me a while to warm up, to put my trust in and to silence the critics in my head. Andrew Ashton, Ash for short, wasn't like that, I was attracted to him on first glance, he flirted with me, he made me feel good, and he made me feel that I somehow belonged with him. He spoke to me with interest and excitement; both of which shine clear in his lovely blue eyes. I can feel his compassion through his love making. He puts his full self into every movement, every thrust and every kiss. Nobody had ever made my body float in such bliss. He has brought me back into the present.
For months we have been exchanging text messages. On some days we send hundreds to each other. Sometimes at work, during my break, I go to my car and talk to him on the phone. I love speaking with him. He has a positive exuberance which I find intoxicating. He maintains his youthful fragility as a young adult but offsets it with the belief that whatever he is lacking in the present he will gain in the future. He believes he can turn his insecurities into confidence and his fears into triumphs.
I'm not like the other women in his life, I have experience and he defers to it. He is not shy at all about asking me questions about his studies or even his relationships with girls. He speaks to me with familiarity and also with respect. His youthful, mischievous, nature can't help but inspire maternal feelings in me. His manners, however, are those of a gentleman. He holds doors open for me, keeps his eyes low until invited to make contact and makes sure my comfort comes before his own; a perfect gentleman without fail. He revels in the role rather than feeling encumbered by it. He always makes it clear, through his words and actions that I am like no other woman in his life and that this treatment is strictly for me.
The girls, whom he had had become accustomed to, put up facades to gain his interest; always too scared to be themselves or have their own interests. After sex, he would lose interest and move on to look for someone who might hold it. Sex for us is an ever morphing animal of its own and I always have his complete attention. I teach him new things. I open his eyes to new potentials for pleasure that expand beyond simply getting off. The girls he knows are content to just spread their legs and expect him to worship them. If nothing else, I taught him that worship must be earned.
Any notions of pleasantries or civility melt away wherever we can find a place to screw. In bed I'm no lady and he's no gentleman. We push the limits of sensibilities, we indulge each other's fantasies, inflect pain, exert control, play different roles and most of all have lots of fun doing it. One moment I can be the most motherly and caring figure, sensitive to each loving caress and then in the next I can be face down on the hard floor, nothing more than an outlet for his aggression. In the throes of passion he leaves no doubt that he is in command, that I am the object of his desire. He makes me feel like his conquest; a goal he has conquered, subdued and owned; as his right of passage. A role I relish with an insatiable appetite.
He has the enviable skill of gaging the mood we are sharing and making love accordingly. Finding places and time to share can be more problematic and frustrating, but on the other hand can lead to some unexpected joys. He never says it, but I understand that fucking a married woman is part of his lust. We take what we can get; on hotel room mattresses, the back seat of my car or, sometimes, an hour here of there in some unusual places.
"Fuck baby, do it fast!"
With my business casual skirt hiked up around my hips, just off an in town hiking trail, my grunting lover pounds me furiously. The sense of urgency and the chances of being seen are pushing my limits. The lovely fall leaves, in their multitude of colours, crunch underneath my feet as his trust lift me up on to my toes. He makes me feel one with nature, exposed in the open air like animals. His thrusts are desperate and uneven it feels like he's trying to feel every inch of me. His hands are gripped around the creases of my hips and he pulls me back rudely to meet his thrusts.
"I just had to fuck you today." He makes no pretense to making love.
"Someone might...ughh...ummm...seeee..." I answer, bent over to accommodate his need.
"I don't...aghhh...care..."
He slams in, very deep, and pauses for a moment to make sure I feel all of it, he then returns to frantically pounding me.
Struggling for the breath to form my words I remind him, "Honeeey...it's...iiitt's...still...uhhh...light out..."
"I'll be done...mmph...in a...mmph...minute."
His big hands slide under my neck, his thumbs press under my ears and his fingers hold firmly under my jaw. He pulls me up to meet his kiss as he releases his sperm into the protective rubber barrier separating our sexes. Completely spent his cock slides out naturally as I stand up and fix my skirt, trying to remove any noticeable wrinkles or fall debris. My lover leans against a tree, snaps the condom off and discards it on the forest floor. The rubber balloons with white fluid, it sits on the leaves halfway between us.
"Oh my God, honey you were wonderful." I say while still trying to find my feet so they can take me back to my car.
"You like that?" He says in a taunting voice.
"Ash, you know I liked it."
"Let's do it again then." His tone is serious and not mocking.
"Where?" I ask in curiosity.
Ash spins me around and grabs my hands and holds them between us at his heart. "Right here...right here in the dirty ground...make your nice work clothes dirty...make your make-up mix with soil...your stockings ripped.."
His words are impassioned and mysterious. My breathing becomes shallow. I'm caught in his trance. He's toying with me. He knows I can't, but he wants to plant the thought in my mind. He wants me to know about his intention to mark me with shame; to fuck me in the dirt. I can see the smile come to his lips as if to release me from the hold of his intensity. The mood lightens.
"Come on, I have to get home. We didn't even have time to do this anyways. What am I going to say?"
"You'll think of something. You always do."
Of course he's right. I always do think of something. That's part of having an illicit affair; you always have to be able to think of something and keep thinking of more somethings. You're constrained by both time and space and you have to find a way. This time, we had little space and only a bit of time. I agreed to meet him in the woods on my way home from work. He told me all he needed was 15 minutes and I wanted him to have it. His liberty with my body had me looking at nearly 7:00 on my watch. I'm almost always home by 5:00!
"I had better come up with a reason for not calling." I say as if to myself upon arriving at my car.
"I love you."
"Can you get home by yourself? I really need to go straight home."
"Yeah."
"I love you too Ash." I say sincerely and stealing one last kiss I get in the car.
Those three famous words "I love you" had become part of our common language with each other. He loves to tell me, and I know he means it. I started in lust with him, but my feelings have developed very quickly too. After seeing him I feel as if I have to see him again and again. I have to have him inside of me again and again. My body burns every time we finished talking. Passionate exchanges are the only thing that can satisfy the craving. I savor every kiss, every touch and every trust. I didn't have the time, but my lover needed me, so I made the time.
Lately the cravings have been taking a different form. I developed a rapacious desire for him to cum inside of me. I felt despair looking at the piece of rubber laying between us. It felt like a wasted opportunity. I'm not sure where this longing even came from, I try to eliminate the thought, to not follow it when it pops into my head, but every time it makes an encroachment on my senses it gets stronger and stronger each time. The need pounds against my better senses, muffling their voice. I only want his cum ejaculated inside of me, spurting and spraying a heavy load of white seed into my womb and not a piece of rubber.
"I need to rehearse. I need to rehearse." I say to myself in the car to make sure the importance of such things is not ignored.
I anticipate my responses and say them out loud to make sure they sound as right leaving my lips as they sound in my head. The story needs to be simple and it must have simple details; nothing complicated and nothing ambiguous. Explanations can be ambiguous but not the lie. The core needs to be solid. One more look in the mirror, another scan of my clothes before heading inside. I check my pockets of jacket pockets.
"Michelle! This is how you're going to get caught!" I admonish myself loudly in the driveway looking at the empty condom wrapper that I had stuffed in my pocket after rolling its contents down my lover's shaft.
I make special care to leave it hidden in the car; I won't forget to dispose of it later. There's no time to find other details I may have missed, it's time to enter our home; rattled nerves or not.
My performance is flawless. My words flow naturally. It's a piece of theatre worthy of the stage. Each syllable that I utter is a lie. My panties are still soaked with the truth. I ignore my damp reminder of what really happened as it contradicts all of my words and I need to believe them. With the performance over, alone in the kitchen my guilt overwhelms me to the verge of tears. I need to gather myself. If anyone comes back they will see my broken façade.
"Crying is not an option." I say over and over to myself while staring at the floor and zoning out.
The elation in an affair, for me, is tempered by the feelings of guilt and emptiness. Life becomes clearly delineated on two sides of a line. Whenever the line becomes blurred the guilt is not far behind. Upon standing up the blood rushes to my head, I feel like I'm about to faint.
