Susan's Secret

I'm standing here, staring into the mirror, no bullshit between me and what I see. A middle-aged redhead looks back--hair wild like a damn fire around a face that's laughed plenty and swallowed more than its share of quiet hurts.

My 32C breasts hang soft, no fancy bra, nipples still perky enough to catch my eye, tugging me back to when Dave couldn't keep his hands off me. Now they've got that soft give, proof l've let myself go a little.

Stretch marks crisscross my belly and hips, faded lines from popping out kids, and my nails and toes, painted coral, shine like some sad little trophy from when I cared enough to doll up for him.

My backside's drooping some, curves gone fuzzy from years of putting everyone else first and forgetting myself. Those C-section scars-jagged little bastards across my gut

--remind me of the kids, the pain, the whole damn deal.

Even down there, that red patch, all natural and messy, glistens when I shift, a raw reminder of who l used to be.

Being a wife, a mom--it ate up everything I wanted for myself. Dave barely looks at me anymore, and it's this empty pang, like l've been pouring myself out till there's nothing left. When did I stop seeing myself as something hot, something alive, instead of just this tired shell?

But standing here, naked and real, I can't ignore it-these marks, these scars, those damn painted nails-- they're mine. They've got stories: every time I gave too much, every ache | buried, every day I kept going.

Even with Dave's cold shoulder, something's twitching inside me, a low throb between my legs, like maybe this beat-up body's still got a pulse, still got a shot at wanting something again.

The house is too big now, too quiet-ghosts of kid noise bouncing off the walls, back when I had a purpose.

I can't even remember the last time Dave and me tangled up proper, or when he made me shake and see stars--hell, if he ever did. These days, it's just me giving him a quick handjob every so often, tugging him off to take the cranky edge off, like fixing a creaky door with a squirt of oil.

Dave's a robot: eggs at seven, TV at eight, snores by ten. We sleep in the same bed, but there's a canyon between us, like we've both just given up on anything more.

I can't even pinpoint when he stopped caring, or when I stopped waiting for him to.

Then Sunday hits, and Pastor John's yammering about helping the down-and-out gets under my skin. Church is putting together a crew for the homeless shelter, and I throw my name in, needing something-anything-to plug this hole in me.

First day, l'm a mess-spooning out soup, faking smiles for rough faces, praying nobody like Mary Beth from the prayer group notices how my hands shake.

The place stinks of old coffee and sweat-soaked shirts, but it's real, alive, and it shakes me out of my fog.

That's when Jerome rolls in. Guy's a damn wall-tall, wide, all muscle and menace. Skin dark as midnight, eyes like knives cutting right through me, stripping me bare with a glance.

He moves slow, cocky, like he owns the place, and it's scary as hell but kind of pulls you in-makes my pulse jump low and dirty. I shove a bowl at him, hands jittery, and he grunts,

"Thank you, ma'am," voice low and thick, rattling my bones, vibrating

straight to my core.

My neck goes hot, my thighs clench, and I don't know why-what if someone saw me flush like this?

The shelter turns into my lifeline, somewhere I'm not just Dave's leftovers or a mom nobody needs, but every shift I'm glancing over my shoulder, terrified Pastor John or sweet little Ellen from Sunday school will catch the way Jerome stares.

He's always lurking, big as a damn ox, those eyes pinning me like I'm dinner, like he can smell the want leaking out of me.

Starts small-his meaty fingers brushing mine when I hand over a plate, thumb dragging slow, rough calluses scraping my skin, lighting me up inside till I'm throbbing under my skirt.

"You're too good for this dump, Susan," he says one day, voice all gravel and dirt, and I laugh it off, but my chest's buzzing, nipples hard as damn pebbles against my blouse, begging for more-what if Mary Beth walked in right now?

He's on me like a hawk after that. Asks about my life, my kids, voice rumbling so deep it's like it's stroking me from the inside, but it's the staring that gets me-ogling my chest when I bend over, those dark eyes licking over my nipples, tracking my hips when I turn, making me wetter than l've been in years.

"Your man take care of that sweet married white pussy?" he throws out once, no shame, and I trip over Dave's name, feeling this hot twist down low, my clit pulsing like it's got its own damn heartbeat.

"Damn shame," he says, licking his lips real slow, "little redhead like you-bet you taste like honey." It's a slap and a tease, and I'm soaked down there, thighs slick under my skirt, hating how it won't stop--hating how I'd die if anyone knew.

One day, he traps me in the storage room, big frame blocking the way out while I'm messing with blankets.

"Ever think about a real man fuckin' that tight married white pussy, Susan?" he says, stepping close enough I can smell him-sweat, smoke, all man, thick and musky, making my head swim.

His hand grabs my backside, squeezes hard through my skirt, fingers digging into flesh, and I suck in air, shaking, feeling this wrong kind of want, my insides clenching hot and needy.

"I'd rip you open, make you holler-way better than that tiny white boy cock you're stuck with," he growls, breath hot on my neck, lips brushing my earlobe, and I bolt, legs like jelly, soaked through my underthings, clit aching so bad I can barely walk, praying nobody's in the hall to see me stumble out flushed and wrecked.

Weeks drag on-his hands "accidentally" brushing my chest, rough palms grazing my nipples through the fabric, muttering about my "juicy white ass," eyes promising to tear me apart, to fuck me till I can't think straight.

"I live for married white pussy," he smirks one time, "all proper till I bust it wide," and my pussy clenches hard, dripping into my panties like it's begging for him.

Word's around-Jerome's got a thing for wives like me, gets off on wrecking us--and it's messing with my head, making me ache even when I curse myself, terrified Ellen might overhear the whispers.

Nights, I dream of him, heavy and hard, his thick cock splitting me open, waking up sweaty with my hand jammed between my thighs, rubbing myself raw, guilt clawing me as I tremble through it-what if Dave rolled over and caught me?

Then that night in the alley--he's a damn hurricane. Shelter's dead quiet, and I'm locking up late, Jerome sticking around to haul trash.

Air's thick as we step out, humid and heavy, and he's close, leaning against the dumpster, watching me too hard, his scent hitting me like a drug.

"You got fire, Susan," he says, eyes boring into me, dark and hungry, and I mumble something, heart thumping so loud I can hear it, my pussy throbbing in time-what if someone's still inside, watching? He steps nearer, slow, hands lifting my skirt gentle-like, testing me, the rough pads of his fingers grazing my thighs, sending jolts straight to my clit.

My tan panties show, damp already, and I freeze, breath catching, nipples tight under my blouse.

"Tell me to stop," he says, voice low and thick, fingers hooking the waistband, "and I'm gone."

I should --I know I should --but my mouth's dry, my cunt's dripping, and I just stand there, trembling, picturing Pastor John's face if he saw, as he tugs them down, slow and careful, the fabric dragging over my skin, cool air hitting my wet curls.

They slide to my ankles, tan and crumpled, and I'm bare, red bush glistening in the dark, clit swollen and begging. His fingers slip in, three big ones easing into my slick, tender hole, stretching me slow, and I gasp, hips twitching despite myself, a low moan slipping out as he curls them, brushing that spot that makes me see sparks.

"Fuckin' soaked for me, huh, married white pussy?" he chuckles, dirty and soft, voice like a caress, and I'm a mess, letting it happen, dripping down his hand, my whole body screaming for more, my mind screaming what if Ellen's car pulls up?

"Turn around," he says, not barking now, just firm, and I do it-God help me, I do-hands on the brick, the cold roughness biting my palms, backside out, choosing this, my pussy quivering with need, my heart pounding with dread. His pants rustle down, and his cock's out-huge, black as hell, purple tip fat and shiny, veins popping like ropes, precum beading at the slit. It's a monster, thick and heavy, and I whimper, tightening up, but I don't pull away, my cunt clenching at the sight, wanting it bad despite the terror of headlights flashing by.

He presses against me, slow at first, the hot, slick head nudging my folds, giving me a second to back out, but I don't-just push back a little, greedy for it-and he slides in, splitting me wide, stretching me till I moan loud, the burn so good it's dizzying.

My backside quivers as he moves, steady now, each thrust deep and deliberate, his balls slapping my thighs, wet and loud in the quiet alley.

His thumb brushes my rear, slipping in easy, the tight ring stretching around it, a wrong kind of thrill that makes me shiver and leak more, my clit pulsing hard.

"Check that pretty pink asshole," he grunts, voice thick with lust, spreading me wider, and I'm burning, shamed but wanting it, letting him fill me everywhere, every creak of the dumpster making me flinch-what if Mary Beth's voice calls out?

He takes me strong but not wild-deep thrusts, loud slaps of skin on skin, my chest bouncing loose under my blouse, nipples scraping the fabric, sending jolts down to my core.

I groan, breath short, holding him tight inside, my pussy gripping him like it's starved, slick walls fluttering around his thickness.

"Beats that tiny white boy cock, don't it?" he teases, and I can't talk, caught up in it, every nerve on fire, my clit throbbing so hard I'm shaking, my mind racing-what if someone's footsteps crunch nearby?

"Don't finish inside," | whisper, voice shaky, but he grins, sly, his cock twitching inside me.

"Gonna stuff this married white pussy-breed you good," he growls, and I could stop him-could-but I don't, just moan louder, pushing back against him as he rams deep, unloading hot and thick, ropes of cum flooding me, searing my insides.

I break too, terrified, trembling, pulsing around him as I let it happen, my clit exploding in a sharp, shuddering climax that leaves me gasping, wrecked and leaking, his seed spilling out around his cock, the fear of being caught spiking the rush.

Jerome zips up and walks off carefree, leaving me a shaking mess-skirt hiked, thighs slick with his cum, those tan panties tangled at my feet. I can't leave 'em there, proof anyone from church could find, so I snatch them up quick, hands trembling.

His mess is everywhere-sticky on my cunt lips, dripping down my inner thighs, pooling hot and thick-and I use the crumpled tan panties to wipe it off, scrubbing my pussy, dragging it between my legs, smearing the evidence away, panic rising at the thought of Ellen digging through trash for some damn lost earring.

Then I shove them deep in the dumpster, under some stinking trash bags, burying it-burying me-praying no one ever finds out. I tug my skirt down, his leftovers still running down my legs, sticky and wrong, and stumble to the car.

Driving home's a nightmare-every bump smears it more, my pussy still twitching, and I clamp my thighs, freaking out-what if Mary Beth saw me leave late with him?

I'm not done with my cycles, still spotty, and his mess is sitting there, heavy, maybe trouble. I've fucked up bad, and it's waking me up, but if anyone knows, I'm done.

Dave's there when I stumble in, eyeing my wild hair, my chest pushing at my blouse, nipples still hard and poking through.

"You're late," he says, squinting, voice flat but sharp around the edges.

"You okay?" I nod too fast, mumbling, "Just tired," but it's thin, shaky, my thighs slick under my skirt, my heart hammering-what if he smells Jerome on me, what if Pastor John calls tomorrow? He's watching me close, sensing something's off, and I can't face him like this, not with Jerome's cum still dripping, not with this secret I can't ever spill-not to Dave, not to Mary Beth, not even to Ellen, who d pray over me till I choked.

I haven't pulled him to bed in years-God, it's been forever since I started anything-but I need him now, need to bury this. I step close, hands shaky on his shoulder. "Come to bed," I say, low and urgent, and he blinks, surprised, but follows, feet dragging behind me.

In the bedroom, l'm on him, kissing hard, desperate to drown it all out, my pussy still slick and swollen from Jerome, my mind spinning-what if Dave figures it out? He's clumsy, fumbling at my blouse, and I spread wide, his little penis sliding into my wet, used warmth, still stretched and dripping.

Jerome's words pound in my head-"tiny white boy cock," "rip you open" --and I need Dave to take me back, to claim me again, to wipe that alley away, to make me feel something close to what I just had, to prove I can hide this. I press my mouth to his ear, words tumbling out, dirtier than I've ever dared:

"Come on, baby, pound me good, fuck me deep-make me come on that cock, I need it bad, need you to make me shake, make me scream."

It's not me, sounds wrong in my voice, but I'm frantic, grinding hard, my clit aching for release, chasing that peak I've never hit with him, not once, my pussy clenching around his smallness, begging for more, terrified he'll see through me.

He's startled, moves quicker, huffing, his thin shaft sliding in my sloppy heat, but it's weak-over in a flash, grunting as he lets go, a pitiful spurt mixing with Jerome's load, and I'm left stranded, unsatisfied, that ache clawing deeper, my clit throbbing uselessly, my chest tight with fear-what if he wakes up and asks?

His stuff mixes with Jerome's, a sloppy mess inside, and he's snoring soon, clueless, while I'm awake, leaking both, sore and wired, imagining Mary Beth's gasp if she knew, Ellen's tears, the church turning me out.

I stare at the ceiling, his stuff a ticking bomb-could it catch? Fear's choking me-Dave, the church, my whole damn life crumbling if this gets out--but my pussy's humming, still pulsing, wanting more, Jerome's thick heat burned into me.

I'm a wreck, stuck between falling apart and running back, and morning's creeping in, no clue what I'll do. I can't tell a soul-not Mary Beth, not Ellen, nobody. This secret's mine, locked tight, unless it spills and ruins me.