Another One

I guess it was bound to happen, but one of us ended up sleeping with someone else.

My wife, who is normally no slouch in bed, and while not being too open to trying new positions besides the ones that always work, but open to any new times and circumstances to do same, and I had always had an understanding that we were never going to cheat on each other. Then, this year, she did.

It wasn't planned, but it was someone who she knew well. It wasn't involved enough to be an affair, but it was someone she cared about as a close friend for many years. They were closer than mere acquaintances and this wasn't a drunk oh-shit bachelorette party mere simple misstep.

They didn't just fuck. They made love.

Due to an inadvertent physical turmoil and a wave of confessional angst, I ended up finding out without having to do too much investigative behind-the-scenes. She admitted it and told me all she could - all I wanted or could, actually, stand to know.

She promised it wouldn't - couldn't happen again. It was a moment of weakness, the intersection where a healthy fantasy intruded into reality with opportunity and circumstances married with the perception that no harm would be done... and that after all there is always enough love to go around.

But, knowing someone else had indeed fucked my wife, and that she had fucked him back, has a corrosive effect on how I think of her. She's sexy, yes, still, but that aspect of her private life in which she fantasizes about other people - people that actually exist in our world (Angelina Jolie or Jon Stewart is a whole 'nother ball game) - opened up to me her deeper fuck-love cock-worship side that had less to do with my cock and kisses and whispers, and more with being away, being herself, get away with it, going for broke, opening her legs, fuck me, you feel so good, he'll never know, you feel different part of her.

A part she never really explored in her earlier life, or could once she was with me.

It's a part of her I knew was there. It's a part of all of us.

And as she talks to me, and we discuss who's unhappier, what let her go and do this, why, goddamn it, why, and what this manifests--

I get hard.

It's a fucking turn-on. Not because she fucked someone else - that will hurt for a long time. But because this has revealed something secret she holds dear. A hint into her private sexuality. She is being honest with me about this, sharing something I never heard from her mouth, until circumstances demanded it.

I loved being loved without conditions or rules. I want a connection. I don't want the mortgage/oatmeal/dirty dishes attention, but the out on Saturday, latest movie, flirting and surprise-me kind too.

In an urgent need to reassert my importance, to repossess what of her I still can (less than I thought), to make a stronger and more explosive connection, something deep and earth-moving, I fuck her like I've never done before.

I make love to her like I mean it, like it's the last time, like I will be the last one and she must compare me to him, to them, to all of them. I make her cum, with my mouth and my hands. I caress her body and bite her ass, knead her breasts and breathe into her neck. Prop her up above me and pump slowly and aggressively into her cunt and cum deeper and longer than I have in 6 months. This is my love for you, my connection, my surprise. This is me knowing who you are, knowing how to love you, with all my body and my heart and my cock.

You're no longer mine now. Something is forever lost and not retrievable. She cries, I sweat, we drink. And we do it again the next day.

And it's like the last fuck of the world again. So deep and slow and hot and needy and forever and like the edge of a sharp fucking knife cutting into my heart at the very moment I grab her ass and ejaculate deep into her lying two-timing pussy.