Skin In The Game

I waited in the lobby to meet her. Without guilt and without remorse.

My wife wasn't fucking me anymore anyway.

I was not looking for revenge. Her faded love for me had nothing to do with how big his dick was compared to mine, no compulsion for me to even the score. No comparisons between the gifts he bought for her she had to hide, and the gifts I bought that she wore for a week after mother's day or valentines then left in the bottom of the closet.

I wasn't jealous of her having gotten fucked by a stranger to me. She was no longer mine. He wasn't competition, he was a life event.

I had to get on with my life. I asked her to meet me simply because she wasn't my wife. I had no hold on her and she wanted none. She was only a receptacle for my lust. She knew I wouldn't call her in the morning.  I didn't know her last name. All I knew was I'd fuck her and forget about her.

My wife would never ask. I couldn't tell anyone because my hurt and my loss of my wife was secret, out of my control. I wondered if by finding this strange woman willing to meet me at the hotel I could repair myself. My ego. I was desirable too. I didn't have to wait forever for her to want me again.

While you left me then to go fuck your old friend, I didn't leave you to fuck her, now. Here.

When she finally came in we talked about getting a drink first but I saw in her eyes she wanted to see if this was going to work before spending too much time. So instead we went right upstairs to my room.  She looked out the window and asked if I could kiss her and she grabbed my cock and we fucked and the entire time I was thinking of how I looked as if someone were watching across the room, rather than how it was feeling. Now. Here.

I made her come with my mouth. She told me I was great and we should get together again. I watched her go an hour and a half later, barely a heartbeat and I was already forgetting the details as I checked out later.

I don't know why that woman who was not my wife let me fuck her, or what she got out of it. Or if she'd really do it again. I don't know if I would ever do it again. If I even liked it, still wanted it, if it made me feel better or shitty.

If I would remember the encounter with affection or regret.

One thing I sensed, how my wife might have felt the first moment she let her old friend slide his cock inside her even though she was married.  Like the thin paper sleeve on the toilet seat in some hotel room. To ensure it's ready for use.  But once slipped off can't be replaced without becoming wrinkled.