This true story was originally featured on my blog’s 2021 iteration, before I accidentally deleted everything as I went off on hiatus. I found a copy of it by chance, and am reposting!

Part of me wants to claim that it started out innocently. But it didn’t. I knew from the moment he sat down next to me at the restaurants bar top that I wanted him.

He was handsome, with dark hair and defined facial features. A slightly roman nose. Nice jeans and a pullover. Expensive loafers. He looked every bit the married corporate guy after hours that he was.

And there I was, dining alone while analyzing a series of existential crises common for a young woman my age.

Tired of being in my own head, I wanted to talk to this lovely stranger. I broke the ice with an offhand comment about wanting a glass of wine since, after all, it was my birthday. He chuckled and said I should, and congratulated me on my big day.

For the record, it was NOT my birthday. I have no idea why I stated that it was. Maybe I expected it would somehow help my chances of bedding him? Like .. He would think, “Well, I am married so I shouldn’t fuck her. But it IS her birthday. So I kinda have to.”

Who knows.

Anyway, talking turned into a glass of wine. Then a glass of wine turned into a shared bite. That turned into a few beers on his end, another half glass of wine on mine, and a migration to a lounge around the corner. A shared shot of tequila, then another, then on into the night. Our destination: a hipster dive in the cool kid part of town.

It was raining outside, and the full moon was covered by clouds. And all the while, our conversation flowed more naturally than was real. We were engaged and drawn to each other.  We talked our jobs and travels .. of music .. the usual suspects. And the whole time, his eyes were just so bright.

He seemed so interested, but also nervous. So I didn’t want to come on too strong. Throw myself at him too blatantly. I figured this night would simply turn into a sexually charged evening that ended with me going home and getting myself off.

The bar was full of tattooed kids and country folk and frat boys and everyone else. The band was fantastic, and the lighting dim. The life questions with which I’d been fighting all night were pushed to the side. I allowed myself to become lost in the man in front of me.

The man who began to tentatively run his fingers over my legs as we sat in the back of the bar. The man who, just as “You Never Even Called Me by My Name” was reaching it’s apex, said without any amount of humor or irony .. purely thinking out loud, “This is bad. This is a really bad thing..” as he leaned in kissed me with force and conviction.

It was fucking perfect.

I kissed him back. I was instantly wet, and I kissed him like I haven’t anyone in so long. I wanted him so badly, and I told him “This is why I’ve kept from getting drunk. Why I’ve used self control. If we fuck tonight, I want to be able to enjoy it. I want to remember it.”

But he looked at me, his hand still on my legs, and said that he couldn’t. That he needed to be good. I protested jokingly, but assured him that I understood. I commended him for his strength. So we drank more water and tried to redirect our desires without saying goodbye. We could not bring ourselves to end the night, so we tried to kill time without making any mistakes.

Half an hour later, we were back at my car. The plan was that he would go back to his hotel, and I would head home. But ….

Then he was driving my car. Driving it back to my house. (My husband at the time was out of town.) It was his idea.

I directed him through the deserted streets. The whole thing was so fucking surreal. And as soon as we walked through the door, I grew quiet. Nervous. I was watching this man go from stating he had to “be good”- adamant that he could not fuck me – to being alone with me, by his own volition. Sitting on my chair, watching me teeter about, picking up, making apologies for the cluttered scene.

Because as badly as I wanted him, I found myself loathed to take him down a path he would later regret. As many married men as I’ve fucked in my day – as many as I had at that point – I was hesitant to be with this one. It was clear he did not do this sort of thing. That this wasn’t him. We had actually talked about that, and I believed him. (After all this time, I have a sixth sense for all things infidelity.) But it was equally clear that this was who he was becoming. That I was making it that hard for him to resist the drive to do something bad. And it was at once exhilarating and erotic and troubling.

So I continued to tidy.

 “I don’t care about that.” He said. “Stop. You’re fine. That’s not why I’m here.” I asked why he was here, and he stated that he did not really know.

I paused, then told him to hold on a moment, and went to the other room to shed my dress. In the dim light, I walked back in lingerie. I modeled it for him, then tried on the next set. And then the third. For whatever reason, a lingerie show seemed like the logical thing to stage at that juncture. A slightly less domestic and boring stalling tactic.

He said, “You look absolutely perfect.” I was wearing a sheer black bra and thong set.

He held his hand out. The look on his face belied his conflict. The bulge in his jeans showed exactly how perfect he truly thought I was.

I walked towards him, and took his hand. He gently pulled me onto him, and his hands began to explore my body. His lips were on mine, then my neck, then my breasts. And then, finally, on my ass. There was no turning back.

Every time he kissed me that night, it was with purpose. It was passionate. Deep. Longing. Every time he touched me, it was strong yet gentle.

He held me in his arms and stood up, moving me to the sofa. There he spread me. Rubbed my wetness through my panties. Pulled them aside then slowly, perfectly plunged two fingers deep inside me.

“Fuck, you’re wet.” He said for the first time of thousands. “I can’t believe how wet you are.”

I looked in his eyes and told him it was all because of him.

 I rubbed myself as he fingered me slowly. He knew exactly what he was doing, and the look on his face was one of someone who hadn’t done that to a woman in a very long time. It was like the animal inside him was awakened at last.

 “Take me to my bed.” I whispered. He picked me up and did just that.

For the next two hours, we writhed lip locked. His fingers rarely left me, and I did not want them to.

He kissed my thighs, and briefly kissed my clit before pulling back. Obviously, that was a line he was hesitant to cross. I did not hold it against him.

When his fingers did eventually break away, it was only for a moment. Just long enough to gently roll me onto my stomach. Then before I knew it, he was penetrating me again. Rhythmically and deep as I rubbed myself …. And lost it.

The feeling of his fingers inside me. The sight of his wedding ring (he was supporting himself with his left hand as he fingered me with his right) …. the entire evening of desire leading up to this … the fact that he was still fully clothed (again belying his inner conflict) …. the way he kept telling me that I was fucking hot .. fucking perfect .. the way that his lips found my left breast as I began to arch my back and cum for the first time ……

I came hard, and in waves. I told him not to stop .. begged him not to stop.. as my pussy convulsed and gripped his fingers. He was saying, “Fuck….”

Once I stopped shuddering, he kept going .. more slowly this time .. until I felt it building again. His rhythm built along with me. And I came again., harder this time. And I kissed him. And I thanked him. And the look on his face …..

Fuck. The look on his face. It was shock and ecstasy and confusion and desire.

He kept going. Touching. Kissing. Caressing. He asked me how else he could make me cum. I said, “You don’t want to know.”

“But I do. Tell me.”

“No. It conflicts with your reservations. I can’t. I don’t want to tell you to do anything you won’t be okay with.”

“Tell me.”

I told him I wanted him to eat me. That I wanted to stroke him. That I wanted him in my mouth.

I’d yet to touch him, and I wanted to, and I told him as much.

He pulled me on top of his clothed body, and I writhed on his rock hard cock as he touched me. Uttered praise of my body and just drank me in.

Then he asked again, “What do you want me to do to make you cum?” This man had not had a night like this in forever. Since before the weight of love and family and life’s obligations got in the way.

He felt like a man again. And he said that he wanted to make me cum for hours on end.

So our conversation went just as before. Me whispering that I couldn’t make him cross his boundaries. Him repeating himself. Me telling him what I wanted.

Then, with initial hesitation giving way to voracity, he kissed down my stomach to my thighs to my pussy. He flicked my clit with his tongue, then wrapped his lips around it. He pulled on it a bit, and licked it. It was –as was everything he did to me – intuitive. I came, partially. It was like a little quiver. After the wine and the long evening, despite how amazing everything felt, it was unlikely that I was going to explode again. I wanted to, and under normal circumstances, I would have. But I was still happy. More than happy. I was in a dream.

After my little shudder, I sat up, and kissed him deeply. I thanked him again, and I meant it. He had gone far outside the realm of anything he foresaw himself doing, and he did it to bring me pleasure. So my thanks was sincere.

He laid on his back, and I was in his arms. We kissed that way, gently this time. My fingernails traced his chest through his shirt. We just lay there in the shadows, embracing. Close. I thought that was it. That he had made me cum over and over, and that he would leave it at that. That he would head back soon, without having completely gone astray.

And that is when he passed the point of return.

He took my hand, and with this look of “Fuck, I don’t know if I should do this, but I can’t stop myself.” on his face, he slid my hand down his jeans to his hardness. It was erotic beyond words.

“Are you sure?” I asked softly. He nodded a slow yes.

So I rubbed him, then freed his cock. He shed his clothes at last, and the sight of his fantastic, naked body in front of me .. his cock so engorged .. was incredible. He just looked vulnerable and totally virile and aroused all at once. I had never been so turned on by nuance and conflict.

I applied a bit of oil, and started to stroke him while I told him to look at my body. I knelt at his side, and we caressed each other.

After a bit, I told him to straddle me as I lay back. He positioned himself over my hips, and I stroked him as he looked down at me.

“Should I keep going?” I whispered. He nodded yes. In a daze.

 I kept stroking slowly. Firmly.

A minute later, “Does it feel good?”

“It feels so good…” he whispered almost inaudibly. Then before I knew what was happening, he moved up so that his cock was positioned over my face, and I felt it. A huge stream of cum shoot onto my cheek. And I pressed his throbbing member to my lips. I kissed it as he came and came and came. His orgasm lasted forever, and when he toppled down next to me, chest heaving, he pulled me close.

“Are you okay?” I asked. He said he was. He sounded a bit confused. Shocked. But ultimately okay.

And we lay there in the dark, touching, embracing. We talked about how unreal the night had been. How neither of us had wanted it to end. He said that he wanted to fall asleep in my bed, but that he probably shouldn’t. I agreed, saying that nobody liked to wake up in a strange environment. So we just held each other until I said it was time to send him back to his hotel.

He left .. But not before he asked to discretely store my number in his phone. And honestly, as much as I want to do that again .. all of it .. I knew that it was best not to. I knew that he would wake up the next morning changed, but grappling with regret. And I did not want his wife to find my number. So I smiled, kissed him, and said, “We could never top this. We should just kiss goodbye.”

And so we did. 🙂