Well, here we are: The 25th confession, which feels like a small milestone. But I’ve been doing some tallying, and I’m not even close to a quarter done with these little narratives.
I’ve been asked what it’s like to keep all these secrets from people I know, even as I’m sharing them on here for strangers. The answer, I’m sure, says volumes: It’s not that hard, and to be frank, it’s more than a little bit … fun.
I do take precautions to minimize the chances of inadvertent crossover between my respectable life and — well, this one. Fucking at a workplace is fine, for example, or at church — but no fucking anyone who works for the *same* company (Rule 2) or goes to the *same* church (Rule 3). Similarly, there’s a prohibition (Rule 4) against fucking anyone who knows someone in my family well.
However … that hasn’t always been the case.
We met in the early 2000s (give or take) at what was then a coffeehouse not far from where I live. (Surprise! Yes, I know. More coffee. It’s kind of a recurring theme.) She worked there, and I — because of the work schedule I kept then — was a regular.
She was divorced, no kids at the time, in her late 20s then (to my late 30s) and looked a lot like she does now, though I haven’t seen her for months and we haven’t been involved in around seven years (also give or take): tallish, cute, short dark hair, round of hip, soft and heavy of breast. Not quite “voluptuous,” but on the outskirts.
It was platonic at first, or so I thought from my end. Funny thing was (and she never knew this), she had taken over for another barista, an early-20something redhead with whom, in retrospect, I’d completely blown a chance because I was too shy to make a move and stick with it. Unfortunately, life doesn’t come with do-overs.
So, my new brunette friend and I would sit at the front table, or outside while she smoked (a habit she gave up before long) and talk about this or that. That went on for the better part of a year, and then she took on another job. We kept in touch, and we’d occasionally go to lunch. Still platonic, or so I thought — but at the same time, once or twice, I caught myself putting my hand on the small of her back as she walked through a door I was holding open.
Then she was between jobs for a bit, and we still met for lunch or even dinner every once in a while. Then, she took a job in another coffeehouse/bakery, sometime around 2006. Again, that’s give or take — but it’s significant, because that’s where the rule would eventually be broken (or at least seriously bent).
The phone calls started lasting longer. The coffees and dinners started to feel a bit like dates. We hugged longer than before, so much so that one night she asked, half-rhetorically, “What’s going on here?” One night, she showed up at the laundromat while I was drying clothes and we hugged an extra-long goodbye.
Even so, when things boiled over, it still took me by surprise.
One night, I called her on my way to the gym. She said she was home with a bottle of wine.
“Sounds like a nice evening,” I said. “Need any help drinking it?”
I was half-joking — make that one-quarter joking, three-quarters hoping.
“Sounds like an even nicer evening.”
So long, gym plans. Hello, directions to her apartment. At the same time, I still wasn’t sure what would happen when I got there and I didn’t want to get ahead of myself.
We stood side by side at the little island in her kitchen, drinking French red and talking about the usual this and that. My wine glass went empty. I was on her left, the bottle on her right. She nodded toward it and said, “There’s more right there.”
I moved behind her to get it, grazing my hand across the small of her back once more, and she turned to face me, smiling, eyes wine-bright. She closed them, still smiling, as I moved to kiss her.
I never got that second glass of wine.
It was like a dam breaking after years of tiny cracks spreading: the laughs, the calls, the little touches all let loose in a flood. Her tongue was in my mouth, my hands running over her while hers fumbled with the buttons on her shirt.
“Pull my hair,” she whispered. I grabbed a handful, tugged her head back, buried my face in her neck.
We half-stumbled to her bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes along the way: shirts in the kitchen, pants in the hall, underthings at the foot of the bed. I pushed her into a sitting position, kissed my way from her mouth to her nipples, slid my hand between her thighs.
She pushed my head downward, opened her legs wider. My head was still spinning, more from the moment than the Merlot, but that was nothing compared to the moment when I first tasted her and realized just how long I had been wanting to be in that position. I devoured her pussy in long deep swirling licks, making up for lost time. She made no sound beyond soft pants and gasps, not even when she tensed and shuddered and grabbed the back of my head.
She didn’t even pause to rest, scooting farther onto the bed and pulling me with her, into her. The ravenous way she kissed me as I entered her, I think she liked her taste even more than I did. I lifted up, looked in her eyes, grabbed another handful of hair and pulled her up to me for another kiss as I drove all the way into her.
We were on a runaway train with no brakes. All we could do was ride it out. She panted and bucked, dug her fingers into the comforter. I grazed her shoulder with my teeth, which made her moan and giggle, and lifted her legs a bit more to get even deeper inside her.
The end was nigh-on frantic: hips meeting fast and furious, both of us making low animal sounds in our throats until I let go with a long groan and she buried her face in my chest and held her breath until she couldn’t any more, releasing with a long, shaky “Uhhhhh …”.
I couldn’t even talk for a while. When I could speak again, still on top of her and still inside her, I started three times to say something — I don’t really know what — and then gave up and laughed: “Whoa. Well.”
She was smiling that same smile from the kitchen. “Took you long enough.”
“Oh, you’ve been planning this for a while?”
“Years.”
I couldn’t stay, but that was the beginning of something that lasted — on again, off again, on again — for the next six years (give, of course, or take). I spent several nights with her in that apartment when the family was out of town, another in her new place during the second on-again phase. I took her, skirt up and panties pulled to the side on the conference table at my old job, one night after everyone else was gone. We desecrated (or some would say sanctified) four different rooms at the church, including one night when she came in from a nearby catering job and I pulled her pants down, bent her over a table in the library and sodomized her in front of the children’s books.
We did all of that, and more. It wasn’t a spoken love, ever — and I had other playmates over that span — but it was good, whatever you want to call it.
Oh, and along the way I violated Rule 4 when two of my children, then in high school, went to work at that second bakery and coffeehouse — not alongside her, but for her.
I rationalized it by saying that we’d started our thing before they started their jobs, and that’s true enough. (In fairness, they needed part-time work and she needed part-time help; all they knew was that a friend of mine had a couple of job openings, and I have to say they were great workers while they were there, needing no favoritism.)
At the same time, I got a perverse little thrill of pretending to be nothing but friends when I’d go to pick them up — and then, that night, fucking her in her living room chair with her shirt and bra still on or tumbling out of her shower to couple on the bathroom floor.
She’s married now, and a mother. We kept our distance by mutual consent for years after the second on-again round, but we did go to lunch once a few months back. We thought about more, but the stakes for her are too high, and I get that.
We talked, during that lunch, of the night the dam broke. I asked something I’d been wanting to know for years: “What if it hadn’t happened that night?”
She smiled, the same curve of her mouth from the moment just before I kissed her that first time.
“I had a lot of wine and a lot of free nights.”
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/ckxaah/bending_rule_4_true_story_xpost_from