I had an affair earlier this year. I’ve been married almost 8 years – I know, I know, how stereotypical to get the itch after 7 – and I did not actively look for this but I feel into a relationship with another woman and it was thrilling for us both. We were each sensing that the risks were growing too high and then lockdown made the final break somewhat easier.
I have told the story about our first time together [here](https://www.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/eio6in/i_cheated_on_my_husband_for_the_first_time/) and [here](https://www.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/g2yiaf/i_cheated_on_my_husband_for_the_first_time_with_a/), but someone asked me to share more. I’ve tried repeatedly to do that but each time the words seem so paltry and thin and cliché that I have deleted everything in embarrassment. This is no different. I will never laugh at those [stories in the press about the “worst sex scenes of the year” in fiction again](https://literaryreview.co.uk/bad-sex-in-fiction-award), because it is incredibly hard to put down on paper what it feels like to have sex, which is not nearly as good a descriptor of what Lucy and I did as *fuck*, but that removes the element of it all that (cringe) ought to be described as _making love_. In my job I am trained to write and read with precision, so I constantly want to stop myself here and clarify or elaborate. But when you strip away all the other layers, the reason why it is so hard to write this kind of thing is because we just don’t have enough words to describe great sex. It’s too abstract or too anatomical. And I think the problem is intensified when it comes to the particularities of lesbian sex.
All this is preamble to ward off my own vicious critique. But I will say this finally before the action begins: Lucy and I are both married, in our 30s, relatively affluent middle-class people. You might understand our setting well if you consider that every woman in our neighbourhood appears to have to wear yoga pants – it is so universally observed that it must be the law. But also, they have to wear yoga pants from three specific brands. One of the cover stories we came up with to make time for our encounters was that I joined a local political campaign she was instrumental in staring; which was around making safe cycle routes to the area’s primary schools. Such innocuous, mundane cover. We should have been MI6.
My mind keeps returning to one Saturday morning when I left my boy with my husband and went over to Lucy’s house for a “planning meeting”. Her husband was out at a sporting event so we were left to ourselves to really, eh, coordinate our campaign.
***
After coffee and chat – we’re not teenagers, there is still gossip and news to share – we found ourselves back on her couch, where we so often ended up. Her kisses had that lazy Saturday morning momentum to them. Teasing and playful with light touches on my hip, my ear, my hair. There is no domme/sub dynamic between us but at least this morning I was the passive partner, savouring her weight on my body, my hands caressing her ass firmly, hoping somehow it would induce her to kiss me fully at last. She had me quickly in that space I am sure you are familiar with where you are not yet desperate, but you know you soon will be, and that certainty is delicious.
Her kisses strayed to my neck, my ear, her tongue roving for the places she knew brought the most reaction. Her fingers knew where to find those sensitive points around my hips and were clearly deliberate in their discipline to steer clear of my breasts, my ass, my mound. I had no such restraint, my hands had long gone under the band of her pants, but I was limited in how much I could communicate beyond gripping her ass and pulling her more fully into me. I claimed above we aren’t teenagers, but this was like make out sessions with my boyfriend when we were 16.
Finally, her hands found my breasts. I was ecstatic as her thumb brushed my nipple for the first time. She is always so confident in bed, as if the thought that she would doubt her own actions never occurred to her. There have been times when I have been with her when she was rougher than any sexual partner I have ever had and it was always something I only noticed after the fact. She is measured. She knows how to read me, to gauge what I need. The biblical idiom of “she knows me” applies and that’s probably the only thing about our relationship that the bible speaks to.
I was, at this stage, a mess. She knew it. She revelled in it. Lucy has a glorious smile and it was ever present as she toyed with me, drawing out louder and more insistent moans until they built into pleas begged through profanity. After one such f-word strewn appeal, she pulled back, and grinning, said, “Oh, does K need _relief_?” As I rolled my eyes, she pulled down my (yoga) pants, revealing my “oh I’m so casual about this meetup with my lover” underpants which were darkened by my wetness.
Then, instead of doing what I wanted, which was to put her beautiful face between my legs and make me cry out her name repeatedly, she sat back on the end of the sofa.
“Show me how you bring yourself relief.”
I knew in how she said it that she meant it. I had never done anything like this before. But the idea thrilled me in this moment. I was dishevelled, with my top pushed up almost to my neck, my pants around my feet, and my arousal on clear display. She was calm and collected and pristine and remained that way as my hands slid my underpants down my legs. I typically have not shaved out of some misplaced idea that to do so is a feminist failing, but with Lucy I had begun to trim things. With my legs still tight together, I began by placing my full palm over my vagina, so that the pressure from the heel of my hand offered a balm to my clit. It’s maybe a strange way to begin, but I suppose it’s like a greeting to myself!
As I drew my fingers up along my wet lips, my legs spread, showing myself to Lucy brazenly. My right leg hung off the sofa, my left leg arched by the back of the seat, I began to explore more fully with my first two fingers of my hand. Instinctively, I was licking my lips, involving all my body in the pleasure that was building.
“That’s it,” she urged me. I wanted her tongue and closed my eyes to imagine that and the moans began to escape. She sat perfectly still, like a nature watcher who did not want to interrupt an animal in its own private space. She observed me, as my fingers slid inside myself and my thumb stroked and cared for my clit and my cheeks flushed. She watched me as my legs began to tense and my hips began to thrust and I turned all my attention on my clitoris. She perceived me as I began to whisper her name and spread my legs wide as I winced in the pleasure that seemed to burst through a dam and spread through me like a crushing wave.
And then, when the deluge receded and calm returned, she reached over and took my hand at my wrist, lifted it to her mouth, and sucked my fingers dry.
***
We did actually do some planning for a fundraiser event for the campaign later that morning, in case there are some readers who are really just here for the local news updates.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/gpl8r4/tfw_you_masturbate_in_front_of_someone_else_for
Pure heaven.
One day I only hope I am such a muse to someone.
I find your writing to be excellent.