[F] I (F45) had a secret affair for 8 months. It revitalized my sex life with my husband [PART III: Rising Action]

I found time to write this part of the story last night when the family was sleeping. It’s a continuation from Part II (https://old.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/u3iww0/f_i_f45_had_a_secret_affair_for_8_months_it/) and Part I (https://old.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/u33z2w/f_i_f45_had_a_secret_affair_for_8_months_it/). I found Part III pretty thrilling to relive through words, though I also found it hard. Not emotionally hard, but hard to get over my shyness being frank about sex. Because this is the installment where there starts to be sex. It’s a bit of a hang up, not feeling at ease with sexual words. Don’t ever expect majorly graphic descriptions from me, but I am working on being more comfortable telling it how it was.

Anyway, where were we? Right. Keith has just asked me if I wanted to come in to warm up a bit. I tried not to look shaky or blush when I answered him. I said I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea or something.

As we made our way up the walk and up the steps to the front porch, I wondered what was going through Keith’s mind. Was he feeling dizzy and feverish, like me? Or was he maybe such a player that getting someone to come home with him was just a routine thing? At that moment I hardly cared. I knew what was about to happen, I had accepted it and my dominant emotion now was impatience. My heart was pounding. Yet I was still telling myself I was just going inside for a cup of herbal tea. I told myself I could still decide to say no to anything untoward. Tell that to my underwear: they were soaking, I could feel their wetness cold against me as I walked into the door.

Keith lived on the ground floor of an old house, with hardwood floors, old trim and inefficient windows, cracking linoleum on the kitchen floor. It was shabby but nice enough. It reminded me of my student apartments, which was appropriate enough because my emotions–the excitement of embarking on something new and unpredictable–were emotions I had last felt in university. Keith’s walls were almost completely covered with what I guessed were his paintings and sketches. He’d been to art school. I found his work pretty kitschy, and for a second I felt my excitement falter. I know how that sounds, but you can’t help having these reactions. Not that I was planning on sneaking out while he made tea just because I didn’t like his art. Anyway, here he was, walking carefully with two overfull mugs of steaming tea. He put them down on the coffee table, burning his hands a little as some of the tea slopped out.

As soon as he’d let go of the mugs I put my arms around him and kissed him. Everything just happened, fast and fluid. There was no conscious thinking. One second we were kissing hungrily, holding each other’s faces, the next he was sitting on the couch with his pants and boxers around his ankles, deep inside me as I ground my hips against him. We moved frantically, hardly able to kiss because we were huffing and puffing in each other’s faces, moaning but also half laughing, and then I was coming and then he was too. He made no attempt to pull out and I didn’t pretend I wanted it any other way. I would worry about that later. For now, panting and laughing and flopped in his arms, I felt more alive, exhilarated really, than I had in years. I stayed there, straddling his hips, my butt exposed to the cold air of the room, feeling him grow soft inside me. The whole thing from our first kiss had lasted maybe two minutes and a half. It had been perfect.

I don’t write a lot of dialogue because I don’t remember exact words after all this time, but I do remember what he said first, and my response.

He said, “Holy shit.”

I said, “That was awesome.” I couldn’t stop smiling. I felt so young, totally un-self-conscious, overflowing with energy.

Keith whispered that he’d been wanting to do that since he’d first seen me in September. I blushed, flattered, and still very much turned on. We kissed, more gently now, taking our time. He had one hand on each of my buttcheeks, stroking them lightly, in a distracted way. Then he reached up and undid my bra under my shirt, unclasping it so effortlessly that I laughed. He must have a lot of practice, I said. He said he could feel me clenching on him when I laughed. I took off my shirt.

I was self-conscious about my breasts. I missed my pre-motherhood tits, they were so full and perky, and now … they weren’t. But Keith was obviously enjoying them, squeezing them lightly. I felt warm and happy to see him looking at them with such obvious pleasure. He leaned in to lick then suckled them. When was the last time I’d had my nipples sucked, or played with at all? Before our firstborn, I think, so like nine years. That side of sex had just disappeared post-kids. I didn’t realise how much I missed the feeling. Or maybe it was really just that I had missed having my tits sucked by a new lover. Well, anyway, it felt good. So did the unmistakable feeling of Keith getting hard again. This was an unexpected but welcome surprise. Young guys bounce back faster. Anyway, I started rocking back and forth, very gently, working him back to a full erection.

Our second fuck was different. Not better or worse, just a different style and mood. We moved slower, building up gradually from that gentle rolling motion of my hips to a slow but firm, hard thrusting. This time we talked, nothing memorable, just saying what was obvious: it felt incredible, it was something we’d both been wishing for, when something felt especially good, sweet nothings about each other’s bodies.

The second fuck was also different for another reason, because it was the second. This time it felt like we were in control. It wasn’t just a spontaneous, unstoppable force compelling our bodies. And that meant we were responsible for our actions. The first time, you can say it was a mistake, it happened before you knew it. It’s bad, but understandable. But the second time, it’s something you chose. It’s not unpredictable, so you can’t claim to be caught up in the moment. You know what you’re doing. Well, fair enough: it’s true, I had chosen, consciously, to fuck Keith again. At the same time I could tell myself it was still the first fuck, since he had never left my body.

Anyway, the first time had been intense but too quick to really feel anything. This time, I had lots of time to feel everything. The first time, I think we were both done in less than a minute; this time, I don’t know how long we fucked but I had time to cum twice before Keith asked, unlike last time, if he could finish. I told him that, yes, I wanted him to. I wanted him to finish inside me again.

Just before he did he said something that gave me a bit of a wobble, Keith’s first faux pas. I found his words a bit off-putting. They were crass and worse, it sounded rehearsed, like something he was repeating from a porno. I’ve never been one to talk dirty, but I’m not against it if it’s done well. But what Keith said–which I can’t bring myself to repeat–was gross and cliche. I assume he thought it’d sound raw and honest and sexy. Not that it was a deal breaker, I wasn’t about to unstraddle him and walk away! Instead I said, probably in a tone that betrayed some of my annoyance, something to the effect of “less talk, more rock.” But not in those words, obviously.

And at that Keith didn’t say anything more until he tensed up and gasped “fuck fuck fuck fuck,” pulling me closer by the ass so I was jammed up against him. This was more like it, unprompted, spontaneous, real. Hearing this string of “fucks” pushed me over the edge a third time. I still remember how loudly I came, a crescendo of small, high-pitched cries followed by a deep, guttural groan. It would have been funny or embarrassing to hear myself make those sounds if it wasn’t so right for the moment. It was one of my most memorable orgasms ever.

When Keith was done twitching, I carefully stood up, cupping my hand on my crotch to try to prevent what happened anyway: a serious dollop of sperm dropped out of me, landing half on his couch, half on the carpet.

Keith used his t-shirt to mop it up. It was a lot of cum. It was time to go home, I’d have to stop by the pharmacy on the way. I wanted to stay longer and cuddle a bit, maybe even try for a third round. Leaving took a long time. Keith kept pulling back into his embrace, kissing me, and kneading my butt, stroking my thighs. But it was time to go.

It felt like the end of something great. Neither of us said anything about the future. In my mind, this was it. To meet again would be a whole different kind of story, a different kind of betrayal, a slippery slope too. I walked quickly back to school, feeling light and light-headed, giggling to myself in a mix of amazement at what had just happened and post-orgasmic euphoria.

The drive home was sobering. The closer I got the more complicated my reaction got. Did I feel guilty? Absolutely. I was almost sick with guilt. It wasn’t just that, though. Sleeping with Keith changed something about the way I saw myself. I couldn’t quite make it gel with who I felt I was, and that was both exciting and unsettling. In a weird way I was pleased with myself for acting unpredictably, even to myself. On the other hand I also knew that there is nothing more unoriginal than infidelity. But… it didn’t feel unoriginal. I felt alive and fully present in my mind, body and world. I was grinning as I drove, even laughing now and then. Then a wave of guilt would rise up and make me feel that I’d compromised myself, not just by taking risks with potentially terrible consequences but also by acting in a way I would find hard to forgive in someone else. But for all the power of this guilt I did not feel regret or remorse. I was not unhappy I had done it, and if I was totally honest with myself I had to admit I wanted to do it again, though I had no plans to let that happen. The next day was Friday, and on Fridays I came home straight after work. That meant no chance for a repeat performance even if we wanted to. Which I did.

I got home at the normal time. No one seemed to think anything about me saying, as soon as I walked in, that I was cold and wanted to take a bath before dinner. That was pretty much the routine, so there was no reason for anyone to find it suspicious.

I couldn’t sleep again that night. I kept replaying the scene in my head, alternating between feeling breathlessly horny and sick with guilt, as Scott slept soundly beside me. I felt bad, though not regretful. I found it hard to connect what had just happened with who I had always thought I was, and yet I felt incredibly alive, full of energy and optimism.

The next day I woke up feeling exhausted. Good. That would help resist any temptation. But of course as soon as I saw Keith I rushed him into the closest semi-private corner and kissed him. We groped at each other like teenagers, and as anyone might have predicted all good intentions went out the door. I told him I couldn’t go home with him that day after work, but we would make up for it on Monday.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/u6ayol/f_i_f45_had_a_secret_affair_for_8_months_it