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**A COMPLICATED AFFAIR: VOLUME ONE**
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**| Table of Contents:**
> * *Plot Summary*
> * *Introduction*
> * **One:** *’as_requested.jpg’*
> * **Two:** *’An Aversion to Small Talk’*
> * **Three:** *’Susan’s Only Rule’*
> * **Four:** *’Quasi-Religious Encounters’*
> * **Five:** *’Removing the Safety Seal’*
> * **Six:** *’Loophole’*
> * **Seven:** *’Second Virginity’*
> * **Eight:** *’Instant Replay’*
> * **Nine:** *’The Close Call’*
> * **Ten:** *’Bottled & Corked’*
> * **Eleven:** *’Developing a New Routine’*
> * **Twelve:** *’Unpleasant Formalities’*
> * **Thirteen:** *’The Incident’*
> * **Fourteen:** *’Confession(s)’*
> * **Fifteen:** *’An Alarming Blur of Events’*
> * *Afterword*
> * *Uncensored Story Tags*
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**| Plot Summary:**
A young man’s affair with a middle-aged hairdresser is complicated, after her husband learns of his wife’s severe betrayal.
Expect a story with a strong sense of acceleration and consequence, sustained across multiple chapters. There’s a handful of twists that you — *hopefully* — won’t see coming…
***
**| Introduction:**
The idea of writing long-form, serialized fiction has always been a compelling one to me, albeit a little terrifying; it’s like the literally equivalent of tightrope walking, with all the risks and rewards that are associated with that. But there’s a larger reason why I chose to write this story as an episodic series, one which goes beyond mere literary thrill-seeking.
All stories are one-way conversations. Serialized tales are no different in this regard, except for one aspect: the format demands that there are pauses in the conversation, which then allows readers the rare opportunity to participate in real time. In this age of comment sections, writing serialized fiction seems like an inherently social endeavour; well, that’s what has motivated me in this instance, anyway.
So, of course, any and all feedback is greatly appreciated, including even the most nit-picky of comments. I can take it all in stride, dear reader.
***
**| ONE: ‘*as_requested.jpg*’**
***
A couple of years back, I had this affair with an older woman: a hairdresser, named Susan.
It started online — as most extramarital affairs do now-a-days, I suppose. After a few months of exchanging flirtatious messages back and forth, Susan finally found the nerve to send me a photo of herself *(which was something that she previously swore she’d never do)*. Even now, I can still remember the lump I had in my throat when I saw the attachment icon next to her email.
I clicked on the file — titled: *as_requested.jpg* — then a couple of seconds later, the image of a blond, middle-aged woman appeared on my screen. *This is Susan,* I realized. *And she’s gorgeous…*
That was also the moment when I realized that her and I already knew each other; or, at least, we’d *met* before. Susan was my hairdresser and had been for nearly a year, ever since I’d moved to the city and become a freshman in University.
***
**| TWO: ‘*An Aversion to Small Talk*’**
***
This may be unnecessary for me to make note of right now, but I feel compelled to share this piece of context with you regardless: never before in my life have I ever asked for a hairdresser by name, or even bothered to make an appointment for myself before showing up; that is, *not until Susan*. The experience of having my hair cut was always a gruelling one for me to endure; painful like a visit to the dentist, but twice as exhausting. This aversion of mine to hairdressers is ninety-nine percent due to the ceaseless small talk they inevitably force upon me; all that stilted conversation: *about family, about travel plans, about approaching holidays.* I’d rather have a tooth pulled out any day of the week.
But Susan, she was unlike any hairdresser that I’d ever had before. She didn’t ask me directionless questions and she always seemed more than comfortable to share a prolonged silence with a stranger.
Each time Susan leaned forward to run her fingers through my hair — which she did often — her heavy breasts would rest on-top of my shoulders, sending shivers down my spine. More than once, she caught my eyes attempting to wander in the mirror, but said nothing about it.
After that first haircut, I took Susan’s business card and kept it in my wallet. I usually wait a month or so in-between haircuts, but I returned to the salon two weeks later, asking for Susan by name. *(She greeted me with a playful smile, so I guess Susan remembered me, too.)*
During my second haircut, something unprecedented occurred: I *actually* enjoyed small talk. And consequently, I learnt a lot about Susan. She was forty-three and living a comfortable lifestyle with her husband, who was a pharmacist. Susan told me that every Summer in June, they both went on a road-trip together to las Vegas, where her husband gambled and drank and watched pay-preview movies, while she attended some annual seminar — the name was something New Age sounding, I forget.
***
Anyway, that’s enough back-story for now, I think. *Where was I?* Oh, right: *the email…*
After spending a few minutes staring at Susan’s picture on my computer screen, I noticed there was a message included, too: *”How does Thursday after 4PM sound? That’s when I’m off of work.”* The lump in my throat started to swell.
*She wants to meet… Oh, God …Should I even reply to her?*
I wrote Susan a long reply that night, but I ended up deciding not to send it. My plan had been to make some convoluted excuse regarding Thursday, then simply *ghost* her. After all, she was married…
But the following morning, I reconsidered my plan. It would have been a shitty thing to do, regardless of Susan’s martial status. Instead, I wrote a much shorter response, telling Susan the truth: *”We’ve already got an appointment for Wednesday, sweetheart. At half past three. Guess I’m your last appointment of the day…”*
***
**| THREE: ‘*Susan’s Only Rule*’**
***
Susan and I began meeting with each other two or three times a week, mostly depending on her schedule.
It was everything I had ever day-dreamed about as a teenager: *a series of clandestine rendezvous with a blond bombshell twice my age; meeting in cafes just before their closing time, or in vacant parking lots after the street lights had all been turned off.* It really was the stuff of fantasy.
The first night that we met under these pretences, Susan wore a red dress and matching red lip-stick. She looked like a wealthy damsel in destress, the kind you’d see in one of those old film noir’s — or maybe, you could picture her on the cover of some Western pulp, bound and left on a set of vibrating train tracks.
But as stunning as she looked that night, it was evident to me that Susan had hurriedly dressed and applied her make-up while still inside her car, as to avoid any unwanted questions from her husband. The image of her changing in the backseat amused me.
Now… There was a hitch to all of this, *(of course)*. There’s always a catch, isn’t there?
Susan had this one rule and she was deadly stubborn about it: there was going to be absolutely *no* fucking. Her reasoning for this rule was, and I quote, that she didn’t want me “stretching her out.” *(I’m larger than her husband and he would have noticed, she claimed. I was initially skeptical about this and didn’t realize until much later how true it actually was.)* This lead to the two of us to finding a loophole, which then resulted in copious oral; like, an extraordinary amount of it. And for the time-being, that was enough for me. I was truly content with the limited parameters of our little affair.
***
**| FOUR: ‘*Quasi-Religious Encounters*’**
***
I guess if I had to label this first phase of the affair, I’d call it the *’cock worshipping phase’*. I mean that turn of phrase rather literally, actually. It became some perverted, quasi-Religion to Susan. The ceremony of it involved sneaking out of her apartment late at night, then meeting me in my car, just around the corner. This short walk on a cold night often made her nipples stiff for a long time afterward. The ritual which followed was always the same, too: Susan bending over my crotch, as if she were bowing down before an alter, then lapping away at my cock with her tongue.
Even after weeks of this, I never pushed Susan to go beyond oral, regardless of what a terrible tease she was about it sometimes. I knew that sooner or later, her defences would crumble all by themselves, without much effort on my behalf. It seemed inevitable, really. And besides, Susan sucked my cock with an enthusiasm that was startling, unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. It bordered on surreal. *(You would have thought she managed to get to the age of forty-three without seeing a real dick in her life…)*
***
**| FIVE: ‘*Removing the Safety Seal*’**
***
One afternoon, I picked Susan up from the saloon. She had told her husband it was a co-worker giving her a ride home, of course; I think by this point, Susan was becoming addicted to the thrill of lying to her husband.
Across from her apartment building, there was a perpetually empty parking-lot, where the two of us often stopped before saying goodnight. I found the darkest stall, parked, then Susan climbed into the backseat and pulled off her blouse. She quickly discarded her bra and panties on the floor, tossing them beside my gym-bag and a pile of mouldy text-books.
I watched Susan undress from the driver’s-seat, with my head turned over my shoulder, as if I were reversing the car. My stale hickies still covered her tits from our last encounter. It made me feel a little sad for her, realizing that her husband neglected her body enough to not have noticed this obvious evidence of infidelity. I started to wonder if Susan’s *one rule* was really in place to protect her husband’s interests, or if she simply needed a way of maintaining some control over our affair, which had clearly already intoxicated both of us to the point of poor decision making. Perhaps she worried that if we ever *did* fuck, it would become the first step towards replacing her husband. I began to see this one rule of her’s as a sort-of fail-safe, which she built into our affair from day one.
Once she was wearing nothing but her high-heels, Susan hooked a leg over each of the front-seats; then, she lifted her ass up off of the upholstery. This was her way of presenting her cunt to me. And to be honest, I’d never really gotten a good look at it before this. *(The dogma of Susan’s extramarital faith simply wouldn’t allow for it. But now, I realized, I was watching her fail-safe malfunction, right before my eyes…)*
The slit dividing Susan’s pussy looked visibly taut, even with her legs spread as wide apart as they were. Before I’d even realized what I was doing, my hand was reaching out to separate her impenetrably tight lips.
The tips of my fingers glided slowly down the length of her labia, hesitating at the bottom for a long moment, hoping to sample some of her wetness. But to my disappoint, none was found there. Susan was as dry as a desert.
And then, the tip of my middle finger poked up between her lips. It was as if I’d removed the safety seal on a bottle of juice, while holding it upside-down. Her cunt began to gush, pouring out onto my hand like a faucet. I felt a stream of her wetness run down my palm, then drip off of my wrist.
I looked into Susan’s eyes for a long time, while finger-fucking her cunt relentlessly. Her legs began to quiver and one of her high-heels fell off of her foot. The backseat of my car became soaked within minutes. To this day, there’s still a copy of *Introduction to Psychology; 7th Edition* out there somewhere, with Susan’s cunt stains all over the introductory pages.
She came; and then, she came *again*. By this point, Susan’s pussy had leaked all the way down my forearm, dampening the rolled-up cuff of my shirt. Tears glistened on her cheeks, as she finally breathed out. *”Holy fucking shit”*, she whispered.
***
**| SIX: ‘*Loophole*’**
***
Susan collapsed backward. Her bare ass made a screeching sound as it slid down the leather seat. *”Holy fucking shit”*, she repeated, still out of breath.
“Your husband–“, I started, before Susan cut me off.
“Wha– What about him?”
“Has he ever fucked your ass before?”
Susan’s jaw dropped and her eyes bulged in silent shock.
I waited a long time for her to respond. Finally, she answered: “no.”
I asked Susan if *anybody* had ever taken her ass before and again, she said “no”, still averting her eyes away from mine.
“Not ever…?”
Susan’s face turned ember red. I swear, I could feel her cheeks begin to radiate heat.
This was when I learnt something very interesting: Susan and her husband had been high-school sweethearts, once upon a time; and that through-out her whole life, Susan had only ever been with one man before – well, *two*, if blowjobs counted *(which I told her they did not)*.
Also, I learnt the name of the man I had been cuckolding for months, which at the time, I really could have done without knowing: *”Craig…”*
Susan told me the idea of trying anal had come up prior to their honeymoon, back in their early twenties, mostly because Craig “wasn’t very well endowed”; but then, the notion was abandoned and he had never brought it up again.
“Interesting”, I said, speaking mostly to myself.
Susan sat in silence, with her legs still coiled beneath her bare ass. The smell of pussy filled the interior of my car, like a heavy perfume. Her wetness still glistened on her thighs, reflecting the ghostly street lights outside.
“One minute”, I said, while opening the driver’s-side door. “I’m going to go buy myself a pack of smokes from the gas-station across the road. If you’re still laying here naked and panting when I get back, then I’m going to lay claim to your asshole. Understood?”
Susan said nothing, but her eyes spoke volumes.
I continued: “Or, you can get dressed right now, hurry up to your apartment and pretend *none of this* ever happened… Things will go back to normal. I’ll find someone else to cut my hair and this little game of our’s comes to an abrupt end.”
Still, Susan said nothing. I watched the thought-process tick away inside her head, as she her considered her two options: *end it* or *submit*.
Already, the smell of Susan’s cunt had begun to disperse. In its place, the chilly night air filled the interior of my car, leaving her exposed tits covered in goosebumps. “Leave this door open while I’m gone”, I said. “Air it out in here.”
And with that, I exited my car and walked across the street.
***
**| SEVEN: ‘*Second Virginity*’**
***
I finished my cigarette, while watching Susan shiver through the car’s window. It was cold, but not *that* cold. It seemed the longer that I left her to ponder the decision that she’d made, the more the anticipation of what came next frayed her nerves. It was like watching a child who’s drunk too much coffee. Her ankles bounced franticly up and down on the floor of my car, rocking it on its tires slightly.
After extinguishing the cigarette-butt, I got in my car and closed the door behind me. I turned on the heaters, then sat back and breathed out. “I hope you made the right decision, Susan. For both of our sakes.”
“Did they– *Uhm,* have lube? In the gas-station, I mean.” Susan’s voice crackled with bottled up excitement.
“I’m sure they did, but I was only there to buy cigarettes.” I unzipped my fly, then pulled my cock out of my boxers. “The point isn’t to make this comfortable for you, baby. I want this to hurt a little. Like it did the *first time*. I want to know I own a part of you. Understood?”
Susan nodded, blushing all over again, despite the chill still in the air.
“Understood?”, I repeated.
Susan nodded once more, then blurted out: “Yes, sir…”
***
I filmed the *whole thing* with my iPhone.
The video starts with my cock pushing against the virgin bud of Susan’s ass, causing it to wink back at me hungrily. You can see her body tense into stone, then Susan whispers to me: “be gentle, please.”
In reply, I caress her arched back with my free hand, then slowly insert the head of my cock inside her. The profanity that immediately erupts out of Susan’s mouth peaks the audio-levels, meaning you are unable to distinguish exactly what it is that she said. But, I remember… *I’ll never forget.*
In a close-up shot, you can see the way her delicate flesh grips tightly onto my cock, pulsing to the rhythm of Susan’s racing heart. She turns her head over her shoulder, with an alarmed expression on her face. You can see Susan open her mouth to speak, but she says nothing. I ask if she’s okay. Re-watching the video, it’s clear that her eyes answer *no*; but, after a brief hesitation, she whispers back: “Break me in, please… Do it, as hard as you have to. Get it over with…”
Just then, I closed my eyes, resulting in the camera-work suddenly dipping in quality. I held my eyes closed and reminded myself that Susan was another man’s wife, then savoured the sensation of her asshole stretching around my shaft. With every inch I thrust deeper inside of her, Susan’s moans seemed to increase exponentially, until her cries reverberated off of the car’s glass windows.
*”…s… …sh… …sht… …stop… …stop, pl… …p… …please… …sh… …stop…”*
Quickly, I removed my cock from Susan’s ass, startled at how wide it was gapping. “Are you okay?”
It took Susan a second to catch her breath, then she whispered: “I– I’m okay… Don’t stop again, not until *you’re* done, alright?” She took a long breath out, then finished: “I’m ready, now…”
I watched Susan’s asshole flare open and closed, feeling guilty. “Are you sure?”
“I’m not your wife, I’m just your whore. *Break me.*”
“Very well”, I said, running the head of my cock along the inner-rim of her ass.
Without saying another word, I impaled Susan with seven inches, causing her legs to spasm out wildly. She kicked out, screamed, slammed her fists down on the seats.
After I shot my load up Susan’s narrow asshole, I fell backwards, then gazed out of the car’s window. I could see one of Susan’s neighbours leaning over their balcony railing, trying to figure out the source of the cries.
*Hmm… I wonder if that’s him…*
***
**| EIGHT: ‘*Instant Replay*’**
***
Later that night, just when I was finally ready to fall asleep, I got a message from Susan. It read: *’Send me the vid, pls. I can’t sleep…’* So, I did, without trimming a single second of the sixteen minute duration. The attachment I replied to her email with was titled: *as_you_requested.mov*.
Susan didn’t respond. But, she did stay up most of that night, playing and replaying the video, occasionally pinching her fingers together to zoom-in closer on the gapping O that was her asshole. She said the whole thing had felt surreal, as if she were watching it happen to someone-else — even though, Susan still felt sore and likely would, for a couple days to come at least.
After watching the video on repeat for an hour, while her husband slept soundly beside her, Susan opened the bed-side drawer and retrieved her headphones. Listening to her own squeals of pain played back to her was an intoxicating experience. It became impossible for Susan to remember which yelps had been out of discomfort and which had been out of pleasure.
She rolled her head to the side, making sure Craig hadn’t woken up, then slid her phone under her pillow and reached her hand below the sheets. Susan felt the thick nectar gathered between her pussy-lips, while still listening to the sound of her own cries through the headphones. And that’s when Susan began to rub her clit, for the first time in over a decade…
She orgasmed, then nearly passed out, with her fingers still buried inside her cunt. A few minutes later, she orgasmed again — and again, until her cunt began to feel as sore as her ass did.
Through the headphones, Susan listened her own pleas for mercy: *”…s… …sh… …sht… …stop… …stop, pl… …p… …please… …sh… …stop…”* But she didn’t stop, just like I didn’t stopped. Susan continued to rub her aching cunt, powerless to stop herself from doing it.
*”I’m not your wife.*” Those words sounded more confident than she had heard herself being in decades. *”I’m just your whore. Break me.*”
After checking one last time to see if Craig had woken up, Susan reached her hand further down and felt around the rim of her asshole. It was still blown-out and a little puffy feeling, but nothing that she thought wouldn’t be gone by tomorrow night.
While watching the video *one last time* before bed — now with the screen permanently zoomed-in — Susan’s finger-fucked her ass. First with a single finger, but then afterward, with two. She buried them all the way down to the diamond on her wedding-ring, reliving the moment I had taken her anal virginity. By the time the six minutes were over, Susan’s wrist was wet from her leaking cunt.
After wiping herself dry with the bedsheets and making a note to clean them tomorrow, Susan fell asleep.
***
**| NINE: ‘*The Close Call*’**
***
This next phase of the affair, we can call it the *insatiable anal phrase*; but, it didn’t last for very long. That’s because we got caught.
Actually, we kinda got caught *twice*, but this first time was a total mistake. Pure bad luck. The second time, however — that was a different story entirely…
***
Susan was doing the laundry one morning. She put her cum-stained panties in the wash, loaded it with soap, then forgot to actually turn the machine *on*. She’s forgetful like that sometimes. Later that same morning, Craig went to throw some of his things in the wash and noticed her spoiled panties on-top of the pile…
Apparently, all of this blew over easier than Susan would have expected it to. After she lied her guts out, there were a few of questions asked of her, but no actually recourse of any kind. The “official story” she gave to Craig went something a little like this:
*Last weekend, Susan had a (secret) girls night out with the rest of the hair-dressers and some old guy had ended up grouping her on the dance-floor. She said she was too drunk to know any better. Susan told Craig that she had felt devastated and cried on the taxi-ride home. Even though, she acknowledged it wasn’t* exactly *worthy of being considered ‘cheating’.* Like all good liars, Susan covered up her tracks with a story that sounded too self-deprecating to be anything other than the truth.
*Phew… Close call,* I thought.
***
**| TEN: ‘*Bottled and Corked*’**
***
The second time we were caught felt a lot more deserved. The two of us had been flirting with danger for long enough. It was inevitable, I suppose.
At around nine o’clock one night, Susan snuck out of her apartment to met with me. She had a cover-story ready to appease Craig, but I don’t remember what that was anymore. By this time, she was making her excuses more and more transparent, almost daring Craig to call her on one of them. But that’s just an assumption of mine, of course; she could have just gotten lazy, too. That’s also a valid explanation.
Susan sucked my cock in the backseat of my car, while I marvelled at the way her asshole appeared to have become permanently puckered. I wondered how Craig could have possibly managed to not notice evidence this blunt and obvious, especially when it was likely right under his nose at one point or another. *Maybe they only fuck missionary-style*, I thought. *That could explain it…*
Before she left my car, I bent Susan over and filled her asshole up to the brim with my hot, sticky load. This had become — for us, anyway — fairly routine. Ever since the night I’d finger-fucked Susan and taken her anal virginity, I hadn’t so much as touched her cunt. That was still the *one* boundary left in our affair. Over the month or so which had elapsed since that night, Susan’s asshole seemed to have become more elastic, adapting itself gradually to the size of my cock. Now, I was able to fuck her ass with the same swift, deep thrusts I would’ve used on her pussy — that is, if she hadn’t of had that *one rule* left.
I smiled, watching my cum start to bubble up out of Susan’s well-worn asshole. Before she could ask for a towel to wipe up with, I pulled a butt-plug out of my pocket and corked her asshole shut with it. Susan purred in surprise, then I explained to her what was going to happen next.
Susan went back inside her apartment building, waling with a noticeably bowlegged stride. She kissed Craig goodnight *(using the same lips that had been wrapped around another man’s cock less than thirty minutes ago)*, then laid down to go to sleep, with my cum still corked inside her, drying slowly. After an hour or so, the jizz had dried around the base of the plug, seemingly gluing it in place.
But when she woke up in the morning, everything was a *real mess*. I knew it had been a risk, but I’d thought the plug would hold.
*Honestly, I did…*
***
**| ELEVEN: ‘*Developing a New Routine*’**
***
And after that night, I didn’t hear from Susan again for a long time — a long, *long* time. The absence felt suffocating. No explanation, no good-bye’s; zero closure.
At least once a day, I would find myself reaching for my wallet, to pull out Susan’s business-card and look it over nostalgically. I’d then spend the next hour or so lost in my own thoughts, reminiscing: *the night I first saw a photo of Susan on my email; the night I’d left her shivering in my car, to go buy cigarettes; and finally, the night I’d bottled my cum inside her asshole and sent her back upstairs, to the man she read her vowels to.
And still, all the while, not a word from Susan. Just… *silence.*
I assumed the absolute *worst* must have happened. And so, I reluctantly found a new place to get my hair cut. And in time, I managed to move on.
It was a lot harder for me to do than it should have been. This might sound weird for me to say, considering that the corner-stone of our relationship had become violent ass-fucking, but I guess I got pretty attached to Susan. Maybe *really* attached.
In the end, I realized that the city was full of neglected housewives, just like Susan — all desperately waiting to met that *one man*, the one who could be their excuse to go AWOL *(if only temporarily so)*.
I learnt the names of a handful of bars, all of which catered to older women. I then began to frequent them every other weekend. Each night I’d go out, I’d meet an older woman, usually drinking by herself at the bar, or sometimes gossiping with a tableful of her girlfriends. Either her ring was still on her finger or it was stashed inside her purse, but it didn’t really matter if they bothered to hid it or not: they were *always* married, *always* eager for a few fleeting hours of escapism — the type only a young man can provide them.
I got used to this new routine. Some of these women would come home with me after drinking at the bar, but they never stayed for the night. And I never saw any of them twice. It was simpler, that’s for sure.
Then, six months later… totally out of the blue, Susan sends me an email. The subject-line was: *’an invitation to dinner’*. And the contents within were exactly that: a short invitation to meet at her apartment on Friday afternoont, at five o’clock.
I accepted.
***
**| TWELVE: ‘*Unpleasant Formalities*’**
***
I arrived, right on time.
Susan greeted me at the door with a warm embrace, then introduced me to Craig, her husband. *(That was the single most awkward handshake in the entirety of human history, just fyi; expect your grand-children to be reading about it in their text-books one day.)* After that painful and unpleasant formality was over, Craig promptly prepared the three of us cocktails: they were Long Islands, very *strong* ones.
This disarmed me a little and I was thankful for that. As you can imagine, I was very on edge by this point and didn’t know exactly where to expect the evening to go.
We sat together on their couch for an hour — or, there about — each of us nursing our cocktails, while Craig and Susan took turns recounting to me what had happened the morning after I… *Well, you remember what happened*.
That night in question was repeatedly referred to as *’the incident’* by Craig, which nearly made me burst out into laughter more than once. I know it sounds cruel to laugh at a man who’s telling you a story about the night you came inside his wife’s asshole, but it was impossible to stop myself. Something about the dire seriousness of that phrase was deeply funny to me — and from the looks of it, Susan thought it was pretty funny too, although she did a much better job of hiding it.
***
**| THIRTEEN: ‘*The Incident*’**
***
Craig started…
He told me about waking up in the middle of the night and feeling something *wet* and *sticky* against his thigh. After a long moment of laying there in the darkness, dumbfounded, he lifted up the bedsheets and discovered a small puddle of cum.
Craig paused to take a long sip from his cocktail, then chanced a sideways glance at Susan — who appeared to be paying attention as if this were her first time hearing the story — before continuing his account of the night.
He recalled that he whispered something into his wife’s ear, to make sure that Susan was still fast asleep, then decided to investigate *the incident* for himself. With one delicate motion, Craig pulled his wife’s soiled panties down a couple of inches, then spotted the loose butt-plug. It was the imitation jewel winking up at him through the darkness that first caught his eye.
There was another short pause, another sip of his cocktail, before Craig finished, his face now bright red — and a little sweaty looking, too.
His wife’s asshole had still been gapping slightly, even as she slept soundly. It leaked a slow, steady stream of cum, flowing down over the tight fold of her pussy. Craig said he *couldn’t believe* what he was seeing. Without thinking, he reached into his wife’s panties and retrieved the plug.
Craig rolled the butt-plug back and forth on top of his palm, watching the moonlight outside the bedroom window reflect of the metal. *It’s still warm to the touch,* he thought. Perplexingly, the plug both felt sticky and slimey at the same time.
That’s when the realization hit him, as if it had swooped through the darkness and invaded his cranium with brute force: *…another man’s cum.*
Craig dropped the butt-plug onto the bed-sheets suddenly, then looked at his hand. It glistened sleek in the moonlight. *(…that’s another man’s cum.)* He claimed that this was a horrifying thing for him to have to think about — although, after another sip from his cocktail, Craig then admitted to us that it also exciting to him somehow, too. He laid there in the dark for a few minutes, with a stranger’s semen drying on his hand, before jacking off, then trying to go back to sleep.
Susan listened to this last part of Craig’s story with a poorly concealed grimace on her face. After Craig had finished, she just simply sat there in silence for a long moment, still trying to mask her disgust, while imagining her husband jacking off with another man’s cum on his hands. Sensing the room, Craig immediately excused himself to prepare dinner, while Susan and I stayed behind.
***
**| FOURTEEN: ‘*Confession(s)*’**
***
I took a big gulp from my cocktail, trying to forget what Craig had just told us. Susan did the same, seemingly having found a new inspiration to drink.
After Craig left, the two of us shared a long, protracted silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable — *long silences never are with Susan,* that’s why I liked her in the first place — but the air between us definitely felt heavier now.
“Did you know about *that* part?”, I asked her.
“No”, she replied, before finishing her Long Island. “No, I didn’t.”
Then, after taking a deep breath, Susan picked up the story where her husband had left off…
The morning after, they had both woken up in a bed stained with cum. Susan said she tried to make some attempt to hide it, because she didn’t yet know that Craig had already discovered the plug.
But once he had woken up too, Craig told her about what had found during the night — I mean, during *the incident*. Susan said after changing the sheets, they both sat together on their bed for hours — on the same mattress they had bought together, back in their late twenties — talking about their marriage in retrospective terms, recounting the years between *then* and *now*, combing for mistakes.
Susan confessed everything: the lunch-breaks spent sucking my cock; and then, she confessed to the relentless ass-fuckings that followed. As time passed, Susan said she had told Craig more and more about our affair, dolling out the truth bit-by-bit. *(Sort-of reminds me of a fable I once heard, about a frog and a pot of boiling water.)*
Eventually, after a few months of discussion, they mutually decided to invite me over for dinner. “And now, here we are”, Susan finished, before finally telling me the real reason why they had invited me to dinner…
I listened carefully, then accepted her invitation, without the slightest hesitation. Of course, as Susan had already explained to me, it wasn’t set in stone just yet, but may as-well have been. The dinner was merely a formality, she said, to make sure the three of us could share a space without conflict.
“Of course”, I said. “I’ll put it in my calendar now.” Susan grinned, wearing a mischievous smile that I’d never seen on her face before. “When is this seminar in Vegas meant to be happening, anyway?”
Before Susan could answer my question, she was interrupted by a loud sound, which seemed to be coming from the kitchen area. Whatever it was, it had sounded oddly tinny, like a poor recording played through bad speakers. I watched, as Susan’s expression quickly shifted from *mischievous,* to *confused,* then finally, to *terrified*…
***
**| FIFTEEN: ‘*An Alarming Blur of Events*’**
***
“What is it?”, I asked.
The sound continued for a short moment, before becoming much quieter. Susan leapt to her feet, then seemed to be searching for something. *”My phone”,* she said frantically. “…Where is it!?”
“I– I don’t know.” Nothing was making any sense to me. It all suddenly become an alarming blur of events.
And that’s when I heard Susan’s voice, coming from the kitchen: *”…s… …sh… …sht… …stop…* She ran out of the living-room, nearly tripping over on the carpet as she turned, then disappeared around the corner.
“Craig, no!”, I heard her cry out “How did you–”
*…stop, pl… …p… …please… …sh… …stop…”*
“Stop it Craig, please!”
*”I’m not your wife…”
I heard Susan’s feet stop dead somewhere in the corridor. “Craig, it’s not rea–”
*”…I’m just your whore.”
I sat on the sofa, listening to the proceedings with every fibre of my being. A part of me wanted to stand up, to intervene, but I couldn’t. I was frozen in place, waiting for what I knew would come next:
*”Break me…”
***
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**| THE END**
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**| Author’s Afterword:**
I do hope you’ve enjoyed this first instalment of *’A Complicated Affair’* as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it.
Originally, this story started its life under the title *’An Extended Invitation’*, before being eventually trashed, then cannibalized and resurrected in its current form. You can still find the original version on Literotica, though; I’m pretty sure, anyway. It’s considerably shorter than this redux version is — which I’m sure some of you would consider an improvement.
A lot of my erotica in the past has received the same negative critique: that there’s an awful lot of exposition involved, to just then end things off on a cliff-hanger, especially before any *actual* sex is had. To that, I respond: *mia culpa*.
And while I still very much appreciate the value of a story that builds slowly — not to mention a well placed cliff-hanger — I tried my hardest this time to pepper the story through-out with vivid, striking images. I didn’t want to leave you with the literary equivalent of blue balls.
Take care, dear reader. I hope you and I meet again; sooner rather than latter.
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**| Uncensored Story Tags:**
Affair, Age Gap, Anal, Anal Cream-Pie, Anal Stretching, Betrayal, Butt-plug, Car Sex, Caught, Cheating Wife, Cock Worshipping, Cougar, Cuckold, Cumplay, D/s, Dominance, Drama, Embarrassment, Female Masturbation, Humiliated Husband, Humiliation, Male Masturbation, Mature Woman, Public Sex, Submission, Videotaped & Young Man.
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Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/5i92lj/a_complicated_affair_7500_words_anal_cheating