“When are you going to be home?” I hate the way my voice sounds as I ask. My tone is almost pleading and the expression on his face is one of annoyance. I make sure to stay out of his way as I follow him around the house as he gets ready to leave.
He hasn’t answered my question, but in a way he has.
“For dinner, I was thinking of making your favorite. You know, t-”
“I have to go,” he says. He doesn’t so much as kiss me, rather he palms the back of my head and pulls my forehead into his lips.
And then he’s gone.
I watch him leave. I miss him and I wish he never returns.
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I watch the pool boy from the window. I didn’t even know we had a pool boy, or that we even needed one. But then again, I’ve never lived in a mansion before, either.
What to say about him…he has blonde hair and blue eyes, decently built… there’s nothing too remarkable attractive about him. He wouldn’t stand out on a college campus crowd.
But compared to my husband, he’s the most gorgeous human being to ever walk the planet.
I think it’s his smile – the way that he smiles at me… it’s not one of those polite smiles that people give you while secretly wishing you would go away. No. It’s as if he’s genuinely glad to see me each time.
Today I smiled back.
His name is Lance.
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
To make a long story short, we had sex. Actually, we fucked. Sex is just another day in the office. Fucking is a quickie in the break room and nearly getting caught. It’s raw. Primitive. Passionate. Illogical. Reckless. Messy. It leaves marks.
I could go into all the details and the dialogue of how it had happened, but why bother? Who really cares? What is it going to do for you? Not to be condescending but I doubt you even have a pool boy.
The lonely, older, sexually-deprived (depraved) housewife and the pool boy. It was so cliche. I felt so ashamed of myself afterward for falling into the role, but it felt so damn good doing it, during it.
As I lay here in my empty bedroom, I question *why* I did it.
Why did I kiss him?
Why did I invite him inside?
Why did I strip him?
Why did I force his head down into my crotch, clamp my thighs around his head and buck my hips in his face as I came?
With my husband, whenever we did have sex, it was always in the same missionary position. He would pump away, slobbering away in my ear as I lay there like a corpse, reciting the alphabet backwards in my mind. Then he would come – and I didn’t care where. I just wanted it to be over.
But with the pool boy, even though it was the same missionary position, it was different. I clung to him like a sloth, marking my territory on his back and wrapping my legs around his waist as he came. I wanted to feel his seed inside of him, to feel his body tense and shudder against mine as I held him close. As his arms gave out, I let him lay his weight on me, so we could be heartbeat to heartbeat.
And then he had to go. To where? I don’t know. Wherever pool boys go to brag.
If I was even worth anything to brag about.
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
(Just trying something out. Wrote this on the go, first take.)
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/j9m3bk/making_a_man_out_of_the_pool_boy_mf_cheating