His knee touched mine under the table. It was surely so innocuous that I was downright foolish for noticing. He knows I have a long time boyfriend, right? Of course he does. It’s written all over me. Unavailable. Taken. Committed. Uninterested. But what if he also knows that I’ve had a crush on him this whole time despite my relationship? I’ve been telling myself that every girl has one. The forbidden not-boyfriend crush that they always smile about with fondness. Part of its allure is that it’s so innocent to entertain. You know nothing will ever come of it-if you’re smart. The unspoken rule is to select a crush who barely knows you exist. He could perhaps be the most distant of acquaintances; think of the convenience store cashier you see from time to time, or the cute guitar player at your grandparent’s church. I’m talking that kind of irrelevant. The danger of crushing on someone you actually know and see more than once a week is developing real feelings based on real traits. So, you can imagine my dismay when he, yes, my forbidden not-boyfriend, was not only in my class, but was assigned to my group project. For years, he’d been my dream, untouchable man I had the pleasure of seeing from time to time in the hallways. I knew his name of course, and I nearly fainted last year when he sent me a friend request online. My boyfriend and I were well established even then, but still, knowing that he knew that I existed was enough tinder to keep the flames of passion going. Occasionally, I’d see him at football games, and maybe we even sat in the same section once or twice. The closest we ever got to interacting was when he said “hi” once while passing me in the hallway. I had felt rather daring at the time, as I had chosen to look at him first, just to experiment to see if he would acknowledge me. When he did, I thought about that dastardly, dripping-with-divinity “hi” for a week straight afterward like a mad woman. I found myself replaying it especially often when my boyfriend was being particularly, well, boyfriendy.
I’m sick, I know.
Thankfully, after weeks of not seeing him in the hallways, the intensity of my crush went from caustic to benign.
So you can imagine the type of punishment I wanted to inflict on my teacher when she announced the groups for the semester long “Shark Tank” simulation assignment. It didn’t matter if she was assigning based on last names, and that the first letter of his was only one before mine in the alphabet, she was downright vindictive! How dare she shatter the illusion that the subject of my ongoing crush was a three dimensional human with feelings as complex as my own, and perhaps even higher up on Maslow’s hierarchy than me, and not some fictional figment who existed only to keep my mind occupied when my boyfriend was disappointing me. There it was again. The guilt of ever feeling disappointed in him. My perfect boyfriend who treated me impeccably. There was no real reason to even nurse a crush when I had everything most girls wanted in my man. But as my crush’s knee brushed mine under the table while the group debated names for our hypothetical product, I wondered if perfection was the problem. Yes, that was it, I assured myself. It wasn’t that I didn’t love my boyfriend madly, deeply, and truly. It was just my risk taking personality thinking too much about the always alluring “what if” of being in a less predictable relationship. In reality, I wouldn’t tolerate anything less than the flower-buying, door-opening, forehead-kissing, hands-never-lower-than-my-waist, respectful boyfriend I had. I knew my worth, and I wouldn’t settle for someone who ever left me feeling insecure or guessing about his intentions with it. Not settle of course. Never settle. But maybe. Just maybe, I would entertain it.
Oh dear. Can he scoot any closer? I scooted my chair back in protest and glanced at my phone lock screen to bring me back to the present. There it was-the photo of my boyfriend and I dressed up at homecoming, happy as can be. I had to put my phone back in my pocket when I felt annoyed all over again by remembering how nice that night had been. I could still feel the gripping cold weather of that homecoming night when he walked us back to his car. We passed at least half a dozen parked SUVs with windows fogged up. My boyfriend made some clever comment about the horny teens, and how he personally would never be so uncouth as to “do it” in a car. At the time, I laughed in agreement, and convinced myself that I was happy with him making out with me for longer than normal that night. In reality, I wanted to be uncouth. I wanted him to want me badly enough that he was willing to bend the rules of decorum.
Henry’s knee brushed against mine again under the table again.
Boldly, I looked at him and laughed as if to say, “do you mind?”
“Sorry,” he snickered, backing away, just a bit.
There was something so attractive about the way he took up space. I always wondered if hot people like Henry were just too confident to be conscious of how looming their presence was in a room.
I couldn’t help but notice how good he looked with his knees spread, leaning back in the small school chair dwarfed by his leanly muscular frame, arms crossed.
It was all I could do to refrain from fantasizing then and there about climbing into his lap, grinding on him in front of our group, and showing my boyfriend how I wanted it done.
I pretended like I hadn’t just snapped out of a smutty daydream when he handed his phone to me. I looked up, realizing that we were all swapping numbers and making a group project group chat.
Nevertheless, my fingers shook while I typed my number into his phone. Just feeling the warmth of his hand on the phone case in my palm was closer than I had ever wanted to get to him.
Shit.
I needed a new not-boyfriend crush. I couldn’t handle this all semester.
Finally, the bell had rung. I wouldn’t see him again till Monday. Before anyone in the group had a chance to say “bye” to one another, I grabbed my backpack, walked out of class, and began furiously texting my boyfriend to make plans as soon as possible.
I needed to see him, to be with him, and ideally, to take things with him farther than I ever had. I knew that if I satiated my desire to be bad, even if just a little, that I could make it through this semester without Henry knowing how often I had imagined us getting it on in an exhibitionist fashion.
I made it halfway across the parking lot before,
“Hey! Claire, right?”
I sighed, closed my eyes, and tried to accept in that moment that I would be in a torment for the rest of the semester. I turned around.
“Hey, yeah! You’re Henry.” I said it rather than asking it, even though we had never been properly introduced before. Maybe if I made myself look like a desperate stalker in front of him and establish early on that I was a weirdo, then I’d feel too embarrassed to keep fantasizing. Yes, I’d have to run to my boyfriend for comfort. I needed to be as cringey as possible right now so that I couldn’t imagine him again, even in the privacy of my own bed, without feeling nauseous with embarrassment at my fantasies.
I fully intended on using that parking lot conversation to associate his memory with feelings that would make me dry up every time I remembered the interaction.
I clearly wasn’t there yet, because when he smiled at me, I imagined those full lips around my firm nipples, sucking and biting.
I wouldn’t have to tell him to bite harder or to suck longer; he would instinctively know the perfect amount of pressure needed to make me squirm. It would be the greatest session of our lives with the least amount of communication. I wouldn’t have to tell him to go a little higher, a little harder, a little faster. In my fantasies, we yearned for the same kind of pornographic sex that nobody else at school was willing to try, or at least, to admit that they wanted. But not Henry. No, in my mind, he was as shamelessly thirsty as I was to consume and be consumed like a disposable good.
“Pretty cool that we’re in this project together, right?”
“I guess.” I scoffed, determining that being a weirdo was no longer my best course of action. I needed to be an actual bitch. Not a hot mean girl but a real Debbie Downer that he would describe to his friends as a “Karen in the making.”
“I would guess so.” He said, taking a step forward. “Since I’ve been checking out your ass every time you walked by for two years.”
Oh no, flirting? I knew it was, but had to pretend like it wasn’t. For years, this is exactly for what I had pined. Henry lusting for me as long as I had yearned for his body. He seemed to be admitting it; the ongoing erotic fiction of my mind appeared to have manifested into reality.
And I panicked.
The beauty of merely imagining this interaction was that nobody could get hurt, including my perfect boyfriend who didn’t deserve to be hurt.
Now, I had a choice, and I was far too weak and sex-deprived to make the right one.
Still, as I took a meaningful step closer toward Henry, my heart was still pounding and my mind racing with the guilt at the thought of taking what I wanted that wasn’t mine.
Henry leaned his body against the nearest car, which was not mine and I knew from years of watching him longingly to not be his. The way he leaned against the car without care of damaging it sent a thrill through me: I knew that he would take the same liberty with me, treating my body as if it were his and for him and not spoken for by another.
As he looked into my eyes, biting his lip, and dropped his backpack on the pavement, it dawned on me that we were the same. Both deliriously drawn to what wasn’t ours.
My pussy was throbbing already, and I didn’t care that he would soon learn how pathetic I was in my desperation.
Without words, he put a hand on my waist and pulled me to him. Our stomachs touched, and the top of my forehead grazed his chin.
“I know you want me,” he said, not in an accusatory way but factually, and in fact, as a courtesy to me not having to explain myself.
I let out a long, whorish sigh and looked up at him, as if to say, “I’ve officially surrendered now, no turning back.”
He grabbed a fistful of my hair, squeezing it tight enough to hurt my scalp.
Fuck.
Exactly what I had wanted.
My boyfriend only ever touched my head to gently scratch it, or give it tender kisses.
Henry yanked my head back and laid his lips on my neck, sucking and biting up and down.
Holy shit, he feels better than I could have ever dreamed.
He continued to kiss me, his large, warm lips lighting my nerves on fire and I snuggled my crotch against his.
His cock was hard through his pants, and I knew he would fit perfectly inside my thirsty pussy that had never had a proper degrading. I wanted to unzip his pants then and there, at 3:30 in the afternoon in the parking lot, with classmates still walking by, but lingering logic saved me.
“Let’s go somewhere,” I whispered, in between his mouth on mine.
Still kissing me greedily and knowingly shoving his crotch against mine, he reached behind me for the car door handle of this random vehicle’s backseat, and it opened.
“Get in.” He said, nodding toward the leather back seat.
I couldn’t help but notice the non-tinted windows and remembering that this car did not belong to us.
I almost couldn’t believe myself for daring to protest, for endangering the possibility of me living my horniest fantasy, but some things were easier said than done.
Easier, mind you, not sexier.
It was absolutely sexier done than said. And my body thirsted for it.
“I said, get in, slut,” he commanded when I hesitated, pushing me into the backseat with his mouth on mine.
The animal in me had been uncaged.
I ripped off my panties under my skirt in the split second before he closed the door behind him and reached toward his belt.
He grabbed my wrist and held it against the seat, near my head.
“You are not in charge, understand? You are so fucking hot, and you’re mine.”
I moaned audibly even though he wasn’t touching any sexual part of my body.
My boyfriend always underestimated the power that words and attitude had over my sexual response. Henry, however, seemed not only aware, but completely in control of my weaknesses, my turn-ons, my kinks.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I felt I had to tell him.
“I can,” he panted, reaching under my shirt and aggressively grabbing a handful of my breast.
“Fuck!” I screamed, both from the pleasure and the pain.
“I know you’ve been watching me, you think it’s subtle, but it’s not,” he laughed, grabbing my other boob and briefly biting my nipple.
I had to stop myself from cumming. I wanted to wait to do it on his cock. He hadn’t even shown me his cock yet. I had to be patient if I wanted the pay off.
“If you weren’t so fine, I would have been turned off by your ogling,” he said, and shoved two fingers up my pussy. Why was it all so much better than I had imagined?
“Stop!” I cried, moaning in ecstasy. He was going to make me orgasm and cum on the leather seat, dammit.
“But thank god you have the best body of anyone at this school.” He slipped his pants down, revealing his throbbing, veiny cock.
I was literally salivating.
“Get on, whore,” he demanded, lifting my hips onto his lap and running his hand up my hourglass waist. I mounted his dick with my ass facing him, my bare breasts toward the windshield.
Right as he slipped it in and made me scream again, a student got into the car facing ours.
They looked like a panicked deer in the headlights as they saw me, tits out, ass bouncing vigorously as Henry gripped my hips and thrusted into my dripping vagina.
I saw them, and felt too good to be embarrassed.
In fact, I smiled at them and grabbed my boob with my left hand.
They quickly drove away, and I could feel myself about to cum.
“Oh yeah, I know you like it whore,” Henry grunted, slapping my ass.
I yelled in ecstasy.
Occasionally, he would grab my loose hair and yank my head around, so that I was forced to look at him and see how much he enjoyed consuming me.
I had never felt this fucking good in my entire life.
“You like that, I know,” he said, managing to pound me fast and continually while still slapping my ass hard enough to make it red.
I couldn’t help but scream as I held onto the driver seat for stability.
Two other students walked by on the side, a girl and her friend.
“Oh my god, that is MY car!” One of them yelled, the other friend clutching her arm in disgust.
I looked behind me, Henry was looking at one of the girls, holding her gaze through the window. I followed his lead, and looked at the other girl.
I loved that they were watching me get fucked.
I was a true, proper whore. I hoped that they would tell the school, and that I could be railed like this by horny classmates everyday.
The girls gaped in disgust.
“Cum, you slut, I know you want to,” Henry said, sucking in his breath. He smacked my ass with one hand and gripped my hair with the other, pulling me head toward him as I came on his cock.
My whole body curled against his, sweaty from pleasure, and I let out the longest moan I could ever recall emitting, made more enjoyable by the audience that I knew to be watching.
“Fuck yeah,” Henry shouted and finished inside me, pounding me so hard it hurt delicously.
This was the meaning of satisfaction.
We both sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, me still feeling him inside me, the remnants of the orgasm still coursing through my veins.
We pulled on our clothes and stepped outside where the two girls glared in fury.
“You’re disgusting,” one of them said.
I adjusted my bra to actually cover my boobs.
“Thanks for lending the car,” I smirked.
“Have a nice day, ladies. Claire, I’ll see you Monday,” Henry said, and walked away.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/okfou8/cheating_on_my_boyfriend_with_my_crush_of_many