It was raining in Philly, and the bustling streets didn’t do much to quell the headache of a man who was impatiently inching forward at every red light. Jack Moreau would proudly consider himself successful, tout it at parties in a suit and tie even. On the outside he had everything anyone could ever want, but behind closed doors he harbored a secret that wouldn’t leave his own bedroom.
The man was forty-nine now, and though his wife was pretty, she had stopped wanting sex almost a decade prior, earlier than she should have, which meant he suffered through his own intense sexual desire every day.
In the beginning he swore to himself to be loyal, to stop stealing lustful glances at young fit women he crossed through his day. But every day it was harder and harder to keep his physical needs at bay, and eventually trying to get the job done himself just became a chore. He could only think of perky tits and tight cunts so much without being able to touch them. To just think about the dripping, instead of feel it on his fingertips as he plunged them inside. It was torture, so when an opportunity fell in his bulging lap, he was like a dying man refusing water. He couldn’t.