A Thousand Moments of Weakness

The wrongness of it made it hotter. The first time could've been written off as a moment of drunken weakness. The second time as an Ambien-induced accident. But this affair had been going on for months now and I had given up on justifying my immoral behavior to myself.

Instead I was embracing the forbidden, basically daring fate, or God himself to strike me down. Tonight I felt disgust at my husband, passed out cold in our bed, ripe with the stench of old sweat and sour whiskey. I no longer felt guilt about having an affair with the grown son of my husband's best friend. I felt only need.

When he arrived I greeted him with arms around his neck and welcoming his probing tongue into my mouth. My hands are running over the smooth skin of his chest and shoulders, waking that needy thing in me.

I am moaning as his curious hands explore beneath my dress. Fingers find me wet, eager.... sliding easily inside. He lifts me and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me into my own house. Past the kids' rooms, into the spare, it doesn't even have a lock.

My dress is tossed to the ground as I tumble to the bed. He yanks his shorts down and I cum almost immediately as he rams himself inside, one forceful thrust that opened me wide and made me cry out alarmingly loud.

My mouth on his neck as he's moving inside me. I'm screaming inside, my body has ached for this, I am on fire with his touch.

Harder and faster he slams into me. My cries are muffled against his neck, but no masking the sound of the bed as it bangs against the wall, keeping rhythym with his thrusts.

No matter. Nothing matters.

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There is only he and I, and this feeling, and this moment.

•••••

Forever, frozen memory.

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