File 24-05-2016, 12 52 18


You can hardly contain a smile when he announces he will be working away for the next two nights. Sorry baby, he coos. A mental sweep of the upcoming family calendar reveals the kids are on a sleepover tonight. The smile becomes a Cheshire grin. This nugget of information is dropped, casual, into a text  to “D”. The phone becomes something of fixation for you, waiting for him to reply. Later, you stomp around the house shouting at the kids, furious at the cunt for not leaping at this golden opportunity. Fuck him; no longer “D”, he is now know as “X”. Still livid, you cold-kiss your husband as he leaves for the airport that evening.


You have been buzzing all morning, gliding across the kitchen as you prepare breakfast. “D” has booked a room in the Plaza Hotel for tonight. You were never in any doubt he would come good. You drop off the kids at their friends house and “The Bitch” greets you at the door. She of perfect postcard house, and perfect striped lawn, and perfect doting husband, and perfect gleaming teeth; the kind you’d love to punch down her perfect fucking throat. Today, you have one over on her, hoping beyond hope that she can see in your burning eyes that you are going to get fucked-stupid tonight. You drive home, squirming in your seat, the heat between your legs building as your thoughts drift to a near future.


You think about how desired you feel when “D” speaks, when he talks about how much he wants you. This is different from your husband, with his snatches of mumbled grunts as he leaves for work. You think about how you shiver as “D” wet-kisses his way down your spine, fingertips grazing over your arching ribs. This is different from your husband, with his rolling over after he has come in your mouth, too tired to go down on you after his busy day at work. You think about the way “D” listens and reacts to your body, to your gutteral sounds, contorting and entwining you into ever more pleasurable positions. This is different from your husband, where he heaves away on top, or behind, or under; the uniform thrusting of his member, pushing forward yet becoming more distant with each stroke.


You recall it wasn’t always like that. The wedding was the most memorable day of your short life, surpassed by birthing of your girls. You both got lost somewhere along the path, took different directions at some unseen junction. A relationship grown apart like many a clichéd twentieth century breakdown. You think about your family, and how you are tethered by the expectation of social conformity. The expectation of purity and perfection, the facade of mother and wife on your outer defensive carapace, rampant desire burning and curtailed within. One night is not worth losing all that, is it? Conflicted, you reach for your phone and tap out a text, cancelling tonight’s irresponsible tryst



You are home, luxuriating in the morning afterglow. Your left hand caresses your breast, pulling at an already erect nipple. With your right hand you run a fingertip tip across your slick slit, mimicking his tongue from hours earlier. Your clit is engorged, eliciting a murmur from your lips as you discover its sensitivity. Your hand becomes a blur as you finger-fuck your pussy, hard, imagining his powerful, thick cock filling you. Breathless, you collapse back full of memories and hopes of the future, and sleep.


You awake to the trill of the door bell. You smile at “Bitch Face” and hope she cannot see in your eyes the embers of the fiery whore you became. She of perfect house, and perfect lawn, and perfect doting husband, and perfect teeth; you would swap places in a heartbeat. Snapped back to reality, you ruffle the kids hair as they sprint past you to the kitchen. You metamorphose into Mother, no longer the voracious lover. You feel the guilt grow through the day, scouring clean the memories of your dirty passion.


Husband arrives home with his briefcase. He ruffles the kids hair and laughs with them. He kisses you on the cheek with lips of ice. Tonight we should fuck, he suggests with the sensuality of a brick. He leaves to shower away his own lovers scent. You and he were happy once, maybe it could be so again. Wipe away the tears from the cheeks he often bruises. You owe it to your children to put aside thoughts of your own happiness. Give in to your place in the world, content yourself in trying to make acceptable this life you have created for yourself.


Why dream?


Repeat, ad infinitum.




9 thoughts on “Tryst

  1. mandibelle16 says:

    This piece is troubling and depressing. Too real for some people. Others would never believe it happens. You say twentieth-century, but it could really be almost any century except maybe the woman has to be more careful to keep her affair hidden. I hope this isn’t a place all marriages go, where your past caring, stuck in a rut, stuck in life you’re role playing. Do you really want that flakiness for your kids?

    Liked by 1 person

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