[Indystudpaul]

Now that I had the upper hand, so to speak, and some control over the situation, I had a chance to look around the room. It was very neat and tastefully decorated. There was a photo of a nursing graduation on the wall, a large family photo from a reunion of some kind next to a close up of a little boy dressed as a ring bearer, a Bible on the nightstand...and a photo of her in her wedding dress next to her groom. There were other photos of her hudpsband, too.

She wears a diamond ring, and I had met her two little boys (maybe 2 and 4 years), but when Imhad asked about her husband she had always been flatly dismissive; leading me to assume he wa out of the picture. She had also always been just flirty enough to advertise that she was available. But there were definitely men’s clothing visible through the open closet door and untidy “guy stuff” on the top of the dresser. She was, apparently, much more married than I knew! No wonder she didn’t want me to treat her like a single mom or a honeymoon virgin.

The knowledge of that suddenly present husband, his face smiling at me from inside a frame, lit a fire inside me. My enjoyment of this crazy, spontaneous ride and my desire to fuck this girl’s brains out were suddenly rushing in my ears and Imbecame aware of short barks of laughter hidden in my gasping grunts as I pulled myself up onto my toes and started thrusting harder and deeper, still gripping her thighs together with my knees as I slap, slap, slapped loudly against her full, firm ass. The mattress started to walk back and forth and her body slid forward and back as I pushed into and pulled out of her—her hair shifting untidily and the tantalizing side lobes of her boobs jiggling. I could hear her gasping “yes, yes,” and, suddenly, my name started slipping out with the muffled noises from inside the pillow: “Paul! Yes, Paul! Ohhh...Paaaaaul!” That was all I could handle, and I started to double-down-breaking my rhythm to thrust in hard, deep, staccato pushes with a minute pause at the deepest penetration; reaching up as far inside as I could, willing my orgasm to the surface, resolved to finish inside her.

But I couldn’t quite get there. This felt wonderful: smooth and wet, warm and intimate, powerful and satisfying. Every hard thrust shifted the mattress backward and the soft, yielding body under forward as I slapped against that up thrust backside and I let out a sharp grunt like that moment of maximum effort lifting a weight as an involuntary “oof” was expelled into the pillow. Then I held the pressure for a moment as my grunt dropped an octave into an “ahh” that blended with her soft moan. Then I pulled backward hard-almost, but not quite all the way out-her body pulled backward as the mattress slammed forward against the wall and the husband’s portrait rattled and my name became a soft moan of pleasure or anticipation: “Paul. Yes.” Before the next slap! and the next “oof.” ...but I had cum twice in short succession, had pumped myself dry. I could not quite reach the point of ignition, couldn’t start that fizzing fuse inside my pelvis that led to apthe inevitable explosion. In fact, I could feel myself starting to get softer as my momentum slowed and the mattress hit the wall with less energy and at greater intervals.

I wasn’t going to manage a third time...that was OK. This was enough. I was a man. I was astride a beautiful, willing woman who had desired me. I had desired her and fantasized over her and she had given herself to me without any persuasion. No, she had taken me, seized me, used me. I was giving her obvious pleasure. I was, at least for the moment, a better man than her husband. I was in possession of a forbidden pleasure. I was the master of a body not meant for me, the recipient of moans and cries willingly offered to me but stolen from another, for the moment a lesser, man. It didn’t matter if I finished again. I was deep inside another man’s wife on a Saturday afternoon.