I could barely contain my excitement when the plane finally touched down. I barely knew Anatole, but I was so eager to see him again. Butterflies assaulted my stomach when I saw him pull up in the silver Mustang convertible. What was wrong with me? I felt like a preteen going on her first date.
Anatole greeted me with something like a, “Hey gorgeous!” He got out and assisted putting my bags into the car (I think?)—I had a lot packed considering I was going to Punta Cana with another beau two days after this trip. Quickly, we jet set out of the airport, and cruised through Arizona. On the stereo blared “Hypnotized” by Purple Disco Machine featuring Sophie and the Giants; he had impeccable taste when it came to music. I put my hands out and felt the wind barrel against me, my hair whipping in the air, dancing in the seat awkward as fuck but totally not giving a shit.
Anatole prefaced that we were going to a party and that the guests were going to be pornstars. I was so game. High from excitement, happiness, and genuinely feeling carefree, not to mention having the man in the flesh who was just as handsome as I remembered him to be, I felt the heat flush me, becoming wet in all the right places. I looked at Anatole, lust radiating from my eyes, I’m sure, and told him I had a terrible tickle in my throat that I wanted to scratch with his cock.
Without much ado, he freed himself and I took his rock hard cock in my mouth, going down until the head hit me in the back of the throat and took it further until I was about to gag. Then, I came up slowly, my tongue strongly pressing against the vein at the bottom of the shaft all the way up. I flicked my tongue in a swirl around the head and then closed my lips and swallowed hard. Going to the base of the shaft, I licked my tongue from the bottom to the top and pulled my head up. I gathered my spit and licked my hand, grasping the bottom and locked my lips around the shaft. I moved my hand up and down with the bob of my head, licking his cock like a slut with an icecream cone locking eyes with her crush, while sucking everything my hand didn’t cover.
I continued sucking like a vacuum until Anatole signaled me, saying something on the lines of, “Oh baby, I’m about to nut. You want Daddy’s nut, you dirty little whore. Take Daddy’s nut! Take Daddy’s nut!”
He flooded in my mouth, warm and salty. True to the succubus I am, I sucked the life out of him gingerly as he squirted in bursts while he shook with his orgasm. When he settled, I continued to suck to ensure I collected everything before raising my head, swallowing, wiping my mouth on my hand, looking Anatole in the eyes, and smiling like the pastor’s daughter you were just making out with who told you anal doesn’t count as sex.
After going to an amazing sushi dinner, we headed to the promised party of debauchery. Arriving at the scene, a beautiful house in a lovely neighborhood, I met 4 or 5 different couples. They were all in their late 30s / early 40s with large fake breasts, plastic surgery for some, but all beautiful. The party is a bit of a blur, not that I don’t remember everything, but I was a little nervous and drank a tad too much champagne too quickly. At some point, I remember the ladies talking about taking their tops off and I was totally game: whether I am a little plumper or thin, I do have some lovely tits. It was soon after that Anatole indicated he wanted to go and I, pleasantly toasty, happily followed suit.
Once back in the hotel, we fucked hard, but after, I was tortured with insomnia. Still trying to fall asleep in the morning, Anatole woke out and pulled me over, wetting his cock with spit and sliding it inside of me. He put his hand on my throat dominantly, saying things like, “You’re Daddy’s little whore. Say you’re Daddy’s little whore. Tell me you love Daddy.” I said whatever he wanted, turned on by it strangely. “Here comes Daddy’s nut! Tell me you want Daddy’s nut!” I obliged, so turned on, wanting to feel him come inside of me. He came hard. Breathing deeply, he rolled over and we laid there for a short period of time, only to continue with the day.
The wedding reception we attended was held in the home of the newlyweds. I wore a killer black a-line dress with large ruffles from the waist to the hem with an open back and deep cut in the front. The strappy stilettos I wore were about 3 or 4 inches and surprisingly comfy. Finally, I topped my outfit with a gray leather jacket.
Being there was interesting, more so being introduced to the groom and bride, knowing full well the groom, Anatole’s teammate and good friend for decades, at least knew I wasn’t Anatole’s wife… Otherwise, it was a lovely evening and we respectfully bowed out from the party after an appropriate amount of time and retired quite early.
The next day was simply travel, though Anatole did purchase me access to the private lounge, which was fine, but annoying that I had to sit silent as if in the library.
Having never been in this situation before, I didn’t know how I felt about everything, still coming to terms with my revolutionary change of perspective on cheating. After the wedding, I did instigate a conversation with Anatole, curious as to why he chose to live his life the way he does. He asserted, “Do I find my wife attractive? Fuck no.” The simple answer: “For the children.” Though he didn’t say it, I felt he genuinely loved and respected his wife, he just wasn’t in love with her. From what I understand, he—like most people in this culture—followed the societal prescription for happiness and duty and married a woman from his hometown up north because she checked the desired boxes. Also, I do believe he might’ve actually listened to my contention that it was unfair for either of them to stay in the marriage because each person not only deserved, but were being deprived of their ultimate happiness. And as far as the children went, I suggested considering whether settling is the example one would want to set for their children.
Thank God I discovered the fallacy of society’s bullshit early in life. I can’t imagine the devastation I would’ve wreaked otherwise. But no one is perfect. And no one has a right to judge anyone else for the choices they make because you can never exist in the exact circumstances of another as they do in that particular state of time. But what I can derive from this:
Men don’t cheat in search of greener pastures with someone else. Men cheat to stay in the marriage.
And whether I decided I was right or wrong, it certainly feels like heaven to flirt with hell.
Leave a Reply