Monday

He's been coming over on Mondays, while the kids are in school, and his wife and her husband are at work. He has a legitimate reason for being there--he's working on the house. Just an old friend helping out with drywall and trim. Taking care of some things her husband doesn't know how to do. Nobody even bats an eye; they've known each other for years.

She tries to sound casual and breezy on the phone when he says he's stopping over. "Sure, come on over, I'll be here." But since last Monday, she's anything but casual. Because last Monday, he invited her to go for a ride with him, and she went.

She knew what he was asking; they both knew. It had been building between them for a long time. She told herself she was just going to kiss him, maybe make out a little bit. She'd always wondered what it would be like with him. It'll be fun, she thought, like being a teenager again. But she did a little extra shaving in the shower. Just in case.

She ended up fucking him in the back of his truck. Never in all her fantasies about him did she imagine it would be that good. The deliciously filthy things he said to her. His mouth and hands on her, in her. His cock—-God, it was long and thick and beautiful. Made for her. She could spend hours licking it, playing with it. She wished it was hers. She wondered if his wife knew how lucky she was.

They parked at an empty construction site, but she felt so exposed, her pants pulled down to her ankles, her pussy bare and open for him. She was nervous and paranoid and half crazed with desire. "What if somebody drives by?"

"Don't worry," he told her, "Relax. The windows are shaded. Nobody can see in."

"You know, there's no way I'm going to be able to come," she said, "I'm way too nervous. I feel too exposed here. I'm just letting you know."

He regarded her with amusement. "Okay. If you say so."

Then he kissed her belly, moved farther down, licked her clit. She drew in her breath. "Wait! Stop."

He looked up. "Stop? Are you sure?"

"No, don't stop. Keep going." He laughed and kept going. 'No' and 'stop' are meaningless words where he's concerned and he knows it. He could do anything to her, say anything, and she would let him.

He made her come three times.

And now it's Monday again.

She's nervous and jumpy, can't even figure out what to wear. She rejects several outfits—too sexy, too slutty, too frumpy. She doesn't even know if he wants her again. She's afraid he does, and afraid he doesn't. She wishes she could read his mind. Are we in Friends Mode or Lovers Mode today? Those are two different ways to be, and she hasn't figured out how to combine them yet. There's no handbook for this situation. Maybe there should be--The Complete Idiot's Guide to Committing Adultery with Old Friends.

She settles on her normal hanging-around-the-house ensemble--sweats and a T-shirt. She doesn't even have time to dry her hair or put on make-up before he's at the door. Oh well, she thinks, it's not like he hasn't seen my naked face plenty of times before. She doesn't even bother to cover up her zit. Probably nothing's going to happen today anyway, and maybe that's just as well.

He brings her coffee, and they chat in her kitchen. She stays in her chair and he leans against the counter. Okay, apparently just friends today. She relaxes. Her son will be home from school soon anyway. And honestly, she doesn't know if she can keep doing this. She's not in a bad marriage; she doesn't really have a good reason to be cheating. She wants to, that's all. Is that a good reason? She likes being with him, she likes talking to him, and she especially likes the way he made her feel in the back of that truck. She wants more. And she wants to stay friends with him. And she wants to keep her husband. And this is all too much to deal with today.

But then he says, "Are you staying far away from me on purpose?"

Damn. She tries to laugh it off, keep things light. "Yes, I'm staying far away from you on purpose. Can't you tell? I tried to look as unsexy as possible today." She stands up, walks even farther away from him, nervously runs her hand through her damp, frizzy hair.

"Well, it didn't work." He's annoyed with her, she can see it in his face. "if you wanted to be unsexy, you should have done a better job covering up your tits."

His crudeness excites her and makes her nervous at the same time. But mainly it excites her. She looks down at her T-shirt, and yes, it makes her tits look good, and yes, she knew that when she put it on. She might be able to lie to herself, but he wasn't having any of it.

She tries reasoning with him. "Look, I just can't, not today, not here. There are pictures of my kids all over the place.....you can understand that, can't you?"

He folds his arms over his chest. "Not really." He's clearly pissed, and for some perverse reason that makes him even more attractive to her. This is so bizarre, so surreal. Her old friend is mad at her because she won't put out. One of the nicest guys she's ever known is now being not-so-nice—-in fact he's being a little mean—-and it turns her on, makes her want to beg him not to be mad at her. She could see begging him for all kinds of things.

Instead she puts even more distance between them, goes back to her chair, pretends to be busy with her computer. She can't handle this. It's time for him to go. If he touches her now, it's all over, she's done for. She's practically frantic with the need to get him out of her house.

But he comes up behind her and grabs a handful of her hair, yanks it just a little too hard. She gasps with pain and pleasure. How does he know exactly what she likes? He bends over and kisses the side of her face, and her neck, hand still tangled tightly in her hair. She can't move, he's holding her down. "Sweetheart.....relax..." he whispers in her ear, and she shivers.

"I can't," she whimpers.

"Yes, you can," he murmurs, still kissing her. "I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to do." Didn't he say that in the truck?

His free hand slides down, cups her breast, pinches her nipple. She moans, and without even thinking about it, she spreads her legs. "That's it," he says, pushing them farther apart. "You want this, don't you?" He releases her hair, slides both hands under her shirt, unhooks her bra. "You've been thinking about this all week, haven't you?"

Her answer is barely a whisper: "Yes." Now both his hands are squeezing her tits, rolling the nipples between his thumbs and index fingers. She tries to stand up, to turn around and kiss him, but he won't let her. Instead he slowly pulls at the drawstring of her sweats, loosens them, slips a hand inside.

"Oh my God, you're so wet," he says, as he drags his finger up and down her slit.

For the first time, she senses his need, too, and it makes her even wetter. "That's what you do to me," she tells him. "All I have to do is hear your voice, and my pussy is soaked."

He starts to slide a finger in and out, then two, slow at first, then faster. She raises her hips to meet him over and over again, fucking his hand right there in her kitchen. She reaches blindly behind her, grabs a handful of his shirt for better leverage. "Don't stop don't stop don't stop," she moans.

"What's that?" he teases, "You want me to stop?"

"No!" she shouts. And explodes. She comes all over his hand, uncontrollably bucking her hips until she slumped in the chair like a rag doll, completely spent.

He stands up, gently pulls her T-shirt back down, kisses the top of her head. He finally lets her up, helps her stand on wobbly legs, and pulls her close for a hug. He has an enormous hard-on.

He kisses her cheek, her lips. "Now see? Nothing to be worried about." he asks. "I just wanted to put a smile on your face, that's all."

She does smile, but checks the clock over his shoulder. She has about twenty minutes before reality comes crashing back in, delivered to her door in a big yellow school bus. She sighs. Why does life have to be so complicated?

She reaches down and squeezes his cock through his jeans. "What about this?"

"I'll take care of myself when I get home. I just wanted to make you feel good," he tells her. Is he for real? No guy has ever said that to her, not once in her entire life.

"Well, that doesn't seem fair," she says, squeezing harder. "How fast can you come?"

"As fast as I want, but isn't the kid almost home?"

She hooks a finger into the waistband of his jeans and pulls him into the living room. She pushes him down on the couch and kneels between his legs, pulling at his fly. "Almost, but not quite." Her new toy springs out, huge and hard and ready to play.

She licks the head and tries to get her mouth around it, but it's so big she just gives up and laughs. Seriously, does his wife have any clue how lucky she is? She stands up and steps out of her sweats, then straddles him. She looks him in the eyes as she pulls aside the crotch of her panties. "I'm going to fuck you now, okay?"

He smiles and says, "Hmm, I don't know, let me think about it..."

She slams herself down hard, gasping again at the sheer size of him. They both look down, transfixed by the sight of her cunt stretched tight around his huge dick. "Wow," she breathes, "look at that."

"I'm looking."

She begins to ride him, slow at first, then fast. She leans forward, her hair in his face, and says in his ear, "I'm probably not going to come again, so don't hold back, okay?"

He gives her that amused look again. "Okay."

She just wants to make him feel good now, she wants to feel his release. But his hands are everywhere—on her ass, her tits, tangled again in her hair. She begins to moan again, she can't help it. She kisses his face, his eyes, his mouth. "Oh my God, you are making me feel so fucking good." There's more she wants to say, but that'll have to do.

He's almost there, she can sense it. She closes her eyes, forgets about the clock, and explodes.