The Third Wee

I dreamt about my lover again last night. I dreamt I was searching through my husband's sock drawer, trying to find a pair of socks that would fit him.

Some of my dream metaphors are so obvious they belong in a first-year psychology textbook.

I told my husband about my lover two weeks ago – not who he was, but that I'd been having an affair. I was sick of lying. I wanted to either end my marriage or end my affair and fix up my marriage.

I told my husband it was only sex, and the sex wasn't even very good.

I felt better immediately after telling my husband – cleansed, and ready to start again. Now I'm thinking about my lover more. I miss him. I miss us. The end of a relationship is sad because you'll never have that same relationship with anyone else. You'll never be the person you were in that relationship again.

We played lots of games. We both liked to play with my body. Once we went to a nude beach together. We hadn't seen each other for weeks – such a long time – because he was on holidays with his family. We arranged to meet at the carpark near the beach. I wore a short little purple sundress with straps, and high-heeled sandals, because I don't have any flat ones, and a straw hat. I didn't wear any underwear, because there wasn't any point.

I pulled up in the carpark and he was already there, standing outside his car. I walked towards him, worrying that he'd notice my body was a little more rounded than the last time I saw him, worrying about how pale my legs were, worrying about whether I looked stupid wearing high heels to the beach. And he saw me walking towards him, the sun shining through my flimsy dress, so short it barely covered my cunt, and he just thought, "Fuck…"

We fucked quickly and desperately, because it had been so long. We found a flight of stone steps leading underground, just off the road. I lifted up my dress and my cunt was there, ready for him, warm and wet. He hardly paused to lick my juices off his fingers before his cock was inside me. I stood on the steps, my hands braced against the cold stone, to take the pounding his cock was giving me. He pulled out to let me taste my own saltiness and then he was back inside me, only able to last a few more minutes before the tightness of my cunt, the tightest he'd ever felt, was too much for him. He pulled out once more and I swallowed his cum, feeling it run down my throat, wanting to have him as deeply inside me as I could get.

But that wasn't the best bit of the day. We walked to the nude beach, down a steep, rocky path. The men on the way up the path stared up my dress at my bare cunt as I climbed over rocks.

The beach was full deeply tanned men stretched out on towels, waiting for the appearance of women who hadn't yet realised that nude beaches were populated by perverts. Or women like me, who didn't care.

I pulled off my dress and rubbed sunscreen into my body. Over the Christmas holidays my tits had become slightly fuller, my arse slightly rounder, my hips slightly more curved. We went into the water and I played to the men lying on towels and the shyer ones hiding behind bushes, splashing around in waist-deep water, my tits bouncing. Then we lay on our towels, letting the sun warm our wet bodies. He told me there was a man nearby, lying on his stomach, watching me, occasionally adjusting his erect cock beneath him. I spread my legs so he could get a better view of my just-fucked pussy.

The man followed us when we left the beach, but we doubled back and avoided him. I didn't want to fuck him, just tease him.

As I was about to back out of the carpark, another man stepped out from behind the bushes, and furiously tugged on his long thin dick in front of me. I watched him for a minute, then pulled one full tit out of my dress and showed it to him, before driving off. I knew I shouldn't encourage him, but I couldn't help myself.

I'm telling myself that this week will be the hardest. It's always like that: for about two weeks, we can cope with not seeing each other, and we get on with our lives, then the third week comes along and it's hard to think of anything else.

I think once we get past the third week things will get easier. That's just a guess, of course. We've never got past the third week before.

To stop myself missing him, I think back to all the times he was a complete prick to me. There are plenty. It works too well, and I start hating him. I compose nasty emails to him in my head, trying to hurt him, telling him that I didn't enjoy fucking him, I only did it because… because… because I get off on degrading myself by having bad sex with men I'm not attracted to. I realise that doesn't sound very convincing.

I start remembering all the times he wasn't a complete prick to me. There are plenty of those too. Once he drove for ten hours to spend one night with me. I was working in another city that weekend, and he left it too late to book a flight. He drove all day, and was waiting for me in the bar of my hotel, with two chilled glasses of champagne, when I finished work on Saturday night.

Up in the dark of my room on the top floor of the hotel, with the lights of the city around us, I sat on a ledge and opened my thighs. He slid in, and, surrounded by the walls of my cunt, he was home. I wrapped my legs around him, holding him to me, and whispered, "Just stay in there." We kissed deeply, fucked slowly, then he pulled back and looked into my eyes.

"I love you," he said.

We'd been fucking for three years and two months and that was the first time he'd told me he loved me. Then he came on my face.

Later, after smoked salmon and chardonnay, I filled the spa with hot water, and he climbed in. I sat on the edge, and he lathered up my dark curly bush, then carefully began shaving it smooth. After the last few delicate strokes, curving around my outer pussy lips, he washed the rest of the lather off, then tasted my freshly shaven skin. He found my clit, licked it, circled it, sucked it, making me squirm on the edge of the spa.

We moved to the bed. I'd turned up the heat in the room, so we were both sweating on the sheets. I took a swig of beer and slid my mouth down his cock, right down to the base, till his hot shaft was cooled by the icy, fizzy beer. Then I climbed on top of him and thrust my overheated cunt down on his cold hard cock. With my hands on either side of his shoulders, I drove down, over and over, fucking him, forcing my cunt onto his cock, till my legs were aching. I was about to stop when he grabbed my arms and I saw his face tense. I kept thrusting, and stared into his eyes as the orgasm tore through his body.

We fell asleep wrapped so tightly around each other that the hairs on the back of his neck tickled my nose.

I told my husband it was only sex, and the sex wasn't even very good. I lied.

The danger of cheating is meant to be that you might get caught. No-one talks about the other danger: that you might find someone else you want to be with, and not be able to do anything about it, and have to live with that.

My husband doesn't want us to split up – he wants us to start over. I care about him, otherwise I would have just kept cheating. My lover will never leave his wife, and I don't want him to. His teenage daughter would never speak to him again. It's not worth that.

I try to imagine what it would be like to live with him. It's not something I've thought about much, because I know it's never going to happen. I imagine that we'd spend a lot of time together, just the two of us, mainly because none of our friends would speak to us again if we left our partners. We'd probably live in a little apartment somewhere just north of the harbour. I have no idea what kind of furniture he likes (though I'd guess good-quality, conservative stuff, judging from his clothes), whether he leaves his dirty underwear on the floor (though I'd guess not, judging from how neat his desk is), or whether he sings when he's walking around the house (though I'd guess he does, because he's never afraid to get up and dance). I know he watches The Bill and goes to bed early. I know he brushes his teeth in the shower and takes a Panadol every morning. I know he likes olives and wine.

I can imagine myself making pasta with olives and bacon and mushrooms, and serving it up while he pours us a glass of wine. I can imagine curling up next to him on the good-quality, conservative lounge and watching The Bill. I can imagine his hand sliding up my skirt, and my hand rubbing his cock, just lazily, comfortably, familiarly.

He emails me, and comes up with some pathetic excuse for us to meet at the pub. Pathetically, I go along with it.

His face is red. "It's because I'm sitting three feet away from your vagina," he tells me. He wants the warm, wet, tight walls of my cunt to grip his cock and pull it in, reluctantly let it go, then pull it in again. I want it too. I want to say yes, let's get a room. I don't like seeing him like this, tense and uncomfortable. I want him to be strong, confident, mischievous, like he used to be.

It would just be so easy to slip back into the way things were, to have his cock slip inside me once more. My cunt is already slippery from sitting across the table from him. "It's so hard to stop because it's so good," he says. "No-one knew, no-one was getting hurt."

But he's wrong – his wife knew. That time he drove ten hours to be with me, she asked him who he was spending the weekend with. She knew. And my husband knows now, and I'm supposed to be starting over with him, not lying to him any more.

We walk out of the pub. He offers me a lift in his car. I look at it, and think of all the times we've fucked in it, and the scratches my boots have left on the interior. I say no.

It's time to say goodbye. I could step forward and kiss him. I know what that would be like. There's never any holding back in our kisses. Kissing him is nearly as good as fucking him.

I look at him. "Goodbye," I say, and I wave, and I wrap my coat tightly around myself as I walk off. Next week will be easier.