Last week:
When I arrived at home that first Thursday night, it was only when I greeted my wife as she reclined reading in bed that I realized the magnitude of what I had done. In fourteen years of marriage, despite an occasional temptation and a half-drunk making out featuring an unfinished handjob at a Christmas party, I had not actively considered cheating on her. But as I kissed her hello, hoping that no vestige of my earlier encounter remained for her to sense, it all came home to me. To my surprise, instead of feeling guilty, I felt liberated. There seemed no need at that moment for one to impinge upon the other. I saw at that moment no reason why I could not savor the memory of my encounter and still love my wife.
During the week, I resisted the urge to contact my classmate, to follow up and see if she would do what I had asked... demanded... of her. I was determined not to let the facade of cool I had erected crumble. So, on the day before class, I sent her an email with a two-word message, no signature:
Conference room.
* * *
I come to class early, so I can be waiting for her, watching her enter, seeing how things might go. While I wait, I engage in idle chitchat with my classmates and, when she arrives, it is all I can do to tell my interlocutor to shut the hell up so I can stare. She walks in like she owns the place which, as far as I'm concerned, she does.
My request has been granted; she wears a black skirt that hugs her hips and is tight enough that the apparent absence of panty lines sends blood rushing to my crotch. Her calves are muscular without being bulky, hallmarks of a runner born, a runner who might have trouble with the two-inch black heels she's wearing. Beneath the blue cotton top, her breasts bounce freely as she walks and I am struck by the notion that a thin layer of clothing is all that stands between me and her naked skin, skin I badly want to experience with my eyes, my hands, my mouth. Her hair hangs free, a wreath for her face, and I imagine it spread out across a pillow.
At no point as she crosses the room does she acknowledge me and, to my credit, my jaw does not drop. If I were to stand up and applaud, as I feel I should, I'm sure the rest of the room would notice my arousal. Thankfully, the situation does not call for that. When she sits, she finally turns her gaze in my direction, and the force with which it falls upon me is almost palpable. She does not smile, nor does she frown, she merely meets my eyes, holds them for a second, and then is gone.
The minutes until the break crawl by. Though I am engaged in the discussion, I am also painfully aware of her presence, of her compliance (as it seems) with my wishes, of the way she moves her arms and tilts her head as she speaks. As her lips move, it is difficult not to remember them pressed against my own and wrapped around my cock as she knelt before me in the darkness of the classroom. I find myself wondering how she remembers the experience, wondering if she is getting wet thinking about it as I struggle against a conspicuous erection.
