Interlude:
As I look back on it, what surprised me most in the aftermath of that second encounter was not the lack of guilt--after its absence following the first I no longer expected it. Nor was it the wonder of the clear attraction, a mutual attraction, between this younger woman and me. I had never considered myself very physically attractive nor sexually magnetic in any way. But her willingness that second time, her refusal to simply repudiate what we had done, had me wondering. Even that was not what shocked me. No, it was the positive effect on my married sex life.
When I arrived home after fucking my classmate, it seemed destined to unspool as it had previously. My wife was once again reclining in bed with a book and, once again, I leaned in to kiss her. As I did so, I was keenly aware of the risk I ran. Though I had cleaned off somewhat, I worried that some trace of her perfume or of her scent might cling to me. Did my lips show the evidence of passionate kisses, or of their assault on her breast? If I was going to give myself away, it was going to be in that moment as I drew near.
A funny thing happened. As I kissed her, her lips parted and, without warning, we were kissing with passion, our tongues dueling as though for the first time. Our lips brushed gently as we would pull away to the point where there was almost no contact and then return full force. Abandoning caution, I pulled away the cover, running my hand up her thigh. I noted that they were still supple after all these years, a bit plump perhaps, but pleasing to the touch. When I reached her crotch, her panties were already wet, wetter than they had been in years. I pressed one finger against the fabric, right where I knew the opening of her vagina was located, and rubbed slowly in circles, thrilling to her gasps and sighs.
I had thus far had my eyes closed and now I opened them to look at her. She was still lovely though, like me, she bore an extra few pounds in her belly and thighs and arms. Her brown hair was splayed out across the pillow and I briefly flashed to the image of my classmate's red hair similarly arrayed I had had earlier. Her eyes were closed, she was breathing heavily, lips slightly parted. The fabric of her nightgown tented where her nipples poked forward from her full breasts.
Seized--there is no other way to put it--with desire for her, I reached to remove her panties. Obligingly, she lifts her hips and opens her eyes, a devilish smile on her face, spreading her legs once they have been removed. Then I removed my pants and crawled onto the bed between her legs. I rubbed my penis against her, causing her to gasp as I rubbed against her clit, and leading her to take me in hand and guide me to her opening.
I slid in easily; burying myself slowly and gently to the hilt, listening to the catch in her breathing as I do so. Then, pulling back, I pressed forward gently again and began making love to my wife. I was surprised by her wetness, but totally unprepared for what this would be like. As her hips rose to meet me, I felt the familiar warmth of her, the softness as I thrust forward, coming to a rest in the cradle of her thighs, the tugging as I withdraw, the tangling of her pubic hair with mine. All of these things were familiar and I felt them all as new.
Our gentleness as we made love, a gentleness not without passion (something noticeably absent in recent years) was an exquisite counterpoint to the fucking I had engaged in earlier. I slid easily like this for a long while, relishing the increased warmth and tightness as she came once, then again, and then one more time. Finally, after that third orgasm I came, the strength of my climax undiminished by my earlier encounter, and she rose to meet me, engulfing me completely in her, scratching my shoulder.
Afterwards I reflected on what had happened. I wondered whether she had noted something amiss and was staking a claim, whether some subtle and unconscious cue told her we should have sex. I'll never know. Nor will I know why I was suddenly so moved because, for so long, she had failed to move me, indeed had seemed uninterested in doing so. In the following week we had four more such encounters, each one a miniature symphony in passion and gentleness. It was the best week of sex, even excluding the conference room tryst, since we had started dating.
* * *
My paramour (for this is how I have come to think of her) twirls her hair absent-mindedly around her index finger. There is a new piercing at the top of her left ear and I wonder what it would feel like under my tongue. Thinking this, I realize I have not explored her lovely ears. I feel that I have neglected something important and promise myself to discover it when I have the chance.
