I don't know exactly when this desire began to take root in me. Maybe it was always there, buried beneath the layers of normalcy, duties, and roles I take on every day. Husband, colleague, respectable man. But in the shadows, there was something else. A dull, almost animal need. The need to abandon myself, to become someone else. Someone else.
When my wife left for the weekend at her sister's, I knew it was now or never. Heart pounding, I dug out the briefcase hidden at the bottom of the garage closet. Inside: fishnet stockings, thin panties, tight skirt, wig, makeup... Each piece had its own scent of secrecy and excitement. Once dressed, made up, transformed, it was no longer me in the mirror. It was her. My hidden side. My little bitch.
I had gathered my courage to write to this man. His name was Marc. Fifty-five, hard gaze, sharp words. He knew what he wanted, and tonight, it was me.
The hotel was secluded, one of those where no one asked questions. I walked in hesitantly, my heart pounding loudly beneath the lace of my bra. When he opened the bedroom door, he looked at me wordlessly, gestured. I obeyed, as if my body already knew what to do.
