by Ann Greene
(07/01/09)
No one knows how many times a day I check out your ass as you pass by my desk. I am learning to keep myself focused or I would never get any work done.
Later, when you fuck me in the cool basement of our office building, I tell you and you smile and fuck me harder. Your fingers and tongue roam my body and I am in ecstasy, ready to do anything for your cock inside me. These stolen illicit moments are our only intimacy, as the rest of our days are spent behind notebooks and pens and computer screens and meetings.
What am I to you? Are you actually interested in me, or am I just a fuck on the side? I'm not looking for a relationship change, but I want to be more than just a roll in the hay and a few erotic, explicit text messages on the weekends. (Baby, I can't wait to see you again; I want to rub my fingers all over your body; I want to hold you close and feel my cock in your hot, wet pussy.)
I want to be part of your life. I want you to think of me as much as you think of your wife. I'm not allowed to ask you how you feel about me. Because we're not supposed to have a relationship. We are so good at hiding that sometimes I wonder if you're hiding from me as well. In the time we've been fucking, no one has noticed and no one wonders. I think we're playing the game too hard.
Jealously is an emotion I am not allowed to have. I am the other woman. The wife is supposed to be jealous. But somehow it doesn't work out that way. I want to know if you fuck her the way you fuck me. Does she take it from behind? Does she take it in the ass like I do? Does she blindfold you and tie you up and ravage your body like I do?
But then I go home to my husband and my kids and I am a wife and a mother. I fuck my husband as often, if not more so, than I fuck you. But you're the one I think of. Is it because we're still so new? Not yet a year, but we've known each other for much longer than that. We circled around each other even longer.
You made it my choice. You provided the opportunity, but ultimately, it was my choice. Smart. I can't blame you.
I hate you sometimes. I hate that I'm so tied to you and that I'm constantly thinking of you. I know I'm not alone. I know other women would love to fuck you like I do. And then I wonder if they do and I'm just another in a long line of women.
I hate myself sometimes. But it doesn't stop me from fucking you.
All you have to do is glance at me with that look and I'm a puddle on the
floor, ready to do whatever you want. I'll suck your cock; I'll ride you; I'll
tease you and play with you and give you the pleasure you crave. But how long
will it last? How long will you look at me that way? How long will you reach
into my pants and rub me to orgasm? How long before the taste of me is
no longer what you crave? How long before you look somewhere else?
I can't stop though. You are a drug that I must have. I am addicted and I need you. I need your cock. I need your roaming fingers plunging into my pussy. I need your teeth tugging at my nipple. I need your ragged breathing as I scrape my fingers across your torso and down, down, down. I need the look you give me before you slide your cock into my always wet, always ready pussy.
But I can't wake up with you in the morning. I can't have Sunday mornings drinking our coffee in our pajamas. We have to settle for our cool basement and stolen moments. Our passion is electric; our orgasms legendary; but it only exists in the safety of our building.
It occurs to me that maybe, just maybe, being the other woman isn't
all that great.
