Yesterday, 04:38 PM
We stayed joined a little longer, my softening cock still inside her, her arms loose around my neck. The room was quiet. My wife’s breathing had slowed, but she did not relax fully. She kept her forehead against mine, then pulled back just enough to look at me. Her eyes were soft, but troubled.
“I feel guilty,” she said, plain and quiet. “Really guilty. I let him touch me. I felt his hands on my ass… on my boobs. I stood there and let it happen. And then I came home and told you every detail… and you got so hard from it. We just… we just did this because of him. That feels wrong.”
Her voice wavered. She looked down, one hand resting uncertainly on my chest.
“I enjoyed how much you wanted me. I am happy we are close like this. But the reason… it makes me feel dirty. Like I did something I should not have done, and then used it to make my husband fuck me.”
I was quiet for a moment. My hand kept moving slowly on her back, but the guilt was sharp in my own chest too.
“I feel it as well,” I said. “I watched another man touch my wife. I let him. I got hard while he squeezed your ass and your boobs. I looked at pictures of your white panties and wanted you because of them. And then I came inside you thinking about all of it. That is not right. I should have stopped him. I should not have enjoyed it. I feel guilty for that. Guilty that I needed you this badly because of him.”
She nodded, eyes wet at the corners, and rested her head on my shoulder. Her body stayed against mine, still holding me inside her, but the happiness was quieter now, weighed down.
“So we are both happy… and both guilty,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to do with that.”
“Neither do I,” I said.
We stayed like that in the dark, naked and still joined, the warmth of each other real, the guilt heavier and clearer between us than the pleasure had been. Neither of us moved to pull away.
We stayed like that a while longer, still joined, her head on my shoulder, my hand resting on her back. Neither of us spoke again. The guilt sat between us, quiet and heavy, but so did the simple fact of her body against mine, warm and familiar.
Eventually she shifted. My cock slipped from her. She did not move far. She only turned onto her side and drew the sheet over us both, then settled back against me, her bare back to my chest. I put my arm around her waist and hugged her close. She covered my hand with hers.
Outside, the house remained silent. The phone lay dark on the bedside table. The pictures, the corner, the photographer’s hands, the things we had said—all of it stayed in the room with us, unspoken now.
She let out a long, soft breath.
“Good night,” she whispered.
“Good night.”
I hugged her. She hugged my arm against her. We lay awake a little longer in the dark, guilty and close, until sleep finally came for both of us.
Regads
Novelist Casanova
“I feel guilty,” she said, plain and quiet. “Really guilty. I let him touch me. I felt his hands on my ass… on my boobs. I stood there and let it happen. And then I came home and told you every detail… and you got so hard from it. We just… we just did this because of him. That feels wrong.”
Her voice wavered. She looked down, one hand resting uncertainly on my chest.
“I enjoyed how much you wanted me. I am happy we are close like this. But the reason… it makes me feel dirty. Like I did something I should not have done, and then used it to make my husband fuck me.”
I was quiet for a moment. My hand kept moving slowly on her back, but the guilt was sharp in my own chest too.
“I feel it as well,” I said. “I watched another man touch my wife. I let him. I got hard while he squeezed your ass and your boobs. I looked at pictures of your white panties and wanted you because of them. And then I came inside you thinking about all of it. That is not right. I should have stopped him. I should not have enjoyed it. I feel guilty for that. Guilty that I needed you this badly because of him.”
She nodded, eyes wet at the corners, and rested her head on my shoulder. Her body stayed against mine, still holding me inside her, but the happiness was quieter now, weighed down.
“So we are both happy… and both guilty,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to do with that.”
“Neither do I,” I said.
We stayed like that in the dark, naked and still joined, the warmth of each other real, the guilt heavier and clearer between us than the pleasure had been. Neither of us moved to pull away.
We stayed like that a while longer, still joined, her head on my shoulder, my hand resting on her back. Neither of us spoke again. The guilt sat between us, quiet and heavy, but so did the simple fact of her body against mine, warm and familiar.
Eventually she shifted. My cock slipped from her. She did not move far. She only turned onto her side and drew the sheet over us both, then settled back against me, her bare back to my chest. I put my arm around her waist and hugged her close. She covered my hand with hers.
Outside, the house remained silent. The phone lay dark on the bedside table. The pictures, the corner, the photographer’s hands, the things we had said—all of it stayed in the room with us, unspoken now.
She let out a long, soft breath.
“Good night,” she whispered.
“Good night.”
I hugged her. She hugged my arm against her. We lay awake a little longer in the dark, guilty and close, until sleep finally came for both of us.
The End
Regads
Novelist Casanova
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