I drove home slowly, shaking inside and out as I tried to concentrate on the traffic around me, but it was hard. I had left the clinic feeling suddenly ashamed. Dr. Prescott had fucked me; there was no other word for it. He’d taken me and filled my womb with his potent sperm, and then waited, holding me down as if to make sure his seed had opportunity to find my egg.

At the time I’d felt nothing but arousal, almost euphoric ecstasy and I bathed in the knowledge that a real man had taken my husband’s wife. He’d pulled out finally, his cock still semi-hard, and given me a small slap on my ass, chuckling as he zipped himself up. He told me to make sure and call the office, to let him know when he could see me again, when he could meet my husband.

He was done with me then, our appointment finished and with it the sensations that I’d enjoyed so much. I’d reached down, feeling my loose and puffy sex, soaked with our juices and leaking the doctor’s semen only slowly; most of it remained deep in my womb like a warm stain on my soul.

What had I done?

I dressed quickly, worried that someone might catch me there in Prescott’s office and see me like that. Or smell our recent union in the air. I snuck out like a criminal, fleeing the scene of a crime, my eyes down and face red. My heart was pounding, but for a far different reason than it had just a short time before.

“Ma’am? Miss Pavageau?” The receptionist, Nurse Ryan stopped me and I swallowed nervously, afraid to look at the girl, but somehow I did. “Would you like to schedule a follow-up?” She was smiling.

“Oh, uh…” I shook my head. “I haven’t talked with my husband yet, I…”

“Oh not for him!” The girl laughed and then leaned close over the counter. “I meant for you, with Dr. Prescott…You know…” She lifted her eyebrows suggestively.

“W-What?” I stared at her for a second and I couldn’t think of anything to say. I just turned and walked quickly towards the doors, my entire body flushing with embarrassment.

“I’ll pencil you in for next Wednesday, okay? Two o’clock.” She giggled and I almost fell running down the shirt stairs and outside.

I loved my husband. I hadn’t meant what I’d said at all, how could I possibly not respect the man I married? Because he didn’t have sex with me often enough? Was that even a reason? He took good care of me, always. He was patient and tender, thoughtful of the little things I loved. I’d married him because I loved him, not because he could fuck me and laugh about it the way Prescott had.

Who was the real man here, I thought, driving through a veil of tears. Some doctor, a stranger I didn’t even know who had known what buttons to push, played some little game with my head to bend me over? Or the man who loved me and cared enough to be honest with me, even if he couldn’t always find the right way to give me pleasure?

I was driving in circles, afraid to go home. My husband would be at work, I knew, but part of him was waiting for me anyway. It was our home, the place where we lived together. Where we ate and slept and talked and made love, not often perhaps, and not as much as I desired, but that’s what it was. Making love. I couldn’t go back there. I didn’t live there anymore, I didn’t deserve to.

It was Clarice’s fault, I told myself, wiping my eyes with my fingers. She was the one who’d planted that silly idea in my head. Her and her husband. He was a man I couldn’t respect, and so I couldn’t respect her either. Not anymore. She’d been so eager to help me, to suggest that I fix my problem by fixing my husband. Well I had news for her, my husband wasn’t broke! I was the one, me, I had listened to someone I thought I’d admired and now look at me.

I parked the car near the curb, sobbing and pressing my hands against my tummy. I was probably pregnant now, just a few tiny cells, too small to see, growing and replicating and attaching themselves to me forever. I had betrayed my husband, betrayed my wedding vows and my family, my parents who had raised me. I’d done all that just for a few minutes of pleasure with a man I barely knew and would never love.

I didn’t want to see Clarice. Not that I was afraid of her, only that I had nothing to say to her. She’d just spoken the words, I’d done the listening. It was all on me and I’d never felt so ashamed in my life.

“Miss?” There was a tapping at my window and I was startled by the policeman tapping on the glass.

I wiped my eyes quickly and licked my lips, looking around like I’d forgotten where the switch was for the window. I rolled it down, apologizing and blushing at my appearance.

“I’m sorry, I was…”

“Are you okay?” He was asking me, looking at me and then around inside the car as if I might be hiding something.

“Yeah, yeah…I just uh, I got some bad news.” I was nodding. “I’ll…I’m going home.”

“Where do you live?”

“Just there, over there on Maple Court.” I glanced in the direction of my house.

“I’m not sure you should be driving…” 

“Oh, I’m fine.” I tried to smile. “Really, I’m…I’m okay, officer.”

“I’ll follow you, alright?” He told me and there was little room for argument and I had no choice at that point. I was going home.

I spent an hour in my bathtub, washing myself thoroughly and then washing myself again. I had a lot of sperm inside me and my sex was stretched and loose around my fingers as I pressed them inside, wriggling and trying to get every last drop of Dr. Prescott’s gift. But it was too late, I was sure.

I washed my clothes, everything I’d worn, not caring about colors or whites or hand washing or any of that. I threw them all in the washing machine and added twice as much detergent as I needed and turned it on. I’d wash them twice, or three times, or maybe I’d just throw them away. I wasn’t crying at least, not anymore, but I wanted to.

Especially when I laid down on my bed, on my husband’s bed. It wasn’t mine anymore, or ours, it was his alone. I was just borrowing it, borrowing the memories. I could smell him, I thought, on his shirt that I was wearing, on the sheets and pillows. His cologne, his sweat. I looked through our photo album, the thick white one with golden letters. Our wedding album and I wondered who that woman was.

I stared at the pictures one by one, studying every aspect, every small detail. I looked at how she smiled, how her eyes sparkled and her skin glowed. She was beautiful and pure, dressed in white like a fairy tale princess. There she was with her new husband, and there with her parents, and with her bridesmaids. So happy, so radiant and bright with promise.

I went to the closet and found that dress. It was wrapped in plastic, in a pale grey garment bag and I threw it on the bed, unzipping it and smelling it, pulling the soft satin and silk to me face. I covered my body with it like a blanket, wrapping it around me. I curled up, crying again finally, alone in that big bed with nothing but someone else’s memories to comfort me.

It was no comfort at all.

“Lisa?” I’d been dreaming, perhaps I still was. “Hey, taking a little nap?”

My husband’s voice was soft and his touch was gentle. He was waking me up, bringing me back and for just a second I forgot everything. I was just sleeping on our bed and he was home from work. It was normal and okay and I almost smiled the way I do when he finds me like that, unguarded and innocent. But then I felt the dress I was still wrapped up in, clutching it to my breasts. And there in front of me the album, laying on our bed. I stared at it, feeling the doctor still in my womb.

“I’m sorry.” I said, before I could stop myself. It was all coming out and there was nothing for it. “I’m so sorry, Jack.” I looked at him, his handsome features becoming puzzled as he tried to understand what I was saying.

“Sorry for what?” He smiled. “It’s your dress. I sorta like it.”

His hands were moving over me and he leaned down kissing me in the soft light of the setting sun streaming through the windows. He was moving, getting on the bed with me, lying on his side in his clothes and holding me. Our faces were close and I was afraid to see his eyes.

“Have you been crying?” He brought a hand to my face, running his thumb across my cheek. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

I was crying again, burying my face away from him, covering myself with that wedding dress and wishing he would leave me alone. He shouldn’t have been there, he shouldn’t have been touching me, or kissing me. I could feel his lips on the top of my head as he hugged me, shushing me and rocking me slightly like a little girl.

“Just tell me, what happened?” He was worried now and I wanted to tell him so badly, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t make my lips form the words and even if I could, there was no breath in my body. I couldn’t breathe, my heart was stopped, or going to fast, or something. It hurt and it was breaking, I knew. I’d broken my own heart and how could I break his as well? I was dying.

We didn’t say anything for a long time, neither of us, and I’d stopped crying. Not because I wanted to, but I’d just run out of tears. There wasn’t anything left in me but pain and it wasn’t enough, not yet. I’d hurt Jack, I knew, I’d hurt him and it would end finally. I’d take it and hold it and leave with our pain growing in my belly, I could do that much, I thought. If nothing else, I could give him the satisfaction of watching me leave.

“I cheated on you.” I said softly, beneath my snow white shroud. “Today, with another man.”

“What?” He asked and his voice was soft, not angry or even disbelieving. It was like he hadn’t heard me correctly, that’s all.

“I went to a clinic.” I told him and I felt a curious calm. My skin seemed to cool, and I could breathe. I felt detached, like someone else was speaking for me.

“A clinic? Why?” Jack cleared his throat a little.

“I wanted to find out about…” I did need a breath there, just a small one. “…about castrating you.”

“You can’t be serious.” My husband said, almost laughing like this must be a joke. But my tears had been real enough, and they lent an undeniable credence to my words.

“I thought we’d be happy and I met a man, a doctor.” I shivered, just a little and my husband lifted his hand from my back. “He had sex with me. He…” I had my eyes closed, but I could feel my husband pulling the dress away from my face. “He came inside me. I let him.”

“You let him?” Jack’s voice was growing louder. “Look at me…You let him? What does that mean, Lisa? Look at me!”

I opened my eyes and he was there, sitting up above me, staring at me in the growing darkness. I had nothing else to say really, I’d told him everything he needed to know. I was just waiting now. Maybe he’d hit me, or more likely just tell me to leave. Or he might leave himself, I didn’t know. Whatever he did, I’d accept it. I had no choice, I loved him.

“You want to cut off my balls?” He demanded, searching my face for an answer. “Is that what you want?”

“I…I don’t know.” I whispered. “No…I don’t, I just…”

“Fuck.” He snorted, turning his head away. “And you let this guy fuck you, I see. You cut my nuts and fuck this guy, is that the plan? You bitch.”

He got up, walking away, leaving me there. 

“I’m sorry.” I said, but I don’t think he could hear me. I’d barely heard it myself.

I got up once to use the bathroom, but otherwise I didn’t move at all and as soon as I’d finished I returned to the bed, curling up under my dress. I was waiting, that was all I could do. I’d heard my husband downstairs, in the kitchen, and in the living room, turning on the television and turning it off a minute later.

And it was quiet too, for a long time I could hear nothing but my own breathing. The lights were off, everywhere, there wasn’t even the soft glow from a light downstairs. Jack was sitting in the dark, I knew, thinking about me. I wondered if he would drink, or might even be drunk already. He wasn’t much for alcohol, but we had some bottles from last new years in the cabinet. He wouldn’t though, I was sure. It would be the furthest thing from his mind, like hitting me. It hadn’t occurred to him, no matter how angry or disappointed he might have been, he wasn’t built that way.

The LED’s on my husband’s alarm clock had just clicked over to 1:08 when he came in. All I could see was his outline, like a shadow in the darkness. The only light came from a streetlamp outside and it cast the room with shades of grey.

He was on the bed and his hands were neither gentle nor rough, but insistent and strong. He was turning me, pulling the dress away from my legs and hips, pulling and pushing me to my knees.

“Jack, I…”

“Shut-up.” He said, and it was an angry quiet sound like I’d never heard from him before. “Don’t say a fucking word. You wanna fuck, we’ll do it this way from now on. You don’t, then after I’m done get your stuff and call a taxi.”

That was all the explanation he was giving me and then I felt him ripped my panties, slapping at my thighs in the darkness. I gasped and cringed and shivered at the sensations. I felt blindfolded somehow as I tried to lift my head only to have my husband push my face back down into the mattress.

My heart was going again, confusion and excitement filling my head. I didn’t know what he was doing, or perhaps I did, but it was so unexpected. Was he trying to prove himself to me? Was that was this was about? He was mad that another man had put his penis inside me, so now my husband had to reassert his claim? I wasn’t fighting it, not at all, if anything I was ready for it. My body warming quickly, my sex coming to life as I realized my husband wanted me. If only for that moment, for reasons of jealousy and anger, rather than love, he wanted me still.

I wanted him as well, more than anything else in the world. I’d give myself to him, do whatever he asked. I wanted him to take me and the one real hope I entertained was that I hadn’t gotten pregnant that afternoon, that Prescott was sterile, or his sperm weak, or my womb just not quite exactly ready. Please God, I prayed, let my husband make me pregnant. I wouldn’t know whose baby it was, and maybe I never would, but if I found out in a week or a month that I was pregnant, then there was that chance that it was Jack’s. That was my redemption, I thought, my only hope at salvation.

I held my breath, spreading my thighs as I knelt there, feeling my husband’s cock, as hard and swollen as it had ever been, rubbing across my slit. I moaned softly, pushing myself back, aching to feel him inside me, but he pulled away, teasing me, I thought.

“You want it, huh?” He was breathing hard. “Well, I’m not putting my dick in that dirty hole…” I started lifting my head as I felt his pressing his cock against my anus, “…So this one will have to do from now on…Ugggh!...”

He pushed his cock inside me hard, grabbing hops and pulling me back so that I screamed with pain as my asshole was suddenly split open by his penis. It was a blunt searing pain that spread through me like a fire and I was confused by it, all my previous thoughts and hopes and dreams shattered suddenly.

“Nooo…Ahhh…P-Please…” I was whispering, my voice muffled against the mattress as Jack shoved me back down. I felt sick and frightened, the pain was terrible, but the humiliation was even worse. He was in my ass, in the dirtiest, most private part of me because it was cleaner than my vagina now. I sobbed with a sudden and pathetic loathing for myself. 

“Uhhh yeah…You whore…How’s that? Pretty…Ugh!...Good now? You like…Uhhhg…That?” He was fucking my ass as hard as he could, tearing into my delicate flesh. It was an act of rape, for all of its uncaring violence and dominant desire, nothing else. I was being punished with a corruption of our lovemaking, just as I’d corrupted our marriage.

I was crying out and jerking my body as if I might get away, but he pinned me down easily and in truth I wasn’t fighting him at all, just the awful knowledge that I’d never have his child now. If I was pregnant, it would be Dr. Prescott’s and his alone, my husband was keeping me, but he wasn’t going to save me. Not this night, or for many more to come I imagined, but I was free to leave. As soon as he’d fucked me one last time, left me with a painful and humiliating reminder of what I’d been so concerned with that I’d let it ruin my marriage and my life. I could go or stay.

My husband fucked my ass for many long minutes before he finally came. I was weeping still, and my cries were soft and punctuated his deliberate thrusts. I was limp and exhausted however, and he took me as he liked until Jack told me he was going to cum and then did so, burying his penis as far into my torn rectum as he could and flooding my useless bowels with his sperm.

Jack collapsed on top of me, his body pressing mine flat to the bed while he caught his breath. “I’m sorry…” I whispered and his face was so close to mine he must have heard me, but he said nothing.

A few minutes later he was getting up, pulling his cock from my ass slowly and it was a different sort of ache. My rectum felt mushy and loose, filled with grease or oil maybe, almost like I needed to use the bathroom, but I didn’t. I didn’t move at all, I just watched my husband’s dark form as he wiped his penis clean on my wedding dress and left the room, leaving the door wide open in case I wanted to leave.

But I just curled up again, hugging my knees to my breasts and feeling Jack’s sperm leaking slowly from my stretched anus. I couldn’t leave him. I respected him too much for that.

I stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom, wiping the fog away so that small beads of water ran down my reflection. I touched myself, moving my hands lightly over my stomach, turning slightly to profile. I was large now, and round, swollen with the life inside me. I could feel my skin tight and smooth and firm, almost hard, and it was difficult to remember when my tummy had been flat and taut and impossibly soft by comparison.

My breasts were different too, now that I was eight months pregnant almost to the day. They seemed swollen and heavy, still firm enough but pulled down slightly so that my puffy brown nipples appeared to point upward even more than they had before. They ached sometimes, my nipples, and grew hard for no reason at all with small drops of clear liquid appearing occasionally. My milk was starting already, my body getting ready to nurse the restless child within my womb.

I didn’t know what I had, a boy or a girl, and it didn’t matter anyway. I wasn’t keeping it. I’d really had three choices, none of which were fair, or designed to please me in any way. But they were mine alone, my husband Jack had made that clear enough. I’d been the one cheating on him, for no real reason at all except that I’d been foolish, and so it was up to me to make things right.

I could have left him. He wouldn’t have tried to stop me. Or, I could have gotten an abortion, which was what he wanted I think, although Jack had done nothing more than suggest the possibility. He’d given me no real opinion on the subject and neither of us were particularly religious, or morally bound against it, so it had been a thought already in my head anyway. Or finally, I could carry the child to term and give it up. I couldn’t keep it and him both; my husband had made that plain to me several times over.

He didn’t blame the child. Jack bore it no particular grudge other than the fact that it wasn’t his and was sleeping in his wife’s belly, changing the woman he’d married irrevocably, and in not always predictable ways. My husband blamed me, quite simply, and it was right and proper that he should. And that he should punish me for what I’d done, and for what I’d tried to do. I was lucky to have him, I thought, because I was quite sure that many men in his position would have simply sent me away with little more than a suitcase and dissolution of marriage to keep me and my unborn child warm.

He’d largely ignored me in the beginning, since that night when I’d told Jack about my infidelity. If he was surprised when I told him I was pregnant with another man’s baby, he gave no indication of it. I could understand his reaction, and I even appreciated it to some extent. Of everything he might have said or done with me, I thought his distant silence to be almost kind. At least I could see him; I could still care for him and try to demonstrate my love. Perhaps earn forgiveness eventually.

The only thing I was truly surprised at, and the aspect of our new relationship I found most disturbing, was my husband’s increased sex drive. Prior to cheating on him, my husband had very little interest in sex and I’d been left frustrated and insecure perhaps, feeling that there was some failing in him. That was what had driven me into Dr. Prescott’s arms, indirectly, and so it was with no small sense of irony that I found myself yielding to my husband’s newfound sexual desires very nearly every night.

I’d even learned to enjoy it, which surprised me more than a little. My husband’s pleasure was only taken from my anus, or occasionally my mouth, neither of which I’d ever done before. It had been painful at first, physically and emotionally. Humiliating and degrading, especially since there was no love in the acts we performed. He wouldn’t speak to me, except in the most vulgar terms, calling me a slut, or a whore, or worse. I would never reply, never try to defend myself from his accusations, or refuse his attentions. He was merely using me for masturbation, I knew, or trying to punish me, but it was the only part of him that I had left.

I didn’t know how I felt about my baby, and that was a term that had taken me some time to become accustomed to. My baby. For the first month I’d hated it, the reason it was inside me was still too fresh then. And fresh still, really; every time I saw myself, or touched myself, or felt that fetus move I was reminded of my betrayal. But I’d been changing. It was my baby inside me. It was a part of me, half mine and half someone else’s; a stranger’s child. I tried not to think about that. It was inside me, growing and sharing my blood. It had made me ill with morning sickness and the emotional equivalent, feeling sad and happy and a thousand different emotions in between, and sometimes all at once. 

I’d craved strange things as well, like applesauce with pepper on it. Just black pepper, but a lot of it. I could eat a whole jar of applesauce and use half the shaker of pepper on it. Part of me enjoyed that, enjoyed all of it, but only secretly, only when my husband was at work. We didn’t sleep together then of course, he’d left me with the master bedroom and taken one of the spares, the one we’d once thought of turning into a nursery. But that had been so long ago, almost a year before when we’d bought the house. Anything was possible for us then and a nursery…

The time for abortion had passed, not physically, not quite yet, but for all practical purposes, once people knew I was pregnant there really was no going back. I thought I might have stayed home then, or at least avoided going out in public as much as possible. Jack wouldn’t let me, however. We’d become somewhat close once more, or at least civil, despite my swelling stomach. It had taken three months, but now he was talking to me at least, even smiling on occasion, and it filled me with hope for our future.

Our coming out, if you wanted to call it that, was at the party of a friend of ours. It was a large barbecue with a lot of people we knew. Jack’s friends and coworkers, normal average people who knew nothing about how I’d wanted to cut off my husband’s balls and cuckold him with another, more ardent lover. They could only see us as the successful and happy young couple we were, beautiful people living the American dream, and now almost obviously pregnant. Just showing enough so that people would wonder and closer friends would ask, quietly in case they were wrong. That would have been embarrassment that no one needed. Thankfully for them I wasn’t fat, although I silently wished I were.

“Congratulations!” I could hear one of my husband’s friends saying, and the group of men around them echoed the sentiment. They smiled and nodded and patted Jack on the back for a baby that wasn’t even his. I felt my cheeks flushing, but I blushed all the time for no good account, and people assumed it was just part of my healthy motherly glow.

“It isn’t mine.” Jack shrugged and he turned his head just slightly to look at me. There was silence for a second, and then laughter, of the nervous sort, when people hear a joke they don’t really understand. “She was fucking around, I don’t know whose it is. I’m not even sure if Lisa knows.”

I stood there feeling all eyes drawn to me, staring and judging me. It made me an instant imposter, a fraud and a fake. I’d been accepting my own congratulations and smiles and hugs and kisses on the cheek. All my friends, old and new, were so happy for us. For my husband and I, and I’d smiled and thanked them for it, pretending that we were blessed and happy with our good fortune. I had nothing I could say, nothing I could do but stand there as tears filled my eyes, and then my instincts kicked in…fight or flight, and I was running.

We left shortly after that. I’d been waiting in the car, crying and hitting my stomach occasionally with weak and frustrated fists. I hated myself, the thing inside me, my husband for being so cruel, my friends and neighbors for their concern. I forgot what love was for those long minutes I was alone. It ceased to exist.

“Maybe you should have gotten the abortion.” My husband shrugged, as if he didn’t really care one way or the other. We were driving home and I just stared out the window.

At least I knew now that I was totally alone in this. My husband wasn’t going to lie for me; he wasn’t part of my infidelity and wouldn’t be in a conspiracy to cover it up. He wasn’t my accomplice, Dr. Prescott was, but I couldn’t bear the thought of even speaking to him, let alone seeing him again. I was alone with my child and I’d set myself on a path. I’d decided to cheat, I’d confessed, I’d stayed with Jack, and I’d decided to carry the child to term. It was all one long road and I hoped it was the right one.

As soon as we were in the house Jack was turning me around, kissing me hard. He hadn’t kissed me in 12 weeks, not once in three months, but he kissed me now. He’d just told the world that his wife was a cheating slut and pregnant with a stranger’s baby. I felt his tongue pushing into my mouth, finding mine and wriggling against it. I was moaning, clutching at him as I began crying again. I felt hot and confused and desperate that he never let me go.

Jack’s hands were under my skirt, moving up my thighs and I felt his thumbs hooking my panties, pulling them down. He went lower with them, kissing my neck, and breast through my blouse. I cradled his head, breathing hard and lifting my legs as my panties fell down around my ankles. I wanted to speak to him, to tell my husband how much I loved him, how sorry I truly was. I wanted to beg him to make love to me, real love for the first time since my confession.

My sex was on fire, quivering inside and I was radiating heat and desire. I could feel my juices starting, the butterflies in my stomach. He was going to do it, finally he’d forgiven me. He’d given me one last punishment, telling everyone about the bastard in my belly, but that was enough. He could forgive me now and I loved him for it. I would have confessed myself, told everyone a thousand times if this were the result. I couldn’t bear any longer the awful separation from my husband’s love.

“Turn around…here…give me your ass…” My husband breathed, standing behind me, pushing me so I was bent over the back of the sofa.

He wasn’t going to make love to me. He was going to fuck me again, that was all, and my heart sank and I felt a distant chill overcome the fire inside. He hadn’t forgiven me at all, I thought, this was just another form of punishment. He’d kissed me like we were lovers once more and I’d returned it with all of my heart, promising him anything in return. He rejected it, or so it seemed to me at that moment, pressing his penis against my anus and driving inside me easily.

I was well used to it, as he fucked me regularly there now. Where before, when we’d been happily married, he would make love to my vagina perhaps twice a month, three times if I was lucky, now we did it in my ass everyday. Sometimes twice a day. But always in my ass, although once in awhile he’d start or finish in my mouth. I groaned as I felt my ass warming up, my muscles stretching and taking his thickness easily. I fucked myself back against him, because it did feel good for me. In the beginning it had hurt terribly and disgusted me, and I’d found no pleasure in it, but as time went by I’d begun to accept it and enjoy it as I said.

“Everybody knows…” Jack was telling me, grunting to punctuate his words. “Everyone knows you’re a slut…and a whore…”

“I’m sorry…Please…” I said the same things I always said, reaching down to rub my clit. I hated his words, but I loved his touch. Even like that, fucking my ass and saying the worst things I could imagine, I loved him for it. I was going to cum and we both knew it. He didn’t care, or maybe he even liked that part of it now, I didn’t know. But he wouldn’t stop me, he’d let me get off while he punished me.

“You bitch…fuck me…harder…push it, Lisa…fuck me like you fucked him, you cunt…” He slapped my ass hard, spanking me and that was something new, only recently added to the experience and I found myself enjoying that as well.

I rubbed myself furiously, feeling the blood rushing to my head as I was pushed further over the soft cushioned back of the couch. My feet came off the floor and I could feel the pressure on my stomach, on my baby, but I didn’t care. I was so close so quickly, his cock was rubbing my pussy through the thin wall that separated them. His balls slapped my sex and I was cumming, my body going rigid and my legs coming up. I pressed my thighs together and tried to pull at him awkwardly with my legs, bending my knees. I was lost to it when my husband’s cock began to spasm in my rectum, spilling his hot seed into my ass.

We kissed often after that, at least during our sex. It was another small step towards reconciliation, another proof of life that love still existed for him. I longed for the day when he’d make love to me face to face, kissing me as he entered my vagina. I should have gotten the abortion, I knew, it would have changed everything, I thought. It was just another mistake, and I’d made so many. I apologized to him every time he fucked me, but he never said anything about it, never accepted them or offered words of forgiveness. But he would, someday, I was certain.

 

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