Confession

I was in nothingness.

Peter had never taken me to that point.

I loved my husband. Love him. But he had never done that. He had always stopped when I had pleaded with him. Whether he was fucking me or tonguing me. He had always stopped when I needed him to.

I had not been here before. The zenith, and then yet more, and then something that I can only describe as a nirvana. Not of the soul. Not pure. A carnal nirvana. Sexual bliss. Heavenly, but centred at my cunt, my clit. Immoral. Debased. Yet so, so perfect.

I was still on the table top when I came too. Seconds only? A minute? Longer? I could not tell. He was no longer moving. I was wet. Wetter than before. Not just my own secretions. My head was spinning. Every nerve in my body was on a high. My clit was still pulsing. Something was trickling from me. I could feel it running down my inner thigh.

He had to have come. I could still feel his thickness in me, but not as hard as it had been. He had to have come. That trickle had to be from him. I can get wet, but not so wet that it would ooze from me. He had to have come inside me, and this was him. Call it by its name. It was his semen. He had come without withdrawing. It was semen, filling me, and overflowing, that was what was running down my leg.

**********

Wine time. White wine. Sauvignon blanc. Chilled. An aperitif. We would finish the bottle over dinner. Chicken breast stuffed with soft cheese and spinach, with oven roasted slices of butternut squash and red pepper mixed in a tray. Prepared with love, and guilt.

We were sitting side by side on the cushioned, rattan, two seater on our patio. Peter back from work. One hand on my knee, on the cotton of the fresh, clean fabric of another dress. Not the one with dusty patches down the front, around the buttons and the button holes. That one was in our laundry basket by our bed.

Two children playing. One on a swing. One in the trampoline. In, not on, because of the netting surround that keeps him safe. Happy family. Loving. More than content. Secure in what we had together. Have together.

"He did a good job," Peter said.

"He was good," I agreed.

By then, I had showered, of course. And dressed. The different dress that I was wearing when the kids got home from school. Not the one that I had worn that morning. A different bra as well. The white bra, with the grey scuff marks, was with the first dress waiting to be washed. I had had to take if off myself, after he had gone. He had never even seen my breasts. At least that meant he had not kissed them either, not left a mark of any kind, no evidence, nothing to incriminate.

I had not seen him, either. His cock. I had only felt it. Enjoyed it. Loved it being all the way inside of me. Loved its sliding, its withdrawal and re-entering. But I had not seen it. Not when he had been behind me, opening his buttons, extracting it. Not when had had eased it out of me, uncorking me, releasing more of his semen, wasted as it also trickled down my inner thigh. Put back inside his khaki shorts before I had the strength to raise myself from the glass table top. Not seen. But the feel of seared on my brain, branding me a slattern and a whore, for ever.

He had had to finish off his work outside, while I had used the bidet. Slipped on a dressing gown. Found the cash that Peter had left for me to pay him with. Gone back downstairs. By then he was clearing the last of the debris, the broken twigs with not yet half grown apples. He wheeled his barrow one last time. Came back moments later for the ladder. Came back one last time to receive his payment.

No discount offered. Of course not. But he also had not charged for extra services rendered.

"Anything else you need, just give me a call," he had said to me.

I had thanked him. Peter was right. He had done a really good job. On the apple tree, as well. Our garden was again immaculate, as neat and tidy as I kept the inside of our home. The kitchen floor, of course, was clean by then. The tiles steam cleaned. No traces of any workman having been there. No traces of him anywhere. Nowhere visible, at least.

**********

Peter reached for me, the way that I have come to know means more than just an expression of his love, before we slept. We sleep naked. Always have done. Always will, I hope. Even in old age. His hand found my breast. My nipple stub reacted to his touch. It hardened. It had been left unattended to that afternoon, and wanted now to be touched, and played with, sucked, and teased with teeth, and Peter knew exactly what it loved for him to do.

I stretched out, on my back, and let him suckle at my breast. Delicious sensations. Electric. Spasming. Running through me, breast to clit. More wetness there. He sensed it. He rarely needs to wait. Moved over me. His legs between my own. His weight on his elbows, either side of me. His cock head knowing exactly where to go to find its way within.

A husband's cock is warm and loving, and I welcomed it. I wondered, as he fucked me, if anything felt even slightly different, if he could tell that something might have happened, if he might sense a different wetness, not just a wife's secretions, but semen that still lingered, thicker and more slick, but nothing in his demeanour as he fucked me made me think that he might know. Fucked me? No. This was making love. True love.

So, there it is. My first confession. I have made love outside my marriage. Not love. Just sex. Just that. I am not proud of it. Nor am I ashamed. Not pleased with myself. But not regretful. Guilty. But not remorseful. It is a strange feeling, to have broken a vow, but to feel somehow more of a woman for having done so. More whole, if not more wholesome.

It changes nothing, yet changes everything. I still love my husband. There is no other man for me, to share my life with, to raise our children alongside, to grow old together. None of that has changed for me. Yet everything has changed. I knew that from the moment when my dress was opened. I can no longer claim to be a true and faithful wife and mother. Loving, yes. Always loving. So much so that I will never share with anyone what happened when our apple tree was pruned, or since.

**********

I wrote this several weeks ago. Just for myself. I had not yet come across Literotica. Then I did. Googling. Seeing if anyone was posting anything about how you can continue loving even after having done what I have done. So, I am risking sharing this with you. Names changed of course. Name. He's not called Peter.

I know that I will get some criticism. That's okay. I guess that I deserve it. But maybe I will get some understanding too.