Confession - Basic Instinct

This time, last night, had been premeditated. Right from when Peter had told me that he and his friends were thinking of a trip to Wales to play some golf, and he would miss our Friday date night, and he hoped I did not mind. Immediately my brain had thought that here was an opportunity to stray. A part of it at least. Not all. The darker part, not the loving part that fought that instinct, but failed to defeat it.

Even before then, I had tossed around the thought of doing it one more time. How, when, where and with whom, had been unsolved conundrums. Suburban family life leaves a wife and mother little time to seek out a stranger, so it had not happened. Just fantasy, whilst cleaning, shopping, cooking meals, and so often, guiltily, while Peter fucked me, I would be picturing not him, but someone other, fucking me instead.

Then with Peter's trip entered on our kitchen calendar, I had invented going out with Martha. Had left the boys with my mother, and driven to the Hilton, still nervous, still uncertain, but still sitting there, remembering that film, and so casually opening my legs.

Guilty. No question. Guilty of betrayal. Of compromising love. Of deception. Of infidelity, of adultery, no less. Grounds for divorce. For breaking up our family. So much put at risk, at the unholy altar of desire.

Peter was still holding my calves, but his hand worked their way closer to my bent knees, onto the under sides of my thighs, raising them further, until my feet were pointed to our ceiling, then pressing down, folding me, knees to my chest, to either side of my breasts, my shoulders, because he knew he could.

Pilates. Monday mornings at the studio. Five days a week at home. I felt good from all the stretches, and Peter liked me flexible. His body weight, the strength in his arms, held me like that, my cunt raised. Not just my cunt. My star.

Arms stretched out to hold me there, he licked me. Between my star and where my slit was wet for him. I shuddered with the beauty of forbidden sensation. Then he tongue touched the dark star itself, around the edges, probing the sensitivity of that illicit anal flesh.

I had been folded in two like this last night. Not by hands pushing on my thighs, but by black complexioned shoulders, leaning on my legs, my cunt filled with cock, his buttocks moving so exquisitely, the cock head withdrawing to my cunt's maw, then sinking deep again.

Peter should not be licking where that cock had been. And yet I loved his tongue. I ached for it. He reamed my star, and my cunt longed for him to lick me there. His tongue lapped at my clit, and my star yearned for its return. My entire body craved this intimate attention, ravenous for him. My appetite as great as his for me.

Even my breasts longed for their turn. Envious of my cunt and star, they throbbed with their longing to be caressed and licked and lapped and sucked. My teats were pining for his hands, or fingers, mouth, tongue, teeth.

They say that children numb you. That infant gums sucking, biting down, will deaden the sensations. Not in my case. Like other mothers, my nipple stubs have grown in size from suckling, and are now eraser thick, and show beneath whatever I am wearing, but they have lost nothing of their responsivity to stimulation. The nerve endings residing there remain as sensitive as ever.

He moved up my folded body, kissing my stomach, the fullness of my breasts, mouthing my nipples, biting them, knowing that I love that feeling, that although I may be already wet, that playing with my nipple stubs will always make my cunt secrete yet more exquisite, lubricating nectar.

His shoulder held me now. Pinned me to the mattress. He moved further. Kissed my neck, my chin, my mouth. I kissed him back. Tasted him. Fresh mint. The same as mine. We share so much. Our home, our children, our friends, our toothpaste, even.

Our tongues played tussling games together. His delved within the same mouth that I had opened wide to suck on strong and rigid, jet black cock.

Thick, firm shaft, broad head, wide flange, the eye already open, the stranger's cock not mythically huge, but as generous in proportions as my husband's, tasting of pre-cum from that eye, his hands on my head as I licked at him, and took him in my mouth.

Now my husband's tongue exploring where that cock had been. Could the taste of Ghanian pre-cum still be lingering there, a whole day later?

No word spoken, just a label, on a case, three letters, 'ACC', an airport that later I had googled. Accra. Ghana. Three thousand miles away. That thickness of Ghanian flesh had flown that way to lodge itself in me, to spew its dark Ghanian semen in my white English womb.

Men are aroused by sight, by what is visual, printed, or onscreen. Women fantasise internally. No need for photographs of film. The knowledge that my mouth had been around a stranger's cock the night before, and now was being kissed and probed, caused sexual synapses to explode inside my head.

Guilt and shame dissolved in a sea of craving, an ocean of carnality. Instead, I revelled in my sexuality, and in thinking of the men whose cocks had desecrated and defiled me, and my cunt prepared to take my husband's cock within, to cherish it, to possess it, to clench itself around its shaft and hold it hungrily.

No word spoken. Not in the bar. Not in his bedroom.

He had simply reached inside his jacket, to his pocket, for a pen. Tortoiseshell and gold. A click to operate the ball point mechanism. A paper napkin. A number written. A room. Left on the table, midway between his glass and mine.

Five minutes later, he had eased himself from the sofa he had used while he was talking to whoever about the business he was here for. He had walked from the table we had, as strangers, shared. Large, almost lumbering. A bigger man than Peter. Not fitter. Not my type. But still I watched him walking to the bank of elevator doors.

I should, of course, have left. Except the prefrontal cortex of my female brain had ceased activity. My hypothalmus, what they call the lizard brain, was uppermost, and I was following its basal needs. Its cravings.

I had already displayed myself to him, imitating the primordial mating rituals of so many mammals. Not consciously offering myself, but still, some instinct leading me to part my legs, and let him view my mons, my slit, my throbbing, cheating, double-crossing cunt.

Unthinking, I had reached for the napkin, turned it, read the number he had written there, and thought. Not with my brain. Nor with my heart.My hypothalmus, thinking for me. Deciding. Making my limbs move. My legs uncrossing. Taking my weight and straightening. My hand reaching for my jacket. On autopilot, walking to the elevator bank. Using my finger to tell it I was waiting. Entering. Selecting the floor. Exiting on arrival there. Finding the right door, the number he had written down for me. Knocking.

The kiss that Peter gave me was long and lingering, but he finally broke it off and moved on up my body. I know his neck so well. Strong, clean shaven, his adam's apple dominant. The skin there, creased a little, as mine will be sometime. I am so used to seeing it above me, while he fucks me, or makes tender love.

Then his cock. No need for guidance. It knows its way, and I am wet for it, just as I was wet the night before. Not face to face with the Ghanian man, as I was now with Peter. Kneeling, on the Hilton bedroom floor, my torso resting on the bed that he would sleep on, later, when he had made me come, and come himself, and I had gone.

My mind's eye saw the contrast in our colours that my own eyes, looking forwards, could not see. Black flesh opening from behind, the pink interior of the cunt I offered him, my butt flesh white as white can be, his black hands holding me. The rod that I had sucked on greedily, now skewering so easily, my wetness coating the dark head and shaft so that it effortlessly slid deep until, just as my husband's always does, it pressed against my womb.

Peter's cock slid just as deep. Felt just as wonderful. What made me stray, when I have him? That question lies unanswered. A need, so dark and deep and dangerous that I dare not try to understand its origin.

Perhaps, millennia ago, such needs made women seek out men, to find the strongest, best, most worthy, so that it would be their sperm that would spark new life and grow inside and propagate our planet.

Perhaps, in spite of all that makes us civilised and modern, our schools and universities and industry and commerce and law abiding citizenship, that primal, basic instinct still resides in each of us. It lingers, dormant, only to awaken when it senses a prospective mate.

Peter fucking me reminded me that this is what my life is really all about. My marriage and my family, our home, our bed, our lovingness together. Not those others, of whom I am somehow both ashamed and proud, those contradictory feelings jostling for prominence within my conscience when I reflect on what I have done with those two men.

I wrapped my legs around him, my husband, glorying in the way he fucked my cunt, yet remembering that other cock, the man from Ghana. I had loved the way he fucked me, thrusting so exquisitely, so deep, so masterly, right to the moment when he finally came.

Hands on my waist, he pulled me towards him with each and every thrust again. His groin slamming into me, my butt flesh. Ramming me against the bottom of his bed. His cock head sliding so relentlessly. Not gentle, this man. Hard fucking. Not loving. I was nothing more than to him than a convenient fuck thing, a woman he could use for pleasure, and then throw away.

Yet that unremitting, aggressive fucking filled a need in me. Not to be loved, or cherished, or valued, but to be treated as the slut, the whore, the slag, that somewhere, deep within, I know I am. Not a milf, or hot-wife, which suggest an honest lifestyle choice. This need is much more basic, primitive, crude, and unrefined.

With Peter, even when he fucks me just as hard and fast and unremittingly, still it is our making love together. I let him fuck me out of love, commitment, vows made to care for him for ever, my body given freely to him, his in perpetuity.

That night, I gave my body to a stranger. I let him fuck me solely out of lust and longing, because of that craving need within, that drove me forty minutes from my home to where unknown men would be all too willing to satiate that need for me. No love, none other than my cunt's love for the cock that fucked me.

My head now turned sideways on the bedding, his hand visible where he held my waist, his body rising behind me, moving with instinctive rhythm, his face not visible, but I could see the colour of the skin, his fingers, arms and shoulder.

It should not matter. Not today. Not in the twenty-first century, when all men are equal. Women too. But I could not prevent that thought of black and white together, of ebony flesh inside me, riding me, pummelling, pounding, battering my all too willing cunt.

He knew to reach beneath me. Fucked me one handed, that hand now on my back, keeping my body still, the other reaching round my pelvic girdle, beneath my belly, finding the exuded wetness of my cunt, and fingering the sweet nub of joy that God gave women, strumming it the way the gardener had that other day.

I came. Of course I came. A stranger fucking me, black flesh enjoying mine, the stimulation of that cock and shaft rhythmically propelled inside me, his incessant fingering of my clit. Of course I came. It just exploded. The orgasm earthquaked from my cunt and clit and ravaged me.

My body jerked and squirmed and shuddered, my arms scrabbling at the bedding, my head denying it was happening, my heart pumping, my breath gasping, while I heard my own whimpers, cries and moans go on and on.

Not that it made my assailant slow his thrusting, not for the briefest moment. As with the gardener, there was no reprieve. Pleasure can be so beautiful, but it can also rise to such a level of intensity that it becomes unbearable, even in the throes of orgasmic bliss.

My body was convulsed so uncontrollably, spasming so intensely, it overwhelmed me. His fucking became frenzied, the hard rod driving repeatedly, giving no mercy. I heard a wailing, knew that it was coming from my own gaping mouth. I bucked and screamed and then I felt the bliss of semen, sensed it firing through the shaft as it stopped moving in me, just stayed deep, and spewed strong jets deep within my ravenous cunt.

Peter fucked me beautifully. More gently, lovingly, drawing me to a wonderful, soft orgasm, before releasing his own semen into the womb that had betrayed him. Another form of bliss, more meaningful because I knew he loved me, his body covering, shielding mine, securing it beneath him, yet bestowing security, the safe haven of his strength and dominance, his masculinity.

In that moment, as he came, I felt such remorse for my disloyalty, unfaithfullness, duplicity. I wished I could have altered time, erased those moments, deleted both those men, all memory. Yet what is done can never be rewritten.

I almost told him then.

Almost. But, no. Like so many other women, I held back, kept it from him, in my own way to shield and protect him from the pain and hurt that it would inevitably cause. I would stay quiet. Keep it inside me.

**********

"Do you want jam or peanut butter?" I asked the boys.

Breakfast on that Sunday morning. Good to be what I believe I really am again, a loving mother to my children, a good wife to my husband, or almost good, in every way but one.

Besides, beneath my dress and chequered apron, my groin was warm with satisfaction. My cunt was tingling. It was nicely sated from those two nights, the Friday at the Hilton and the night before, at home.

I had fucked a man from Ghana, it was telling me. I had really fucked him. Let him use me. Let him come inside me. Some of him was still there, some residue. I would carry it around with me, his sperm still living, exploring, hoping, lashing their tiny tails, a thought that made me smile.

Peter's as well, competing sperm, mixing and mingling. Another thought. Another inward smile. Were those tiny head and tails the respective colours of the men emitting them? Black and white shoals interweaving together?

"Something amusing?" Peter asked me.

"Nothing," I said, then went to him, reached with both arms round the strong thickness of his neck, and raised my mouth to him.

"I love you," I said.

He bent his head and kissed me.

"I love you more," he said.

I made a silent promise, to myself, to him. Never again. Not ever. Never.