London

The next day, I blew off my research and stayed with Sandra. We fucked like rabbits. Two decades of marital fidelity gone out the window, I was a madman, a fucking machine possessed by the devil. I took her first thing in the morning on the bed. On the living room couch after breakfast. In my favorite position, I fucked her before lunch from the back with her spread eagle against the hotel room window - exposed for all who might look. I fucked her for hours. Each time, as soon as I was hard we fucked some more.

By the afternoon, she was dripping a copious mix of her own and my fluids on an almost continuous basis. Rising to the opportunity one final time, I spread the combination of our cum around her asshole and on my cock and, before she realized it, entered her backdoor. Anal sex is supposed to painful for the woman. But in this case, she was so well fucked and relaxed, and so well lubricated with natural fluids, that I slipped right in, gliding past her protective sphincter. Her eyes opened wide, she groaned, and then slipped once again into oblivion as I fucked her tight asshole. Drained, my balls had little to give. Nonetheless, the sensation of fucking her in the ass was amazing. Squeezed tight, I came again - not flooding her insides, but giving myself a quite satisfactory climax. Both of us were finally spent.

...

Soon after, laying splayed on the bed, guilt began to set in. I realized that I did not much care about Sandra - nor she me. We had used each other for our pleasure, but there was no deep or abiding affection. Her orgasms mattered to me not because they pleased her, but because they were personal victories for me, demonstrating that I could make this beautiful creature cum through the power of my cock. When she came, I felt like the alpha male gorilla, pounding his chest to declare he is king of the jungle. Whether she enjoyed it or not, wasn't really important to me beyond my own sense of triumph.

As I understood this, I equally understood that she felt the same way. She was not here for love, but release. My orgasms didn't give her pleasure, they were just intermissions until I could recover and start anew. Her aim was not to please me, but to use me for her own ends. I can't say that I minded, but it was still a cold realization.

By late afternoon, exhausted, we parted as lovers, but not friends. "Look me up next time you're in town," she said as I opened the door to exit her suite. I think we both knew that I would not.

...

The next morning, I purposely delayed breakfast, even though it risked making me late for my morning meeting. Fortunately, when I finally went down, Sandra was nowhere to be seen. Pushing hard to make up for lost time and to finish up my work that day, I called the airline and moved up my flight to later that evening. Elite status can occasionally be a beneficial thing.

At Heathrow late that night, I boarded the plane for home. I must admit that I did feel guilty about the torrid if brief affair with Sandra. As I thought about it, however, I managed to convince myself that I had done nothing wrong. When traveling, one can be - perhaps should be - a tourist. Visiting London doesn't mean I want to live there. Enjoying a different cuisine doesn't mean that I want to eat it every day. Fucking Sandra does not mean I want to leave my wife. One can visit, without altering the reality and allure of home. Sure, this was all ex post rationalization, explaining to myself that I am still a decent person though I had strayed far. Nearly 20 hours later, I walked in my front door and hugged my wife tightly.