The affair

Matt’s downstairs watching TV—probably some war documentary he’s snoring through more than actually watching. The kids are at a sleepover—teenage girls, hardly ever home these days. And I’m in the bath, soaking in lavender-scented bubbles, pretending to unwind.

Matt doesn’t suspect a thing.

My body’s warm. Skin flushed from the heat—but that’s not why. It’s him.

The thought of him. His hands. His mouth. the dark things he whispered just hours ago when we were together—they loop in my mind like a song I can’t turn off.

I stare at the ceiling. Steam curls around me. The guilt has softened, like everything else in the water. It doesn’t sting the way it used to.

It’s quieter now. Quieter than the need.

My phone buzzes from the towel beside the tub. I already know who it is. I don’t even need to look. But I do.

D: Still thinking about how wet you were. Want to see you tomorrow. D x

Fuck- he loves to live on the edge. What if Matt had seen that message.

My thighs tighten under the surface. I close my eyes. Bite my lip. I type back with one hand, the other drifting lazily beneath the bubbles.

Me: When?

The three dots appear immediately. He was waiting.

D: Tell Matt you’ve got coffee with the girls. I’ll book a hotel. 2 p.m.

I exhale slowly. My breath is shaky.

There it is again—that rush. The one only he gives me. The one that makes me feel wanted. Filthy. Alive.

I should say no. But I won’t. Because I’m already thinking about the way he pulls my hair. The sound he makes when he finishes. The way he says my name like it doesn’t belong to Matt anymore.

I glance at the bathroom door. It’s locked. Safe.

Not that he’d come in anyway. The passion’s faded—has been for a long time.

I type one word.

Me: Okay.

And just like that, I’m his again. Even with the wedding ring still on my finger.

Still staring at the screen, the words burn into me. Hot. Instant. Every part of me wants to drop the phone. Stop pretending. Stop hiding. But I can’t. I just can’t.

D: Are you alone?

It’s a simple question. But it spikes my pulse anyway.

He knows exactly how to make me feel seen. Like he’s in the room with me, even when he’s not. I hesitate, my finger hovering over the keyboard.

It’s always been too easy.

Too dangerously easy to talk to him like this. Texting. No voice. No face. Just words—and the promise of everything we shouldn’t be.

Me: Matt’s downstairs watching TV. The kids are at a sleepover. So… just me.

I pause.

Then add: I’m in the bath.

An invitation. Not subtle. But he doesn’t need subtle.

The three dots appear almost immediately, and I know he’s typing. I brace myself. His words are always dangerous, always set me on edge. But I can’t help wanting them, needing them.

The reply is instant.

D: Touch yourself.

A breath escapes me. Sharp. Quick.

The way he says it—it’s casual, but it’s not. It’s a signal. He’s already playing with me. And I’m already hopelessly losing.

My stomach flips. Then tightens. His command crashes into me like a wave. Simple. Direct. Loaded.

I glance toward the mirror—barely visible through the steam. my reflection hazy, distorted. I look like a stranger. But the way I’m feeling is unmistakable.

I know what he wants. I know what he’s doing. And my body—traitorous, aching—knows it too.

I grip the phone tighter. My heart pounds. But I don’t stop. Not this time.

I close my eyes and I see him. Standing over me. Eyes dark. Hands ready. Voice low and possessive.

The voice in my head—the one that whispers you’re a terrible person—has gone quiet. It always does when he’s near, even in my mind.

It doesn’t matter now. All that matters is the heat pooling between my legs, the ache that only he can make me feel.

Me: I shouldn’t…

But I already am

My message feels like a half-hearted protest, It’s weak. A lie, dressed up like a confession. but I know the truth. I want this. I want him. And even though every nerve in my body screams it’s wrong, I don’t care anymore.

D: You’ll listen to me, won’t you?

His words are soft, but there’s an undeniable power behind them. I can hear his voice in my head, the way it drops when he’s in control, when he knows I’m already his. And I am. I will do as he says.

I always do.

I swallow, mouth dry. And with a breath I don’t even feel leave me, I part my legs a little further.

The warm water stings a little against my pussy. It’s still sore from his punishing thrusts earlier today.

I want to be good for him. I want to be his. Even with Matt downstairs. Even with this ring on my hand.

So I stroke. My hand is gentle. I circle my clitoris, building a slow, steady rhythm.

D: Enjoying yourself?

Trying to type and masturbate isn’t easy, so I just reply, mmm.

D: I’m imagining you. Maybe we can recreate this tomorrow so I can watch.

I don’t rub hard. I don’t need to. I just pick up the rhythm. I set my phone down and grip the bath as I feel my body building. I can still feel the ghost of his cock inside me as my pussy grips at nothing and I climax.

Still pulsing against the water, I text again, letting him know I’ve finished. And we talk—like we weren’t together just hours ago. Like we won’t be together again soon.

Until the bath is nearly cold.

But I’m a terrible person.

Because this isn’t like the movies—where the husband’s cruel, absent, cold. And the stranger is some romantic escape from a loveless marriage and a miserable life.

No.

The truth is, I was happy. Bored—but happy. And apparently, that’s all it took…Boredom.

Matt is a good man. He’s kind. He still makes me laugh. He looks after me. He just stopped looking at me.

And I didn't mean for it to happen, but it happened anyway.

And now I’m stuck.

Because I’m in love with him—deeply—but I also love my husband. And how do you have both?

I don’t really remember when it started. Well—I can’t exactly pinpoint it.

Maybe it was a hug that lingered a little too long. A look that held for a second more than it should have. But it happened.

I remember the feelings more than the moments. Nights I lay in bed, wet and unsatisfied while my husband snored beside me. My mind would drift to him.

To the way he’d looked at me across the patio that day, beer bottle in hand, eyes tracing my neckline when he thought I wasn’t looking.

And during sex—God. To get off, I had to imagine it was him inside me. Not Matt. Not the man I’d built a life with. But his best friend.

And I am a terrible person.

Because I have no intention of stopping. No intention of being without him—But no intention of leaving Matt either.

I want both. I want the best of both worlds.