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After I catch my husband cheating, I just want to press the reset button on my entire life. If that means I’ve got to suffer for a few months under the controlling thumb of my family while I get my affairs in order, so be it.
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My fingernails claw at the wooden wall in the cramped confessional no bigger than a closet. It smells like mint and old people, and now sex. In the belfry, the church bells trill, masking the sound of the squeaky bench as our bodies rock together in a rhythm that pushes him deep into me at all the right angles. Our slick wet skin squelches together, the sound filling the little booth. He leans me over, my face against the grate, a waffle shape pushed into my skin from the partition. If a priest were to open up the slider, he’d get an eyeful of my bouncing breasts.
The bells stop and laughter rings out in the distance, happy sounds of the Easter Sunday festivities. I should feel guilty. I should repent. But all I feel right now is pure lust.
He takes me by the shoulders and forces me to sit on his lap, facing away from him. I ride him hard. He grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls my head back to bite my neck. I want to scream with pleasure, but that laughter in the distance reminds me that if we’re caught, I’m screwed—and not in the good way.
I clamp my bottom lip between my teeth to keep quiet as he reaches his hand around to rub my clit. He takes turns stroking and pinching and pulling until I see stars flash behind my eyelids. With each flick to my clit, he takes me closer to the edge. By the pressure building up inside of me, I can tell this won’t be a quiet orgasm. Not even close. I should tell him to stop, but I can’t. Everything he’s doing to me feels far too good to stop him now. It’s been so long since I’ve had an orgasm that wasn’t self-inflicted. I need to see this to the end.
He puts his palm against my back, pushing me even further forward until my hands are touching the ground and I’m folded in half like origami. He lets out a deep, aroused sound and spanks my ass, hard. Hard enough to leave a mark. Hard enough to almost make me cum instantly.
“Fuck yes,” I say, feeling especially dirty when the words fill the small confessional booth. How many Hail Marys will I have to say to get forgiveness for this moment in church? I imagine it might take the rest of my life to get through them all. Is it worth it?
He pulls me up by my hair again and pushes me flat against the wall. His groin smashes against my ass with each thrust, causing our skin to slap together like applause.
He bites my earlobe and breathes the words, “Your tight pussy feels go good around my cock.”
He starts to play with my clit again and my body goes rigid and there’s a quivering that starts in the pit of my stomach and builds pressure, radiating throughout the rest of my body. I feel everything and nothing at all as every nerve ending starts to snap and pop with electricity.
“Oh, fuck,” I say as my first orgasm rushes toward me.
He continues to slam into me, beating my body against the wall. And all the while he’s wildly fucking me, and after my father’s warning not to sin this day, all I can think is how did this happen? That is until my orgasm explodes from of me, and then I’m thinking about nothing at all.
Three Days Ago
I rush up the stairs of Birdie Matheson’s house, my high heels clicking on the ground in a rushed staccato. More like a mansion, if I’m being real. Anyone who lives in this part of town has a minimum of five thousand square feet, and those are usually reserved for their pool houses.
They are all part of my mother’s high-society book club. I love books, and at first I was excited to join the club and talk about characters and the shared stories we love, but once I actually joined, I realized the club was nothing like I was expecting. It was no different from all the other socialite clubs they attend. See and be seen. These people, with their exotic cars and fancy homes, their yachts and seersucker and Fendi bags, are bloated with money and like to rub it in the faces of everyone they come across. It’s a big game of one-up. Who has more money, who has more toys. Whose kid goes to the best college. That seems to be the favorite. My poor mother would love to play that particular game with her friends, but when I married, my husband decided college was out of the question for me and so my parents chose to brag about my husband instead.
It’s not the books these people love, but the excuse to gather and brag about all the new things they have. I hate them all. Mostly because I used to try and be just like them before my husband divorced me a month ago. This was my parents’ world growing up. This is the world I was born into and eventually married into. This is the world I will run away from as soon as I get the chance.