I have a fantasy about a married man, Part 1.

My first foray into fiction. I hope you like it. Sincerely, Ms. Hyacinth Jones

We’d been emailing for months under a specter of anonymity, I to protect my professional persona, him his marriage. We only knew each other as Hyacinth and Apollo, except I knew what his cock looked like, thick and marvelous, and he knew my body’s curves and swells.

Though, once in a fit of emboldened activity, I sent him a photo of me with my black-painted fingertips in my open mouth, shirt hiked up, breasts exposed and half of my face cloaked in thick black frames. I was tasting my pussy in the photo that morning. He had not chosen to be so exposed.

And so it was I nervously sat in a hot little coffee shop, surrounded by college students trying to out-cool each other, looking for a man of average height, broad shoulders, and wearing cargo shorts.

I’d dressed carefully that morning. Taken care to shave my legs close and my tender labia. My pubic hair covered my mound with a faint dark blonde dusting. My dress, a kick back to the glory days of disco had slashes of color diagonal on my heavy, braless breasts with a strategically – lo, fortuitous – white stripe across my left nipple. I pulled my shoulders back as I saw a man fitting his description fill the doorway. I hoped he could see the outline of my dark nipple.

Walking towards me, this man seems to be in slow-motion. I can’t hear the indie rock anymore, only the blood roaring in my ears. I can’t seem to breathe and I think my heart may leap out of my chest.

“Hy?” the man asks, his handsome face splitting into a wide grin.

“Hi, Apollo. Yes, it’s me.”

I stand up and slide out of the booth to greet him, bending more at the waist than necessary. Flat-footed I am face to face with his lithe physique. He stoops down a little to embrace me. I can hear him inhale as his warm arms wrap clear around me forcing our pelvises to touch as we squeeze together.

I become even more breathless. His body so hard to my softness. His lean virility hard to ignore.

“Here, sit next to me,” I motion to one side of the booth. He obliges and I slide in after.

We ignore the fact that we’re in an establishment that serves food and instead share my icy water glass. Our thighs are pressed from knee to hip together, our arms cannot avoid near constant contact either as we acquaint ourselves. Skin to skin, voice to voice, eyes to eyes.

He says something about the blue of my eyes. He couldn’t tell what color they were from the picture I’d sent him all those months ago, he says. He thinks they’re beautiful. But, he adds, not as beautiful as they’ll be later. I hold his gaze. Two seconds, 5, 10. Breathe.

The fact that we are here, together, blows my fucking mind. He’s shared intimate details of his life with me over the course of our correspondence and I with him. He knows what a libertine I am and he accepts it, craves it in a partner. I know his insatiable drive to bury himself in women, to find that kernel of connection that can only be created through the most intimate act of being peeled wide open with another soul.

We talk about everything and nothing. Our dissolute lives, our reflections, the properties of good coffee, the pros and cons of cuddling, the taste of semen and pussy, the smell of redwoods.

I fight my seizures of bashfulness valiantly, but when he compliments my breasts and how he looks forward to sucking on them I am lost. I turn red and cover my face with my hands. He says it’s charming. I assure him it doesn’t feel that way.

“Let’s get out of here then,” he suggests. “My hotel isn’t far. I requested a turn-down. The mess from the orgy last night should be cleaned up by now.”

I laugh and am grateful for his deftness.

He’d walked from campus, so we jump in my car. I feel strange somehow with a car seat in the back. Mothers don’t do this kind of thing, I think for a split second, but quickly push that thought aside. That kid was made by doing just this, after all.

He jokingly bitches about the traffic in my home town, about its utter lack of logic. I giggle. I used to get lost on access roads and under-pass U-turns the entire first year I lived here. Not to mention the fact that most major streets have 3 different names and pronunciations. It’s fucking stupid. I feel more relaxed than I’d ever hoped.

In minutes we’re at the hotel. I am thrilled. There are few things I like more than going to a hotel to meet a man with the sole purpose to fuck. I feel dirty and wonderful. My pussy gets wet for moments like this the second I enter the foyer. I pulse on the elevator ride. This day was no different, except he was with me gently bumping into me or casually guiding me with a light touch to remind me viscerally of whom I was coming to meet.

He pulls out his key-card outside room 914 and as he turns down the handle he looks at me and says, “Get ready, Hy. I’m going to fuck the good girl right out of you.”

Part 2.

A 40-something single mother who writes honestly about sex, body image, D/s, relationships, her nervous tics, and how much she loves to fucking fuck. She also likes to show you her tits.

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19 thoughts on “I have a fantasy about a married man, Part 1.
  1. This is absolutely excellent. I want to just gush and blubber about how good this. I want the next part! I want it now! ~ waits patiently, but will think about bribery soon ~

  2. Ideas? I wouldn’t dare. You are writing in that sweet spot of imagination and reality. I wouldn’t break into that for the world. This is truly good writing you’ve done.

  3. Wow… so, this is remarkably good. More than remarkably, actually, but I can’t really find a word to do my opinion justice. So, I will stick with, this is REALLY FUCKING GOOD.

    And, of course, I have more than a passing interest in the second part of the story!!

  4. I am naturally suspicious of any man wearing cargo shorts. The paragraph about the car seat is perfect. I am grateful to read this and know that by now, Part 2 has been written. I shall go there forthwith, and even fifthwith.

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