by Petula Caesar
(09/06/06)

Sylvia took the cigarette from me and inhaled thoughtfully. I watched as her full lips curled around the butt of it.

"I bet you've had a lot of affairs," she said as she blew out the smoke.

I was caught off guard. "No. Not that many."

"That's a lot when you're not supposed to have any at all."

"Whatever," I said as I took the cigarette back. I snuffed it out in the ashtray, and slid under the covers. We snuggled together spoon style. My dick realized its close proximity to her ass and awoke, peering out of its one eye at the space between the cheeks and rising up. Sensing the beginnings of my arousal, she wiggled her ass against me so that my dick conveniently nestled itself between the cheeks. I ignored my growing erection.

"I've never cheated with anyone I really cared about or grew to care about," I said, trying to continue my train of thought as my dick insistently drained the blood from my brain. "But you've become my best friend."

"Before me it was find 'em, fuck 'em, and flee huh?" She laughed, rolled over, and put a hand over my lips. Her soft breasts pressing against me undid my last bit of composure and my dick begged me to stop talking. "We don't have much more time so I suggest," she said as she grabbed my dick, "we get to the matter at hand."

She kissed me, rubbing her hand up and down my shaft as it hardened. Before I could move, she had rolled a condom on my cock and thrown a leg across me, inserting the tip of my rock hardness into her wet softness. Sylvia slid down my dick as I stared, captivated. She gripped me from the inside as she made her descent and I touched her breasts. Everything swirled away as I looked up at her, hair falling over her face and shoulders, biting her bottom lip as I made my presence felt deep in her. I watched her arch her back and I thrust upward, grabbing her hips as she squeezed and I groaned and she came, wordlessly, soundlessly, too overwhelmed for noise. Sylvia contracted and released my dick with her pussy muscles, grinding in slow circles, looking down at me with her black cherry eyes.

I watched the dark pools close as I moved more deeply into her, taking as she gave, giving as she took. We moved in complete synchronicity, up and in and out and down, repeating the age-old patterns of sex as if we had invented them. Our entire bodies pounded out our sex rhythm. These rhythms would find their way into my heartbeat, my drum solos, my footsteps and the tapping of my fingers when I was bored. Though I loved the way my dick danced to our beat, it worried me that my heart did the same.

"Honey, you're late," Bethany called out. Before I could answer she said, "Dinner's ready." I went upstairs to the bathroom and took my second shower in as many hours. I grabbed a pair of drumsticks and a drum pad and went back downstairs.

"How was work?" she asked as I entered the kitchen. Thursday was her day off and she always had dinner ready when I got home on that night. Bethany was very proud of that.

"Work was work," I said simply.

"What's wrong, Sam?"

"I'm okay, just hungry. Dinner smells great," I added, hoping to end the subtle interrogation. I watched as she went to the stove and piled several golden brown pieces of chicken onto a platter. I took the drumsticks out of my pocket and placed the pad next to the salt-and-pepper shakers. She frowned. She hated it when I brought my music to the dinner table.

I thought to myself again how desperately I wanted to take a sabbatical from the college to pursue my music. Teaching music history, notation and theory was becoming frustrating for me. I wanted to concentrate on my own compositions. Bethany had a fit when I re-joined the band last year, and always complained when I stayed out late playing, even though I always invited her to join me. She was even angrier when I left town from time to time for jobs or backed up local artists -- especially the female ones. I sat down and began drumming.

"The only thing wrong...with my job...is that it is not...what I want right now," I said in time with my playing. I brought my face down closer to the tips of the sticks, watching them. I was interrupted by the loud bang of the platter on the table. I looked up, and she glowered at me for a long moment. She went back to the stove, picking up a serving bowl on the way, and heaped green beans into it.

"Sam," my wife said, "we've discussed this. I never minded the music when you were teaching. You said you were happy with the teaching, remember? But what responsible adult man goes out and joins a band? And goes around playing 'gigs'?"

She spat the word 'gigs' out of her mouth as if it were a bug that had flown into it. I stopped moving the sticks as she walked back to the table and sat the bowl down. When she walked away, I started beating out a simple four count. I thought back to my first date with Sylvia.

A new bar had opened up near campus. I often stopped there after work because the place was still new enough to be generous with the alcohol. One night she was there, a long sweater dress clinging to the curves of her body. She got up to go to the ladies room and my eyes followed her. I stared at the bathroom door until she came out, and she was startled to find me staring at her. I sent over a drink to apologize and she asked me to join her. We had a long talk about the book she was reading, which turned out to be one she had written.

I impulsively asked Sylvia to dinner to congratulate her, and we ended up at a small restaurant nearby. She ordered honey roasted chicken, saffron rice, and string beans with almonds. When the waiter brought her food out, I remarked on how wonderful the vegetable dish looked, and she raised her fork, dipped it into the beans, and raised the forkful to my mouth, with one hand underneath to catch any that fell. I was taken aback for a moment, touched that she didn't mind sharing her food with me. She raised the fork again and smiled, nodded to encourage me and I moved my head closer to the fork as she moved the fork towards my mouth. We met exactly halfway, and Sylvia fed me the string beans. I looked into her smoky eyes as she smiled back at me saying, "good huh?" I knew right then I had to leave her alone. She gave me her phone number when I asked, but I didn't call her. I read her book instead, and to top it all off, she was a talented writer with a strong, unique voice.

I returned to the present conversation. "Look Bethany," I began. "My playing doesn't take money out of our house or food off our table. It doesn't keep us from paying the mortgage or the utility bill. Soul Dreams is getting booked regularly. And you met me at a club playing the drums back when you liked my band, remember?"

We'd been having this disagreement for a long time, but it had escalated recently because the college's new president had taken a liking to me and wanted me to become a full-time professor. The director of the music department's retirement was approaching, and the president along with several deans were willing to help me advance my career in that direction, starting with a promotion from my adjunct status that would position me for the directorship. I was grateful for his confidence in me, but I didn't want to do it.

"Yes. The bills get paid, Sam," Bethany said with a huge sigh.

"Then what?" I asked. "Are you going to tell me what the problem really is?"

Bethany continued to move around the kitchen. "Eat before the food gets cold."

I gave up. I paused to switch gears and asked, "How was your day today?" I hoped she'd allow me to change the subject.

As she talked, I thought back to our second date when I told Sylvia I was married.

"Married huh," she said over the strawberry cheesecake and coffee.

"Yes," I replied.

"Figures. The good ones always are. Married, I mean."

"To me it seems like the good ones are always single."

"I'm good to you because I'm not your wife."

"You're good to me because you're you." I stared into her eyes. It was hard to tell what was going on in her mind by looking into them. They were darkly secretive, revealing nothing.

"It's such a shame. I really liked you, you know," Sylvia said. I was scared to ask what that meant, but she continued before I could. "What do you want from me now? You've told me you're married. Did you tell me to explain why we can't see each other, or to explain why you want to keep seeing me, but will be limited in your capacity to do that?"

I began to think. She waited as I did, and I started at the beginning.

"I met my wife nine years ago. Bethany was finishing grad school. I was working on the master's. I was teaching music at a high school, and was in the band. She came every night wherever we played. She was different from other women...mature, accomplished. I was less of those things, but she loved me anyway. We got married. I quit the band, and took a job as an adjunct professor at the college, but it was never my intention to stop pursuing my own music. I just wanted to get us stable first. Bethany wanted me to give up playing, and I felt betrayed. I've been doing more to pursue my music the past couple of years, and she hates it. Have we tried talking about it? She doesn't think there's anything to discuss...I'm being silly and if she just keeps being a good wife, it'll pass."

Sylvia chewed thoughtfully on a strawberry.

I went on. "She makes me feel bad for being who I am. For wanting what I want. I feel stupid for still wanting to play the drums...for still wanting to make music. It's not that I don't want the life we have. But she got everything she dreamed about...all I got was...was..."

"Her?" It was a question. "All you got was her?"

It fell out of me. "All I got was her. I feel like it was part of my responsibility to make her dreams come true. But she doesn't feel that way about my dreams. And it's hard to be with someone who doesn't believe in your dreams."

I felt anger flare up in me, and it made me uncomfortable. "I told her I would love her, take care of her, be there for her, and I've done that. Why can't I still have a little of what I want?"

Sylvia silently surveyed my face, studying the creases and lines that my anger was creating. Then she reached into her wallet, threw three twenty-dollar bills on the table, took me by the hand and said, "Let's go."

Thirty-five minutes later, we were partially clothed in her bedroom, panting as we braced our weight against her bedroom wall, a used condom lying on the floor. We took off our remaining clothing, trying to catch our breath. I kissed her for the first time. We fell into bed, tired and content. And after a long spell of kisses to make up for the ones we'd skipped earlier, I slid my tongue down her scented flesh to suck and bite her nipples, to lick her ribs and navel, and to reverently plant kisses on her clit as if I was kissing the ring of a Mafia Don. My tongue slid across the smooth flesh of her pussy like a swan gliding across a deserted lake. The taste of her waters quenched a thirst in me I hadn't acknowledged until that night.

That seems like a lifetime ago, though it has only been a little over a year. Having Sylvia made me feel like a selfish bastard, but I didn't know what to do or how to handle it. The only thing I knew was that I had to keep fucking her. Stopping just wasn't an option.

I sometimes had to fuck Bethany too, usually on nights when we had argued like tonight. "Never go to bed angry," was my wife's marital mantra, and Bethany took it seriously. It was never the hot passionate make-up sex of our dating days, and I genuinely disliked it. I wished she would just be honest and stay mad at me if she wanted to or needed to. Of course, if I had been with Sylvia that day it was difficult to participate, so sometimes I would resort to pretending to be asleep to avoid my wife. But I wasn't always successful with that, and I didn't have the balls to just leave our marital bed completely. It was just easier to have lousy sex with my wife once in a blue moon.

Usually, I tried to move through the act quickly without her noticing I was doing just that. I knew what made her body respond. I vigorously fucked her until she had two orgasms, and I always knew she had them because she announced them with an "oh yeah." Then I would release myself into her, lie on top of her, count to twenty, roll off her and stretch my arm out so she could snuggle in the crook of it.

Tonight, I managed to turn in before her, so the charade wasn't necessary.

I was in the midst of dreaming about a rainbow with a huge pussy at its end when she woke me at 3:16 a.m.

"Make love to me the way you make love to her," she said.

I couldn't have heard her correctly. Even if I did, I didn't trust myself to respond.

She continued. "Call me by her name if you want."

I sat up cautiously.

"Please Sam. Do it. Pretend I'm..." she swallowed hard, trying to make the words form themselves on her lips.

I spoke before my silence condemned me. "What do you mean?"

"I want the part of you that I never get to see because I'm me, because we've been together so long, because I worry about our future, because I want us to be reasonable and responsible, because I like the missionary position, because you feel like you owe me. I know your path in life would have been so different if you hadn't married me. But we're married now, and I don't want you to go down that other path because I can't go with you. It's not who I am. I thought having us would make you forget that other road. But you just can't help looking, can you?"

The silence was full of daggers. "Is it so wrong to look?" I asked. But we both knew I was doing more than looking.

Bethany repeated, "Pretend I'm her."

I got out of bed and walked over to the window. I looked down at the frostbitten garden. I rested my warm forehead against the windowpane. I was exhausted. The burden was too heavy to carry a moment longer.

"I'm sorry," I blurted out.

"I know."

"Am I really...worth all that...to you?"

In a heavy, pained voice Bethany said into the darkness, "Yes, you are. What I want most is to be your wife, no matter what it takes. You can't have everything in life, Sam. You have to make choices. Sometimes you have to give up some of the things you want to keep some of the things you've got."

I stood for the longest time. I finally said, "Take off your nightgown." I felt like shit. And I felt strangely free. By the time I walked back over to the bed, she was undressed. I raised the covers high to expose her. Though we'd been together for years and it was dark, Bethany tried to cover herself. I reached down to her pussy, brushing a hand against her curly hairs. Sylvia was always bald there. I moved my hand away, got in bed, and covered us up.

I put my arms around her. I inhaled deeply, using my imagination to fill my nose with the scent of the woman who was in my head, not my bed. I reached down behind Bethany and squeezed her ass. She flinched at first, not used to me touching her that way. Her ass felt good in my hands. Her body was still sexy. I squeezed her ass again, more gently. I felt my wife soften against my shoulders and when I squeezed the third time, I allowed my index finger to find her pussy's lips. They were wet.

By now Sylvia would be touching me. I whispered into my wife's ear, "Grab my penis, and stroke it." Bethany paused, and then did as I asked.

"Harder," I commanded. "Jerk it and squeeze while you do." And she did. I kissed her, inserting my tongue into her mouth, and she flinched again. It was something else I hadn't done for a long time. Trying to be less abrupt, I kissed her more tenderly. She was still touching my dick in a familiar way, and I said, "Oh Sylvia, that feels so good."

Without skipping a beat Bethany responded, "It feels good to me too, Sam. Don't stop. Kiss me Sam. All over."

I climbed on top of her, lying between her legs. I kissed each of her breasts, not like I did when she was Bethany. Now my kisses were long and lingering, and she squirmed delightedly. I was surprised at how easily she had slipped into the role. I began fingering her pussy, which was moister than it had been in ages. I eased a finger inside, just at the entrance to make sure I was welcome, and her pussy all but dragged me in.

Finger fucking her, licking her pretty breasts -- I had forgotten how pretty they were -- kissing her, biting her as my finger was inside her, all seemed to be making her crazy. I put a second finger in her to join the first, and she cried out and lo and behold, arched her back.

"Oh Sam, yes," she said as she turned over, pressing her ass against my face, lying flat on the bed. How did she know?

Bethany's ass was beautifully round, curving up and out from her smooth back, a perfect crescent shape. Hoping that she was enjoying this at least a little, I knelt behind her, grabbed her hips, and with my weight fully pressing on her as I went, I entered her forcefully from behind, not stopping until I was fully inside her with my balls slapping against her pussy lips. I positioned my legs outside hers and felt myself grow harder as her slick path parted for me. I felt the orgasm flood her insides once my shaft fully penetrated her. But this time my wife came without a single noise, just a silent shuddering that turned me on so much I began pounding away. She found the rhythm and joined in. It was the forceful pounding of jungle drums. I couldn't wait to eat her pussy and taste both of us when we were done.

I felt bad, and oh so good.

I am now a full-time music professor. I quit the band. I expect to be the director of the music department in the next four years. Bethany allows me to pretend she is Sylvia in bed from time to time. I still see Sylvia occasionally, often enough to sustain me. It is still an intense experience. My mistress has written her second book to great critical acclaim, and in spite of her busy schedule, she makes time for me. She thrills me just as much as she did that first night. Every time I kneel between her beautiful legs and kiss her pouting clit, I thank God that I have her. Because of her my life is bearable, is livable. My wife is the picture in my life, but Sylvia is the frame. It is all about choice. You give up what you expect and deal with what you get, because in life you can't have everything.

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