My reflection in the mirror didn’t look wicked, slightly flushed, more than a little pleased with herself, but not wicked.
“Yet I am wicked” I thought, “after twelve years of faithful marriage and progressively less interesting sex, I’ve had an affair, well at least a fuck.”
My “lover”, delicious word, was sleeping. I’d tired him out, poor thing.
The sex had not been bad, thanks to his wonderfully talented tongue. His enthusiasm was great for the ego.
No wonder I had that just-fucked glow. I hadn’t felt so alive in years. I knew I would do it again, and soon.