My wife works for a university with a large and well-known art program. She helps students find representation, learn how to advertise themselves, and tries to prepare them for the business side of the art world. She also helps organize the many shows, gallery openings and exhibitions for the college, which means that I am forever getting dragged to an endless series of the horrible things.

Don't get me wrong – I love art and I love my wife – it's just that these shows get – what's the word? Tedious. The awkward re-introductions and clammy handshakes with people you've met a half dozen times before; the same, recycled jokes and inevitable comments about the weather; the warm, almost flat champagne in paper cups; and the constant hum and buzz of college students excited to show off their oh-so-edgy art to friends, families, and agents.

To help me get through these boring affairs, I invented a little game to keep my mind occupied. I'd find the cutest, most intriguing young college girl and make her my fantasy tryst for the night. I'd watch as she'd laugh with her friends, or pose for a picture with the lumpy model from her painting. I'd imagine that we were involved in a very exciting – and very secret – affair, and that we had to pretend not to know each other. Every accidental glance in my direction was, in my head, a coy and knowing communication. Every subtle gesture, every flip of the hair, was meant to attract my attention. Every glance at her phone was a hope to find a message from me.

By the time I was driving home with my wife, I'd have a carefully constructed personality, complete with favorite colors and animals, ticklish spots and preferred sexual positions. I'd work through an extremely detailed post-event rendezvous, where we'd be free to finally tear each others' clothes off and ravish each other. And by morning, my mini-affair would be over, only to be replaced by another at the next event. It was always just one girl, never the same one twice. I never spoke or approached, never allowed more than a moment's eye contact. I never would've acted on such a fantasy. It was all just to endure.

At one such event towards the end of spring semester a couple of years ago, my private little game got me into what ended up being a whole lot of trouble. The handshakes and small talk part of the evening was over – or at least at an intermission – and I was wandering the gallery with my third cup of warm champagne, eyeing student art and, well, students. I noticed a few very attractive girls, but they seemed boring, empty, completely uninteresting. Until my eyes landed on a pretty redhead joking around with her friends. She was slender and pale, with those high, freckled cheekbones and bright blue eyes that redheads so often have. The pale blue sundress she wore flicked and fluttered around as she gestured, and her smile was warm, casual, and very frequent. I had just found my affaire de la soirée.

I kept a close eye on her as she danced around the room, giving out hugs and congratulations. I imagined she was the youngest of three from somewhere out of state – Oklahoma, I decided. She liked Thai food, but was absolutely terrible with chopsticks. She had a boyfriend back home, but the demands (and temptations) of college life had led to their breakup just two months ago.

I had just worked out those details when her blue eyes landed directly on mine as if she knew I was thinking about her. She held my gaze. I spun around a bit awkwardly and way too quickly, almost spilling my dreadful champagne. Shit, I thought. My game had been interrupted and I had made a fool of myself. I was going to have to pick another girl.

I pretended to study a nearby painting. The painting actually wasn't too bad. It was a stylized portrait of a woman, nude, turned to the side, painted in burnished gold hues and earthy reds and browns on a rough piece of wood. The artist had accentuated the grains in the wood by painting along them, swirling around the knots and holes in the wood to create a whirling river like background. It was... decent. More than decent, it was actually really good for student work.

"Do you like it?"

I turned to face my redhead. I cleared my throat a little too loudly and stammered out that I did. "It's quite good. I like the use of found wood, and especially what the artist did with it." I was staring at the freckles on her cheekbones. "Um, is it yours?"

"Yep," she replied with that serene smile. "It's the first time I've tried something like this. Wasn't sure how it would come out."

I was just beginning to realize that the naked woman in burnished golds and earthy reds was the girl standing in front of me. If I wasn't careful, I was going to have to go to some lengths to hide my erection. "Seriously, it's one of the better pieces I've seen at any of these shows. And I come to a lot of these shows. You would not believe the number of lumpy nudes I've seen!"

She laughed. "That's because lumpy nudes are the most fun to draw! Do you work for the university?"

"No, but my wife does. That's her over there, schmoozing with some university donors, no doubt."

"So are you an artist, then?"

"God, no. I write books. Dry, scholarly stuff. Nothing artistic about it."

"So just a connoisseur of fine, student artwork, then." She had a funny, sharp way of talking that perfectly matched her sparkling eyes. She turned back to her painting. "So, what do you think it means? Tell me about this piece. Pretend it's not mine and that you won't break my heart if you don't only say nice things."

"Well, let's see..." I pretended to take a sip from my very empty champagne cup. "The way the figure is standing, off to the side and turned a little, says to me that she feels a bit... detached, or different. But she's not lonely. In fact, she looks quite comfortable being who she is."

I leaned in closer to the painting. "Her face – which is absolutely beautiful – shows how perfectly calm she is in the midst of everything swirling around her. She's not afraid. In fact, she looks happy, calm." I paused, my face very close to the face in the painting. "She's a beautiful soul. I mean, she's captured me. I feel like I'd do anything for her."

There was a blissful moment when we seemed to be the only two people in the gallery. I turned and found her with a flush on her face. Her lips had lowered into a subtly playful half-smile. "Are we still talking about art?" she asked quietly.

I knew this was a moment – one of those terrifying moments when things go completely, dreadfully wrong. Or, on rare occasions, really well. I looked down into her eyes and let go of my nervousness, my awkwardness, my careful social distance. I let her see that I wanted her. "Definitely."

She let out a slow breath before the mischief returned to her eyes. "C'mon, I have an idea." She headed off, weaving easily through the crowd. I glanced behind at my wife, happily chatting away, before going after her.

I followed her to the back of the gallery, where she turned a corner and led me to a door. She looked back over her shoulder at me, eyes large and questioning. I gave her a slight nod to show her I was game, and she ducked quickly inside. I waited a couple of moments, looked around to make sure no one was watching, and followed her in.

I fumbled for a light switch and revealed what was basically a storage closet, albeit a large one. Off to one side was a work table with pieces of frame and bits of wire. On the shelves all around were cans and tubes of paint, tools, and broken bits of what must have been incredibly bad sculptures. And at the far end, my redhead was against the wall, half leaning, hands clasped behind her back.

The little blue sundress looked so small, so thin, hanging from her freckled shoulders by the thinnest of straps. The serenity in her smile was gone; her lips were wet, inviting. I would have happily stood and stared for hours, taking in every inch from every angle, looking for meaning or for symbolism, enjoying how one color blended into another, marveling at how the composition was absolutely perfect. But her eyes were locked on mine. She was waiting.

I tried to walk slowly, but my knees were ready to buckle, so I closed the gap quickly, pulling her away from the wall and wrapping my arms around her – my god, she felt so light, so small, almost frail, like a bird. I kissed her lips hard as she wrapped her arms around my neck and slipped her tongue between my lips. What was I doing? My wife was in the next room, hobnobbing with colleagues and bigwigs, and I was in a storage closet passionately kissing a young woman easily half my age. But the spike of electricity down my spine was too much to resist.

I closed my eyes and let my other senses explore. I felt the softness of the skin on her back where the little sundress dipped lower; the sharp intake of breath between kisses and the slow, intoxicating exhale into my mouth; the tiny-ness of her waist and the sudden flare of her hips; the gentle rise of her breasts, the exquisite softness of them and the tiny gasp she let out when I touched them; and the blur of red hair when I finally opened my eyes again.

I wanted this woman, needed her, needed to be inside of her, a part of her. Sex was impossible in the closet, I decided – too loud, too exposed, too risky. I wasn't even sure if the door was locked.

So I let my hand follow the curve of her hips around to her ass. I pulled her hips into me, pressing my erection against her. We both let out a moan, and I briefly reconsidered the question of just fucking right there in the closet. I began gathering the little sundress into my hand, pulling it up the back of her leg until I felt soft, warm skin. I cupped her ass as we continued to press into each other. Her panties were lace, which, for some reason, surprised me.

Reluctantly, I pulled my crotch from hers, pushing her back against the wall while simultaneously sliding my hand from the back of her panties to the front. I could feel the wet heat of her pussy through the lacy fabric. She pulled away from my kiss and let her head fall back, letting out a long breathy sigh as I began to rub her pussy. She parted her legs a little and I cupped her cunt, applying just a bit of real pressure with the heel of my hand before easing back to a light, teasing rub.

Our lips met again, her breath ragged, rushed, almost desperate. I was in heaven, but it wasn't enough – not nearly enough. My fingers began looking for the edges of her panties. She broke our kiss.

"Here, wait..." she said, lifting up her dress and wrangling the soaking wet panties to her ankles before kicking them off entirely. She leaned back against the wall, gathering the dress and lifting it slowly. Her eyes burned into mine, glassy, wide, full of lust.

My fingers grazed the inside of her thigh. She let out a little whimper, but didn't look away. I inched my way up her thighs, enjoying the look of agony in her eyes; agony that melted into bliss when my fingers found her naked pussy. It was soft, completely smooth, but for a few random patches of stubble, and sopping wet. I resumed my gentle stroking of her naked lips, enjoying the impossible slickness, the warmth, and especially the look of complete surrender in her eyes.

She was breathing hard now, almost gasping in an effort to stay quiet. My fingers teased around her pussy, flicking gently at her clitoris before sliding back down to tease open her lips and dip ever so slightly into her vagina. It was when I slipped a whole finger in that she let out a little yelp. We both paused, my finger still inside her, listening for any change in the crowd noise, any indication that someone had heard. Nothing but the usual drone of small talk and laughter. I realized that if we were to make it out of this little adventure undiscovered, we should probably hurry things up.

I placed my free hand firmly over her mouth as I slid my finger out and then in again. This time, the yelp was a muffled mmph. I began to go faster and a little harder. I could feel her wetness running down the back of my hand as I slowed to insert a second finger.

I was finger-fucking her in earnest now, my middle and ring finger plowing deep inside, the heel of my hand bumping repeatedly against her clit. The mmphs came louder now, and the wet, slapping, fucking sounds were loud enough to make me look nervously back at the door.

Her knees buckled a little as she spread her legs a bit to take in even more of me. Her head rolled back and the mmphs became a long, low guttural growl as I began to feel the first spasms squeezing my fingers. Her body writhed and twisted between the wall and my hand over her mouth, but she managed to stay on her feet.

Her glassy eyes found mine again as the orgasm subsided. I pulled my hand away, leaving a stark white impression on her otherwise bright red face. She let out a little laugh, which made me smile.

"We should probably get out of here." It was old, practical me talking.

She nodded, fanned her face, and smoothed down her hair, before shaking the rumples from her dress. She scooped up her panties from the floor and, with a smile, kissed me quick on the lips before tucking them into my pocket. "Next time is your turn."

Next time? I hadn't considered that there could be a next time, that this little adventure could have a sequel. This... could be an actual, real-life fling, I thought. I felt a rolling, happy pit in my stomach as I thought of the possibilities. She handed me her clunky pink phone and told me to put my number in it, which I managed to do with some difficulty and only minor awkwardness. I resisted the old-fashioned impulse to offer her my business card. She took the phone back, slid her finger all around the screen and, in a moment, my own phone buzzed.

-hey, its maddie! u kno, from the closet? lol

We left the closet as quietly and carefully as we could and did our best to re-blend with the crowd, she with her gaggle of friends and me with my wife's snobby friends. Every once in a while, our eyes would meet across the room and she'd smile that goofy smile that pushed up her still-flushed cheekbones and made me laugh. The secret game I had made up to escape the tedium of party small talk had just come to life in an incredible way.

The drive home with my wife was... weird. She was quieter than usual, a little distant. It wasn't tense or awkward, it was just more far-away. I couldn't tell if she knew or suspected anything, or if it was all in my imagination. But I'd save that potential problem for another day. For tonight, I was going to bed with the scent of Maddie's pussy on my fingers.