With my cheek on the cool pillow, I’m staring out the window, thinking about how autumn changes are approaching, when my husband's brawny arm crosses my line of sight and grabs the belt from the nightstand. An unexpected breeze through the open window billows the curtains. A sign, maybe. I wonder if I, too, need a change while Samuel raises my hips and palms my soft cheeks before striping my ass with leather.

As my ass colors from white to pink, it stings more than excites, and I moan. This isn’t the change I was thinking about.

He spanks me again. “You like that, don’t you?”

I don’t answer, instead thrusting my ass back toward him, encouraging his cock to get on with it.

The plump pillow mostly hides my face, so he can’t see my eyes. Can’t see the sparkle has left them at a moment like this. A few tears drip onto the fabric as I think back to how I used to prolong his initial penetration, holding myself on the cliff’s edge, allowing the anticipation to rage until I’m painfully desperate for it. Then, he’d sink deep, and I’d melt around his cock, both of us holding still, savoring our intimate connection.

Now he thrusts, and even though my pussy walls stretch around his fat cock that continues to swell, I’m vacant inside—void of desire.

~oOo~

I’ve practically yelled intimate details of my marriage to her while seated at the petite table, surrounded by the bustle of the lively café. Obviously, I’m desperate for her opinion on the matter, but she simply takes another slow sip of coffee, peering over her cup at me with eyes so pale you’d think they’d be unnoticeable—yet, quite the contrary.

“You are just thirsty. Need a taste of something different. That is all.”

The unique lightness of blue grips my gaze and triggers something undefinable inside me. Her strawberry-blonde hair is always swept up in a seemingly effortless arrangement; chic and elegant, but as if she didn't need to try. Stray strands dust her cheek as she talks. I can’t help but wonder what it looks like flowing freely, messily even, around her porcelain face.

It’s easy just to sit and stare at her many desirable features. The way her lips dimple at the corners in that radiant smile. The dusting of rouge on high cheekbones. The heart-shaped studs in her ears that sparkle in the sunlight streaming through the café window.

“Darling, are you still with me?”

“Umm, sorry, I was just thinking about what you said.”

“That is another issue. You think too much—do instead.” 

This is why I feel comfortable confiding in her. Anastasia, or Ana as most call her, doesn’t mince words. Samuel and I have known her for a while. Her reputable art gallery has featured his work on numerous occasions.

I envy her. But it's more than that. She leads such an exciting sex life, it intrigues me. At each gallery event, a beautiful man or woman is attached to her side. And Ana’s unashamedly sexual in public. More than once, I’ve witnessed a date sliding their fingers inside the open back of her dress or kissing her neck in a corner as her eyes glaze over, and she succumbs to the immediacy, the risk, the excitement.

Having said what she wanted to say, she rises to return to her gallery next door. I rise too, and intend to give her our customary quick hug, but she grips the back of my neck, holding me against her. Our nipples brush, erecting the tiny hairs all over my body, before she grazes my ear with red-painted lips, whispering, “Emily, if you are thirsty, do something about it.”

Then she’s gone, leaving me only with residual heat and an unexpected dampness in my panties. 

~oOo~

Impatiently tapping my foot, I wait and consider bolting until she opens the door, the old-fashioned bell jangling above us. A smile spreads across her flawless face. “Hello, darling. What a surprise! You took your time thinking.”

I step forward, and the words spill out before I lose my nerve, swamped by the spicy top note of her drifting perfume. “You're right. I… I’m thirsty.”

Our hips brush. She levels a penetrating gaze before closing the door behind me and switching the “Open” sign to “Closed”. Without further words, she takes my hand and leads me into the back of her gallery, ascending the spiral staircase ahead of me.

I pause at the foot, and she detects my hesitation. Glancing over her shoulder, she shucks first one, then the other strap of her flowing dress. It pools at her feet, and I gasp: nude, save for black lace panties that echo the contour of her incredible bottom. 

I gulp and follow her up to the apartment above, mesmerized by the swing of her hips, each tap of her heels on the wooden rungs and then the floorboards ricocheting, daring me onward.

She leads me through the airy living room to the boudoir beyond and pauses at the foot of the bed. Turning to face me in the doorway, she tilts her head.

“You have far too many clothes on.”

I'm barely aware of my trembling fingers unbuttoning the simple white blouse and shedding it. Reaching behind to unclasp my tiny bra and allowing it to tumble to the floor, I can't help but compare our similar figures.

Biting my lips, I trace my hands down my body to reach the side zip of the pencil skirt. It takes a few tries as it catches in the material lining, but I eventually free it and shimmy it to the floor. Stepping out of the puddle of fabric, I crouch to undo the buckle of my sandal. Ana shakes her head.

“Leave them. Stay there a moment.”

I do as she asks, heart hammering. There are barely four feet between us, but it feels a mile when those pale blues assess me, and she crooks a finger to have me crawl to her feet.

I've never crawled for anyone, not even Samuel, and it's oddly demeaning yet fiercely… sexy to cross the boards and kneel.

I gaze up at her, my breathing shallow. Place my hands in my lap and watch arousal flicker across her face. Her voice drips with lust, and she slides her hands to the waistband of her underwear.

“Do you want to see what is under here?”

I take a breath. Nod.

“Why?”

“Because I'm.” I moisten my lips. “Because I'm thirsty.”

She lets her hands fall to her sides. “Then show me.”

Trying to will my nerves to stay together, I reach across and brush her ankle. Trail fingertips up her calf to knee, then thigh. Skimming her soft skin electrifies mine. As I dust her rakish hips and rest where her hands were moments before, I lift my chin and seek approval. Nothing. The only indicator is the damp spot six inches from my face.

I curl fingertips beneath the elastic and draw downward, inch by tantalizing inch. For a moment, I wonder if she's bare until the trimmed tufts of hair that match the color of her bun peek above the rolling material. And then something else—a tattoo.

As the garment peels clear of her thatch, a coiled black snake nestles, unfurling as her moist cleft is revealed, head downward, its forked tongue flicking towards her clitoris.

My jaw drops. “It’s… so beautiful.”

Letting the rolled underwear drop, she steps clear, widening her stance a fraction. “Kiss it. You are not the only one who is thirsty.”

I lean forward, unable to resist. The intensity of her scent ramps, and I'm aware of arousal in my own panties as I near. The strawberry-blonde wisps tickle my upper lip, similar yet so different from my husband's down, and I close the springy gap to place a kiss on the serpent.

Ana lets out a held breath, the faintest moan, and I kiss again, slightly to one side. Then the other. I pepper her bush with caresses, tracing the shape of the snake from tail to tongue, pausing with my lips hovering her jewel.

I drift my gaze up her body. Catch her lidded stare as I kiss the very peak and slither my lips around it. She sighs, then groans. Emboldened, I gingerly suck it.

Her hips rock against my face, and her rhythmic sighs echo off anything in the room not draped in soft furnishings. Her encouraging whispers of yes spur me on. I draw away and extend my tongue, flicking beneath her button just as the snake is from above. My chin glistens with viscous arousal, and I begin to lose myself in her folds; her needs. Ana emits harsher gasps between soft mewls of desire, and I feast.

She strokes my hair. Encourages exploration with gentle guidance of fingertips on my scalp, pressure varying as I kiss, lap, and nuzzle her beautiful pussy. Only when she breathlessly implores, “Finger me, Emily,” do I drift a hand up her inner thigh and snake a single digit inside. She groans. “Yesss. More.”

I pull out. Cross my first two fingers and twist them up inside her. Ana tips her head back and lets me build a rhythm, hands curling to the nape of my neck to hold me to her. With my free hand sliding up to clutch one cheek of her gloriously tight behind, I concentrate on her clit while my fingers thrust. I’m soon treated to her cries of ecstasy as she shudders against my mouth, her walls fluttering around my buried fingers.

It feels natural to hold her until she's calm. Plucking my fingers free and sitting back on my haunches, I catch the joy flowing up through her flushed frame, and it thrills me. Something stirs that I haven't experienced in months—maybe a year—a thundering excitement that beats against the underside of my skin, bursting to escape. My underwear is soaked.

Ana regains her composure. Guides me to my feet with a fingertip beneath my chin and brushes her lips to mine. The kiss builds. Lips that carry her scent skim and dance, then lock. Tongues follow until we're fully embracing, bodies crushed, hands exploring curves, tempestuous needs burgeoning.

At the conclusion of the kiss, my body is practically aflame, flushed from the inside. I don't even recall Ana removing my underwear until she tugs me towards the bed, and I have to kick them off past my heels to avoid tripping.

She scooches back and drags me to sit in her lap. My head is higher than hers, and I lean down to kiss her again. It's a change in dynamic, but I hardly notice as the energy flows between us and overwhelms our need for one another.

When she spreads her thighs, I slither into the gap, bottom nestling against the cool sheets. She hauls herself from my lips and leans back, tucks one leg over mine until our pussies kiss, then supports herself on her elbows. I lean back as well and use the leverage to grind against her.

It takes a few moments to synchronize until we find a natural rhythm. Our cores meet and drift apart to a glorious, languorous beat, clits colliding with each rock of our hips, gasps rising in the modest bedroom. I swear I can sense the snake bridging the gap and lapping my nub as we grind and hiss and sigh our way to mutual nirvana.

My toes fizz as the blood courses me. I'm alive. Re-energized. Ana has found the key to unlocking the desire in me that had become caged with Samuel. As our pussies grind and the orgasms claim us, I sense the change on a similar breeze that skitters through her apartment, dusting our skin and making me shiver.

Our frames lock, hips arched against one another, orgasmic panting drifting in and out of sync as we let the waves of climax batter us.

Ana flops to the bed first, and I do likewise, legs still entwined as our breathing slows. When I prop myself up on weak elbows again, I admire the sheen to her skin and tentatively reach out to stroke her thigh. She smiles and rolls her head against the sheets so our gazes meet.

“Any time you feel thirsty, darling, drink from my cup.”

~oOo~

I open my eyes and find myself alone in bed—and cold. I stretch my hand to his side of the bed and it’s cold too. 

Usually, I’m up first, but not today. After wrapping a blanket around me, I pad down the hall to the kitchen to find Samuel eating an omelet at the kitchen table. 

“Good morning.”

He mumbles something that resembles what I’d said but doesn’t look up from his phone. I pour myself a glass of juice from the fridge and sit beside him. That’s when it happens. The air is so thick between us I can barely breathe. He doesn’t once look at me. I stare at him with nothing to say. Then, I see a snowflake land on the kitchen window. Winter is here—another season of change. My betrayal finally smacks me in the face with my inner voice screaming at me to turn my attention to my marriage. 

The last few months had been magical, my sexual energy renewed. Every time I’d sought out Ana and merely uttered the words, “I’m thirsty,” she’d whisk me away for mind-blowing sex that left us both a dripping mess.

But sometime during my affair, my husband stopped asking me for sex. He went to bed saying he was tired from working overtime in his studio, preparing for the upcoming art exhibit. Honestly, I was relieved I didn’t have to fake another orgasm with him. Lust for Ana blinded me to the crevasse in my relationship with my husband. Even when sex had become tedious for me, we still fell asleep in each other’s arms afterward, maintaining a closeness. But now, without sex, kisses and hugs had stopped, too. 

Caught up in the whirlwind, I’d unknowingly neglected Samuel in every way. How could I have been so selfish? 

I love my husband and our life together. We’ve been married over twenty years and he’s my best friend. I watched him rise from a starving artist to a well-known name. 

I want to reach for him and twist my fingers in his dark curls, pulling him to me. But I don’t. I feel the coolness again. 

He leaves for the studio with a hurried, “See you later,” and I find myself incredibly alone. 

I try to distract myself with errands, but my upset over our deeper fractures grows and festers throughout the day until I find myself at his studio door. It's locked, so I knock.

He cracks open the door, his thick brow line rising in surprise. “Emily. What are you doing here?”

I smile but wring my hands in nervous insecurity. “I haven’t watched you work in ages and thought maybe I could see what you’ve been painting for the art exhibit.” I focus on his lips. Full lips for a man, yet masculine. When did we last enjoy a passionate kiss?

He smiles with a tight jaw. “Umm. I’m really behind and need to focus. Maybe another time would be better. See you at home later?” 

My heart breaks. “Sure, see you at home.” 

I slump against the door as soon as it closes. How could I not see this coming? Of course, our distance in the bedroom had bled into the rest of our lives. 

Then, a memory surfaces of not so long ago when I’d sat in his studio and watched him paint. He was so focused on his work until I’d playfully tried to distract him. Wrapped my arms around his waist, dipping them lower for a not-so-gentle caress of his cock. Now, I cup my sex through the light fabric of my pants, remembering the times he used to tease my nipples and clit with his stiff brushes. As I lean against the door, thoughts of him start a rumble between my thighs. 

Sighing, I turn, splatting my palm against the door, wanting to touch him. I curse myself for not being more patient when our spark dwindled. I don’t want to lose Samuel; that much I know for sure. 

I also know, with surprising clarity, that to save my marriage, my affair with Anastasia has to end.

~oOo~

I walk into the gallery, pleased to see many art patrons milling about for Samuel’s showing. Wanting to get my marriage back on track, I’m wearing a simple black dress, with a hopefully arousing detail being the deep V in the front, almost to my navel. With smallish breasts, I can get away with it, showing the slight swell of my chest without worrying about them spilling out.

I wave off an offer of champagne and peruse the sea of people. Samuel, no doubt, is chatting it up with an art enthusiast in some corner. I smile, knowing how excited he gets on nights like this.

I don’t think Anastasia has made her grand entrance yet. She’s one to stand out in any crowd, but I don’t see her, and maybe that’s for the best. Tonight, I must focus on being a supportive wife—the first step of recommitting to my marriage. 

As I meander through the crowd, I’m immediately surprised by the theme of my husband’s exhibit. I pause in front of a portrait of the palest blue vase of flowers. The unique color of blue mirrors Ana’s eyes, and my breasts and face blush, praying I’m strong enough to resist any future sexual encounters with her. Upon closer inspection, I realize the vase is shaped to resemble a voluptuous woman’s curves—a backside. Yes, I see the subtly drawn cleft of an ass.

Next is a series of flowers, but the innocence of most floral paintings is noticeably missing from these. There’s a prominent focus on varying shades of pink petals folded like a woman’s labia. And then I come upon the calla lily portrait. Oh my. The black background draws attention to the stark white rigid pistil springing upright, enveloped by the pale flower. The stem bears more likeness to a dripping from the petals than a stem. 

Unsettling guilt punches me in the tummy. While I’ve been fucking with Ana, he’s been forced into celibacy and obviously using paintings to express his sexual needs. I silently promise again to be a better wife and, conscious that I’m staring too long at the almost pornographic flower, I move to the next.

Oh my God!

My eyes leave their sockets as I fight to keep upright upon my quivering legs. A carousel of emotions swirls inside me: shock, disbelief, upset, then, finally, anger.

I’m not sure how long I stand in front of the painting of the nude woman. I sweep my eyes over every familiar curve, vision blurring with brimming tears before his familiar Giorgio Armani scent drifts over my shoulder. Samuel’s behind me, yet I cannot turn to face him. My gaze sticks to the coiled ebony snake tattoo barely visible through the strawberry-blonde bush of the painting. I swear it flicks its tongue at me. 

I’m uncertain which of the invisible yet formidable forces render me immovable—guilt or rage. A peculiar coupling, and both fight for dominance at this moment. 

A champagne flute interrupts my line of sight, and I slowly turn my head to look at him. Samuel offers the glass. “I thought you might be thirsty.”