His rigid cock is poised at the entrance to my cunt. Precum oozes from the tip. A long thin strand deposits a drop directly onto my engorged clit. My labia are swollen, and the smell of sex is in the air.

The duvet feels soft against my skin. Of course, she buys only the finest linens. The sensation serves as a stark reminder that I am trespassing here. Some might find that uncomfortable. I find it terribly exciting.

I reach down to cup his balls. They are freshly shaved and tight. I know he has been hoarding his seed for this evening. It is my fertile time. We share the same twisted pregnancy risk kink.

I’m not in love with him. Far from it. I get off on the power. Power over him, and power over her. Not that she has a clue about any of this, but therein lies its source.

I know he loves her, in the safe, mundane way that so many married men do. She meets his needs as a companion, a partner in parenting, a supporter. I know enough about her to understand she is the perfect wife, in all respects save one.

It’s when he needs to feed the beast that he comes to me. That nasty, kinky, perverted animal inside him that defies convention, that cannot be sated by marital lovemaking. He needs to fuck – raw, dirty, primal, illicit fucking. I am the slut she can never be, the concubine he so desperately needs.

If she knew, it would ruin her. The betrayal, yes, but even more, the shame, the social humiliation. I have no desire to see that happen. He is convenient, and he fucks me the way I need, with no strings or complications.

But that’s not why I do this. Like I said, it’s the power. The fact that he betrays his vows and his bride, that he turns his back on his vanilla world, that he sins, and that I am the vessel for it all, the spark that lights the flame.

Filth spews from my mouth when we are together, and from my private chats when apart.

“Fuck me with your cheating married cock. Give your little slut a baby. It’s so hot being your dirty little secret.”

He fucks me as if his life depends on it. And I give it back to him in return, measure for measure. Yes, it’s the power, but I have my needs as well. And dear God, this man knows how to fuck.

He sometimes visits in the evening, on his way home from a business trip or some other engagement, and leaves with his cock still glistening with our combined fluids. It was my idea that he rush home and take her before it’s completely dry (yes, I live nearby). It’s another of the sick games we like to play.

Yes, I’ve met her, at a coffee shop last year. I recognized her from pictures he had shown me. I arranged to be in line behind her and engaged her in conversation. It was so exciting. The fucked-up thing is he had just stopped by on his way to work and was still oozing out of me.

He tells me things. Like what she will and won’t do. What annoys him. The numbing mundane home and social life he comes to me to escape. How much dirtier and sexier I am. How I give him what she can’t. As if I didn’t know all that already. But the affirmation feels nice.

But the ultimate affirmation is seeing, feeling, tasting his violent eruptions. It is at that precise moment that I control him.

Tonight is special. For months we have been talking about me visiting him and defiling their marital bed. It started as a stray comment, morphed into a fantasy, and finally became an obsession that he couldn’t control. It was only a matter of opportunity.

And so here we are. She is away on a girls’ overnight, no doubt gushing to her friends about her wonderful husband, how he not only didn’t mind but encouraged her to go. If only she knew why.

It’s a beautiful room, in a stunning house. He is successful, and she has impeccable taste. My heart is beating a thousand times a minute. Of all the despicably naughty things we have done, this is the most depraved. Her perfume lends a familiar scent to my skin. Her pearls adorn my neck. A pair of her favorite earrings dangle from my lobes.

His tongue probes my mouth as he slices into me. I have never been so wet, so ready, so eager to be his slut – in this place, in this fashion.

The first blast hits my cervix with frightening force, just moments after I command him to look at the picture of his wife on the dresser. I wrap my legs around him, not wanting to let him escape.

We lay in a sweaty heap. He runs his fingers tenderly through my hair. I am relaxed, happy, and satisfied.

He softens and withdraws with a plop. Our mingled fluid tumbles out of me and pools on the linens between my legs. I let out a little giggle of delight at this tangible violation of their sacred space.

This night won’t be like the others. I will stay, and we will fuck again, and again, until we are exhausted, and sleep overpowers us. He will wake me in the middle of the night, hard and urgent once more. And we will have slow, languid sex as the morning light streams through their bedroom windows. He will work hard to clean up the evidence, but some trace will linger – in the air, on the mattress, on her pearls that left my neck to be stuffed into my fuck hole and covered in our sin.

Tonight, I am more than his concubine, his slut, his dirty secret, his obsession. I am his wife. Not a drop of his seed has been wasted. It is deep inside me. Perhaps one of his precious sperm will finally find its mark deep in my womb.

I may just keep it.