To His Wife:

You came very close to losing your husband last weekend. He could have been mine—no, he was mine. Mine for the taking. And the only reason that he’s still yours is because I chose to love him more than I loved myself. My love saved your marriage.

He’s so handsome, your husband. I noticed as soon as I started working with him. Older than me, but not so much older that people would do more than whisper. There’s a touch of gray at his temples, but he stays fit. How often have you availed yourself of that fitness during your marriage? How often have you taken advantage of it lately? Not enough, I can tell you that much. I can’t ever imagine having enough of him.

He’s not my boss – not even in my org – but we’ve had to collaborate on a number of projects. That’s when he really caught my eye, and when I think I caught his, too. Oh, don’t misunderstand: I know that I’m attractive, and he’s not blind. But that’s when I got to show him I was smart, diligent, and funny, too. And also that I was interested in him. Not explicitly; that wouldn’t come until later. But he’s a perceptive man, your husband. Of course he noticed me. When did he last notice you?

Let me be very clear here: he’s never run you down. Never talked badly about you. Your picture is on his desk, along with pictures of your kids. They’re in college now, and he brags on them all the time. I know he’s happy… well, at least content with you. Complacent. 

When he speaks about you, it’s about what a good mom you are, or about your charity work. Never about how beautiful you are. How sexy. When do you think that changed? Why did you let it change? Is the complacency in your marriage his doing or yours? I think we both know the answer to that.

He and I have worked so closely together this last year. Not as closely as I’d like, of course, but close enough to really get to know each other. I mean, really, really get to know each other. When we were celebrating with our colleagues at the end of this last trip, we spent almost the whole time chatting and flirting at the bar. Oh, don’t worry; I was very discrete. We both were, at least until the rest of them went to their rooms.

We had both had a little too much to drink, but not so much that we were impaired. “Freed” is the word that I would use. I asked him to dance, but he begged off at first. When I finally dragged him onto the floor, I learned the reason, and it wasn’t a lack of interest. Quite the opposite; I could feel his interest pressing against my stomach. If he had moved his hands any lower, he could have easily felt the heat signifying mine, but I think my expression had already told him everything he needed to know.

That’s when my love saved your marriage. I looked into his eyes and realized I didn’t just lust after this man. I didn’t simply want him to take me to his room and ravish me. I loved him. I could have stood on my tiptoes, tilted my head, and pressed my lips to his, and he would have been mine. We both knew it. But I didn’t. Because I love him, and I want him to be happy.

Know this: it wasn’t out of any guilt on my part about what might happen to you. Your feelings didn’t enter into the equation. You didn’t enter into my thinking at all, except as a possible impediment to his happiness. It wasn’t that I felt any shame for being the other woman; I would gladly be whatever he wanted me to be: his slut, his lover, his mistress, his wife. The mother of his children. I would call him Sir, or Daddy, or Master, or whatever title might turn him on. I’d even share him, if that’s what he wanted.

Do you think that means I love him more or less than you? Which would he think if I told him? Who would he pick, knowing it’s not me forcing him to?

A good man like your husband deserves to be happy. He deserves to have his every need met, his every desire indulged. He has history with you, and that made him hesitate: he fears what would happen to you, what his kids would think, what your friends and neighbors might say. That’s why I stopped; because I don’t want him hesitant. I don’t want him to fear the what ifs. I love him, and I want only what’s best for him.

I’m certain you’re not what’s best for him. But he needs to arrive at that conclusion on his own. He needs to be sure that I’m worth risking his marriage over. Ending it, if need be.

I am, of course. But I need him to be sure, too. I think he’s almost there, but not quite yet.

And so, I didn’t stand on tiptoe, and I didn’t tilt my head, and I didn’t kiss him. I didn’t grind against that gloriously thick erection–much–and I didn’t take him to my room and let him ravage my mouth or my pussy or my ass or all three. I didn’t swallow his cum or take it deep inside my womb or let it rain down on my face and breasts. I didn’t send him home with hickeys on his neck and scratches on his back to mark my newly claimed territory.

I would have done any of these things for him and much, much more. But I didn’t. 

Because I love him.

The next morning, I played along, nodding and smiling sheepishly at his apology. But when it was just the two of us waiting for a cab, I ran my hand up and down his biceps and kissed him on the cheek. Your husband – for now – shivered when I whispered in his ear, “Whenever you’re sure, I’m yours. You don’t have to ask. Just take me.” Then I was away.

I’m in my apartment now, playing with the toy that I named after him. I’ll need to get a new one. A larger one. I want to be prepared if he changes his mind. 

When he changes his mind.

Your husband is home with you now. Did he seem distant? Contemplative? Or did he pull you into his embrace and kiss you with a passion you haven’t shared in years? Did that continue to the bedroom? To the next morning?

You’d better hope that it did. You’d better hope that you showed him the same kind of ardor you did when you were newlyweds. Because I’ll tell you this: my love saved your marriage last weekend. But only your love can save it next time. If you want to keep him? Make sure he knows how much you love him. 

Or I'll make sure he knows how much I do.

Signed,

The Better Woman