Don't Tell (my husband)

There are a dozen reasons Gina shouldn't be in this bar. And one just walked in the door.

Ema Stonig

May 17, 2024

This is a work of fiction that contains explicit sex scenes and strong language. It is intended for mature, adult readers aged 18 and older. Issues such as STD's and other risks of sexual conduct are, for the most part, ignored, which means this story is fantasy in that it takes place in a world where such complications do not exist. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

If you believe you may not enjoy material of this nature, or have any sensitivities to sexual material, please do not read this story. By remaining on this page, you warrant that you are 18-years of age or older and do not have any sensitivities to sexual material.

All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be reproduced, copied, performed, or otherwise duplicated without the express written consent of the publisher.

Links on this page may allow the publisher to receive commissions which will not increase any purchase price you pay.

Copyright © 2023, 2024 by Ema Stonig. All rights reserved. Published by Avenue Oh ™

Chapter 1: Don’t Tell (my husband)

(This is the 1st of three chapters. To read Chapter 2, click here.)

Gina shouldn’t be here. And yet here she is. The internal debate has been turning around in her mind for two weeks now—longer really when she thinks about the start of all this: an innocent conversation that turned out to be anything but.

She is 41 years old—maybe that’s the problem. Maybe if she was 25 again this wouldn’t have gone this far. Might not have even been something she paid attention to. Not the way she has now at 41, going on 42. (Although of course she’s going on 42. When did aging get to the point where you no sooner click off one year than you start referring to the next—although she has a friend who says that about decades, claiming once you hit 40, you’re as good as 50. Gina is not looking forward to 42 much less 50—so maybe that’s the problem.)

Or maybe it’s just that she can’t remember feeling as excited as she has over these last two weeks. Thrilled sensations set off by the sound of a voice, the ping of her phone. Has she ever felt like this? Ever experienced this much excitement and apprehension, flattery despite self-doubt, fantasy complicated by ever-present reminders of reality?

Maybe if she was more confident about growing older? She used to be confident—at least she thinks so, although she doesn’t know why. Good parents, perhaps? Kind siblings? Growing up middle-class in the suburbs. A decent, not great student. Married when she was three years out of college and still married to the same guy. She has a solid career in digital marketing, gotten rid of that nagging student debt, and been knocking extra principal off their mortgage—not to mention investing money to help fund the kids’ college. Three of them, by the way, kids: 16, 13, 11.

Oh, God: three kids. What is she doing here? What, what, what? Walking through a mine field that could blow up everything is one answer. And for what? A few moments? She should walk out right now before it’s too late. And yet … she stays.

Three o’clock in the afternoon, the middle of the week, sitting in a dark corner of a very nice bar in one of the nicest hotels in the city, where it seems so obvious why she is here Gina feels a neon sign is hanging over her head, red letters flashing, an arrow pointing at her.

She had her hair trimmed and colored yesterday, so the blond streaks go all the way to her roots. She still keeps her hair long, the way she’s always had it, but battles more split ends now and figures her days of long hair might be running low, otherwise she’ll be one of those middle-aged women with hair over their shoulders that looks like straw drying in a barn.

Gina’s soft olive-tone blazer is open over a stretch black top with a neckline low enough to offer a nice inch-plus of cleavage, boosted by a smooth well-fitting bra which, for planned convenience, snaps in the front. Her jeans are faded and baggy, worn with a wide leather belt. Her leather slip-on flats with a block heel that add an inch to her five-six height are a bold burgundy color. Her underwear …? The new thong ended up in the back of her dresser drawer. What she wears now, under those jeans, is black lace.

All of which felt very exciting putting on at the house an hour ago but now seems as screaming obvious as being in a hotel bar. And yet she stays. Sips her tonic and lime and tries to quiet her pulse and her nerves. Because she has half an hour yet to change her mind.

Gina got here early with the intention of having time to talk herself out of this, sitting at what could, by the end of the afternoon, be the scene of the not-actual but-to-many-it-would-be moral crime.

At home, there somehow seemed to be more reasons to go through with this despite the close proximity of all the reasons not too. As if home had become a breeding ground that allowed a desire for this excitement to slip inside her. Selfish to think this way, she admits, but home is so much of a family experience Gina feels a little lost at times, as if her existence is only to support others without giving any consideration to herself.

Although the world has tried to give that outdated definition of “wife” some needed modification, motherhood, from Gina’s perspective has not changed. She would like—just now and again—to feel excitement, not as cheerleader for others but herself. And she would like to inspire excitement—true, vivid, pulse-pounding excitement—in others by her presence, her touch, the anticipation of touching her. And how long has that been, other than too long? As if that was no longer possible at 41 going on 42.

So here she sits. With 25 minutes now to go. Still time to change her mind. Which she imagines she will do, despite all the reasons not to. Because there are more reasons to leave than to stay.

Meanwhile, she will sit here and sip her tonic with lime and pretend there is gin in it, and think—again—about what could happen in a nice room upstairs, under fresh sheets, in a big comfortable bed someone else made up, with the drapes closed, and where there are no dogs or kids who always need/want/complain about something, and there is an unfamiliar weight on top of her—or maybe underneath her. Underneath her—now how long has that been?

Gina’s thoughts—at least right now—don’t include the many things which could go terribly wrong, such as the way sex is often sloppy or embarrassing or disappointing—which is probably why married people only have sex with their partners once they hit a certain age, when forgiveness of one another’s physical faults becomes part of the job. Not to mention getting caught, which would ruin so much it’s unfathomably ridiculous she’s allowed herself to be here.

But in the mirror, in the right light, on good days, Gina doesn’t think of herself that way. As 41 going on 42. As married. As a mother. She still sees traces of not necessarily who she used to be, but who she might have become. And while she is not looking to make that switch forever, doing so for a harmless afternoon would be nice. (Note her mind has inserted the adjective “harmless” to the discussion, a not quite subliminal ploy played by that part of Gina’s brain that doesn’t want her to leave this bar in the next 22 minutes but wants to experience what that hotel room upstairs has to offer.)

It is about at that moment in her thought process when the door to the bar opens and the fact that Gina lives 40 minutes outside of the city reminds her how that distance is not really that far. And that’s assuming what’s just happened is pure chance. Because it could also be—and isn’t it really far more likely?—not chance at all, but that one of those many things that could go wrong—one of the worst, in fact—has gone wrong, and this is all about to get very, very ugly.

On the edge of panic, Gina reaches for her phone and swipes her screen, pretends to be flipping through texts. She keeps her head lowered, all the while watching from the corner of her vision as the woman who just walked in—Tracy—surveys the mostly empty bar, then angles toward one of four empty booths on the other side of the softly lit room.

Gina notices Tracy is dressed much the way she is—a sort of comfortable hopefully-sexy look. A flowing blouse untucked over stylish pants, although Tracy’s bottoms are tight-fitting. Tracy’s hair looks freshly blown out, auburn waves over her shoulders. Her ankle boots give off a kick-ass biker vibe, though Tracy is anything but Sturgis-bound—not unless Sturgis opened a four-star resort.

So perhaps this is just a coincidence. One hell of a coincidence.

Tracy doesn’t seem to notice Gina. Instead, she settles into a booth and happily greets the hospitable about-their-age bartender who—at this unbusy hour—seems responsible for the entire place. Tracy smiles and chats the man up the way Tracy does, using her hands to accent whatever she’s saying.

Gina, head still angled to her phone, her swell of panic lessened but still lingering, doesn’t use her standard messaging app, but the one that deletes texts after they are read. A decision suggested by Keith, who she now texts: Tracy is here.

Tracy is Keith’s wife.

Within seconds, Keith replies: ?

Gina realizes her text requires explanation, so she sends Keith details: explaining that she is already at the hotel. In the bar. And Tracy just walked in.

F! Keith shorthands, which means Fuck, but then he quickly adds: No prob. We spent the night. She did the spa. Can’t believe she’s still there!

Spent the night? Gina wonders. What the hell?

Keith wants to know if Tracy has seen her.

No. Not yet. But she’s right across the bar.

Play it cool, is Keith’s advice.

Gina no sooner receives that text than she has to change her answer, thumbs rapidly typing: Now she’s seen me. Here she comes.

Because Tracy, big smile and wave, is crossing the room toward her.

Be cool, Keith advises again.

Such sage wisdom, Gina thinks wryly, then puts away her phone and phonies up her best smile to greet Tracy, who announces a cheery, “Hey former neighbor.” Tracy’s habit is not to call people by their name but give them a label. “What brings you here?”

Tracy doesn’t show any suspicion, but Gina remains wary of being set up, reminded how the shrewd detective lures the prime suspect into a sense of ease before turning the screws and snapping on the handcuffs.

Gina’s mind whirls. Trying to think a few steps ahead, she replies: “Meeting a friend.” Words no sooner uttered than she worries she’s never going to be able to pull this off, and it’s just a matter of seconds before she blurts out that she’s here to fuck Tracy’s husband. She would be a terrible criminal, Gina has sometimes thought, unable to remain level-headed enough under scrutiny to tell a convincing lie.

Luckily, Tracy doesn’t ask about Gina’s supposed friend. Instead, she exhales the most pleasured sigh as she sinks into the booth across from Gina as if she can’t possibly remain standing another second. “I just had the most delicious massage. An hour of pure bliss.” Tracy looks so relaxed she might melt. “Keith and I stayed here last night,” she informs Gina, then pretends to keep her voice lower than she actually does and makes it sound daring, adding: “Date fuck night.”

Gina again thinks, What the hell?

As if sharing a secret, Tracy says, “We started doing this about a year ago. Every couple months. Pack the kids off to a friend’s and check into a hotel for the night. Fuck-cation. Something about a hotel room...” Tracy sits back, pleased and contented.

Gina thinks, Keith brought his wife to the same hotel where he now plans to fuck her? What the hell? What the hell! Thoughts interrupted when Tracy says:

“It’s almost like having an affair.”

Gina feels her spine go rigid.

Luckily, Tracy doesn’t notice. She’s looking for the bartender to make sure he realizes she’s changed tables. When he waves acknowledging reply, Tracy watches him for a few beats then tells Gina: “You know, I think I’d fuck him.” Still looking at the bartender. “I bet he’s divorced. You think he’s divorced?”

Gina doesn’t have a response, which doesn’t matter.

“I always think of bartenders as tragic figures, don’t you?” Tracy imagines. “That they’ve been through some tough times and come out the other end, and now they listen to other peoples’ woes and give advice. Probably better than psychiatrists. Think of all the people they’ve seen meet up here and go upstairs and fuck. And it’s just a fuck. Nothing complicated. In, out, goodbye.” Tracy is looking at Gina now. “I’ve done that a couple times…”

Now Gina really doesn’t know what to say.

Tracy adds, “I think Keith’s probably done it a couple times, too.”

The bartender approaches with Tracy’s glass of white wine, which he places in front of her.

Keith’s wife looks up at him and smiles. “Thanks, cutie.”

“You’re welcome. Anything else?”

Gina half expects a suggestive response from Tracy, but instead her former neighbor tells the bar man she’s good for now.

As the man retreats, Tracy picks up her glass, tells Gina, “Wedding band. Did you notice?” Meaning the bartender.

Gina didn’t notice.

“Which doesn’t mean he’s married,” Tracy suggests. “I read some guys wear rings to make it look like they’re married to hit on women who’ve been burned by their husbands and are looking for an easy revenge fuck. And they figure doing it with a married guy is the best way to do that.”

Gina doesn’t know what kind of websites, books, magazines Tracy might be talking about, but doesn’t follow the logic. And she probably shouldn’t, but finds herself asking: “You really think Keith’s had sex with other women?”

Tracy nods. “All the traveling he used to do…? And those couple years when the kids were young and I kind of lost interest in sex…? Yeah, I figure he probably did. Either that or watched a lot of porn. Or both.”

“But nothing you know for sure,” Gina asks the woman who used to live across the street from her then moved to San Diego for Keith’s job, but with whom she’s renewed occasional contact since they relocated back to Austin six months ago. Gina last saw Tracy with Keith at that neighborhood party where Gina and Keith had that conversation that led to this moment.

“Do I know for sure he fucked someone else?” Tracy considers. “No.” She sips wine and shakes her head, her posture still apres-spa relaxed. “But if he did…? Well, he never left. He’s never been anything other than loving and decent to me.”

“But it would hurt if he had, wouldn’t it?”

Tracy responds almost instantly, as if she’s given this topic much previous thought. “I don’t know. Would it? Maybe since I’ve done it, too, I’m saying it’s no big deal. But then again … maybe it’s just no big deal.” Tracy has more wine. “Maybe no deal at all. Maybe just what it is. A little fun. And don’t we all deserve that? Fun? I mean life’s short and sometimes throws nasty stuff at you.”

Gina hasn’t spent much one-on-one time with Tracy since her ex-neighbor moved back, but this is definitely not the Tracy she remembers. Maybe that had been Tracy during her not-interested-in-sex stage she referred to. Gina experienced a bit of that too—nothing prolonged and usually after one of the kids was born, more so after Nora, her first, than Cooper, her third—but she never considered Dean might have used any lull in their sex life to get in bed with someone else. Maybe she should have.

Maybe she was naïve to think she and Dean have always been on the same sex page, and his ups and downs of desire matched hers. Because if that was so, wouldn’t that mean Dean might right now be sitting in some hotel bar waiting for the wife of one of their other friends? Maybe Chrissy with her red hair and might-be-real-but-probably-aren’t breasts.

Gina re-directs her attention to Tracy, who is saying something about her mother’s cooking:

“…which was the most upset I ever saw her with my dad,” Tracy remembers. “Because he liked Margaret Toomey’s sour beef better than hers. Especially the dumplings.” Tracy laughs. “Maybe that was some sex trigger for my mother—the dumplings—but that really set her off. For a week she slammed dinner plates in front of my father and said she hoped it was as good as Margaret Toomey’s. And poor dad, what could he do? One slip up, one mistake in telling the truth, and he’s banished to marriage hell for—I don’t know, it might have been longer than a week. Maybe she never forgave him. I was about 15 at the time—that age you think you know everything, and definitely knew cooler stuff than your parents, and I almost said to my mother, what’s the big deal, it’s not like dad fucked Margaret Toomey, lighten up. But of course, I never said that. But now sometimes I wonder if I had if my mother would have said he could go ahead and fuck Margaret Toomey all he wanted, and that she would have been happier with that than him liking her sour beef more than hers.” Tracy laughed again and sipped more wine. “Maybe it’s all what we take pride in. Or how we see ourselves.”

“Maybe…” is all Gina manages in reply, because Keith has just texted her a question mark. He wants to know what’s going on. Gina looks at her phone, tells Tracy, “My friend. Running late.”

“Sure. No prob.” Tracy says, No prob, just like Keith, one of those marital habits some couples share. Then she gets out her own phone.

Gina texts Keith: She’s sitting with me! That exclamation point is meant to convey her astonishment at this entire situation.

Keith texts right back, another, Stay Cool.

Gina wants to tell him, NOT HELPING, but instead sets down her phone and tells Tracy: “Half an hour late. Doctor’s appointment.” That is such a weak lie about her make-believe friend, Gina’s sure Tracy sees right through it.

Instead, Tracy, sending her own text, asks, “What’s that?”

Gina says, “My friend’s running half an hour late.”

“Well, I’d keep you company, but I should head out. Mo-Packed’s going to be jammed if I wait much longer.” Mo-Packed is another Keith saying, referring to the MoPac as being busy, as in mo’ packed. “Keith’ll have half a conniption I’m still here as it is from the late check-out fee. He notices on the bill, I’ll tell him I earned it, didn’t I?” Tracy smiles, apparently referring to whatever sexual feats she performed last night. Then her phone pings. “Speak of the devil,” she reports, checking her screen. “Wants to know where I am. Head-ing home,” she recites to Gina what she types.

Gina expects Tracy to leave, but her former neighbor seems in no hurry, sitting back with her half-drunk glass of wine.

“You know,” Tracy says, “you look really good. I meant to say something the other week at the Jenkins’ thing. I missed you when we were in San Diego. We used to have fun.”

“We did.”

“It was mostly stuff with the kids. I think Janie and Nora kept in touch for a while.” Janie is Tracy’s oldest, the same age as Gina’s Nora. “I know Janie was sad we weren’t moving back into our old school district. I think she was looking forward to being friends with Nora again. But kids move on, don’t they? They adapt. They shift. Get in with a new group. I think about friends I had through school, even college, and it feels like so long ago… Keith says old friends are like when a TV show you used to watch gets cancelled. All you get is reruns in your head and when they try to do those reunion shows they flop. Because the chemistry has changed. We all move on. New stuff. New adventures. I can’t wait until my two are in college—not to pay for it, but just so the house doesn’t revolve around them all the time. You know what I mean? Do you feel that way…? Probably not,” Tracy answers before Gina can think about a truthful response. “You were always a better mom than me. You had this laser focus on your kids.”

“That’s not true.” Gina is suddenly awash with guilt and feels a compelling urge to confess to Tracy that meeting a friend is not why she’s here, not that kind of friend, but she’s here to have an affair, well, maybe not an affair, but sex, and she thinks it all might have been her idea, although Gina’s never had that sort of idea before, so it must have been something Keith said. Or maybe he just picked up on how she was already feeling and ran with it, somehow sent out vibes that got her to flirt with him at that picnic at the Jenkins’, which led to some texts, phone calls, one thing paving the way for another as it often does, desire putting in motion what starts as a fantasy then becomes a plan. “That’s not true at all,” Gina repeats, and wants to say more but can’t untangle truth from make-believe. When her phone pings, she doesn’t look at it.

“You can get that,” Tracy invites. “Might be your friend.”

It is Gina’s “friend”. It’s Keith: Looking forward to being with you. And there is an emoji of a heart made into the shape of an exclamation point followed by a heart that looks like —what is that?—a flame?

“She on her way?” Tracy asks of Gina’s “friend”, who Gina has purposefully never identified as a “she”.

“Mm-hm. Yeah.” Gina sets down her phone.

“Anyway…” Tracy says. “…we’re happy to be back in Austin. We had some really good times in San Diego. Met some new people. Tried some new stuff. But Austin always feels like home.”

“It is nice here.” Gina is running out of things to say, not that she’s said much at all. This afternoon isn’t going at all like she expected: all those images in her mind of sex in a hotel room with another man, what it would feel like to be touched, to touch him, to have his weight, his shape on top of her, to have his cock inside her. The thought of that still makes Gina quiver. She drinks some of her gin-less tonic, the ice melting, bits of citrusy lime floating along the surface.

There is a devilish part of her that is excited by Tracy sitting across from her, as if stressing the daring nature of what she’s about to do. She can feel arousal tickling inside her—an emotion that causes her hand to tremble ever so slightly as she sets her glass back down on the table, compelled for some reason to position it precisely over the sweat ring already glistening on the shellacked wood finish.

She thinks, but does not say to Tracy, how she is thinking about going to a room upstairs, perhaps the same room where Tracy had sex with Keith last night, and she is going to take Keith’s hard cock in her hand, and stroke it, and put it in her mouth, then take it inside her, and she is going to do that on top of Keith, she is going to get on top of Tracy’s husband and fuck him. And she is going to come—going to climax like she hasn’t come in years, in a hotel room with no kids on the other side of the closed door, no barking dogs. Just a connection to the man underneath her. And she is going to relish the moment, every hard second, every movement of his erection that she directs over her clit, and she might even make a lot of noise when she comes, not like at home when she has to keep quiet so the kids—hopefully asleep in their beds—won’t hear, which would make them all embarrassed, because who wants to think about their parents having sex. And the dogs won’t hear her and come barking and running, thinking someone’s broken into the house or who knows what dogs think.

But what Gina does instead is tell Tracy, “Come on, I’ll walk out with you. I’ll tell my friend we can do this some other day.”

“You’re not going to stay?” Tracy asks.

Gina shakes her head and begins to slide out of the booth.

“No, no, Gina, don’t do that. Stay. Have a good time.” Tracy reaches across the table and touches Gina’s hand and very fondly adds, “Keith will be so disappointed if you leave.”

Gina’s clothes are off. She wondered how she was going to get naked. Would she undress herself while he watched? Or would her buttons and zippers be freed of their hold while she was kissed and caressed, while his hands got inside her shirt and pants?

She is at the foot of the bed, the curtains closed. No lights. She stands there a few seconds while he looks at her, and she wonders what he’s thinking. But she doesn’t linger on that thought because his shaft is rigid as he lays on his back.

She gets on top of him, a knee on each side of his torso. She takes him into her hand and feels that hard heat, then raises her ass slightly and guides him inside, where she is silky and warm, surprising him perhaps that she’s as ready as he is. Not that she’s in a hurry, but she wants to make that connection right away, so there can be no doubt what they are doing—no lingering, no foreplay other than a few words texted and a few more spoken, setting this up.

This day has not gone as Gina expected. Maybe that will be another day. But right now, this is what she wants. Gina is not in a hotel room. This is not Keith. She is in her own bedroom, on top of her own—not someone else’s—husband. It is familiar, but different. Because today she is very different.

For the first time in almost two decades, she almost had sex with another man. That she put a plan in motion to do that has changed her. Enlivened her. She also has a secret out there now, with Keith and Tracy. Tracy who knew all along what was happening.

This is what Keith and Tracy did now: they had consensual affairs. They had planned for Tracy to “accidentally” meet Gina when she arrived at the hotel, and that Gina got there early and went into the bar only made it easier. Tracy was supposed to have that conversation with Gina, letting Gina she was okay with the idea of Keith fucking other women. Because they didn’t want Gina to feel guilty.

So there Tracy and Gina had sat, each lying to the other until the very end when Tracy tried to convince Gina not to leave but stick to her plans with Keith—to go upstairs and fuck him.

That revelation had stunned Gina and made her feel a fool and maybe a little used, but then Tracy followed her out of the bar, into the elevator, and down to the parking garage, where Gina had stopped and spun hard toward Tracy and sharply said, “Don’t tell Dean.”

Tracy replied sympathetically. “I won’t. We won’t.”

At that moment, Gina registered her own culpability, how when she and Keith made plans to hook up, she did it without suspecting Tracy approved. So she told Tracy, almost as an apology, “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Tracy understood. “You were thinking what we all think. How it would be nice for a change. It can still happen, you know. Keith’s on his way.”

Gina had been tempted. She’d been imagining herself with Keith for almost two weeks. “I can’t.”

“I blew it,” Tracy sighed. “Letting you know I knew…” Tracy touched her again, a hand resting on her arm, almost as if ready to take hold of Gina and pull her back upstairs, put her in that hotel room, get her on the bed to wait for Keith. “It would have been so good.”

No longer needing to cover the truth, Gina said, “It might be too complicated to be good.”

Tracy’s hand remained on her arm. “It doesn’t have to be.”

Now, in her own bedroom, Gina thinks about Tracy saying how it didn’t need to be complicated. She thinks about that while having sex with her own husband.

Moving on top of Dean, directing how fast, how hard their bodies come together, Gina makes noise when she feels her climax coming. Because the kids are out of the house for the night. And the dogs—well, the dogs start barking out in the hall, but that’s the way it is now.

What’s new is how Gina groans, “Are you fucking me hard? Are you fucking me?” She says that to Dean although she’s the one doing the fucking. She’s the one moving, putting her pussy down on Dean’s cock.

He’s just holding on, trying to make it last, keep from getting off. The pleasure coursing through him is intense. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He presses shut his eyes as if that might make him last a few more seconds.

Gina doesn’t want him to wait. She’s ready. “Come in me!” The way she moves on his cock is almost like slapping him. “Come on—do it! Do it!”

And there he is. Dean twists beneath her, like her pussy has electrified him—that heat and wetness sliding along his length. The first powerful surge of orgasm and he’s over the edge. Exhaling a long, “Fuuuuuhhhk,” as one whirl of ecstasy follows the other.

Gina is with him. Her moans so loud, the feeling so good, neither of them pays attention to the dogs outside the bedroom door. Gina keeps moving until they’re both spent, then pulls off and half collapses onto bed alongside him.

Breathless, she cups a hand where she feels his cum slipping out of her, the mess of him sliding through her fingers.

Dean is also out of breath. Looking over at her in the darkness. “Damn, woman. Damn… Fuck me.” He doesn’t know what else to say. Maybe wonders where this came from. Having no idea Gina spent her afternoon in a hotel bar, waiting to fuck a friend but changed her mind.

At least she thought she changed her mind. Changed her mind at the time. But now? Now she’s thinking if she had to do it over again…? She’d fuck Keith. Although maybe not the way Tracy and Keith envisioned.

But these may just be the sort of thoughts that come in the rush of endorphins good sex unleash. Thoughts that often fade once you’re out of bed and cleaned up, and the dogs have stopped barking, and you’ve got your sleepshirt on, and are in bed watching old Columbo reruns. Only tonight, those thoughts don’t fade. They grow stronger.

Gina decides she is going to fuck Keith. Throughout the night, not sleeping, Gina’s fantasy becomes a plan. In the morning, on her way to the office, she calls Keith. Calls, doesn’t text.

Tracy’s husband offers a tentative, “Hey. Sorry about yesterday. We just thought—”

Gina cuts him off. “Let’s do it. But not a word to Tracy or it’s off.” Very firm about that, she waits for his response.

Keith doesn’t answer right away, but eventually responds: “Yeah… Okay.”

Gina says, “Next week. You have an afternoon?”

“You pick the day.” A faster response that time.

Gina wonders if his cock might already be getting hard, thinking about it. She hopes so. “I’ll call you. Give you the day. Time and place. Might be short notice.”

“Okay.”

“And not a word to Tracy,” she confirms.

“Got it,” he agrees.

A pause, then Gina says, “Keith…?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s going to be good.”

When he responds, “Yeah,” Gina can hear him grinning.

Two hours later, Gina calls Tracy. And they have a very different conversation.

This story continues in the next post…

In the meantime, would you take me shopping? Not literally. But if you’re heading to Amazon anyway to browse or buy, please consider using this Amazon link. It will take you to Amazon and if you make any purchases, Avenue Oh will earn a small commission without increasing your cost for whatever you buy. It’s like you’re getting Amazon to pay me for my work.