"I'm a Dirty Slut..."

All their other colleagues had left. It was just the two of them at that swanky hotel bar nursing their fourth round of cocktails: his usual old fashioned, and a dirty martini for her. One of her pale pink nails daintily played with the skewer, two blue cheese stuffed olives still impaled and soaking in liquor. He watched it obsessively, between glances at her bright red lips and the cleavage that bordered on unprofessional without actually crossing the line. Blonde hair fell like a single curtain over her right shoulder, shimmering like gold under warm lighting. She was angled towards him, the point of her nude pumps just inches from his oxfords.

I knew her. I'd seen her picture. Heard her name. Listened to her flirt on business calls with him. Seen her name pop up in his texts.

Jordin Max, a wily minx of a sales rep from one of Ezra's best partners. Only twenty-four years old, with the name and appearance of a porn star, it was only a matter of time before he wound up here.

She leaned forward, saying something I couldn't make out to which he responded with something equally unintelligible. But I saw her giggle, tits bouncing like Jell-O beneath that shameless neckline. Of course, he watched them, lingering long enough for her to notice his professed fidelity failing under the influence of clever seduction and just a bit too much whiskey.

Her legs squirmed, drawing him lower to notice tanned, perfectly shaved legs likely kept fit by some combination of hot girl workouts that were all the rage now. They parted just slightly, teasing him with a little window of shadow where he hoped her panties or lack thereof would be. Olive green eyes stared intently, communicating her desire to continue the night elsewhere. Ezra understood without issue or protest.

It was only a matter of time before she was pressed against the wall of the elevator glass, on display for the empty lobby, making out and being groped by a married man. His hands were greedy with those buttery smooth legs. They tugged at her hips as if she were a drug and he could never get enough.

And then I watched him undress her. Unzipping her dress as he bent her over the bed and spanked her. Unhooking her bra as he backed her towards the window overlooking some faintly lit plaza. She thumped against the glass and he devoured those tits like they were his last meal. Not enough words in the world could convey how shamefully, sinfully he slobbered and drooled over those things.

"I've wanted this for so long," I heard, barely audible in the background, unsure which of them had said it.

A dainty set of black lace panties fell to the floor. In a fast moving montage, I saw him bury his face between her legs, bend her over the bed again and penetrate her without protection, thrusting like an animal, spanking her till her ass turned red, flipping her over and pounding her into the mattress until she had the courage to take over and ride him like a triple crown was on the line. Over and over, position after position, I watched my husband fuck another, younger woman.

Again.

Call it feminine intuition, or some fucked up, divine sense, but I woke up in a hot sweat before I could see how it finished.

But the images were seared into my head.

A knot cinched my stomach tight, spreading tightness up into my chest and throat, knowing -- just knowing -- that my husband was with another woman. Yet, the same as last time, an overwhelming rush engulfed my pussy. My right hand was still shoved down into my panties which were so soaked I was initially worried I'd somehow wet the bed. Hesitant to remove it, the exit was slow.

I threw the covers off and grabbed my phone to check the time.

3:32 am.

"Fuck..." I hissed, and reached for the remote of my cooling pad before plopping back down onto my pillow. I dropped the temperature another five degrees.

My skin was on fire, either from anger or arousal, as the images of that dream kept replaying in my head. They were so vivid. I'd only seen Jordin in pictures but my subconscious had recreated her perfectly--or so I assumed. What haunted me most was Ezra: from his actions, his mannerisms, the way he touched her and handled her, the way his gaze lingered over her, the smoothness of his words even when I couldn't make them out, I knew there was no way that was truly a dream. The whole thing played as seamlessly as high quality porn. I might as well have been in the damn room.

It wasn't above Ezra to cheat, either. While he didn't know, I'd already caught him twice.

Once, during a trip to the Poconos, I'd caught him in the bathroom of our Air BnB with my best friend, Julia. Their muffled grunts froze me like a deer in the hallway and, rather than confronting them, I backed away down the hall and went back to bed, terrified to see what was behind that door. He got into bed and hugged and kissed me like nothing had happened, unaware I was even awake. I never brought it up.

Just three months ago, I noticed a name on his phone I was sure had nothing to do with work or his side projects: Lindsey McKinney. Not even in a text, either, but a Facebook message. I looked her up and found a Lindsey McKinney from Austin, Texas -- a frequent travel destination for his work. She was a student at the University of Texas -- another blonde -- likely 19 or 20 years old from the looks of it, and somehow, for some reason, friends with my husband. The message was a picture of her tits.

How many times had he cheated? How many women did he, like Jordin, fuck without protection?

Lord knows.

But at least three times.

I had to sit up and take some deep breaths to calm down before the knot in my stomach turned to vomit and ruined my bedding without good explanation. Bringing my legs together, though, caused another issue. It was like my labia converged around my clit and sent lightning through my body in what felt like a cross between an anxiety attack and a flush to my entire system.

"Oohh," I winced, suddenly breathless. I backed up to the headboard and flared my legs wide to avoid any further problems. "Wow. Ok. Tiffany, what the fuck is wrong with you? Come on."

The self-talk was a regular occurrence any time these thoughts plagued me.

And they really were a plague.

For some reason, the thought of Ezra cheating on me, including with my best friend, didn't make me nearly as angry as I'd expected. Most women would have been furious at those revelations, almost violent in their wrath as they barreled towards divorce or retribution. But I wasn't furious. I wasn't even sure I really wanted the whole truth. Infidelity aside, Ezra wasn't even a bad husband. At 9 pm, he'd texted me that he was getting dinner and drinks with his partners and that he'd call me tomorrow. He told me he loved me, kissy emoji and all. We'd texted back and forth all day, just like we did every day, flirting and bantering and talking about anything that crossed our minds. Well, almost anything, I suppose. He bought me flowers regularly, took us out on dates, planned fun things for the family--adventures, vacations, outings. Our sex life was consistent and genuinely good.

I wanted neither divorce nor retribution, either. I couldn't do that to our kids, and again with infidelity aside, he didn't deserve getting even.

So what did I want, exactly? What was the root of my dilemma?

I didn't know.

But the panties weren't helping.

And neither was my tank top.

I took them both off to at least remove the stimulation, leaving me naked and alone, replaying the image of his hands slipping up beneath black lace and pulling them down Jordin's legs. My hand drifted again, down between mine, lungs heaving in a nervous breath. Just the tips of my fingers crossing my bush had me shooting up from the bed, pacing across the room, shaking my head.

"What is wrong with you?" I muttered. "Ugh...."

In an anxious fit, I grabbed my phone and robe and headed carefully downstairs. I snuck into the pantry and grabbed a bottle of red wine, and poured a rather generous glass that didn't stick around long enough to be properly appreciated. Aided by an empty stomach, the overstimulation quieted slightly and allowed me a deeper, more cleansing breath. But it wasn't enough. So I raided the freezer for the vodka and poured my closest estimation to a shot.

The glass was placed in the sink, the bottle corked and stowed away nonchalantly, and I found myself staring at the shelves in our pantry, nibbling on my index finger and thumb.

Condensation pooled on a martini glass in my mind. A skewer of olives dancing beneath vixen fingers. Were they this tipsy? Or more?

Were they drunk beyond reason?

Just given over to lust without regard?

I shifted in place, hands to my hips, feeling mulberry silk hug me a little too tightly, and caress me a little to smoothly. Looking down, I saw the headlights beaming undeniably. Confident I was alone, and fighting a rabid onslaught of insecurities and strange fantasies, I undid the tie slightly and sent my hands up from my stomach and cupped my breasts like Ezra had done to Jordin's against that window.

Their words rang out in my head, echoing like they were shouted into a canyon. "I've wanted this for so long..."

How long, exactly? And why?

Terrified that I was giving into something I didn't understand, I released my breasts promptly and clutched at my thighs. Nails dug into my skin and I hissed, teeth gritted.

How fucking long?

And why?

Then, it dawned on me.

There in the pantry, half naked before my non-perishables, I shook my head in disbelief. My body sank, sulking as clarity arrived.

Because they're younger than me. They're hotter. Sexier.

They're new.

That was it, wasn't it?

I wandered back up the stairs and stood before our bathroom mirror, fully disrobed. In my day, I was surely as much a prize as these women Ezra fawned over now. High school tennis star turned D1 athlete, just a sweet and innocent church girl who'd hadn't even kissed a man until he came along. But at 32, even regular Pilates, yoga, and cardio weren't enough to keep up with these younger models. I'd breastfed both our children. Birthed them both naturally. Of course that took its toll.

I twisted and contorted every which way in the mirror, inspecting every inch of myself.

But, I realized he was still attracted to me. We had sex several times a week. Good sex, too. Undeniably passionate, sweaty, lustful sex. Just as he'd done with Jordin in that dream. I'd taken good care of myself. That wasn't it.

He may really well have just been that much of a casanova.

He'd taken my virginity so soon into our relationship that I'd hardly even had a chance to think about it, knowing -- even now -- that he truly did love me.

Could love and lust really be that mutually exclusive?

Could he have fucked Jordin tonight, board that plane tomorrow, and come home the truly loving husband I'd always known him as? Desiring me? Making me feel warm and loved and cherished? Being fully present?

And still know in the back of his mind that he'd just cum inside one of his closest business partners just hours before?

How long could I keep this secret?

More importantly, though, how long could I deny that I wasn't fucking turned on watching that scene play over and over again in my head. I wasn't even looking at the mirror anymore. I'd forgotten about myself. All I could think about, all I could see, was his face buried between her legs, between her tits, spreading her legs high into the air while he pounded and pounded and pounded.

My breath hissed between my teeth. I couldn't even believe that I was entertaining this.

But rational thought was ready to be abandoned. My body couldn't take it anymore. I was burning, frothing, fucking frantic, fucking aching to quench a thirst I didn't want to name.

Her perfectly shaped ass was crimson, spanked incessantly.

Her tits swung wildly with each unprotected thrust.

He pulled her hair, likely saying things he said with me every time we fucked.

"You're such a dirty fucking slut."

"Take that fucking dick, bitch. Tell me you love it. Tell me you love that fucking dick."

"This is my pussy, you understand? Fucking mine. I own this pussy. Say it."

"Tell me you fucking love me, you stupid bitch. And I'll tell you how much I love this pussy."

I couldn't even recall how many times I'd called myself his dirty slut. How many times I'd professed my love for his cock. I'd written fucking poems and essays about it and given them to him on random Tuesday mornings. I affirmed, over and over and over and over and over, that my pussy was his. Owned by him. Claimed by him. Fiercely guarded by him. No one else could touch it. Ever. No one else would.

How many pussies did he own, exactly?

How many girls had confessed their love to him in the throes of ecstasy?

And which ones mattered the most?

But Ezra was right. I was a dirty fucking slut. I was standing in our bathroom at almost 4 am on a Thursday night on the verge of masturbating to a dream I had of him cheating on me. Only dirty sluts did that.

Dirty. Fucking. Sluts.

I locked eyes with myself in that mirror and forced myself to say it: "I'm a dirty fucking slut."

The confession sent that fire in my pussy up through my body like it was attacking me. My back arched. I inhaled deep. Black pupils, barely visible in the low light, flared out of proportion. A smile was resisted until it overpowered my self-control and became a wicked grin that chilled me to the bone.

I shook my head again, pleased and disappointed with myself at the same time. I swear something was coming over me, some otherworldly entity of uncontrollable lust that was driving me to accept kinks and fetishes I was only supposed to embrace, not reason with.

My face turned a shade of evil that would've troubled me deeply in a righter mind.

I repeated Ezra's affirmation.

"I'm a dirty fucking slut." I was louder than I should've been at 4 am, but even that got me riled up. "Fuck..."

With a huff, I stormed back to the bed and half jumped onto it. I took the vibrator from my nightstand and flicked it on.

I imagined Ezra in that hotel room, naked and cuddled up with Jordin all night. In the morning, he'd surely grope her tits and ass like he did mine every day. They'd probably fuck again. She'd get up on her knees and go to town on his morning wood, wetting the sheets with her sultry slobber and deep throat. She'd ride him again, demanding another creampie before she went back to her room to pack. He'd kiss her at the door as she told him to say hi to his wife for her. He'd laugh.

The vibrator brushed against drenched folds and kept moving forward, it's knobby head thrusting of its own volition. I flinched and jolted as it just kept going and going and going. As it filled me, a slow rolling explosion built up in my body and burst only once it had reached its full depth. Fireworks erupted. Pings racked my skin incessantly. I felt like I was going to spontaneously combust. Like my chest was a nuclear reactor primed to blow.

That same man would come home tomorrow morning and creampie me.

His dirty little fucking slut.

I grabbed the vibrator with both hands and played the dream over again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again.

Orgasm after orgasm ripped through me until I was an exhausted mess of a woman weakened back to sleep. I had barely enough energy to return the vibrator, uncleaned, to the drawer and toss the covers back over myself.

I was asleep in seconds, just an hour before my alarm.