The second time that I cheated
This was originally at my tumblr again
http://sarapasiphaelove.tumblr.com/
But I'm sharing it with you all here too.
The Second Time
http://sarapasiphaelove.tumblr.com/post/159943266733/the-second-time
This is part 2 of the answer I started earlier
I’ve said that I haven’t cheated on my husband since I said my marriage vows. And someone asked about before. There were two times that I cheated on him before we were married. This is the second.
And thank you again for your questions, I have so much f******wering them! Feel free to ask me any others.
This one is going to be a bit harder to tell. Even just remembering it seems surreal, like a dream, or a story someone told me, or an erotic fantasy from online. It’s not the sort of thing you think could happening in real life.
I won’t try to convince you that this is a true story, I’ll just give you my word that it happened mostly like I’m about to describe it. It was quite a few years ago now, so some of it is a little hazy and I might be embellishing it just a little bit. But for the most part this is how it happened.
So… without giving you all the details about my life before I met hubby, I’ll just say that I was a little wild. Promiscuous even. I had a lot of relationships, and looking back I can’t think of one that was entirely healthy. And I’m not even sure they’d qualify as relationships. But it was like an addiction. Not even the sex itself, especially not in the beginning. I learned it enjoy the experience more and more as I went along, but it wasn’t really about the sex. It was the attention and that warm electric “being used” feeling.
So there were a handful of men that I “knew” and talked to regularly before I met hubby. I cut off ties with most of them when I started dating hubby. And when we got engaged I cut off ties with the rest of them.
I’ve never really told hubby about all of the things I did before him. He doesn’t need to know the details. He knows I’ve had a lot more sexual partners and experiences than him, … like a lot more. And that’s enough.
We moved away from my hometown, and my reputation, when we were married. A clean break, a fresh start.
But I’m getting off topic and avoiding the question a bit, sorry. That’s probably because even though it starts like a dirty story from online, I don’t think it ends like the typical one.
His name was Rick. I hadn’t slept with him, he didn’t live near me. He was an over the road trucker that traveled through the area sometimes. I don’t even remember how we first started talking. This was back when I had one of those flip cell phones (yes, I’m showing my age) that wasn’t tied to my actual number or identity and I’d talk to and text any number of men on it. That just brought back the memory of texting on a numbered keypad, God I don’t miss that at all!
Anyway, Rick was perfect. He had this deep confident voice. He was a trucker, and I’ve had a fantasies about truckers since before I even knew what it meant to have sexual fantasies. He was dominant and aggressive and just nasty. And he had a definite mean streak, I would even say maybe a bit sadistic.
Whatever it was, it was that perfect mix that made my knees weak and my head spin and something in my tummy, and just a little lower than my tummy, feel all warm and goey.
And I knew that cutting off ties with him was going to be difficult. I thought about just not saying anything, just ignoring him completely. But I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I knew I had to at least let him know why I was making these changes.
And maybe… probably.. there was a little piece of me that thought of him as the challenge I hadn’t met yet, the mystery I hadn’t solved, the dark room I hadn’t explored.
I wrote him a long rambling email first… yes… I know you’re shocked that I sometimes babble on and on and get off topic easily. But it’s true.
He texted back within a few minutes, and even though I told him that I was going to get rid of the phone and number we’d been talking on, I found myself talking to him after just a couple texts.
His voice just did something to me. It was a combination of the tone, and the words he used, and just this confidence that you could hear in everything he said. I tried to stay strong, but I could feel myself giving in little by little. My walls weren’t built very high back then, and it didn’t take much to make them crumble.
But then he said something close to “Baby, if you don’t meet me now, you’ll never know what my 10 inch cock feels like stretching you open”.
Now in a good erotic porn story I would have been like “ohhhh 10 inches!? take me baby I’m yours!”
But that’s not real life.
I won’t go too far into it, it could be an entire post on it’s own, but I’m pretty sure guys worry about penis size more than women. I won’t speak for all women, because we are individuals with individual desires and preferences *shock!!!*. But for myself, and for the handful of girlfriends I have who I speak openly about sex with, there are really 3 categories. Too small, just right, too big. And I think you’d be surprised at where we draw the line for each. And we don’t measure! I don’t know a single woman who keeps a tape measure in her purse to measure the men she has sex with. Okay… sometimes I have my sewing tape in my purse, but that’s completely different.
So when he threw that out there, it’s was like my walls went right back up. First, I was sure he was lying. Nearly every guy I talked to seems to say he’s got 9 or more inches. Just a few days ago I was talking to a guy who swore he had 15 inches. Even when I flat out told him that was bull, and that it was fine if he wasn’t hung like a porn star, I was still happy to talk to him. He still insisted he was a full 15 inches. It just kinda killed the vibe. Advice to you guys, just don’t even bring up your size until she asks. You can say you’re thick… or “hung”, but you don’t have to measure it out to the quarter inch. It’s not a woodworking project. lol… okay, it kinda is. Ha! I just giggled at my own unintentional pun.
Anyway… when he said he was that big it kinda made me angry and strengthened my resolve. It reminded me why I was making these life changes and leaving men like him behind.
So that little wicked part of me came to the surface. And I decided I was going to teach him a lesson and make it easier to sever ties. I told him I’d meet him at hotel he was staying at as he was driving through town. But that I was going to measure him right there at the door before I set foot in his room. And if he was even a fraction of an inch smaller than he claimed, I’d leave.
When he agreed I figured that like most men who bluff about size, they think that once I’m there they can sweet talk me into whatever they want, of that I’ll just figure “since I’m here… I might as well….”
The Friday came that I was going to meet him. This was one week before our wedding. We didn’t have a big wedding, but I was still feeling anxious and excited and nervous.
And that just made me feel even more wicked when it came to this little meeting. Something in me just wanted to let go and do something just mean. I know… that makes me a bad person. But sometimes when I’m stressed out and full of anxiety, being wicked, even sort of mean, just makes me feel more.. settled.
I planned on meeting him over my lunch break. That morning I dressed a little nicer than usual for work, I took the time to put a little more make up on, and put little curls in my brown hair. I work a black skirt that was tight around my little waist, and ample hips and then flared out with pleats that ended just above my knees. I wore a red button down top that was a little tight across my chest, but still work appropriate, and black 4 inch loafer style high heels.
I was looking forward to teasing him, and then walking away and leaving him frustrated.
When I got there I wasn’t nervous at all. Usually I am, usually I’m a bundle of nerves and shakes and excited energy. But something about knowing that I wasn’t going to “do” anything, and that I was going to sort of get a little revenge, gave me confidence.
It was one of those one story motels where you park right in front of the room you’re staying (except for the semi trucks parked around the back). I remember that it was room 11. I remember walking towards that door, long confident strides and letting my butt wiggle from wearing my high heels as I walked, hoping he was watching.
I remembering smiling like an idiot.
I remember him opening the door when I was a couple steps away, he was wearing a gray thick bathrobe with the front undone and hanging open, he stood in the noon sun in that doorway like he didn’t give a fuck who might see.
He was hard already, reaching up to, and a little past, his belly button. He had dark hair cut short and a goatee. I never asked his age, I just knew he was older, and I could see gray in his goatee and short hair. He had a bit of a belly, but it was a firm belly, not flabby. And dark hair covered his chest and led down in a trail past his belly button to his cock. Which was standing up. Past his belly button. And he held a wooden ruler, like the ones you had back in middle school, next to it. It was resting in the crook between the base of his cock and his abdomen, and the head of his cock reached up past the 10 inches mark.
And he had the biggest, most satisfied shit eating grin on his face.
I’m not a size queen. I never was. I’m still not. But in that moment something in me just.. melted. Or gave in. I don’t even remember reaching out for him. I don’t remember making any decisions. I don’t remember when everything changed and the day turned on it’s head. But i do remember wrapping my little hand, fingernails painted red, engagement ring on my finger, around his cock. I remember how hard he felt. And honestly, just knowing he was that turned on was a huge turn on for me. And I remember by fingers not making it all the way around him.
The sex was almost an afterthought after that. But I know you want some details. I’m never as good at describing the actual sex. Andi not my memory the actual sex is just kinda a blur. It’s the moments leading up to it that seem sharper and clearer.
We started with a handjob and I think I said “oh my God, no way” a lot of times. That led to me taking him into my mouth. He was easily the biggest man I’d ever been with. I’ve been with one or two others that might have been close, I’ve never really measured other guys. And back then I was proud of my deep throat skills, like oddly proud.
But I couldn’t take him all. Looking back, I wish I’d just told him to make it fit. Looking back, I feel like is was unfinished business, like I failed at something. I should have just laid my head off the edge of the bed, or told him to hold my head in both hands, and get those last 2 or 3 inches down my throat. But I didn’t. And now when I remember that day it’s the one part of it I regret oddly enough.
I remember that his hands are big and calloused. He touched me for a while, putting one, then two, then three thick fingers inside me and pushing on my clit with his thumb.
I remember being on my hands and knees on the bed, it smelled of smoke and sweat. I remember that the blankets were this ugly padded brown and blue color, and the bed was hard and had springs that made noises everytime I shifted. He left my skirt and heels on and slid my panties down over my legs. Somewhere during the blowjob my top and bra had come off and were laying on this beat up green fake leather chair in the corner.
I remember how it felt when he was trying to push himself into me the first time. This increasing pressure that felt like he was pushing a baseball bat in me. And thinking “it’s not going to fit, it’s not going to fit…”. His hands holding my hips firmly, pulling my back on to him while he was pushing, making little short thrusting motions with his hips while steadily pulling me back the whole time.
And more than anything, I remember that feeling when he finally opened me up. In one hard thrust at least half of him, maybe more, sunk into me. I felt myself stretch around him, and open up. I felt like he was filling every last bit of me from my toes to my fingertips. And I must have been loud, I have no idea what sounds I made or what words I said, but I remember him laughing and pushing my face into the pillow to muffle my voice.
I’ll let all track of time and everything seems to happen at once. He pinched my nipples until I screamed. He pulled out and made me take him in my mouth again until I begged him tomorrow fuck me again. Until I said the words “fuck my little engaged pussy”. He made me say things about my fiance, and invite him to the wedding and tell him he could fuck me in my wedding dress.
I took him all by the end. Every last inch. I should say that I got used to him and that the pain went away and it only felt good. But that would be a lie. Most of the time. He didn’t get all the way in me. But when he did it hurt. A deep aching almost cramp like hurt that looked out from my cervix. It wasn’t entirely bad, but it wasn’t a feeling I could take a lot of either. He alternated back and forth between taking me that deep, and thrusting into me just before the point where it hurt.
And in the end he made me beg him to cum inside me. And I did. I begged him to full me, to cum in me, to knock me up up one week before my wedding.
I don’t have orgasms through vaginal sex very easily at all. It’s a very rare thing for me. But this is one of the times I couldn't’ have stopped that orgasm even if I’d wanted to.
My orgasm ripped through my like a flash flood in nearly the same instant that he came inside me. Holding himself buried all the way in my pussy. I should say that I could feel him fill me with his hot seed, or something like that. But it doesn’t really feel like that. I could feel him twitch and spasm though. And as soon as he pulled out I could feel him start to run back out of me.
In a good fantasy that would have been just the start of some crazy adventure.
But in reality it only took seconds before the guilt came crashing back in. I don’t remember saying anything to him. I don’t remember putting my bra and top back on. I don’t even remember the short drive back to our little apartment I just a few blocks away.
I remember being almost relieved that I had lost track of time. That it was late enough in the afternoon that I couldn’t have gone back to work even if I wanted to.
And here’s where the unsexy part starts. The guilt was terrible. Absolutely terrible. It was bad enough that I was sick to my stomach. I threw up repeatedly that day before hubby got home.
I’ve always been good at just sort of taking things I don’t want to think about and putting them in a little box with a lid on it and hiding them away. And that’s what I did with the memories of that afternoon. But they managed to crawl out sometimes. And Everytime they did I was sick to my stomach all over again.
It wasn’t until about two or three months after the wedding, when life was starting to return to it’s normal routine, that I found myself thinking about that afternoon. And to my surprise, when I remember it later on I found arousal instead of guilt. Over time, it’s become one of those memories that I call up when I need to think about something to push myself over the edge and in to orgasm. I still feel guilty, but not nearly as much anymore.
Maybe it’s being able to tell myself that I’ve never cheated on him, since our wedding vows, that makes it feel more “okay”. I don’t know.
But there you have it. The two times I cheated on hubby, even though he wasn’t quite hubby yet at the time.
http://sarapasiphaelove.tumblr.com/
But I'm sharing it with you all here too.
The Second Time
http://sarapasiphaelove.tumblr.com/post/159943266733/the-second-time
This is part 2 of the answer I started earlier
I’ve said that I haven’t cheated on my husband since I said my marriage vows. And someone asked about before. There were two times that I cheated on him before we were married. This is the second.
And thank you again for your questions, I have so much f******wering them! Feel free to ask me any others.
This one is going to be a bit harder to tell. Even just remembering it seems surreal, like a dream, or a story someone told me, or an erotic fantasy from online. It’s not the sort of thing you think could happening in real life.
I won’t try to convince you that this is a true story, I’ll just give you my word that it happened mostly like I’m about to describe it. It was quite a few years ago now, so some of it is a little hazy and I might be embellishing it just a little bit. But for the most part this is how it happened.
So… without giving you all the details about my life before I met hubby, I’ll just say that I was a little wild. Promiscuous even. I had a lot of relationships, and looking back I can’t think of one that was entirely healthy. And I’m not even sure they’d qualify as relationships. But it was like an addiction. Not even the sex itself, especially not in the beginning. I learned it enjoy the experience more and more as I went along, but it wasn’t really about the sex. It was the attention and that warm electric “being used” feeling.
So there were a handful of men that I “knew” and talked to regularly before I met hubby. I cut off ties with most of them when I started dating hubby. And when we got engaged I cut off ties with the rest of them.
I’ve never really told hubby about all of the things I did before him. He doesn’t need to know the details. He knows I’ve had a lot more sexual partners and experiences than him, … like a lot more. And that’s enough.
We moved away from my hometown, and my reputation, when we were married. A clean break, a fresh start.
But I’m getting off topic and avoiding the question a bit, sorry. That’s probably because even though it starts like a dirty story from online, I don’t think it ends like the typical one.
His name was Rick. I hadn’t slept with him, he didn’t live near me. He was an over the road trucker that traveled through the area sometimes. I don’t even remember how we first started talking. This was back when I had one of those flip cell phones (yes, I’m showing my age) that wasn’t tied to my actual number or identity and I’d talk to and text any number of men on it. That just brought back the memory of texting on a numbered keypad, God I don’t miss that at all!
Anyway, Rick was perfect. He had this deep confident voice. He was a trucker, and I’ve had a fantasies about truckers since before I even knew what it meant to have sexual fantasies. He was dominant and aggressive and just nasty. And he had a definite mean streak, I would even say maybe a bit sadistic.
Whatever it was, it was that perfect mix that made my knees weak and my head spin and something in my tummy, and just a little lower than my tummy, feel all warm and goey.
And I knew that cutting off ties with him was going to be difficult. I thought about just not saying anything, just ignoring him completely. But I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I knew I had to at least let him know why I was making these changes.
And maybe… probably.. there was a little piece of me that thought of him as the challenge I hadn’t met yet, the mystery I hadn’t solved, the dark room I hadn’t explored.
I wrote him a long rambling email first… yes… I know you’re shocked that I sometimes babble on and on and get off topic easily. But it’s true.
He texted back within a few minutes, and even though I told him that I was going to get rid of the phone and number we’d been talking on, I found myself talking to him after just a couple texts.
His voice just did something to me. It was a combination of the tone, and the words he used, and just this confidence that you could hear in everything he said. I tried to stay strong, but I could feel myself giving in little by little. My walls weren’t built very high back then, and it didn’t take much to make them crumble.
But then he said something close to “Baby, if you don’t meet me now, you’ll never know what my 10 inch cock feels like stretching you open”.
Now in a good erotic porn story I would have been like “ohhhh 10 inches!? take me baby I’m yours!”
But that’s not real life.
I won’t go too far into it, it could be an entire post on it’s own, but I’m pretty sure guys worry about penis size more than women. I won’t speak for all women, because we are individuals with individual desires and preferences *shock!!!*. But for myself, and for the handful of girlfriends I have who I speak openly about sex with, there are really 3 categories. Too small, just right, too big. And I think you’d be surprised at where we draw the line for each. And we don’t measure! I don’t know a single woman who keeps a tape measure in her purse to measure the men she has sex with. Okay… sometimes I have my sewing tape in my purse, but that’s completely different.
So when he threw that out there, it’s was like my walls went right back up. First, I was sure he was lying. Nearly every guy I talked to seems to say he’s got 9 or more inches. Just a few days ago I was talking to a guy who swore he had 15 inches. Even when I flat out told him that was bull, and that it was fine if he wasn’t hung like a porn star, I was still happy to talk to him. He still insisted he was a full 15 inches. It just kinda killed the vibe. Advice to you guys, just don’t even bring up your size until she asks. You can say you’re thick… or “hung”, but you don’t have to measure it out to the quarter inch. It’s not a woodworking project. lol… okay, it kinda is. Ha! I just giggled at my own unintentional pun.
Anyway… when he said he was that big it kinda made me angry and strengthened my resolve. It reminded me why I was making these life changes and leaving men like him behind.
So that little wicked part of me came to the surface. And I decided I was going to teach him a lesson and make it easier to sever ties. I told him I’d meet him at hotel he was staying at as he was driving through town. But that I was going to measure him right there at the door before I set foot in his room. And if he was even a fraction of an inch smaller than he claimed, I’d leave.
When he agreed I figured that like most men who bluff about size, they think that once I’m there they can sweet talk me into whatever they want, of that I’ll just figure “since I’m here… I might as well….”
The Friday came that I was going to meet him. This was one week before our wedding. We didn’t have a big wedding, but I was still feeling anxious and excited and nervous.
And that just made me feel even more wicked when it came to this little meeting. Something in me just wanted to let go and do something just mean. I know… that makes me a bad person. But sometimes when I’m stressed out and full of anxiety, being wicked, even sort of mean, just makes me feel more.. settled.
I planned on meeting him over my lunch break. That morning I dressed a little nicer than usual for work, I took the time to put a little more make up on, and put little curls in my brown hair. I work a black skirt that was tight around my little waist, and ample hips and then flared out with pleats that ended just above my knees. I wore a red button down top that was a little tight across my chest, but still work appropriate, and black 4 inch loafer style high heels.
I was looking forward to teasing him, and then walking away and leaving him frustrated.
When I got there I wasn’t nervous at all. Usually I am, usually I’m a bundle of nerves and shakes and excited energy. But something about knowing that I wasn’t going to “do” anything, and that I was going to sort of get a little revenge, gave me confidence.
It was one of those one story motels where you park right in front of the room you’re staying (except for the semi trucks parked around the back). I remember that it was room 11. I remember walking towards that door, long confident strides and letting my butt wiggle from wearing my high heels as I walked, hoping he was watching.
I remembering smiling like an idiot.
I remember him opening the door when I was a couple steps away, he was wearing a gray thick bathrobe with the front undone and hanging open, he stood in the noon sun in that doorway like he didn’t give a fuck who might see.
He was hard already, reaching up to, and a little past, his belly button. He had dark hair cut short and a goatee. I never asked his age, I just knew he was older, and I could see gray in his goatee and short hair. He had a bit of a belly, but it was a firm belly, not flabby. And dark hair covered his chest and led down in a trail past his belly button to his cock. Which was standing up. Past his belly button. And he held a wooden ruler, like the ones you had back in middle school, next to it. It was resting in the crook between the base of his cock and his abdomen, and the head of his cock reached up past the 10 inches mark.
And he had the biggest, most satisfied shit eating grin on his face.
I’m not a size queen. I never was. I’m still not. But in that moment something in me just.. melted. Or gave in. I don’t even remember reaching out for him. I don’t remember making any decisions. I don’t remember when everything changed and the day turned on it’s head. But i do remember wrapping my little hand, fingernails painted red, engagement ring on my finger, around his cock. I remember how hard he felt. And honestly, just knowing he was that turned on was a huge turn on for me. And I remember by fingers not making it all the way around him.
The sex was almost an afterthought after that. But I know you want some details. I’m never as good at describing the actual sex. Andi not my memory the actual sex is just kinda a blur. It’s the moments leading up to it that seem sharper and clearer.
We started with a handjob and I think I said “oh my God, no way” a lot of times. That led to me taking him into my mouth. He was easily the biggest man I’d ever been with. I’ve been with one or two others that might have been close, I’ve never really measured other guys. And back then I was proud of my deep throat skills, like oddly proud.
But I couldn’t take him all. Looking back, I wish I’d just told him to make it fit. Looking back, I feel like is was unfinished business, like I failed at something. I should have just laid my head off the edge of the bed, or told him to hold my head in both hands, and get those last 2 or 3 inches down my throat. But I didn’t. And now when I remember that day it’s the one part of it I regret oddly enough.
I remember that his hands are big and calloused. He touched me for a while, putting one, then two, then three thick fingers inside me and pushing on my clit with his thumb.
I remember being on my hands and knees on the bed, it smelled of smoke and sweat. I remember that the blankets were this ugly padded brown and blue color, and the bed was hard and had springs that made noises everytime I shifted. He left my skirt and heels on and slid my panties down over my legs. Somewhere during the blowjob my top and bra had come off and were laying on this beat up green fake leather chair in the corner.
I remember how it felt when he was trying to push himself into me the first time. This increasing pressure that felt like he was pushing a baseball bat in me. And thinking “it’s not going to fit, it’s not going to fit…”. His hands holding my hips firmly, pulling my back on to him while he was pushing, making little short thrusting motions with his hips while steadily pulling me back the whole time.
And more than anything, I remember that feeling when he finally opened me up. In one hard thrust at least half of him, maybe more, sunk into me. I felt myself stretch around him, and open up. I felt like he was filling every last bit of me from my toes to my fingertips. And I must have been loud, I have no idea what sounds I made or what words I said, but I remember him laughing and pushing my face into the pillow to muffle my voice.
I’ll let all track of time and everything seems to happen at once. He pinched my nipples until I screamed. He pulled out and made me take him in my mouth again until I begged him tomorrow fuck me again. Until I said the words “fuck my little engaged pussy”. He made me say things about my fiance, and invite him to the wedding and tell him he could fuck me in my wedding dress.
I took him all by the end. Every last inch. I should say that I got used to him and that the pain went away and it only felt good. But that would be a lie. Most of the time. He didn’t get all the way in me. But when he did it hurt. A deep aching almost cramp like hurt that looked out from my cervix. It wasn’t entirely bad, but it wasn’t a feeling I could take a lot of either. He alternated back and forth between taking me that deep, and thrusting into me just before the point where it hurt.
And in the end he made me beg him to cum inside me. And I did. I begged him to full me, to cum in me, to knock me up up one week before my wedding.
I don’t have orgasms through vaginal sex very easily at all. It’s a very rare thing for me. But this is one of the times I couldn't’ have stopped that orgasm even if I’d wanted to.
My orgasm ripped through my like a flash flood in nearly the same instant that he came inside me. Holding himself buried all the way in my pussy. I should say that I could feel him fill me with his hot seed, or something like that. But it doesn’t really feel like that. I could feel him twitch and spasm though. And as soon as he pulled out I could feel him start to run back out of me.
In a good fantasy that would have been just the start of some crazy adventure.
But in reality it only took seconds before the guilt came crashing back in. I don’t remember saying anything to him. I don’t remember putting my bra and top back on. I don’t even remember the short drive back to our little apartment I just a few blocks away.
I remember being almost relieved that I had lost track of time. That it was late enough in the afternoon that I couldn’t have gone back to work even if I wanted to.
And here’s where the unsexy part starts. The guilt was terrible. Absolutely terrible. It was bad enough that I was sick to my stomach. I threw up repeatedly that day before hubby got home.
I’ve always been good at just sort of taking things I don’t want to think about and putting them in a little box with a lid on it and hiding them away. And that’s what I did with the memories of that afternoon. But they managed to crawl out sometimes. And Everytime they did I was sick to my stomach all over again.
It wasn’t until about two or three months after the wedding, when life was starting to return to it’s normal routine, that I found myself thinking about that afternoon. And to my surprise, when I remember it later on I found arousal instead of guilt. Over time, it’s become one of those memories that I call up when I need to think about something to push myself over the edge and in to orgasm. I still feel guilty, but not nearly as much anymore.
Maybe it’s being able to tell myself that I’ve never cheated on him, since our wedding vows, that makes it feel more “okay”. I don’t know.
But there you have it. The two times I cheated on hubby, even though he wasn’t quite hubby yet at the time.
8年前
