I heard my wife come in. I even heard the zip of her dress as her clothes fell to the floor. I was listening closely. I knew she had come in from my fantasy.

I sat for a while in my office, listening through the silence. Then she began to moan. I listened to her moaning to the unknown images that flickered through her mind, and I was instantly hard: both because my wife was in the living room naked and masturbating, and because the images were unknown. Sex with strangers? What had she gotten up to today? What man had put her in such a state? I wanted to know everything, and I wanted to know nothing at all. What I really wanted was to take her in wordless passion and see the unknown fantasies flit across her face.

I opened my office door as silently as I could and moved like some orgiastic ninja out across the floor. I found her laid out on the couch with her legs spread wide, her fingers furiously tickling her dripping spot. Her legs were splayed wide over the armrest, and two fingers of her other hand pinched violently at her nipple. You lose track of yourself with an image like that in front of you. Somehow my pants were already off. She paid me no mind. She was having sex with strangers.

My shirt was off. I stood there like a cock attached to what may have been a man. I took her foot in my hand and looked down at her pussy, which she was playing like some demented musician. She had no use for me, but I only had use for her and her wordless fantasy, and so I lowered myself until my flesh stabbed up into her swarming madness like a shout. Neither of us said a word. We were just two brainless bodies fucking for a fuck. Our dreams were nothing more than undiscovered parts of bodies we needed to stroke.

“What’s gotten into you,” I hissed into her ear. Anything we spoke in that moment would have sounded like an erotic threat.

“I saw a woman today that I’d like to fuck,” she hissed back, as my fingers took over from hers to shoot borderline sensations into her breasts.

“I thought you were a good little girl,” I groaned, as her hands gripped my ass to pull me hard into her depth.

“No you didn’t, Mr. X,” she whispered, biting my shoulder so hard that I was certain she’d drawn blood.

“Ooh, is that what you like to call me, you dirty little thing?” I bit her back, lightly, trying to make a game of the pseudonym that belonged to my private world. She said nothing in response, but just groaned louder in a way she hadn’t done in months. I drew back from her slightly to try to gauge whether she was testing or sure of the truth, and then she looked up at me with glazed eyes and spoke like a savage just learning to pronounce words: “Don’t. Ever. Speak of it. Again. Now fuck me and make me get fucked.”

She knows the anonymous game I’ve been playing with her. She knows I’m the man who sends her out into the world on sexual dares. Or does she? Maybe her fantasy of Mr. X was just leaking into our fuck? It doesn’t matter. We will not speak of it again. And so I took her again like a stranger. When she came she screamed: “There’s a helicopter flying over a green forest, and the wind bends down the trees, and it’s just chopping them down, everywhere chopping down green trees!” I laughed from the belly like some Roman gladiator and took her in my arms. We were no strangers.

Array

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