I always believed that when a woman loves her husband, she would never want to have sex outside the marriage. Maybe it's true in theory, but life has a way of challenging our beliefs and proving us wrong. What happened to me is evidence of that.
As the head of my department at the firm where I work, I traveled to another state for a training course. My husband was jealous, naturally—he knew how important this opportunity was for my career—but he didn't try to stop me. He promised not to stand in my way, so I went, determined to make the most of it. Little did I know what awaited me there. I was the only woman in attendance.
On the second day, two male colleagues made inappropriate advances toward me. Their intentions were clear, though unspoken: they saw an opportunity, and they took it. At first, I dismissed them firmly, refusing to entertain their flirtation. But as much as I tried to focus on the task at hand, I couldn't ignore their persistence. I understood their behavior stemmed from the unfortunate dynamic of being the only woman in that professional setting. While I consider myself reasonably presentable, nothing warranted this kind of attention. Still, I had faced unwanted advances before, and I wasn't about to compromise my principles just because I was away from my husband.
On the last night, after dinner, I was riding the elevator up to my room when the attendant—a tall, strikingly handsome Black man—caught me completely off guard. After asking for my floor, he suddenly dropped all professionalism and said:
“If you want a man to sleep with tonight, just ask me.”
I was stunned. “Are you talking to me?” I asked, even though we were alone in the elevator.
Emboldened, he smirked. “Yes, you’re hot and you know it. And if you want to fuck me, you can pay me a few bucks. But if you don’t like it, no charge.”
My jaw nearly hit the floor. The audacity! Before I could react, he took my hand and pressed it firmly against his crotch.
“Just touch it. You’ll see.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ll find your room and be there at 10.”
I froze. Beneath the fabric of his pants, I could feel his thick, heavy erection—massive, far bigger than my husband’s, and impossibly hard. The sheer boldness of his advance left me speechless.
Back in my room, I trembled in the shower, torn between desire and fury at my own weakness. I swore I wouldn’t see him again—I was terrified because Black men had always been my secret fantasy, an obsession since adolescence. If I could, I’d have taken the stairs just to avoid him.
But as I lay in bed, TV flickering, my body wouldn’t stop shaking. I didn’t understand why—until I realized my eyes were locked on the clock. When it hit ten, I rose like something had possessed me. My body craved what my mind rejected. And when three soft knocks came, I opened the door—letting him in, sealing both my delight and my downfall.
The moment he stepped inside, the air shifted. Confidence rolled off him in waves, his movements effortless, like the apartment had been waiting for him all along. He smirked, slow and knowing, as if he’d already memorized every inch of me before even touching me.
He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t need to.
The fridge hummed as he opened it, grabbing a beer, condensation glistening on his fingers. As he passed me, his whistle curled around me, smoky and teasing, before his palm slid over my ass—possessive, casual, like he had every right. The touch lingered just long enough to steal my breath before he disappeared into the bathroom.
The shower roared to life. He whistled some half-familiar tune, loud and unbothered, as if this place had always been his. As if I had always been his.
Then the water stopped.
The door creaked open, steam pouring out in thick waves. And there he stood—naked, unashamed, a vision that left me dizzy. His skin glowed like dark chocolate, every muscle carved with brutal perfection. Water droplets traced his collarbones, his chest, sliding down the hard ridges of his abdomen. My gaze dropped, catching on the thick, heavy length between his thighs, already half-hard, and my knees nearly gave out.
I was speechless. Ruined. His.
I wore nothing but a sheer babydoll, no panties, already dripping wet. Resistance was pointless—he knew it before I did.
His dark eyes flickered with hunger as he killed the main light, leaving only the lamp’s dim glow to paint shadows across his body. The air thickened between us, charged with anticipation. His hands, rough yet deliberate, guided me to the bed, his touch igniting my skin wherever it lingered.
He didn’t rush. Instead, he took his time, his mouth claiming mine in a deep, devouring kiss while his fingers traced the curves of my stiffened breasts. When they slid lower, finding me soaked, I gasped. His lips moved to my nipples, sucking hard enough to make me arch off the bed, just as his fingers teased my entrance—one slipping inside my pussy, another pressing against my ass.
The stretch was sharp, electric. Stars burst behind my eyelids as his finger breached me, sending shockwaves of pleasure through my body. His cock, thick and throbbing, pressed insistently against my thigh, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.
He tried to part my legs, to taste me, but I resisted—just for the thrill of it. Instead of forcing me, he covered me completely, his powerful body pinning me down. His mouth traced my neck, teeth grazing my pulse before his tongue soothed the sting. He kissed me again, filthy and deep, his dominance searing into me.
I didn’t even realize my legs had fallen open until his lips trailed lower, worshiping my sex with slow, deliberate strokes. My hips lifted shamelessly, offering myself to him. He chuckled—a dark, satisfied sound—before dragging himself back up, his cock nudging against my entrance.
“Relax,” he growled.
Then he was inside me, stretching me in ways I’d never felt. A broken moan tore from my throat as he filled me completely, his hips flush against mine. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. Then he pulled back almost all the way before slamming into me again.
His grip on my waist tightened, holding me down as he set a relentless pace. Every thrust sent sparks through my veins, my nails digging into his back, my legs locking around him to pull him deeper. In the mirror beside the bed, I caught glimpses of us—his body moving over mine, my hips meeting his with desperate urgency.
Just as I teetered on the edge, he slowed, teasing me, dragging himself almost all the way out until I whimpered. Then, with one final thrust, he pushed me over. I came with a scream, my body clamping around him as he followed moments later, his release spilling into me.
We collapsed in a tangle of sweat-slick limbs, breathless and spent.
After a few minutes, we showered and I got back to the bed first. I lay back, trying to process what had happened—but he wasn’t done. He followed me to the bed, his mouth hungry for me again, licking and sucking until I was writhing beneath him. His tongue worked relentlessly between my legs, driving me toward another orgasm, making me forget everything except the heat building inside me.
Then, in a swift motion, he shifted, his thick cock suddenly inches from my face. Desire surged through me—first a slow, diffuse craving, then an urgent need. I couldn’t resist. I took him into my mouth, gobbling up every inch of him, my lips stretched around his girth. He groaned, his hips jerking as he spilled into me, flooding my mouth with his release. I swallowed every last drop, my body still trembling from the pleasure he’d wrung from me.
Exhausted but wired, we sipped whiskey, the liquor’s fire blending with the hunger between us. Our conversation turned filthy—talk of sex, of what we craved, words that left me aching. He poured another shot, the golden liquid catching the light as he turned the lamp on, casting shadows across the bed. Then his mouth was on me again, hot and insistent, dragging me back to that desperate place where nothing existed but need.
I turned toward him, but he stopped me, his hands firm on my hips as he pulled me onto my hands and knees. There was no hesitation—just the slow, deliberate press of his cock against my ass, the stretch sharp and unforgiving as he pushed inside. I gasped, my fingers twisting in the sheets, but the pain quickly burned into something deeper, something addictive. Soon, I was pushing back against him, demanding more, needing him buried to the hilt.
When I couldn’t take the slow torment anymore, I rolled my hips, riding him with rough, hungry strokes. His grip tightened, fingers digging into my flesh as he fucked me harder, deeper. I wanted to come like this—completely full, completely his—so I dropped down onto him, taking every inch until there was no space left between us. The pleasure was brutal, overwhelming, my orgasm tearing through me with a scream as I collapsed, shaking, my vision blurring at the edges.
Later, he took me again, flipping me onto my stomach without a word. This time, I was ready—arching back before he could even ask, craving the stretch, the possession. He didn’t hold back, slamming into me with a growl, his hands locking around my wrists. The first thrust stung, but I barely cared, already chasing the heat, the friction, the way his body claimed mine. "Harder," I begged, and he obeyed, fucking me until my voice broke, until another orgasm wrecked me, leaving me limp and gasping beneath him.
We slept until midnight, both of us exhausted. He left before dawn, slipping away as the first light crept through the curtains. I woke just in time to rush to the airport, throwing on my clothes in a frenzy, but my mind stayed in that room—with him. I didn’t have time to feel guilty. Instead, I was exhilarated, drunk on the pleasure I’d discovered.
Now, sometimes, when I’m with my husband, when he touches me in some ways, I close my eyes and remember that stranger—his hands, his mouth, the way he wrecked me. I let myself drift back, replaying every sinful detail as if it were the first time. The memories linger, sharp and intoxicating. I imagine it happening all over again, moaning like I haven’t in years.
The guilt I had expected to feel did come, but alongside it arose something unexpected: a new awareness of my own desire, of parts of myself I had neglected for years. That encounter had awakened something long dormant within me.
Strangely, our marriage has never been more alive.
