Marriage Retreats

In the rear of the van parked in the darkest corner of the garage’s third sublevel, Desmond’s hardness massaged madness into Melina’s sex. His supervisor, Melina Gennaro of the immaculate business suits and quick smiles and laid-back managing style was not here. There was only Melina the feral, naked sylph; she of the dripping pussy that he could still taste; she of the fevered loins and wet, wanton mouth urgently devouring his erection as if her life and every future happiness depended upon taking his cock as deeply between her thigh and far down her throat as she could stand, and wringing it dry. Melina bit Desmond's throat, gripped his biceps hard enough to roughen his handling of her, but took care not to leave marks that his wife would recognize as evidence of another woman's passion. When Desmond flipped her over to ravish her from behind the way her husband never did, Melina, an agnostic, cried out for a god whose existence remained suspect. On her knees, she sat back on Desmond's thighs and let him mash her spittle-slick breasts, thumb her clitoris, let his rakish whispers praise the glorious tightness of her pussy. Rocking upon Desmond’s stiffness, Melina came, her cries drawing forth Desmond’s release, freeing his pain to run with hers.

Their shared orgasm rolled Desmond’s eyes white, set Melina’s teeth chattering, its bliss a torment that would end too soon, but an addiction they would feed again, every chance they got. The agreement passed unspoken between them, carried in their eyes, in their clasped hands, more intimacy apparent there than either's marriage had afforded in a regrettably long time.