Naughty Empire [An Erotic Collection]

Cheating On My Husband

Helen:

The sun hung low, painting everything in that lazy golden heat that made skin feel too tight, too aware. I stood barefoot in the damp grass, hose in hand, water arcing in slow silver ribbons over the flower beds. Four years. Four years of polite missionary, four years of his careful kisses that never wandered too far south, four years of me biting the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t beg for something he’d only interpret as sin.

Joe was good. Everyone said so. He folded laundry the way they taught boys in Sunday school—neat corners, no fuss. He prayed before meals even when it was just leftover rice and stew. He never raised his voice, never left socks on the floor, never once made me feel like I was asking too much simply by existing in my own body.

And yet.

Not once.

Not a single time had the slow, earnest slide of him inside me ever pushed me over that bright, shattering edge. I’d learned to fake the little hitched breaths, the fluttering eyelids, the soft “yes, baby” that made him smile like he’d won something holy. I’d become an excellent actress in my own bedroom.

I was aiming the hose at nothing in particular when movement caught my eye.

Across the low wooden fence, the new neighbor stepped out onto his back porch wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers that had clearly seen better days. The fabric clung in all the wrong-right places, stretched taut over thick thighs and—God help me—the unmistakable heavy outline of a c**k that looked like it belonged on someone twice his size. He stretched, arms overhead, spine arching, every muscle in his torso shifting under summer-tanned skin. A faint line of dark hair trailed downward, disappearing beneath the waistband like an invitation no decent woman should accept.

I forgot the hose was still on. Water poured over my bare feet, cold shock traveling straight up my legs. I didn’t move.

He noticed me.

Turned his head slowly, eyes finding mine across the fence. No smile at first—just a long, considering look, the kind that slides under clothes and stays there. Then the corner of his mouth lifted. Not friendly. Not neighborly. Predatory in the laziest, most confident way possible.

I dropped the hose. It thrashed on the grass like a dying snake, spraying everywhere.

Inside the house I moved on autopilot. Kitchen. Bedroom. Bathroom mirror—cheeks flushed, pupils blown, n*****s already tight little points under my thin cotton tank. I looked like a woman who’d been touched and I hadn’t even been touched yet.

Joe was in the living room, tie loosened, sleeves rolled, scrolling on his phone with that gentle half-smile he always wore after work.

“Hey,” I said, voice too bright. “You’re home early.”

“Half day.” He glanced up. “You okay? You’re… flushed.”

I crossed the room, climbed straight into his lap without preamble. Straddled him on the couch the way I hadn’t dared in months. My sundress rode up my thighs. I pressed my mouth to his neck, tasting salt and soap.

“f**k me,” I whispered against his skin.

He froze. Just for a second. Then his hands settled politely on my hips. “Helen…”

“Please.” I rocked against him, feeling the soft familiar shape of him beginning to harden. “Just—let go. Don’t think. Just take.”

His breath hitched. He kissed me—careful, reverent, tongue shy. I tried to deepen it, tried to bite his lip, tried to grind harder. He groaned softly, hands sliding under my dress, palms warm on my bare skin.

We made it to the bedroom.

Clothes came off in quiet pieces. His shirt. My dress. His trousers. My panties stayed on too long because he liked to “savor.” When he finally pushed inside me it was slow, deliberate, eyes locked on mine like he was checking for permission every inch of the way.

I wrapped my legs around him. Tried to pull him deeper. Faster.

He came in under four minutes.

Hot pulses, a low shaky moan, then stillness. His forehead dropped to my shoulder. “I love you,” he murmured, like that was supposed to fix everything.

I stared at the ceiling while he softened inside me. The ache between my legs didn’t fade—it sharpened.

He kissed my temple. “I’ve got to run to the hardware store. That shelf in the pantry is loose again.”

And then he was gone.

The front door clicked shut. The car started. Tires crunched over gravel.

I lay there, legs still spread, his release cooling on my inner thighs, and something inside me snapped clean in two.

I didn’t shower.

I pulled the sundress back on—no bra, no panties—ran my fingers through my hair, and walked straight across the yard.

The fence was low enough to step over.

He was still on his porch, now sitting on the top step with a bottle of water between his knees. When he saw me coming he didn’t stand. Just leaned back on his elbows, thighs spread, watching me approach like he’d been expecting company.

Up close he was even bigger. Shoulders wide enough to block light. Jaw shadowed with a day’s growth. Eyes dark and unreadable.

“You’re dripping,” he said, voice low, amused. He nodded toward my legs. “Or maybe that’s not water.”

Heat roared up my neck. “I’m married.”

“I noticed.” His gaze flicked to my left hand, to the thin gold band. “Doesn’t seem to be stopping you.”

I swallowed. “I just… wanted to say hello. Properly.”

He smiled then—slow, filthy. “Hello, properly.”

Silence stretched. Thick. Electric.

I took one step closer. Then another.

He didn’t move. Just watched.

When I was close enough that my shadow fell across his lap, he finally sat up. Reached out. Caught the hem of my dress between two fingers and tugged once—light, testing.

The fabric lifted an inch.

I didn’t stop him.

He tugged again. Higher.

Cool air kissed the bare skin between my thighs. I knew he could see everything—glistening, swollen, still slick with another man’s seed.

His nostrils flared. “He didn’t finish you.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No,” I whispered.

He let the dress fall back down, but his hand stayed—slid beneath the cotton, palm cupping me fully. Two thick fingers parted me without hesitation, gliding through the mess Joe had left behind.

“f**k,” he breathed. “He filled you up nice.”

I whimpered. Couldn’t help it.

He circled my c**t once—slow, deliberate—then pushed two fingers inside me, curling them against the front wall. My knees buckled. I grabbed his shoulders to stay upright.

“You’re still dripping him,” he murmured against my throat. “And you came over here anyway.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I couldn’t think. Couldn’t lie. “Because I want to come.”

He laughed softly—dark, pleased. Withdrew his fingers, brought them to his mouth, sucked them clean while holding my gaze.

Then he stood.

Towered.

Caught me by the waist and lifted me like I weighed nothing, carrying me inside without another word.

The screen door banged shut behind us.

He didn’t ask where I wanted it. Didn’t ask if I was sure.

He simply walked us to the nearest flat surface—a sturdy wooden table in the center of the room—and set me down hard enough that my teeth clicked. Pushed my dress up to my waist. Spread my thighs wide with both hands.

“Look at this pretty cunt,” he said, almost reverent. “All wet and used and still begging.”

He dropped to his knees.

No teasing. No gentle licks. He buried his face between my legs and ate like a starving man.

Tongue flat and broad, lapping up every trace of Joe, then spearing deep, f*****g me with it. Nose pressed to my c**t. Growling vibrations against my core. I cried out—too loud, too raw—and he only gripped my hips harder, holding me open, holding me down.

My hands flew to his hair. Pulled. He groaned into me like I’d given him permission to devour.

When he sucked my c**t between his lips and flicked it fast-fast-fast I shattered.

No buildup. No warning. Just white-hot detonation—back arching, thighs clamping around his head, a broken sob ripping out of my throat. Wave after wave. He didn’t stop. Kept licking through it, drawing it out until I was shaking, oversensitive, pleading.

Only then did he rise.

Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Unzipped.

His c**k sprang free—heavy, thick, veined, already leaking at the tip.

Bigger than Joe. Much bigger.

He fisted himself once, twice. Smeared the bead of precum over the head.

“Last chance to run home to church boy,” he said, voice gravel.

I wrapped my legs around his waist. Pulled him closer.

He didn’t ease in.

He thrust—hard, deep, all at once.

I screamed.

He filled me beyond capacity, stretching me open, pressing against places that had never been touched. Pain and pleasure twisted together until I couldn’t tell them apart. He stilled for one heartbeat—letting me feel every inch—then started to move.

Long, punishing strokes. Pulling almost all the way out, then slamming back in. The table creaked under us. My breasts bounced with every thrust. He caught one n****e in his mouth, sucked hard, teeth grazing.

“f**k, you’re tight,” he growled. “Even after he came in you.”

I clawed at his back. “Harder.”

He gave it to me.

Fucked me like he was trying to ruin me for anyone else. Like he wanted me to feel him for days.

I came again—sudden, violent—clenching around him so hard he cursed. Kept going. Faster. Deeper. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room.

When he finally buried himself to the hilt and pulsed—hot, thick spurts flooding me—I came a third time, vision blurring, body seizing around him like it never wanted to let go.

He stayed inside me after. Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to mine.

Neither of us spoke for a long minute.

Then he kissed me—slow this time. Thorough. Tasting of me.

“Next time,” he murmured against my lips, “bring a towel. I don’t want you walking home dripping both of us.”

I laughed—shaky, breathless.

Next time.

The words settled low in my belly, warm and dangerous.

I was already thinking about tomorrow.