Soft Kisses & Brutal Thrusts

For nearly three years, I clung to the idea of being "loyal" to my husband. Why? I couldn't tell you. But I can say that every one of those years, my mind wandered to other men, my body ached for other men, my fingers danced almost daily to fantasies of other men. Under a secret pen name, I poured out stories - wild, imagined tales where I surrendered to two, three, five men at once, where they claimed me, devoured me, where I became the untamed woman I hid inside, strutting bare and reveling in endless desires... Then, almost by chance, I met the first lover of my second marriage: Caleb, a young marketing assistant at a firm I visited biweekly for consulting, traveling to his coastal city. We were lovers for five months, the same span I've been entangled with Noah, in oddly similar circumstances. The parallels are striking, but it's the contrasts I want to unravel. With Caleb, it began in June 2012, meeting every two weeks in his city until November, when my contract there wrapped up, just as he got engaged to his girlfriend. He was broad-shouldered but not bulky, with a boyish face, sun-kissed skin, and soft hazel eyes, his smooth chest bare of hair, his voice low and teasing, with a charm that was effortlessly masculine. I was twelve years his senior, seasoned by life, when I drew him in on my third visit - or rather, through flirty texts after catching his lingering stares during a team dinner hosted by the company's mid-level suits. On my next trip, after we'd planned it through messages - this was my second-to-last lover - he met me at the airport and drove me to a dimly lit jazz bar, where a sultry saxophone filled the air, paired with a bottle of merlot and delicate appetizers. Then he kissed me like I was a treasure, because it was clear he was in awe, floored that a young guy, barely established, driving a dented old sedan, from a modest background, was locking lips with the "renowned strategist" hired to elevate his company. Me, with my fair skin and tailored dresses - not as refined as he imagined - a poised, worldly woman in his eyes... but really, a woman tangled in insecurities, craving someone to cherish her, to trail kisses down her wrists, her collarbone, to rest a hand on her hip, and later that night, to peel away her clothes with reverence. In the quiet of his small apartment, he undressed me with deliberate care, each button and zipper undone like a ritual, his own body visibly straining with need yet patient. His lips grazed my skin, a featherlight kiss against my most sensitive place, chaste yet electric, before he traced a path back to my stomach. Then he yielded, letting me guide him, easing him onto the bed. I straddled him, moving with agonizing slowness, my lips finding his again and again, each kiss deepening. His hands roamed my back, steady but gentle, as I rocked above him, drawing out every sensation - his warmth, his pulse, the way he filled me completely. Our rhythm built, unhurried, until waves of pleasure crashed over me, my breath hitching as he followed, his release a shared, trembling surrender that left us tangled in sheets, hearts racing. Strangely, Noah is nearly the same age Caleb was then and, I assume, also sees me as his prize. But his worship is of a different breed, as you'll see. Because of him, I went six days without journaling: I was with him in a far-off city, not his or mine... and I feel partly consumed, a little raw, a touch more reckless than usual, a bit more unleashed after that whirlwind weekend, while my husband held down the fort, picturing me buried in work... if he only knew how deeply I was immersed. I started sleeping with Noah - or rather, he started claiming me - in September, during a trip to Ashton's city. This was just our sixth encounter, always in different cities, but this time I covered his train ticket, the rideshares, the meals, the beers (thankfully, he's not a heavy drinker). If my husband found out - Lord, if he knew half of it! I met him late Saturday night, nearly 3 a.m. Sunday, because he'd barely scraped together enough for the trip and was penniless. I was buzzed and restless, having spent the evening with two friends in that city. After a grueling day of meetings, we ended up at a women's lounge. My bold friends hired some dancers, and I indulged, running my hands over their sculpted arms, teasing until their interest was obvious. My top slipped low, and for the first time - at a seasoned 43 - I considered taking one home... I'd already dropped $400 on their cocktails and my own, but no, Noah was on his way, and it had been weeks since I'd felt his touch, his weight. He'd come straight from his warehouse job to the station, with nothing - not even spare clothes. I bought him a few things, feeling like some cliché, a desperate older woman. But Noah, unlike Caleb, is no soft-eyed dreamer, and he's five years older. A lean, tattooed guy in scuffed boots, sandy hair, and calloused hands, he took me the second we stumbled into the hotel, my body already primed, and I'd stoked his fire in the car. He moved with urgency, our clothes still half-on, my legs splayed wide as he pressed into me with the raw force of his honed 28 years. His thrusts were relentless, almost punishing, each one stretching me, sparking a mix of pleasure and ache. My nails dug into his shoulders, my moans loud and unfiltered, as he drove deeper, his rhythm unyielding. The friction built, my body arching to meet him, until a sharp, shuddering climax tore through me, followed by another, his own release a fierce, searing flood that spilled inside and over me, marking my skin. Exhausted, still tipsy, I collapsed without washing, curled against his chest, his arm heavy across my back. By God's grace, Sunday morning I had a 10 a.m. presentation, so there was only time for a hurried morning tangle before I dragged him to brunch. I was sore, hungover, and frayed, but a stack of waffles saved me, letting me sink into his banter, his gaze fixed on me, his hand warm on my knee. I kissed him, hung on his words, craving him again - which, naturally, we indulged for three hours. After footing the bill (not for him, no, but I paid), I felt like I'd been the one hired. I can't shake the image: my body rocking, my eyes locked on the mirror, on all fours, taken from behind, his powerful frame splitting me open. I moaned like I was performing, raw and unrestrained, as he gripped my hips, his fingers bruising, thrusting with full intensity, from tip to base, claiming me like a possession. Each stroke was a jolt, my body trembling under his strength, my reflection showing a woman lost in abandon, every nerve alight until I shattered, my climax a scream, his own release a torrential surge that left me gasping. How could I not think of a moment five years prior: on all fours, staring into a mirror, taken from behind by Caleb's steady, measured rhythm? But the parallels stop there. Noah's face was all hunger, a primal edge; Caleb's was reverence, almost sacred. Noah's thrusts bordered on brutal, pushing my limits; Caleb moved with care, each slide a question, seeking my response. Noah, tawny-haired, wiry, with ink across his chest and a jawline rough with stubble, a man I'd paid for - not outright, but close enough - to be there that night, taking me with ferocity after I'd fed him, housed him, worn him out. Caleb, olive-skinned, stockier, softer, with a bare chest and gentle hands, who'd pampered me with a gourmet dinner, treating me like a goddess, and in the mirror, moved with a tender cadence, like a slow dance. Yet, forgive me, there's another shared truth: both times, I was swept into a fierce, all-consuming climax, body and soul undone. Both times, they filled me, left me spent... and there the similarities end. Caleb curled beside me, his fingers tracing my skin, as we drifted into a warm, quiet sleep, waking to soft kisses. Monday morning, though, I woke aching, tender, and - panic - with faint bruises on my hips I couldn't explain to my husband if he noticed... fear surged, damn you, Noah... But he saw my unease and softened. He didn't push for more, just held me, murmured apologies, offered gentle touches, and later, on the way to the station, he slid his hand beneath my skirt, his fingers moving with delicate precision, hidden from the driver, as I leaned into his solid frame. I forgive you, my Noah... and I wonder, maybe, yes, about that trip to your place, friend and all.