The Annual Gala

6 min read

photo: SexArt

Spit dripping from his fingers, Tom’s hand feels familiar under my dress; his forefinger pulling my panties to one side with surgical precision. Behind me, his breath in my ear, his arm around my torso and thigh, his cock bulging through his pants and pressing against that curved, tender space where my lower back meets the top of my ass.

His middle finger slides up and down my slit before spreading me apart; his palm smothering my clit as his fingers push into me. I am soaked; I’ve been wet for hours, maybe days. His spit is sexy, but the extra lubrication is unnecessary.

He’s rough tonight; his movements heavy with a palpable sense of wanting. His fingers now fucking me so hard that my heels lift off the ground with each thrust. Almost disparately, pushing to their limits, his fingers drive deeper and for a moment my feet leave the ground as he clutches my pussy and intentionally shakes his hand like a vibrator. He wants me to know what I’ve been missing. He wants me to know that I should have never even considered turning him down.

I hear the muffled voices, the music, the sounds of footsteps down the hallway. The closet, so dark, the only lumination piercing under the door and providing a faint glow for the shadows. My face and forehead push into a wool coat; the slight smell of mothballs; the loose hangers in the coat closet clicking and clacking together like a wind chime as our bodies attempt to keep the gusts of this storm under some sort of control.

Before this year’s Gala, I told him this would be the last time I attended the event and it would be strictly business. Of course, I told him the same thing last year when we ended the evening at his place and he fucked me until sunrise. That morning, I told him that was it, but again, it wasn’t the first time I had uttered those words. Every time it happened, I lost myself in the moment and enjoyed every second we were together and then I hated myself for letting it happen. Still, he was always a gentleman and never got upset when I told him how I felt. He understood the complexities. I could tell him it was over and he would stay away. Even tonight, at the Annual Gala, our self proclaimed ‘Fuck Festival’, his behavior would be completely appropriate because I had asked him to be that way.

This year, I did everything in my power to make sure that Tom and I didn’t even have an opportunity to slip into our old ways. I even insisted that my husband join me at the event, which he did. I introduced him to Tom, so Tom would know it was truly over. They chatted briefly. It was awkward and scary for me, but I wanted Tom to see that I had a husband who was real — who cared about me — who I loved.

Now in the dark of the closet, I come briefly to my senses, grabbing Tom’s wrist and holding it still for a moment. I want to pull his hand away, to turn and say ‘enough is enough,’ but my body won’t let me. Instead, my hand slides from his wrist to his hand, my middle finger joining his, in and around my pussy. My other hand reaches back, unzipping his tuxedo pants and struggling to pull him free. Oh, how I miss touching that perfect cock.

My hand pushes back and down on his rigid shaft and I feel his head leaking against my wrist. I squeeze him tight, thinking of the first time I felt him spread me apart, stretching me with his thickness. Then suddenly gushing, I tighten, pulsating around his finger; my hand squeezing and stroking him almost spasmodically as I unexpectedly orgasm all over his hand. Below me, my juices on the hardwood floor, now glistening in a spattered pattern, illuminated only by that shimmer of light under the door.

I yearn to feel the head of his beautiful, girthy cock spreading me apart, but we have always been responsible in the past. We always used protection. Tonight, I very purposely brought none. If I had a condom I’d never be able to stop myself. I want that cock so badly, but I need to be able to hang my moral hat on something at the end of the night. I’ve already lost control. This wasn’t supposed to happen again. I need something that I can look back on and say ‘I did the right thing’ — to show respect for my husband, even if it is the smallest of victories.

Still, my body screams at me to ask Tom for a condom. My body needs him to say ‘yes,’ to hear the rip of the package, to help him roll it on and push into me from behind or spin me around and lift me up so I could wrap my legs around him. He probably has one — all I have to do is ask for it.

In the darkness of the closet, I suddenly realize that I’ve always somehow blamed Tom for fucking me, a married woman. It is somehow his fault because he is so charming, or so attractive, or because he has such a perfect cock and knows exactly how to use it. But now, at this moment, I can’t hide from the truth. It was me. It is me. I am the damn whore in this story.

My head is spinning, my body still reeling from orgasm, still wanting more. My mind a collection of jumbled thoughts, ‘No. No. No. I can’t. I can’t. But oh, that cock is so unforgettable. Fuck me. No. No. Be Strong. Don’t give in.’

Turning and dropping, almost falling to my knees, I hold his beautiful cock in both hands. My shins now wet with my own juices, I pull his head into my mouth and swirl my tongue around and around. Pulling and squeezing from his base, I taste him as a bead of his juices comes to the surface. Pulling away for just a moment, I spit twice on his cock, slap it, and then slowly work it back into my mouth and to the back of my throat. Gagging slightly, both hands twisting, I feel him harden; I feel him twitching. A muffled groan. Warm cum fills my mouth and I swallow to keep from drowning.

Then, surprising even myself, my greed takes over. Dropping one hand from his cock, I desperately begin to rub my soaking pussy while continuing to suck and squeeze out every drop of him. When he released into my mouth, I could feel how close I was to cumming again. For a moment my body lives in two worlds, one slowly squeezing and sucking his cock, swallowing his cum, and the other world, me still furiously rubbing my pussy, chasing that second orgasm only moments ahead of me.

Taking him deeply, one last time, those worlds merge into one. Feeling his texture, his soft skin, the ridges of his veins. Smelling the natural scent of his body tainted by the taste of his cum still swirling in my mouth. Hearing his final muffled moan still dancing in my head. And then I am there again, shoving his head back into my mouth, pushing it again to the back of my throat, feeling that gagging sensation and then spitting him out as I bend forward tensing, moaning, flooding the closet with my second orgasm.

I stay still, one hand still holding his cock, almost just to steady myself, and the other clenching my pussy tightly as I feel the aftershock ripples course through me. I stay for a moment more, breathing deeply, listening to my thumping chest begin to slow ever so slightly.

Rising back to my feet, I look up at Tom’s shadow in the dark. I want to see his eyes, such seductive eyes, but I can only make out the outline of his face. Leaning upward and kissing him softly on the lips, I whisper, “This can’t happen again.”

He nods in the dark, but who knows what he really thinks. He was as much a gentleman as one could be when fucking a married woman, and I was the weak one who lost all sexual control, pulling him into that closet. As soon as my husband had gotten that call and had to leave early I knew I was in trouble. Hell, I knew I was in trouble days before the Gala when I spent the afternoon masturbating to memories of what had happened at the Gala two years before. I spent the entire day before
this year’s Gala changing my panties repeatedly as my mind wandered to fantasies of Tom, even when I knew my husband would be there and nothing was going to happen. That’s why I had to bring my husband. I knew this couldn’t happen again, but somehow, I guess my body already knew that it would.

Reaching under my dress, I pull my soaked panties back into place and say in a slightly louder voice, “I’ll leave first.” I listen for anyone in the hallway as I nervously primp my hair with one hand and I reach for the doorknob with the other.

For the next week, I’ll be petrified that my husband will find out. For the next month, I’ll hate myself for losing control and giving in again. In time, I’ll let go of the guilt. I’ll convince myself that it’s ok because I’m never going to do it again. And since I’m never going to do it again, and it’s already happened, what’s the harm in closing my eyes and thinking about the sexiest man I’ve ever touched? What’s the harm in thinking about Tom’s fingers inside of me when I touch myself throughout the year? Or even when my husband touches me? How can I feel so satisfied, yet still be pissed at myself for giving in and, at the same time, almost more upset with myself for being ‘responsible’?

I so wanted to feel that cock inside me tonight.

Finally, I crack open the door and peer into the hall to make sure I won’t be seen leaving the closet. I turn to Tom one last time. “Never again. You hear me?” I say, as I slip out and head for the bathroom to freshen up.

As I walk away, I know my words are strong and clear. Tom listened, but could he hear me over the sounds of my actions? Could he hear the ‘never again’ louder than the chemistry of our bodies? Could he hear my body begging him, ‘Tom, don’t listen to my words. Our bodies know what needs to happen. Next year, you will touch me again. Next year, you will hold and kiss and share yourself with me again. Next year, you will push yourself into me and make me cum on that beautiful cock of yours.’ Next year…

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