I'm licking her clit for a long time because I owe her. Her nub grows under her hood as I lap the folds of her skin. My hand is rested under her ass, fingers spreading her cheeks. My other hand gently caresses her hip and belly. My fingers feel her abdomen swell and lower with her breath as I savor her tastes. I am relaxed, I am at ease, and I am grateful to her, my wife of fifteen years, for what she has allowed me to do. Her hands stroke the back of my head gently as I lick her. "Faster, honey, a little faster," she says.

Earlier in the evening, I made eye contact with my wife from across our bedroom as I was fucking the ass of a $200 whore who smelled like cigarette smoke. Finally, a weight had lifted from my heart because I could tell by her wide eyes and our knowing glances that she understood. I am a man. I need to fuck. I need to fuck lots of women. And this simple reality changes nothing to me. It doesn't change my undying commitment to her, my life partner, my soul mate. The whore my wife allowed into our marital bed wasn't her competition, the slut was a gift of love from her to me. This simple fact is immutable, unchangeable, timeless. I patiently and eagerly lick her now, tasting my semen oozing out of her cunt as I follow her direction and pick up the speed.

An intellectual, I love the abstract. I love the ideal. I love the platonic. But I used to be uncomfortable in my own skin. I used to be squicked out by the wetness, the smell, the stickiness of hot sex. I used to be ashamed and scared of my naughty desires because they were base, selfish, mindless, and irrational. I respect women. I love women. I regard women highly. And that respect, love and regard got in the way of even acknowledging the more basic desires that come with being born a man, like the desire to pin her against a wall and slamfuck her until I fill her with my seed, no matter how much it hurts her. Or the desire to straddle her face and blow my load across her open mouth. Because I didn't acknowledge it, our sex life was the typical dry life of a married couple. We were respectful. No spontaneous fucks in the backseat of our car, no bending her over her desk and having my way with her after her coworkers have left. And worst of all, nobody else involved. The sacred temple of our marriage was not to be defiled by infidelity.

And I was pent up. I was going crazy and I didn't even know it. I was spending hours online looking at porn. Hours masturbating to silly personal ads I was never going to respond to. I was stifled. Over the years, my sexual energy started bleeding through the cracks, I started propositioning women when I was alone. When I traveled on business, I found lonely, fat, sad, married women, took them up to my hotel rooms, and fucked them before sending them back hours late to their husbands who neglected them. I fucked a girl I met on the internet in the bathroom of the local cafe. I fucked a woman in her late fifties on her teenage daughter's bed, I came inside her as I looked at pictures of her daughter, wondering if I'll ever fuck that one. I fucked the kind of women who don't care that I'm married. The kind of sad, pathetic women who need love, attention, or money. All I needed was sex, as much sex as possible, and I took it ruthlessly.

And I lied to her. What surprised me about how infidelity damages a marriage is that it's not the sex that does the damage, it's the lies. The lies create the distance. The lies create the feeling of sleeping with a stranger. The lies make sure the smiles are fake and the life rings hollow on the inside. The lies create the division and the division kills the sex at home. The impatience. The guilt. The performance anxiety. My mind filled with resentment over all the little things the other girls do that I don't get at home.

When I confessed to her, it was not to lift my conscience. It was to restore my integrity as a human being. It was so I could look in the mirror and know, yeah, I'm a cheat, I'm a perv, I'm a male-slut, but I'm not a weak fucking liar anymore. I fully expected her to erupt in tears of anger as her world collapsed. I expected her to throw me out of the house, my things on the curb, my clothes in the mud, my marriage over. It would have been better than having taken the secrets I kept to the grave.

But she didn't do that. When she got over the shock, she listened with surprise and disbelief at what her gentle, quiet, shy husband has done. She bristled with anger, to be sure, but also confusion, what side of me has she not seen, how could she have missed that her husband, who gets along so well with women, is also a total lech? She wanted to see. Eagerly. It reminded me of when we first got together and she wanted to see me masturbate, and as the cum spurted out my cock and rolled over my fingers, she looked at it with wide-eyed fascination and excitement. My wife is turned on by men being men.

And so we discussed. We discussed seducing her friend Claire, who was divorced and unhappy because she hasn't been laid in months and would therefore be easy. We discussed her boss Samantha, who everyone knows fucked someone not her husband in her office with the door closed, and who might have been friends with the woman who fucked me on her daughter's bed. She concluded that our existing social network is too fragile, too messy to be tampered with. It has to be the Craigslist $200 whore.

The whore arrived at our door smelling of cigarette smoke. Her face was too made up. She had a tatoo of dice on the back of her neck, and another tattoo that said "ANTHONY" on the her lower back. When she opened her mouth, she betrayed that she wasn't that smart. The look on my wife's face at first revealed a bit of disgust. This isn't the kind of person we typically befriend. I shot her a look that said it doesn't matter, that's not what this is about.

When the whore took off her clothes, I let it wash over. The flood of hormones that shuts off the brain and hardens the cock. It's related to scent somehow, I thought, as I approached the bitch from behind, put my face against the back of her neck, inhaled deeply through the nostrils. My fingers clenched on her hips, her tits and I felt the rush. My wife stood awkwardly in the doorway as I pushed the whore down over the bed, slid my cock into the whore's dry cunt, and began to thrust, to grunt, to sweat, to fuck like a man. My cold fingers dug into her skin, the flesh of her breasts oozing between them, nonsense spewing out of my mouth, "you fuckin slut gonna fuck you good and send you back to that goddamn pimp full of my jiz oh yeah you bitch shut the fuck up don't scream does that hurt i don't fuckin care ooooo."

Her cunt was too dry. She was making noises like she liked it, but she wasn't. My wife never fakes it. I pulled it out of her. My cock is huge. Bigger than it usually gets. I'm excited because my wife is watching with approval and there are no lies. I lubed my condom-covered dick with some KY my wife keeps in her bedstand, and slid it into the whore's ass. A little looser than she should be, she's done this before, a lot. She made a noise of protest anyway, I grabbed her hair and pulled it, "shut the fuck up we'll pay you more OK you fuckin cunt?" and proceeded to thrust, to grunt, to sweat, to fuck like a man. It was at this point I looked to the corner of the room. My wife sat on the antique chair in the corner, that nice piece we picked up last month when shopping together, watching me fuck a $200 whore that smelled of cigarette smoke and a tattoo that says, "ANTHONY", with the same wide-eyed fascination of when she first saw me masturbate.

What amazes me is that when I'm just about to cum, I thrust deep, deeper than I thought possible. My hips against her cheeks, I released my load into the condom surrounding my cock in the whore's ass. We sent the whore home with a nice tip.

We spent the next hour passionately making love like we hadn't in years. Skin on skin. Her juices on my flesh. My cum in her cunt. This process will create our child someday. And now, she nudges my tongue over with her vibrator. I finger her ass and her cunt as she brings herself to climax, raising the roof off the house with her screams of pleasure.