It's Wednesday, September seventeenth, and time for your daily fuck. The restaurant is a hushed cathedral of fine dining. A string quartet plays softly in the corner. The light from the crystal chandelier casts a warm, golden glow, and the air smells of old money and expensive wine. We're here to celebrate ten years of marriage. Seated at a secluded corner table with a long white tablecloth that drapes to
the floor. Next to me, my husband Mark looks as handsome as the day I met him, the soft candlelight catching the silver at his temples. He's telling a funny story about our disastrous first apartment, and I'm smiling and nodding, completely lost in the warm, comfortable glow of our shared history. I look at this man who knows every secret, every flaw, and every inch of my body, and a wave of pure, unadulterated lust washes over me, as potent and thrilling as
it was a decade ago. It's time to play our game. It's been too long since the last time we played it, and I smile a wickedly romantic smile. While he's speaking to the somalier. I slip my high heel off under the table. I slowly, deliberately why my bare foot up the inside of his tailored trousers from his ankle to his knee. He doesn't flinch, doesn't break eye contact with a wine expert, but I see it, a slight, almost
imperceptible flaring of his nostrils. The game is on the smallia leaves, and Mark raises his glass to me to ten years. His eyes are twinkling with a new secret fire, and to the next ten. I take a sip under the table. I reach down and unhook the daughter holding up my left stocking. I slowly, painstakeingly roll the silk down my leg, the sensation of the fabric whispering against my skin making me shiver. I ballo up the stalking
and slip it into his lap, a secret trophy. A few minutes later, as the waiter places our appetizers before us, I feel Mark's hand on my knee under the table. It rests there for a moment, a warm, possessive weight, before his fingers begin to inch their way up the inside of my thigh, exploring the bare skin where the stalking used to be. His touch is delicious torture, his fingers tracing lazy circles higher and higher, until he brush against the damp lace of my panties. I decide that hescily.
I lean forward, pretending to retrieve my napkin. My hands disappear under the table. I find a zipper of his trousers, the meadow cold against my finger tips. I pull it down slowly, my knuckles brushing against the hard, thick ridge of his cock. He doesn't wear underwear, something I discovered on our second day. He takes a sharp sign of breath, but his face, visible to the rest of the room, remains a mask of calm conversation. I free him, his
cockspringing hot and heavy into my palm. I begin to stroke him a slow, steady rhythm, my eyes locked on his. He's talking about a work project, his voice a perfect, even baritone, while I'm giving him a hand job. Three feet away from a woman describing her trick to Tuscany. The risk is an intoxicating drug, making my own pussy clench an ache with need. He sets his fork down, excuse me for a moment. His hand disappears under the table.
He finds me with an unerring familiar confidence, his fingers slipping past the lace to find my wet, swollen folds. Two can play this games. He fingers me with an expert touch, his thumb, finding my clit and circling it with a name perfect pressure. I whirled narrows to the two realities above the table, on the picture of elegance, sipping my wine and nodding politely below the table, and a mess of pure sensation, my husband's fingers deep inside me,
while my own hand is wrapped around his cock. The last time we played this game, I came so hard I knocked the table over. I shouldn't let orgasm begin to build, a deep, coiling heat that threatens to shatter my composure. I can't come here. Mark knows my orgasms, but hope does he know them well? And he knows I'm loud and lose control of my body. He loves that. But I got the other diner's will. I kick his foot under the table, a frantic, desperate signal. He understands. Immediately,
check please, he calls to a passing waiter. The ride home is a frantic, breathless blur of hands and mouths in the back of the car. Our driver has seen it all. I'm sure, but probably it's not what a pair our age. The flawed makes me smile as we stumble out onto the curb and Mark fumbles with the keys. The moment the front door swings open, the damn of our carefully constructed restraint breaks. He shoves me against the door,
his mouth crashing down on mine. I hear the delicate fabric of my dress rip as he hikes it up to my waist. There's no time for the bedroom. He enters me right there against the door and the entryway, a single, deep, powerful thrust that makes me cry out. The fuck is a frantic, explosive release of all the tension we spent the last hour building. It's messy and desperate and absolutely perfect. We come together in a matter of minutes, our shared screams swallowed by the walls of
our home. My legs are quivering and can't hold me up, but Mark has me pressed against the door. We collapse in a heap on the fourier floor, a tangle of limbs and ruined formal wear, breathless and laughing. Ten years of marriage and we still know how to make each other feel like we were teenagers. With a dirty, delicious secret. The anniversary dinner was perfect. We just never got around a Desser