The Weight of Guilt

Wednesday morning. I'd been watching the clock ... Linda and Jamal were coming to paint the kitchen ceiling. That was all. That was the entire purpose of this Wednesday morning.

My phone buzzed at 10:32. Linda.

"Hey." Her voice was rushed, apologetic. "I can't make it. Doctor's appointment I forgot about - my annual physical, you know ... the one. Jamal's already on his way though. That okay?"

I stood in the kitchen doorway, looking at the half-covered counters, the drop cloths spread across the floor. "That's fine."

"You sure? I feel terrible."

"Linda ... it's just painting a ceiling. Go to your appointment."

She laughed, that quick bright sound. "Okay. Tell Jamal I said to behave himself."

"Goodbye, Linda."

The line went dead.

Fifteen minutes later, the doorbell.

He stood on the porch in the morning heat, a clean white T-shirt stretched across his chest, jeans riding low on his hips. A toolbox in one hand. His smile was easy, unhurried.

"Coffee?" I offered, stepping back to let him in.

He shook his head, his dark honey skin catching the light from the hallway window. "Just some water, please."

I poured him a glass while he set up in the kitchen. The drop cloths were still in place from Friday. He repositioned the ladder, uncapped the paint, tested a roller against his palm. Efficient movements. No wasted motion.

"You want me to move anything else?" I asked.

"Nah. I'm good."

I turned on the coffee machine and listened to the familiar sounds. I didn't wait for my coffee, but instead settled onto the sofa and pulled my laptop onto my lap and checked my emails. The smell of coffee filled the air. My eyes drifted away from the screen.

The day was warm - unseasonably warm for this time of year, the kind of heat that made clothes feel like an accusation. I watched Jamal climb the ladder. Watched the muscles in his back shift beneath his T-shirt as he reached overhead. The roller moved in steady arcs, white spreading across the ceiling like slow cream.

He paused. Wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist.

Then he pulled his shirt off.

No ceremony. Just grabbed the collar and peeled it away. Suddenly there was nothing between my eyes and his skin but air. His chest was broad and lean, the muscles defined without being showy. A line of dark hair traced down his stomach and disappeared into his waistband. His abs tightened with each movement, each stretch toward the ceiling.

"Renée ... ?"

I blinked. He was looking at me from the ladder.

"Give me a hand?"

"With what?"

He pointed. "The lamp. Gotta disconnect it so I can paint around the box."

I crossed the kitchen and climbed onto a chair, then the ladder. But when I reached for the lamp, I realized I was too short - my fingers brushed the fixture but couldn't get a grip.

"Here." And suddenly he was behind me. One hand braced my hip. The other reached up, past my shoulder, and wrapped around the base of the lamp. "I'll hold it. You unscrew the cap."

His chest was inches from my back. I could smell him - not cologne, not deodorant. Just skin. Warm and slightly salty, the smell of a man who'd been working. I fumbled with the cap, my fingers clumsy.

"You got it?"

"Yeah." My voice came out strange. "Got it."

We stepped down together. He set the lamp on the table. I picked up my coffee and headed back to the sofa.

Then my foot caught.

The edge of a drop cloth, bunched where I hadn't noticed. The world tilted - coffee cup arcing through the air - a bright ceramic shatter - and then I wasn't falling anymore because Jamal's arms were around me, one hand spanning my lower back, the other gripping my shoulder.

"Whoa." His voice was low, close to my ear. "You okay?"

His chest was solid against my palms. His heartbeat thudded under my right hand, steady and slow. I looked up at him - had to tilt my head back to see his face - and found his dark eyes already watching me.

"Thanks," I managed. "Strong catch."

"It's nothing."

His arms didn't loosen. Neither did my hands.

I pulled away first. "I should clean that up."

The broken cup was scattered across the floor, coffee spreading in a brown puddle on the drop cloth. I grabbed paper towels and knelt to wipe it up, my cheeks burning.

Jamal went back to painting.

I sat on the sofa. Really sat this time, both feet flat on the floor. But the heat of his arms still lingered on my skin, and the image of his bare chest had burned itself into my retinas. The kitchen seemed smaller now. Hotter.

My fingers found the top button of my blouse. Opened it. Just one. Just for air.

He looked.

It wasn't obvious. His roller never paused. But his eyes shifted - from the ceiling to me and back - and something flickered in his expression that hadn't been there before.

"Warm?" he asked.

"Very. But I can't take off my shirt like you ... no bra ... you know ... I usually don't ever wear one." I smiled.

He set the roller down. Stepped off the ladder. His chest was glossy with sweat, the ridges of his stomach catching the light.

"You do have some muscular body."

The words hung between us. I could have laughed it off. Could have said something about ceiling paint and drop cloths and Linda's doctor's appointment. But I didn't.

"Workout, ya know ..." he said.

He looked at me with an expression I couldn't read. "You were watching me."

"All morning, yes ... I did ... your abs ... quite a view!"

"You like what you see?"

My throat had gone dry. "Uhumm."

He crossed over and stood in front of me. "Touch it."

My hand reached out before my brain could object. His skin was hot and smooth, the muscles solid beneath my fingers. I traced his six-pack, felt it tighten at my touch.

'What's wrong with me?' The words ran through my brain, but weren't able to stop me.

His hand found the opening of my blouse. Fingers slipped inside, brushing over my skin squeezing my breast. My nipples were already hard - had been hard since the moment he'd caught me - and when his thumb circled one, I made a sound I didn't recognize.

I stood, felt hunger - hunger for more, for something forbidden, breaching the sanctity of my marriage. My hand dropped. Found the front of his jeans. Pressed.

He was hard and thick. Much bigger than I'd expected - a lot bigger than Simon, bigger than anyone. I fumbled with his button, his zipper, and then his cock was in my hand and I couldn't breathe.

It was so beautiful - felt so soft and also hard at the same time.

'Big beautiful black cock' that was what came to my mind. Long and dark and elegant, the skin smooth as velvet over iron. The head was broad and glossy, and when I wrapped my fingers around it, they didn't meet. I stroked him slowly, watching my pale hand move over his dark shaft, and he made a low sound in his throat.

Then his mouth was on mine.

He kissed like he worked - efficient, focused, no wasted motion. His tongue slid against mine, his hand fisted in my hair, and I kissed him back with a hunger that scared me. This wasn't Simon. This wasn't my husband, our bed, our nine years of careful love. This was a stranger. But I simply couldn't resist.

His hand slid under my skirt. Found my thigh, my hip, the damp heat between my legs. His fingers pushed my panties aside and found me wet - soaking wet actually, the evidence of my arousal slick against his palm.

"Yeah, you really are ready, are you?" he breathed against my mouth. "You want to feel this, right?"

"I do, yes indeed, I wanna feel your cock ... feel it inside ... yes, yes ... yes!"

He positioned himself between my thighs. The head of his cock pressed against my folds, and I felt myself open for him, felt my body make room. He pushed in slowly, the head split my pussy wide ... he pushed further - an inch, another - and the stretch was impossible, too much, not enough.

"Ohhh ... ahhh ..."

"Okay?"

"Don't stop. I want it all!"

He didn't stop. Slid deeper, filling me inch by inch, and I gripped his shoulders and tried to remember how to breathe. He was huge. I'd never felt so full, so stretched, so completely occupied by another body. When he was fully seated, his hips pressed against mine, I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.

He started to move - gentle and slow.

Standing there in my kitchen, with the smell of fresh paint in the air and the sun streaming through the windows, Jamal fucked me. Slow strokes at first, letting me adjust. Then faster. Harder. His hands gripped my hips and pulled me onto him with each thrust, and I wrapped my legs around his waist and held on.

I forgot everything. Forgot my husband. Forgot my children. Forgot the life I'd built, the marriage I'd cherished, the vows I'd made. There was only this - this cock inside me, this man's hands on my body, this pleasure that built and built like pressure behind a dam.

"Aaahhhh ... I'm going to come, I feel it ... keep fucking ..." I gasped.

"Yes, come for me. Don't hold back!"

It hit me like a fist. My vision whited out. My body clenched around him in pulses that felt like they'd never end, and I cried out - loud, too loud, the sound bouncing off the freshly painted ceiling. Jamal kept fucking me through it, drawing it out, making it last long past the point where I thought I couldn't take any more.

When I finally went limp in his arms, he pulled out. Stroked himself once, twice. Then his release shot hot across my skirt - thick white ropes that painted the fabric, my blouse, the inside of my thigh.

I gulped. I'd never done anything like this before. Never even thought about it.

But he was still hard.

He set me down. I unbuttoned my blouse the rest of the way, let it fall. My skirt - still stained with him - puddled at my feet. He undressed with the same efficiency he'd shown all morning, and then we were both naked in my kitchen and I couldn't stop looking at him. His body ... his cock ...

He walked me over to the livingroom and laid me down on the floor.

The carpet was soft beneath my back. He positioned himself between my legs and entered me again - one stroke, deep and full - and I moaned something that might have been his name. He fucked me slow this time, deliberate, his hips rolling in a rhythm that let me feel every inch of his length. My hands traced the muscles of his back, his shoulders, the sharp cut of his jaw.

"You feel so good," I breathed.

"So do you."

He flipped me onto my hands and knees. Entered me from behind, one hand gripping my hip, the other braced on the floor beside my shoulder. This angle was deeper - impossibly deep - and I pushed back against him, meeting each thrust.

"You like that?"

"Yes. Fuck. Yes. I have never felt anything so deep, so filling."

He reached around me to touch my clit. Two fingers circled in a pattern that was different from Simon's but just as effective, and I felt another orgasm building.

"Aaahhh, Jamal, I'm coming again ... ," I said. "Come with me."

I came, my pussy around him, feeling him deep in my womb. He thrust into me one last time and I felt him pull out again - releasing his cum hot and wet on my back and my ass. He groaned against my shoulder. When I thought he'd finished, he pushed inside me again - and made me feel sensational, immediately triggering another orgasm.

He finally pulled out. I could feel his cum on my back, running from my ass over my thighs.

"I've never had a double orgasm like that - incredible ..."

We lay there for a long moment. Panting. Spent. He took my skirt and used it to wipe his cum from my back. Then he picked me up with his strong arms. I didn't ask him to. He just scooped me up - like I weighed nothing - and carried me up the stairs like he'd done it a hundred times. I cuddled against his chest.

He took me to the bedroom.

Our bedroom. Simon's and mine. The marital bed with its pale sheets and familiar pillows and the faint smell of my husband's shampoo.

The ultimate betrayal.

He lay on his back. I immediately climbed onto him, straddling his hips, and reached down to guide him inside me. The mirror on the wardrobe door faced the bed - I could see myself, my pale skin against his dark body, my thighs spread wide around his hips. I watched myself sink down onto his cock. Watched my body take him inch by inch, my pussy stretch around his big cock

I rode him slowly, my hips circling, my eyes fixed on the mirror. On that image - that impossible, obscene, beautiful image of a cheating wife impaled on a stranger's cock. It was like the video Linda had shown me, the one with the pool and the gardener, except this was real. This was my body. My pussy stretching around him. My breasts swaying with each movement.

He turned me sideways and lifted my leg to give a better view on his cock fucking my pussy.

In the mirror I could see his cock sliding in and out of me, that dark shaft disappearing into my white shaved pussy, glistening with my arousal every time it emerged. His hand gripped my thigh, holding me open.

"Look at yourself, look at my cock in your pussy ..." he said. "Doesn't that look beautiful?"

"Yes it fucking looks beautiful, like in a porn movie."

"Watch me fuck you."

I watched. Couldn't look away. His rhythm increased, harder and faster, and I felt another orgasm gathering - impossible, I'd already come three times, my body couldn't possibly ...

"Come inside me, please ..." I said. "I want to feel it!"

He thrust deep and held there. His cock pulsed. His release flooded me, hot and thick, and that was what pushed me over. I came with a cry, my body convulsing around him, drawing every last drop from his cock.

We collapsed together.

Two-thirty. Two hours of intense fucking, 4 fabulous orgasms. Unreal.

We lay side by side, my head on his shoulder, his hand on my hip. Like I did with Simon - right here on our marital bed - so many times. The thought hit me like cold water. Guilt began to creep in - slow at first, then faster, a tide of shame that rose up from somewhere deep.

I sat up.

"Reneé?"

"We should get dressed." I said harshly.

He didn't argue. "I should finish the ceiling," he said and walked toward the stairs.

"Okay," I replied quietly.

I dressed in silence - pulling on fresh clothes and buttoned my blouse to the top.

When I was down, he was fully dressed and working on the kitchen ceiling. I sat on the sofa and watched him, but it was different now. The heat was gone. The spell was broken. When he finally declared the kitchen finished and began cleaning his brushes, I stood.

"Jamal."

He looked up.

"Please tell nobody. Especially not Linda. Nobody!"

He nodded once. "Nobody."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

He gathered his tools and the ladder. I walked him to the door, and when it closed behind him, the silence of the house rushed in like a flood.

Three-thirty.

I sat on the sofa. My blouse was buttoned wrong. Between my legs, I could feel him - his semen, still wetting my panties, still warm against my skin.

The tears came without warning.

I cried for ten minutes, maybe fifteen. I cried until my chest ached and my eyes were raw. I cried for Simon, for our marriage, for the woman I'd been before this morning. I'd been carried away. That was the truth of it. Carried away by heat and curiosity and a body that didn't belong to me.

I showered. Scrubbed myself raw. Washed my hair twice. The water ran clear but I didn't feel clean. Between my legs I was sore - pleasantly sore, which made it worse - and every movement reminded me of what I'd done.

The best sex I'd ever had. That was the terrible truth. It was guilt and it was shame but it was also the sharpest pleasure I'd ever experienced, the most overwhelming orgasms, the most complete sexual satisfaction of my life.

Simon must never know. NEVER!

I again got me a fresh panty, the other one was soaked, soaked with the evidence of my betrayal. I threw both panties, the stained skirt and blouse into the laundry, deep in the basket - hidden.

I checked my reflection - eyes red, face blotchy. Splashed cold water on my cheeks. Foundation. Mascara. A mask of normalcy.

Almost four.

The front door burst open and the kids spilled in like a hurricane, backpacks flying, voices overlapping. My daughter was talking about a science project. My son was demanding snacks. They filled the house with noise and chaos and life, and I grabbed onto them like a lifeline.

Twenty minutes later, Simon walked through the door.

He hung his keys on the hook. Dropped his bag by the stairs. Crossed the kitchen and kissed my forehead, his stubble-shaded jaw scraping gently against my skin.

"Hey," he said. "How was your day?"

(My day ... my day with Jamal and the ceiling and the broken coffee cup and the mirror over the wardrobe ... my day of betrayal and ecstasy and guilt so heavy I could barely breathe)

"Fine," I said. "look ... the ceiling looks great."