My lover holds me still, pushing his hands up my body and pressing his palms into the space between my shoulder blades. He keeps me pinned to the desktop before he snakes his hand around to the front of me, pressing it up between my breasts and lifting me off the table to crash against him.

He holds my throat. He fucking chokes me and I moan for it like the woman I am. Like the woman I need to be right now.

Grasping so hard that my vision starts to go a little dark and the pain starts to get a little delicious he pounds into me from behind with firm thrusts while he whispers out his words.

“I’ve wanted you for so long.”

It makes me melt, this truthful confession. Even though I always knew it, had the evidence clear in front of me, it feels so good to have him put it into words.

But it doesn’t hurt the way that it should. It’s what I want to hear, but isn’t what I need.

“This is wrong,” I moan, bucking back at him, “This is so fucking wrong.”

Torn between want and need and love and lust and pain and pleasure I moan and wriggle my ass on him, grinding it against his cock and the unrelenting fury of his strokes.

“You love it. You need it. You dirty cheating whore.”

And then he lets me go, dropping me to the desktop and splaying out on it. Pain ringing through me as he treats me so carelessly but god it feels so good.

“A whore,” I muse, my words silly and half cock drunk from his fucking, “A slut.”

And once more I look over his shoulder and for the first time I make a promise to him that means more than the simple words I say, “Anything you need me to be.”

It’s a commitment. A commitment that I should have made a decade ago when I should have agreed to run away with him. It’s telling him that I’ll be bound to him. It’s telling him that I’ll be his.

And yes it’s trading one man for another but it’s all so much more complicated than that. Because tonight is a confusion of pain and betrayal but tomorrow is the beginning of something else. Tomorrow is the start of a new me, and this time I’ve picked a lover who knows what I want to be.

Not like him. Not like my husband. Not like the man who selfishly tried to fit me into his little box and keep me on a shelf only to trade in for the newer model. The man who agreed, far too readily, to vacation without me knowing that he could have his pretty young assistant with him there in the warmth, his old wrinkled hands all over her nubile young body.

“Don’t stop,” I beg my new man, “Harder.”

But the response I get is not from him, it’s not even a response that makes sense. It’s my name instead of anything else, instead of a name that someone calls me when they want to demean me and make me feel little.

And it’s in a voice that doesn’t belong to this man at all.

He’s calling my name. Not the man inside of me but the one whose ring I wear. My husband is calling out to me, his voice tinny from the tiny speaker in my phone.

Behind me my lover froze, buried to the hilt inside of me and throbbing. The sudden absence of sound, the lack of moans and the slap of skin on skin, made my office feel so empty, but through it we heard another sound, my husband through the speaker on my phone.

“Are you there? I can’t see anything?”