Forbidden

I knew he had wanted me for months, and I wasn’t going to stop until I had him in my bed. What I didn’t count on was who would catch us afterward.

I thought I was alone among the hanging laundry. Then a voice behind me asked if I liked her panties, and I knew there was no turning back.

I had never smelled another woman’s desire until that afternoon, standing in the hallway with my flatmate’s soaked garment in my hands and my pulse racing.

I kept it to myself for over a decade. It all started with a pair of white stockings and ended in a car at two in the morning, with the last person I should’ve gotten involved with.

I wanted to surprise him in the shower, like every afternoon. I slipped naked behind that broad back and, when it started to turn, I realized it wasn’t my boyfriend.

I went into the bathroom by mistake and found him under the water. Since that afternoon, every night I’m alone I go back to that image and can’t get it out of my head.

I’d watched her for years in ways I shouldn’t have. That night, after catching her with another man, she got into my car not knowing I had secrets of my own.

When her number appeared on the screen as a missed call, I knew that night in the mountains was going to break something in her that could never be put back together.

I came to Buenos Aires to save up a little money for my family. I never imagined the nicest house in the neighborhood would change my life the way it did.

I’d spent weeks avoiding her, convinced what we had was over. Then the phone rang and her voice was enough to tell me I’d fall again.

For months he forced me to obey in his bed. When I finally spoke, I never imagined justice would repay every blow by turning him into what he hated most.

I got home at six in the morning with her perfume clinging to my body and my ass still red. My wife was waiting up, smiling, suspecting nothing.

He kept saying it was wrong, that he shouldn’t touch me. But his hand was already seeking my waist, and we both knew nothing would stop us for those five days.

She was old enough to be my mother and married to a man who barely looked at her. I only wanted to go back to that kitchen every afternoon.

What we had was the secret we carried everywhere, but that night, far from the city, we decided to share it with someone else.

We’d spent three years obeying one rule between partners. That cold night, in her green dress and a dark office, we knew we were about to break it.

She was her father’s wife, but that dawn, sitting in the sand and pressed against his chest, I no longer knew where affection ended and something else began.

I’ve spent thirty years pretending to be the modest wife my husband thinks he set free. What he doesn’t know is that on this cruise, I’m the one pulling the strings.

On the last night before becoming mortal, she curled up between her two divine mothers, knowing that at dawn she would have to bury everything she was under layers of plain cloth.

I turned fifty, I’ve been married for thirty years, and I’ve never been faithful. These are the secret getaways that kept my marriage alive.