Maybe she’s sick
Maybe he’s helping her
And my natural doormat tendencies took over and I almost squeaked out an apology and left.
But the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach somehow kept the door open. And then I saw that her pink top was pulled down to her waist, her skirt bunched up around her thighs.
For some reason Ihadto see everything to believe it was real, every sick and disgusting detail, like the way she was spread back on his desk with her thighs wide, looking down at where their bodies connected, her big, tanned breasts bouncing with each thrust.
It was Alix. My brain automatically catalogued her face and details, like I always had because Michael said he wasn’tgoodwith names. Couldn’t be bothered to remember them.
Alix, age 25. Surgical nurse. Married to Dr. Reuben Ben-David, age 55. Chief of Surgery.
I was so close I could even see the slick wetness on her shaved pussy, see exactly the shape her pussy made as it stretched to accommodate my husband, her thighs dripping wet with her arousal.
And her face looked thoroughly fucked, too, a strand of her blonde hair stuck to her face. Her eyes looked glazed with pleasure.
A hairband with two red hearts bounced up and down on her head with each thrust.
Alix’s short skirt was bunched up in my husband’s fist, as my eyes were drawn to the muscles flexing in his lean strong arm, and when he twisted around to see who was at the door, his cock came a few inches out of her pussy. I saw it was slick, the condom dripping wet with her arousal.
My husband Michael was one of the most in-demand surgeons in the country. Difficult cases would get flown to California just for the possibility of getting operated on by him. He was impossibly cool and effective under pressure.
And his expression didn’t change when he saw me.
He had always been the most intimidatingly beautiful man I’d ever seen. When he came up to me in a study room at college to ask me out, I was so frightened and confused. Why was this man, this man I knewallthe girls in class wanted, paying attention tome?
But it didn’t ever occur to me to say no. I was riveted, beguiled, under his spell.
I wouldn’t havedared. I had never denied him one single thing. Not then and never since.
My husband was very tall and lean, with broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist, short immaculately styled golden blonde hair, and bright blue eyes in a face all sharp planes and jawline.
“What are you doing here, Lavender?” he asked, his deep voice stern and precise.
“Your l-lunch,” I said, holding out the plate, my cheeks flaming as I stuttered over the words.
“This is not what you think,” he said. “Leave it and close the door. I’ll be out in a minute.”
And, as always, it didn’t occur to me to disobey him, setting the dish down with a clatter, and then backing out on shaky legs into the hallway.
My hands shook so hard I had to flatten them against my skirt as I walked numbly down the hall.
I was dressed like the perfect respectable doctor’s wife, and he was having sex with a nurse in a miniskirt.
What did “it’s not what you think” mean?How could it not be what I think?I screamed to myself.
Even if it was only in my head, it felt good to scream.
What excuse could there possibly be for his behavior?
None.
I stopped, indecisive, to look at myself in the mirror.
Turtleneck, long sleeves, a long chestnut brown braid, curls falling out to surround a little pale heart-shaped face with serious gray eyes and pink lips.
Alix’s lips had been much fuller, though, her figure much more. . . sexy than my small breasts and slim hips.
