Last Christmas, I did something that still does not quite fit with how I see myself.
I am a married man in what I have quietly come to accept is a sexless relationship.
Intimacy has not ended with a bang or a fight.
It has just faded.
We touch less, desire less and eventually not at all.
I am still a husband, a dad and the reliable one.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling like a man anyone wanted.
Then someone mentioned a dating app, not just for singles but for married people too.
I laughed it off at first, but the idea stayed with me longer than it should have.
One evening, out of nothing more than curiosity, I downloaded it.
Just to look, just to see what was there.
I was not expecting anything and yet, within a day, I got messages.
On the second day of using the app, I got a like from her.
The profile had no pictures, just a short bio: “Polish, living in the UK and not completely sure what I’m looking for.”
I liked her back and pondered if I should send a message and, if so, what I would say.
She had not given much away.
All I knew was that she was Polish and lived thirty miles away.
Then a message notification appeared.
It was her, with a simple, “Hey. I read your profile and you seem nice.”
Warm without trying too hard.
We started talking and almost immediately, something clicked.
Effortlessly.
She told me I was the first person she had messaged in weeks.
That most men were crude, impatient, transactional.
She said my profile felt real, safe and different.
That word, “real,” hooked me more than I wanted to admit.
We moved quickly after that, not recklessly but naturally.
After a short while, she suggested exchanging numbers and I did hesitate.
She did not.
There was her number and I told myself, screw it.
Let us see where it goes and hopefully, she is not a nutter.
Once we started talking off the app, everything intensified.
We talked every day: morning messages, late nights, voice notes and pictures.
Pictures I had never sent to anyone before.
Things that felt vulnerable, exposed and alive.
Eventually, we both deleted the app.
For a few weeks, talking to her was all I could think about.
She made me feel wanted, seen and not just as a dad or a provider.
It woke something in me I had assumed was gone for good.
We started talking about meeting.
Just a drink, we told ourselves, just casual and harmless.
Though hotels were mentioned, lightly at first, jokingly, except they were not really jokes.
I knew it was wrong.
I really did.
But wanting her felt stronger than my reasons not to.
So when the weekend came, I lied.
I told my wife a friend had asked me to go out for Christmas drinks.
The words came out easier than I expected.
That bothered me more than the lie itself.
Saturday morning arrived and with it, the guilt, heavy and persistent.
All day I wrestled with it.
Was this a trap?
Was I about to blow up my life for a fantasy?
Was today the day I crossed a line I could not uncross?
That evening, as I finished getting dressed after my shower, I still was not sure I would go through with it.
I ran through every possible outcome: being caught, being hurt, becoming the villain in my own story.
I checked my phone. Should I cancel? Then, I saw her message.
She was leaving, on her way to the station and attached to the message was a photo of her.
She was real, undeniably real. It was too late to cancel now.
The guilt did not vanish, but desire surged right through it.
She wanted me and, God help me, I wanted her just as much.
I said my goodbyes, my heart pounding louder than my footsteps and I headed into town.
I arrived at the pub we had agreed on and ordered a drink.
A few minutes later, a message came through.
She had missed her connecting train.
I felt that sharp, sinking disappointment and a flicker of relief tangled together.
I told myself she might not turn up at all.
That maybe this was fate intervening.
I decided I would stay for one drink.
Seventeen minutes passed, then another message.
She was on her way.
Twenty minutes out.
As I sat there, watching a hen party laugh and pose for photos, the guilt came crashing back.
Is this really who I am now?
I wondered.
Am I really this guy?
Then another message: her location.
She was close to the station.
I finished my drink and walked to meet her, my nerves buzzing under my skin.
I arrived just as her train pulled in.
I texted her that I was outside.
Sent my location.
The message showed as read.
Then nothing.
I checked again.
Her location had disappeared.
Silence where anticipation had been roaring seconds before.
I stood there, heart racing, palms damp, every doubt I had buried clawing its way back to the surface.
I scanned faces as people spilled onto the platform.
Every woman felt like her and not her at the same time.
And then I saw her.
She was standing just beyond the station doors, phone in hand, eyes searching.
When our gazes met, everything else seemed to fall away.
The guilt did not leave, but it softened.
The noise faded.
Time narrowed to that one moment.
She smiled.
Not the kind you give out of politeness, but the kind that says you are real too.
And in that instant, I knew.
Whatever happened next, whether I crossed the line or turned back, whether this became a memory or a mistake, I had already done something completely out of character.
I had let myself be seen.
We walked toward each other at the same time, that half-hesitant moment before deciding yes.
When we embraced, it felt natural, too natural.
She smelled incredible, something warm and slightly sweet.
Up close, she was even prettier than her photos, effortlessly so: well dressed, confident and real.
We both laughed nervously as we said hello and she told me she had no idea where we were going.
I was her guide, she said, smiling at me, her voice laced with that slight Polish accent I adored, giving everything she said a seductive, exotic tone that sent shivers down my spine.
She had only been to the city a handful of times and was completely lost.
We set off toward the pub, making easy small talk, but my mind was racing the entire way.
She is beautiful.
I want her.
I should not be doing this.
What if someone sees me?
At the pub, I ordered our drinks while she went to the ladies’ room.
I checked my phone, my heart still hammering and then she came back, slipping off her coat.
That is when I really saw her.
A cream satin blouse, soft and fluid, hugging her body in a way that felt intentional.
A black skirt and ankle-high boots.
Effortless, classy, sexy and confidence beaming.
I could not stop myself from noticing how the blouse framed her breasts, the ones I had already seen, imagined and thought about far too many times, her big, full breasts straining against the fabric, promising softness and curves that made my mouth water.
Conversation flowed like we had known each other for years.
No awkward pauses.
No filler, just laughter and shared glances.
Then I felt it.
Her foot brushed up my leg.
Slow and deliberate.
My breath caught, desire surging hard and fast.
I told myself we were here just for drinks.
Just that.
We had just finished our second drink, asking her if she wanted another. She leaned in and said quietly, “I’ve booked a hotel. I don’t want to travel home too late,” her slight Polish accent wrapping around the words like silk, making them sound even more inviting and seductive.
I laughed, nervous, pretending it was casual.
“Well, shouldn’t we get you checked in then?”
She smiled, the kind of smile that already knew the answer and asked if I would help her find it.
So we left the pub.
At the hotel, the receptionist handed over two key cards without a second thought.
One for each of us, as a couple.
That word echoed in my head.
She turned to me.
“Do you want to see my room?” she asked, her accent adding that seductive lilt I could not get enough of.
I nodded before my brain could catch up.
The lift doors closed and whatever restraint I had vanished.
We kissed like we had been holding back for weeks, because we had.
Hungry and urgent, our hands everywhere.
When the lift announced the floor, she laughed softly, pulled back just enough to breathe and led me out by the hand.
Walking down the corridor, I could not take my eyes off her.
The sway of her hips, the certainty in her step.
She opened the door and stepped inside.
I followed.
She turned and kissed me again, but hard.
I turned her and pinned her briefly against the wall as we started undressing each other.
Her blouse came open and her skirt slid down around her ankles.
Red, lacy and sexy, she looked like perfection.
A red bra and thong.
My desire snapped tight inside my chest, my cock throbbing painfully against my trousers as I drank in the sight of her skin flushed with arousal, her big breasts spilling over the lace cups, topped with tiny, pert nipples that hardened under my gaze.
I lifted her and the rest of her clothes fell away as I carried her to the bed.
I laid her down and followed, kissing my way over her skin, taking my time, letting my mouth replace every thought in my head.
Her body arched beneath me, soft and yielding, her breaths coming in short, needy gasps as I trailed my lips down her neck, over her collarbone, sucking gently on her tiny nipples, rolling them between my fingers and tongue, making her whimper.
“You know,” she murmured in that seductive Polish accent, “I can cum just from my boobs being played with the right way.”
That confession ignited me further and I lavished attention on her big, soft breasts, kneading them firmly, sucking and nibbling her tiny nipples until she was squirming, her hips bucking as if chasing release from that alone.
When I reached her underwear, I could not wait any longer.
I pulled it aside and tasted her.
She was wet, her underwear soaked and she tasted incredible, like sweet nectar mixed with raw desire.
I slid my fingers inside her, feeling how ready she was, how easily she took them, her tight walls clenching around me as if desperate to pull me deeper.
Her body responded instantly, arching, moving with me as I found a rhythm with my mouth and hand, my tongue flicking her swollen clit while my fingers curled to stroke that sensitive spot inside.
Her reactions surprised me, to the sounds she made, the way her breathing changed, turning into throaty moans that filled the room.
She was close.
That drove me wild, my own cock leaking pre cum at the thought of her unraveling so quickly under my touch.
I did not slow down.
I pushed her right over the edge and she came hard, crying out, gripping my hair, her legs trembling against my shoulders, her pussy flooding my mouth with her slick release.
When I kissed my way back up her body, she was still shaking, her eyes dark with lust as she pulled me into a desperate kiss, tasting herself on my lips.
She pulled me into a desperate kiss, breathless and told me to lie down.
She kicked off her boots and took her underwear off completely, while I did the same.
There was nothing tentative about her now.
She was hungry and animalistic, her curves glowing under the dim hotel light, her big breasts heaving with each breath, tiny nipples still flushed from my attention, her shaved pussy glistening with her recent orgasm.
She wrapped her hand around my cock and started sucking, slow at first, then deeper.
Her mouth was wet, warm and deliberate.
She licked my balls, teased the head, then pulled back just to circle the tip with her tongue, slow and maddening, like she was tasting every reaction she was getting, her eyes locked on mine as she savored the salty tang of my pre cum.
I had to stop her.
I was too close already, my balls tightening with the need to explode.
She climbed up to kiss me, checking in, smiling when I said I was okay.
Then she lowered herself onto me, inch by inch.
The heat of her, the slickness and the way she felt taking me inside her made me groan out loud, her pussy enveloping my cock, tight and pulsing with need.
She rode me hard at first, chasing her pleasure, then slowed, rolling her hips, letting herself feel everything, her big breasts bouncing hypnotically as she ground down, her clit rubbing against my pubic bone with each swivel, her tiny nipples begging for more touch.
I could see it on her face when she got close again, her lips parted in ecstasy, her moans turning into whimpers.
She came a second time while riding me, kissing me as she did and feeling her orgasm around me pushed me dangerously close, her walls spasming, milking my shaft as if begging for my release.
I told her I could not last if she kept moving like that.
She did not slow down.
“Cum in me,” she said.
“Please. I want to feel you inside me.”
That was it.
I grabbed her hips and started thrusting, meeting her movements, watching her big breasts bounce as she came again, her body getting even wetter around me, her juices coating my cock and dripping down my balls.
It did not take long after that.
I warned her, but she just rode me harder.
When I came, it was intense and powerful.
I felt it pulse out of me, deep inside her, thick and overwhelming, rope after rope of hot cum filling her pussy until it overflowed.
She cried out one more time, still moving, still holding me and completely unashamed, her eyes rolling back as she felt me flood her.
Afterward, we stayed tangled together, breathing hard, skin slick, the reality of what we had done slowly sinking in.
And somewhere between the guilt and the afterglow, one thought kept repeating in my head.
I have not felt this wanted in so long.
For a moment, she stayed there, sitting on my still pulsing cock as we both caught our breath.
Her chest rose and fell against mine, skin slick and warm.
Then she slowly climbed off me, placing her hand between her legs to catch what was already dripping from her, a creamy mix of our combined releases trickling down her thighs.
She sank down between my thighs and started to lick and suck every inch of me.
Slow and unhurried.
I watched, almost hypnotised, as she tasted the mix of her and me, watching it on her tongue, enjoying it without shame, her eyes closing in bliss as she savoured the salty flavours, of my cum mingled with her sweetness, moaning softly like it was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted.
My cock twitched again and a small drop of cum escaped, landing on her tongue.
She smiled, cleaned her mouth and crawled back up onto me, laying her full weight against my body.
Skin on skin.
We lay there panting, not rushing to speak, letting the silence stretch.
Then she broke it softly.
“I really, really, really liked that,” she whispered, her Polish accent making the words drip with seduction.
I laughed, still breathless.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Me too.”
We stayed tangled together, fingers tracing lazy paths across each other’s bodies.
It felt intimate in a way that surprised me, gentler now, quieter.
She talked about being single for a long time, about dating and how exhausting it had become.
How married men were usually an instant no.
She admitted she felt guilty for meeting me, but that the connection felt too strong to ignore, her accent turning every confession into something irresistibly alluring.
I told her I felt the same guilt.
Hearing her say it out loud made me feel less alone with it.
Her hand rested on my thigh as we talked, brushing me now and then, accidentally on purpose.
I felt myself stirring again and she noticed.
She laughed.
“Already?”
I smiled, helpless.
She kissed her way down my chest and wrapped her mouth around me again, slow and teasing.
Looking up at me, she asked if I wanted to go again.
I did not hesitate.
Then, with a nervous little grin, she asked, “Do you remember our conversation about fucking me in all three of my holes?”
“Yes,” I said, my voice rough.
She moved into position without another word: knees on the bed, chest down, bum lifted, offering herself completely.
We did not have lube, but she did not need it.
I slid back inside her wet, ready pussy and she moaned instantly, her walls still slick with my earlier cum, gripping me tightly as I thrust deep.
I picked up the pace, faster and deeper, listening to her sounds, watching her toes curl as she buried her face in the pillow.
I could feel her tightening, building again.
Could I make her cum again?
I could.
To heighten her pleasure, I slid two fingers into her tight ass, feeling the thin barrier between my cock and digits, the dual penetration making her gasp and writhe.
I slid in and out of her pussy with long, deliberate strokes, my fingers mirroring the rhythm in her ass, stretching her, preparing her, her body trembling as the sensations overwhelmed her, her moans turning into desperate cries.
I watched her fingers grip the pillow hard as she let out a loud scream when she climaxed, her pussy and ass clenching rhythmically around me, soaking my cock even more.
When I felt everything getting wetter, hotter, I pulled out slowly and pressed myself against her bum.
The sight alone burned itself into my memory forever, her ass glistening under the lights, ready and quivering.
I pushed in gently.
She groaned, low, needy and pushed back to take more of me.
Inch by inch, she took every bit, telling me to go slow, letting herself adjust, setting the rhythm at first.
When she started moving back against me, after a brief time, she was pushing back harder and faster.
So I grabbed her hips and began thrusting, the tight heat of her ass gripping me like a vice, every plunge sending waves of ecstasy through us both.
Her hand reached between her legs.
I could hear her touching herself, feel her shaking around me.
The slick sound of her fingers against her wet pussy from behind was driving me dangerously close again.
“I want you to cum in me,” she said breathlessly.
“Everywhere.”
I went faster.
She was already cumming, her body trembling as she cried out for me.
When I told her I was close, she screamed it.
“Cum in me!”
I did.
Every last bit of me poured into her as I stayed buried inside, shaking, breathless and stunned by the moment, filling her ass with thick spurts of cum that she milked from me greedily.
I paused there, looking at her, this beautiful woman, her body offered, my cock still inside her, trying to understand how my life had taken such an unexpected turn in a single evening.
Eventually, I pulled out slowly and we collapsed together, holding each other, spent.
We drifted off for maybe an hour until her phone buzzed.
Her teenage son, texting to say good night.
Reality rushed back in.
I checked the time and told her I would need to leave in the next two hours.
We cuddled a little longer before she asked if I wanted to shower together.
In the shower, I really saw her: her body, her softness, her curves.
She joked shyly about having a “mommy bod,” and it blew my mind.
This confident, incredible woman, worried about a few stretch marks.
As if I looked like some kind of Greek statue, far from it.
Does she need glasses or a new mirror?
How can she not see what I see?
I pulled her close and told her the truth, that she is stunning and that her body is incredible.
As we dried off, she grabbed my cock playfully and laughed, saying she wished she could take it with her.
I started to get hard again.
She looked at me, half-amused, half-incredulous.
“Seriously?”
Then she smiled, sank to her knees and started sucking me again, her tongue swirling hungrily, as if craving one last taste.
She paused, pressing her big breasts together around my shaft, her tiny nipples brushing my skin as she slid them up and down, titfucking me with slow, deliberate strokes while her mouth engulfed the head, sucking greedily, her accent murmuring encouragements that sounded like pure seduction.
I told her I thought I could cum once more.
With her mouth full, she told me to do it.
Cum in her mouth.
So I thrust gently, steadily, the pressure building until I could not hold it anymore.
When I came, she swallowed it all, slow and licking me clean, her eyes fluttering with delight as she savored every drop, moaning softly at the taste of my cum, thick and salty on her tongue, like it was her favorite indulgence.
She looked up at me, smiling.
“Three times?” she teased.
“Are you finally empty?”
We dressed quietly after that.
She checked train times, not wanting to stay alone once I left and the bed was far too wet now anyway.
I walked her back to the station and we hugged our goodbyes, longer than necessary, but both knowing it meant more than we were saying.
For a few weeks after, we texted and talked over the phone.
We floated the idea of seeing each other again.
But eventually, we both knew the truth.
We could not just have sex and keep it compartmentalised.
She did not want to be the woman who broke up a home and I did not want to be the man who let that happen.
So we gave each other space.
I still have her number.
Sometimes I type out a message and stare at it, never pressing send.
I know cheating is wrong.
But for that one night, she made me feel wanted, desired and needed.
