I want to be perfectly clear: I love my wife.

We’ve been married for more than ten years and have a beautiful child. We have many common interests, and she’s my best friend — but our love life isn’t what it used to be because she’s lost interest in sex. She tearfully told me one night that she’d understand if I needed to divorce her, but I wanted no such thing.

Then a few days later, she told me that she had been thinking and said if I wanted to have affairs it was okay with her — with one exception. “Please don’t go to prostitutes,” she begged me.

She had gotten the idea from talking to her friends, who had told her that they’d had fantasies about having no-strings-attached sex with married men, and that a guy with my looks and personality should have no problem finding other women. I was a bit taken aback that she was discussing this stuff with her girlfriends, but I was also intrigued. Still, I told her I couldn’t cheat on her.

“It’s okay. You’re not cheating. You have my permission,” she assured me. “Just don’t bring the women into our lives.”

I was convinced I would never act on her largesse, but one day I was riding the train when a beautiful woman caught my eye. It was a packed car, and I was standing, clutching the railing. The train lurched a bit, and I bumped into her. We made eye contact for a second as I apologized. “No worries,” she said. I was instantly in lust. She was almost as tall as I was, with the long blonde hair out of a shampoo commercial. It was a hot day, and she was wearing a cute sundress, with a pair of sandals that showed off her beautiful feet.

She went back to reading her book, which was a biography of Mick Jagger. I realized if I didn’t say something soon, she would be gone for the rest of my life. So I asked her, “What’s your favorite Rolling Stone song?”

The woman regarded me again. I could see the emotions flashing across her face; she was making a snap judgment as to whether or not I was a creep. I guessed I passed the test because she smiled and said, “‘Moonlight Mile.’”

“Ah, from Sticky Fingers,” I said with a nod of my head. “You don’t hear that one much on the radio.”

“No, you don’t,” she said, now actively amused. “What’s yours?”

I thought for a second. “I guess it would be ‘Emotional Rescue,’” I answered. 

The woman closed her book. My answer must have been acceptable.  “I’m Bridget.”

She said her stop was next, and I said mine was, too, even though I still had several stops to go. But I was willing to abandon my errands. We ended up in a diner for pie and coffee, and before we were done conversing two hours had gone by. It turns out Bridget was an intriguing person. She not only played oboe for a symphony orchestra and spoke fluent Japanese, but she was also well-versed in the Rolling Stones and all kinds of music. I couldn’t get enough of her, and I found myself coming under the spell of her smoky blue eyes.

When it came time to go, I didn’t quite know how to proceed. I was wearing my wedding ring, but she hadn’t quizzed me about my wife. I was about to ask her for her number when she asked for mine. I gave it to her, but wanted to be honest. I told her I was married but explained that my wife and I have an arrangement. She regarded me for a second and said, “Let’s talk about it next time.”

Bridget called the following day and told me she was very attracted to me, and then asked what the arrangement was. I was completely honest, and she was kind of flabbergasted that I was so upfront with her. She told me she was not interested in a relationship at this point in her life, having had too many bad ones, so she was up for just having some fun. We made a date for the following Saturday.

I told my wife I would be going out for the evening. She realized what was going on but smiled and told me to have fun. I felt really weird, but when I met Bridget at a party it got easier. We stayed there for a while. She had a lot of bohemian friends, and in some rooms of the apartment couples were getting friskier than at a traditional party. At one point, she pulled me into an empty bathroom, and we exchanged our first kiss. Bridget could feel how hard I was and rubbed my dick through my pants. She got a devilish look in her eye and said, “Do you want to put your cock in my mouth?” I barely nodded, as my tongue was too tied to answer. “Say it,” she insisted.

“I want to put my cock in your mouth,” I managed to croak.

She got down on her knees and pulled down my pants and underwear. My cock sprang out and hit her in the nose, which made her laugh. She spat on my dick, then stroked it a few times, looking me straight in the eye. Then she started sucking. She seemed to have a vacuum for a mouth because I was ready to come almost instantly. I grabbed her hair and fucked her mouth, and when I came she swallowed my entire load effortlessly.

By that point, someone was knocking on the bathroom door, so we cleaned up and left. She said she had a place she liked to go, so we left the party and got on the train. It was late and there weren’t too many other people in our car. Bridget and I were making out like teenagers, and I didn’t care who saw. She whispered hotly into my ear, “Finger my pussy.”

“I couldn’t help it anymore and climbed on top of her, sinking my cock in her.”

Ordinarily, I’m far too straitlaced to finger-bang a woman on a subway train, but I was casting all caution to the wind. I reached into her shorts to find she was wearing no underwear and her cunt was sopping wet. I was able to slide two fingers right in and proceeded to fuck her with them. She clung to me and started moaning. By the time we got to our stop, she had come all over my hand.

I had no idea where we were — somewhere near the airport. We got out, and the area seemed to be deserted. I later learned Bridget was a bit of a danger junkie — something I suspect is not true with most oboe players. We walked down the street and came across a motel that looked like something out of a crime-film set. It advertised adult films and hourly rates. The office had bulletproof glass and took only cash. I had the necessary amount in my pocket; trust me, it was not exorbitant.

Bridget told me she loved cheap motels because they were so tawdry and that turned her on something fierce. We got to our room, which I was gratified to see did not have bloodstains anywhere, but it did have one of those Magic Fingers contraptions. Bridget put a few quarters in and jumped on the bed, which jiggled maniacally. I joined her, and she put on the TV and picked out a porno film.

We started making out with the grunts and groans of the actors and the shaking of the bed as our soundtrack. When Bridget pulled away to remove her clothes, I was drawn to the action on the screen — a beautiful blonde girl was taking a dick in her ass, pussy, and mouth simultaneously.

“Hey, she kinda looks like me, doesn’t she?” Bridget said, her top now on the floor. Her small but irresistible tits were available to my gaze for the first time. Both of her nipples were pierced with barbells. She pulled off her shorts and kicked off her shoes, which left her gloriously naked.

It was my turn to strip. I looked at the screen just in time to see her doppelgänger getting sprayed with come from three cocks. My dick was as hard as a crowbar, and Bridget sucked on it some more, picking up where we’d left off earlier. This time she spread my legs apart and licked my balls thoroughly. She then surprised me by pushing my legs back and sticking her tongue in my ass. No one had ever done that to me, and the few minutes she spent tossing my salad were among the best few minutes I’ve ever experienced.

I wanted a taste of her pussy and flipped her over, burying my face between her legs. She tasted sweet and salty, and the aroma was heady. She encouraged me with a series of moans and every once in a while an actual sentence, like “eat me” or “oh yeah, that’s it” or “fuck me with your tongue.”

After she came against my face, I couldn’t help it anymore and climbed on top of her, sinking my cock in her with one thrust. Her face was a mask of delirious pleasure, and I imagine I looked pretty content, too. We fucked like this for quite a while, slamming our hips together. She wrapped her legs around my waist and dug her fingernails into my back. (I later realized I had scratches on my shoulders.)

Eventually, we broke for a bit and resumed with her on top. She rode me like Calamity Jane, bucking on my cock as if it were a bronco. I squeezed her breasts and fiddled with her piercings, pulling on them enough to make her squeal with delight. She pounded down on me so hard I thought we’d both be bruised.

For our last position she got on her knees and urged me to spank her while I fucked her from behind. I was glad to and reddened her ass while I plunged into her up to the balls. When I told her I was ready to come, she said she wanted it on her face and twirled around to take my load all over her — from her chin to her forehead. She lay back exhausted, coated in cream.

I collapsed beside her. We took a little nap and cleaned up before leaving the motel at dawn. On the ride back into the city, she said we could be “fuck buddies.” We would not go on dates — just meet for sex. I agreed, as keeping her compartmentalized would help keep my marriage solid. Since then, we have met several times and had more sexual adventures.

My marriage is as good as ever. My wife knows when I am out playing, but we are still devoted to each other. I imagine most women couldn’t tolerate such a situation, but she has, and I am grateful. I have also learned that when you go to the symphony, check out the oboe section. They seem to be pretty kinky.

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