Under the table touches: this guy has a wife

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There are two levels on which I’m enjoying dinner. On the surface, the main conversation – catching up with friends I’ve not seen in years. Beneath the table, something even better – his thigh nudging against mine. The oh-so-casual initial pressure that could easily be written off as an accident conjures a flash of possibility as I realise that… yeah… this guy just might want to fuck me. A rush of teenage horn flushes across my skin as I decide that I’m gonna nudge him back to find out for sure. Meeting his pressure, thigh-against-thigh, I remind myself that this guy has a wife. I wouldn’t normally fuck someone who’s married. That’s a basic rule. I have in the past, but I’m trying to be a better person these days. I’ll allow myself a brief cuntgush of longing for this or that dude, perhaps a playful flirtation, but ultimately settle for a nice wank alone at home, safe and comfy on the moral high ground. But I’m not feeling much like myself today, and it’s fun to have a guy press his thigh up against mine during dinner. A really hot guy, too. He’s pretty and smart and nerdy and so many other things I like in men. He’s been holding court a little while we chat. Performing. Telling funny stories, being charming and lovely, generally piquing my interest. Besides, while we’re running through excuses, here’s the most honest of the lot: I am human. And humans are awful impulsive creatures sometimes. So I press my thigh against his. He nudges back, harder this time, and the thrill of realisation – he’s doing this on purpose! – starts the blood thumping in my crotch. We’re testing the waters, like a call and response: You want to? Yes, I do. I shift slightly in my seat and reposition so my hand is casually brushing the back of his jeans. He responds again. You want to? Yes, I do. Each escalation reminds me how much I miss this vibe: the ‘will they/won’t they’ that comes with real life flirtation. Most new men I run into these days come from dating -style interactions. The ‘will they/won’t they’ has little to do with sex, it’s just a bland question of whether or not we’ll get on. If we do, we’ll fuck: we both know that. As long as we happen to match, the shag itself is a certainty. But this guy has a wife. With him the fuck is forbidden , so even the simplest touches come with question marks, imbued with infinite hotness. I remind myself that this can go nowhere, but enjoy the thrum of ‘maybe’ that hangs in that moment anyway. I know. I’m bad. It gets better. Stick with me through the sordid glow of this part because the payoff’s worth it, I promise. Beneath the table, where our friends can’t see, I touch him and he touches me back. I get flashbacks to another evening, almost two decades ago, when a different guy did the same: in the pub, beneath the table, where his girlfriend couldn’t see, he pressed against my thigh without breaking the flow in conversation. Later that night, after dropping his girlfriend and my boyfriend off at their respective homes, he drove me to a quiet, dark street and trembled with abject lust and wretched guilt as I sucked him dry. Now, here, I’m a sensible grown-up who would never fuck a man who was forbidden. But this guy’s doing very similar things: gripping my thigh, entwining our feet, and pressing tightly against me. Call and response: You want to? Yes, I do. I want to. So much. The weight of how much I want to takes me by surprise. It’s not a casual ‘fancy’ or ‘desire’: this is hunger . We chat to our friends, he touches me under the table, and I can feel my cunt start to hurt for it . Physically yearning to have part of him inside me. To ingest him. Swallow him whole. I want to turn my head and press my lips against his ear, say ‘take me somewhere and fuck me.’ In the moment, I’m picturing a frantic fumble in the bathroom at the restaurant, sliding one hand over his crotch and gripping his cock tight through his clothes. Unzipping him with trembling fingers then running the pad of one thumb softly over the head of his dick. Feeling a droplet of precum through soft cotton boxers, and hearing him make one of those agony-tight moans in the back of his throat as I reach inside. You want to? Yes, I do. But this guy has a wife. I’d never normally try to fuck a married man, I really and truly wouldn’t. I learned my lesson many years ago, and vowed not to do it again. But there are other lessons I’ve learned in the last ten years, and one in particular nudged me to roll the dice on this guy: not all marriages look the same. Trembling a little with possibility, I corner him on the way back from the bathroom. Channeling the confident person that I pretend to be when I’m trying to get laid, I ask him, bold as brass: “How would your wife feel if she knew you were doing this?” His answer will launch a thousand wanks: “I have her permission to fuck you.” You asked… permission? From your wife? To fuck… me specifically ? Yes. All of that, he explained. Couched in polite caveats about how he really didn’t want to be presumptuous (which it absolutely was) but delivered with devastating certainty. You want to? I do and I can. Prior to ever having laid eyes on me… based purely on having frequently beat one out to the shit I write here… on the vague off-chance that he might meet GOTN at a party… this hot, nerdy guy had pre-ordered a hall pass from his wife. Unngh . Yes, of course I fucked him. As soon the word ‘permission’ came out of his filthy mouth, I was so hot for it I could have fucking eaten him.