"Michael," she said, "We didn't have sex." Her gaze shifted to somewhere over my right shoulder. "Not really."

"Not really?" I stared at her. I was standing in my own living room, a crumpled note clenched in my hand, asking my wife a question I couldn't believe I had to ask.

She stared back at me, and I watched a debate go on behind her eyes.

"You have to understand," she said. "I did it for us..." Her voice trailed off, and then she found it again. "For the baby."

I glanced at my wife's belly. She was pregnant, though not showing yet. "For the baby?" I realized my voice was rising.

"Michael, please," she said. "Don't be like that."

I started to turn away from her, not knowing where to go. "It's not the same," she insisted from behind me. She continued. "It's not the same as - with you - with us."

That's what got to me. "With me," I thought, "It's not the same with me." I stood there, trying to get a grip on things. I felt like I was floating out in the room somewhere, looking down on me.

"Michael." She was standing next to me. I could feel her blouse brush against my arm, her small breasts beneath the fabric. She touched my wrist. I could hear her breathing.

"Michael, please," she said. "Look at me." Her eyes were bloodshot, wet. She looked at me pleadingly.

"I don't enjoy this," she said. "I didn't enjoy - it."

"Don't enjoy it?" I was mocking her now, my voice two octaves above its usual tone.

"Michael!" She inhaled, and then repeated herself. "I did it - for us." She paused, looking. Then, in a different tone of voice: "Michael, there was no promotion."

I looked at her. "You blew him, didn't you?"

She was staring at me, her lips slightly parted. Her face began to flush. She started to say something, to reproach me maybe, when suddenly I pushed her, hard away from me. She stumbled, tripped and fell, tearing her skirt in the process.

I was standing over her, fists clenched. I'd started toward her without thinking, not knowing what I was about to do. She lay on the carpet, head bowed. I couldn't see her face, but I could tell she was crying for real, now. "I'm sorry," she said, "I'm so, so sorry."

I stood over her, clenching and unclenching my fists, wondering what to do.

"Michael, I never wanted you to know. I never wanted it."

I was struggling with myself, feeling like a stranger, an alien living in someone else's body. "You said," she said. I could barely make out her words. "You said... we couldn't make it work." She looked up at me. "You said."

I shook my head. She rose awkwardly to her hands and knees.

"I never wanted to hurt you," she said. "You know... how much I love you." She clasped my knees, pressing her face against me. "Please don't go." She held me like that while I tried to convince myself to turn away, to leave. My body was betraying me.

"Michael," she said. She held me for a moment, wiping her tears against my jeans. "I can... I can make it up to you."

She wasn't wearing much make-up, but what she had had run all down her face. Her hair was a tangled mess. Her eyes were bright.

Misreading my face, she brought her hands up to my waist. "I can," she said. I could see her tongue touch her lower lip as she fingered the clasp of my jeans. She'd stopped crying now.

"I don't know why," she said, "I wouldn't before." She glanced up at me. "I guess I was embarrassed. And after..." She unhooked the clasp and pulled. "I guess I was afraid you'd wonder."

My cock was swaying lewdly in front of her face, but she didn't shy away from it. She turned her face to it. I touched her cheeks, her eyelids. "I know," she said, "this is something you've always wanted me to do." She glanced up, and then she started kissing me. She kissed her way from the bottom to the top, and then swallowed my head, and started sucking gently.

I'd never been in her mouth before. I have to say it was wonderful: soft, moist, warm. Standing there like that, with the afternoon sun streaming in through the living room windows, watching my wife go down on me, I had that sensation again, like I was standing in another man's place.

"Wait. I don't want you to finish here." She held me firmly by my cock, and wiped away a viscous, glistening strand from her face. She looked out the window, where the sun was setting. "Let's go into the bedroom."

Once she was sure I wasn't going to cum, she released me. She shed her torn skirt and blouse on the way to the bedroom, and then paused at the doorway, smiling over her shoulder.

"C'mon," she said. I followed.

She had me lie down on my back, and then she climbed on top of me. She kissed my ear, and neck, and throat. "Michael," she whispered, "Do you want to cum in my mouth, or in my pussy?" I groaned. I wanted to cum in her mouth. She knelt between my legs and started on me again. Every once in a while she would stop, and grip me with her hand again, like she had before, to prevent me from coming.

Soon I couldn't stand it anymore. I was begging her to let me cum. "Please don't stop!"

She gripped me fiercely, and put her finger to her lips. "Shh." She was wearing a powder blue bra I'd given her for her birthday. She watched me, breathing.

Finally she let go, climbed on top of me, and sank herself on me in one long fluid motion. She flung her head back, and was going down again when I started to cum. It seemed to go on and on, but through the whole time I watched her. Her mouth open, her eyes closed, she twisted her hips on me, forcing me up into her as far as I would go.

Afterwards, I was exhausted. I didn't want to think anymore. I lied beside her, with her cheek pressed against my arm. After a little while, I reached for her, but she turned away.

"Michael," she said, "Do you believe me?" I turned my head.

Finally, she asked again. "Michael?"

I shut my eyes.

She got up, heading for the bathroom.

"Maria!" I said. "How long?"

She paused. "Not long," she said. She shut the door.

"Maria!"

I went to the door, and knocked. She wouldn't answer.

I banged on the door. It was locked. "Maria!" I heard water running.

"I'm brushing my teeth," she said. "Wait for me."

I leaned against the door.

I heard the toilet lid. "Do you think I like this? I don't like this, Michael!" It sounded like she was crying.

"Maria, we need to talk." After a moment, I heard the toilet flush.

"I'm taking a shower, Michael. I'll be out in a minute."

I went and sat down on the bed.

She came of the bathroom maybe fifteen minutes later. She had on two towels, one wrapped around her middle, the other around her hair. She smiled tremulously. "Michael, this isn't easy for me," she said. I made a face at her. She knelt down, putting her hand on mine. She bent her head. "I know it's not easy for you either." Water was dripping onto my lap. She was not quite dry. She looked up. All the makeup was gone. Her face was clean. "Can you forgive me?" What I said next was the absolute truth.

"Maria, I love you more than anything." She smiled, and hugged me. I was feeling bad already. She held me, nuzzling my face.

"Michael," she said, whispering, "You know I didn't finish before."

"Maria..."

"I know, I know," she said. "We will later, I promise. But." She loosened her towel. She licked her lips. "I'm really, really ready." I was surprised at myself. I was hard again already.

There were things I was going to say, demands I was going to make.

She put her hand on my chest, and gently pushed me back. She climbed on top of me, her hair dripping around my face. She kissed me.

There was no sign she'd been crying.

She kissed me again.

"I was thinking about you in the shower," she said. She let the towel fall open. Water was dripping down onto my belly. She continued to kiss me. She reached downward, stroking me. "I can see you're ready too." I could taste the peppermint from the toothpaste she'd used inside my mouth. She kissed me hard and longingly.

She fucked me from on top again, like she had before. I watched her, bouncing up and down on me. Before I could cum, though, she stopped, and leaned down on me. "Michael," she asked, "could you - could you do something for me?" She brushed her cheek against mine. "Could you eat me?" She'd never asked that before, though I would have. I would have been happy to.

She climbed off, and straddled my head, gripping the bedpost.

She was wet, from the shower, and from herself. She smelled like scented soap, and like sex. Her curls were glistening wet. Little beads of water were forming there. It took us a little while to find our rhythm. She gave directions. "No," she said, and, "Yes, like that." She moved around on top of me, and I found the place she liked.

When she came, she cried out. "Oh yes! Oh yes, Michael, oh, God, yes!"

Afterwards I asked her if she'd liked it. She stroked my chest. "Yes, Michael, more than you could know. Thank you." I smiled.

That night I had a dream. In my dream I was standing in the hallway leading to John's office. I was standing there alone, but I knew that they were in there. I was by the door. It was a heavy wooden door, I knew that from when I worked there, and I stood there, listening. I couldn't hear anything. The handle on the door was steel. I was expecting, I think, an electric shock when I touched it. Instead, I had the sensation like I was falling. I touched it, and it began to turn. I watched it turning, and then the door slid silently open, slowly. First she was on her knees in front of him. He was leaning against his desk, his trousers around his ankles. She was licking him, and in my dream, his cock was huge. She didn't look at me. Then she was lying on the desk. She was wearing a whore's outfit; black stockings, a black corset that stopped below her breasts. I could see her pussy clearly. Then he was pushing inside her, his cock disappearing into her cunt. She turned her face to me, her lips smeared with his cum. "Oh, yes!" she moaned, "Oh God, yes!"

Around three am, I woke up, and looked over at my wife. She was sleeping on her back, her face turned to one side, breathing lightly. She was wearing a light satin nightie. I could see her nipples pushing up against the dress. I pulled away the covers, examining her body. The hem of her dress just followed the declivity between her legs. Her lips moved. I wondered if she was talking in her sleep. There was a breeze coming through the windows.

When I touched her there, she sighed, and turned her head. When I lifted her hem, I saw her lips move. When I examined her, I marveled at how beautiful she was. She said something, indistinguishable, in her sleep, and I lifted her legs apart, positioning myself between them. Still she did not wake. Only when I entered her did she cry out. I entered her fully and completely, stopping only when I touched the very bottom. On the third stroke, I stopped, and holding her face in my hands. "You didn't fuck him, did you?"

Her eyes glittered. I think I may have been hurting her.

"No, Michael," she said. "Only you."

On the fourth stroke, she wrapped her legs around me, and began to moan.

In the morning, in the kitchen, she wore a light summer housedress. I watched her making breakfast over coffee and a glass of juice. In the morning light, I could clearly see her figure through the thin cotton print. She reached, to get the box of sugar high up in the cupboard, and the hem rose well up on her hips.

"Did you talk to Maynard?" she asked. I nodded, and then grunted yes, and she started talking about doctors. She was excited about seeing a "real" one, she said.

One the way out the door, she stopped me, and rose on tippy - toe to kiss me. I put my arm around her. "I love you," she said. "You better," I said. It was an old joke between us. I waved to our neighbor on my way out to the car.

"Michael," she had said, "I liked what you did to me last night." She had smiled. I had smiled back.

That afternoon I sat at my desk. Honestly, there wasn't a lot of work to do. I should have stayed home with Maria. At about three, my sister called. She'd broken up with her latest girlfriend. She was worried she'd never have a baby. She was thirty-one, the same age as my wife.

I told her about Maria. When I was done, she said nothing for a while. Then she sighed. "I don't know what to tell you, Mike," she said. "She is right about one thing, though. This doesn't change her. Sex is not the same as love."