You thought it ended there, in that bathroom? In that haze of adrenaline and soap? Fuck, I wish it had. That was just the overture. It was an invitation.
The first few weeks after that were… surreal. I was living a double life that made James Bond’s antics look like child’s play. By day, I was Laura’s perfect boyfriend. I took her to the movies, listened to her work troubles, held her hand in public, and pretended that nothing else in the world existed but the two of us.
And it worked. It was easy. Terrifyingly easy.
But then there were the other moments. The stolen seconds.
When I picked Laura up for a date, her mom would open the door. She’d hand me Laura’s coat, and as she did, her fingers would brush against my hand. Just for a fraction of a second, but it was electric. It was a message. A promise. Her gaze would bore into me from behind Laura’s back, saying: “I know you remember. And I remember, too.”
I started getting texts in the middle of the night. Nothing revealing. No pictures, no direct words. Just a single sentence.
“Thinking about that shower.”
Or:
“Laura has a long day at work tomorrow.”
Every message was a lit fuse. They weren’t suggestions; they were orders. And I obeyed. I drove over. Snuck in like some fucking burglar. And I took what was offered. Quick, raw, almost wordless moments on the kitchen table, the living room couch, once even in the garage.
There was always the fear. The sick, exhilarating fear of Laura coming home early. That risk made everything a hundred times better.
But then the game changed. She raised the stakes.
“Let’s all have dinner at our place next Friday. The three of us,” Laura said on the phone one day. Her mom had suggested some fucking game night together.
My heart was pounding in my throat. This was a new level. This was the antechamber to hell.
Friday came, and I went.
I sat there at the dinner table, trying to eat. Laura was laughing and chattering away. And across the table sat her mother, the woman whose faint nail marks were still on my back. She smiled at me, poured me wine, and played the part of the perfect mother-in-law-to-be.
And then I felt it. Under the table.
Her bare foot traveled slowly up my pant leg. Slowly, excruciatingly, inch by inch. I met her gaze. She didn’t even blink, just continued her conversation with Laura about some interior design show. And the entire time, her foot was doing its work.
This wasn’t just sex anymore. It was a power play. A psychological war where I was the pawn. She was testing me. She wanted to see how far I would go. How well I could lie through my teeth while her toes were caressing me under the table.
That night, lying next to Laura in her room again, I didn’t feel guilt anymore. I felt nothing but an emptiness and, at the same time, a bottomless hunger. The adrenaline had become a drug. I wasn’t just chasing the woman anymore. I was chasing the feeling. That deadly high-wire act.
I realized it there, in the darkness.
I wasn’t a victim anymore. I hadn’t just stumbled into this situation. I was an active participant. I was just as sick as this whole setup. This was no longer a story about how I cheated on my girlfriend. This was a story about how I found something dark inside myself, something I never knew existed. And that darkness had me in its grip.
In the morning, as I was about to leave, her mother was waiting in the hallway. Laura had already left for work.
She looked at me for a long time. Then she smiled. It wasn’t that dirty smile from the bathroom anymore. It was something else. Triumphant.
She held out her phone to me. The screen showed a message thread. Between me and her. All those texts.
Then she opened a new message. To Laura.
And looked at me.
“Send?”
The world stopped. The game had escalated. And I had no idea what the rules were.