It’s November. The rain is coming down sideways, and the schoolyard is one giant mud pit. And there we stand, dozens of us, fathers and mothers, staring at the clock and pretending to give a shit.
This is the suburban dream. A mortgage, a station wagon, and the endless grind of washing muddy rain gear.
I run my own company, so the school run usually falls on me. Same place, same time, same stone-faced parents. Most of them are as expressive as a brick wall. Except for Sanna.
We’d first bumped into each other at some kid’s birthday party—that mandatory hell where you drink shit coffee and make small talk about mold problems at the daycare. Sanna was there. She wasn’t some fitness blogger or an Instagram mom. Just a normal, pretty woman. Late thirties, blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a smile that actually reached her eyes. She was dressed simply, maybe a Peak Performance jacket and jeans, but somehow she just wore it better than the others.
There was something real about her. Something that made you wonder what was actually going on behind that pleasant smile.
We started exchanging a few words at the school gate. Nothing deep. The switch to winter tires, the kids’ hobbies. The usual bullshit. But I noticed she always held my gaze just a second longer than necessary.
One slushy Tuesday morning, right after I’d dropped my kid at the classroom door, Sanna walked up to me. “In a hurry?” she asked.
My calendar was a shitshow, but what came out of my mouth was: “Not especially.”
Then she said it. “I just put on a fresh pot of coffee… if you want to come over.”
She didn’t say it like a come-on. She said it almost shyly, like a half-joke she could still take back. But we both knew it wasn’t a joke.
“Yeah, sure.”
I followed her a couple of blocks to her place. A neat, respectable-looking townhouse. Inside, it smelled of clean laundry and coffee. She poured two mugs and we sat at the kitchen table. The silence was more awkward than anything I’d felt in a long time. We talked about the weather. For Christ’s sake.
Then I just asked. “Husband out of town?” She nodded. “Yeah. Again.” And there it was. The moment. She looked at me, I looked at her. Nothing needed to be said.
She stood up from the table, took my hand, and led me upstairs.
The bedroom was as neat and clinical as I’d imagined. But what happened in it was anything but. It was messy, desperate, and fucking electric. She kissed like she was starved for it, her nails digging into my back.
Clothes hit the floor and we were on each other like animals.
And when I was inside her, she whispered in my ear. “Fuck… just like that.”
No Hollywood bullshit. Just honest, raw pleasure.
She rode me, looking straight into my eyes, and I knew she was getting exactly what she’d been missing. And so was I. I flipped her over, grabbed her hips, and just let loose. She screamed into the pillow, and at some point, she was just gasping, “Don’t stop, don’t fucking stop…”
And when I was about to come, she turned, took me deep in her throat, and looked up at me. That feeling of release was unbelievable. The way she held my gaze, cum slick on her lips, was the hottest thing I had ever seen.
After that, we started meeting up whenever we could. Sometimes it was just a quickie in the back of my car at the end of some dead-end road. Once in her sauna, when her family was away. It’s our dirty little secret in this perfect suburban hell.
And every time we see each other at the school gate, we just give a slight nod. Like two strangers who know nothing about each other.
And that’s the way it has to be.