Every cheater starts somewhere

Just your typical serial cheater here, needing somewhere to vent.

1: The Journal

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Some people are into theater.

Some people collect wine.

Some people trade their food stamps for Etsy doorknobs.

I cheat.

Why am I writing this? Better question—why risk posting this online where anyone could find it?

Picture a bubbling cauldron. Toss in a pinch of ego, a dash of thrill-seeking, and a heaping ladle of “please notice me” and you’ve got my dad’s overcooked pot roast. You'll also have part of the reason I’m doing this.

I grew up in a church that practically demands journal keeping. There’s a leather-bound one on my nightstand, full of half-truths and spiritual reflections for anyone (read: Claire) to browse. Neat handwriting. Boring entries. Clean.

Downstairs, in a locked box behind a bookcase, surrounded by wards that give +7 versus guilt and shame is the real one. The one I write for me.

It documents every affair I’ve had.

Some entries are long. Some are just a date and a name. Some cover years. Others describe nothing but the act itself. But all of them? True.

And as someone who's much smarter than me once said. Truth is just another weapon when you know how to wield it.

And I’m going to share them here—as stories.

So yes, liberties will be taken:

Time will skip. I’m not chronicling every awkward church potluck, hand-hold, hand job, hair pull and dry hump. I've got shit to do people.

Some events will merge. Conversations repeated. Gaps filled in. But the people? Always real. Always exactly as I remember them.

Dialogue will be close, sometimes word-for-word. But where memory fails, I’ll reconstruct.

No timeline. No order. Except this one.

Cam came first. Maybe she was the best.

That’s where we’ll begin.

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2: The Baptism Onesie

Carolina heat rose off the cracked blacktop of our new apartment parking lot.

“Whose idea was it to move all this shit in July?” I asked Claire.

“Same idiot who got into med school on the other side of the country,” she said.

We stood hand-in-hand, sweating and staring at a mountain of stolen liquor boxes. (Don’t judge me—broke ass people get resourceful. And besides, they’re sturdier than anything from U-Haul.)

The apartment? A bandaged wound pretending to heal. Three trips to the leasing office just to get the right keys. The place was classic low-income: a half-sunk basement from the last hurricane, a mildew-stained dehumidifier groaning like a coal miners lung, painted-over wallpaper no one was supposed to have put up in the first place.

We’d barely made it through three boxes before I had Claire pinned against the wall, tongue extracting salt from her skin.

She was still half-buttoned—modest even in hundred-degree heat—but I’d managed to wrestle one breast free. Victory.

She warned me we didn’t have curtains. The front door wasn’t even shut. Claire was modest to the point of pathology. Lights off, eyes closed, missionary only.

So naturally, when someone knocked, she nearly died.

“Knock knock,” came a voice.

Her nipple popped from my mouth like a capsule hatch blowing open. We both turned toward the door.

And there she was.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said.

Cam.

Sun-bleached blonde hair. Pale in that way I usually didn’t go for. There was something about her voice—straddling the edge of flirty and formal—it got to me.

“I saw the moving truck. Thought I’d come see if you needed help. Moving alone sucks.”

Claire stepped forward. “Hi! I’m Claire. This is Thomas.”

“Cameron,” she said. “But just call me Cam.”

I couldn’t stop staring. I’d always told Claire I liked brunettes. Tan girls. But now? I wasn’t so sure. Maybe I was a blonde guy.

Maybe I was a Cam guy.

They chatted—where we were from, med school logistics. Cam and her husband Adam were from our same home state. Same faith, too. I caught a modest hint of cleavage through her tank top and couldn’t help comparing it to Claire’s full-blown funeral outfit.

“Help would be great,” Claire said. “Think you two can handle the rest of the boxes? I need to get ready for tonight.”

And just like that, she left me alone with Cam.

“You’re married, huh?” I asked as we hauled the cherrywood desk.

She raised her hand and flashed the ring. “Technically. But it’s like being married to a ghost.”

“He just... isn’t there.”

"You'll see what it's like soon enough right?"

“Watch the step,” I said as we cleared the door. I snuck another glance at her chest.

"Me? Med school? Shit, I barely passed highschool."

“Babe!” Claire shouted from the bathroom. “Language!”

Cam rolled her eyes. Full tilt. No shame.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “I’ve got a thing against language cops.”

I leaned in, mock serious. “Wanna see what happens if I tell her to fuck off?”

We both cracked up. That laugh—the full-body kind, real and reckless—it hit me harder than it should’ve. It was nice knowing I still had it. That with the right words I could control such a reaction in someone. Lord knows my charm had long ceased to impress Claire.

We kept going. Lifting, stacking, teasing each other. I joked about her tank top. What would the bishop think?She roasted my cargo shorts. What would the 1980s think? Her timing was perfect. Her smile, even better.

Claire reappeared later in a high-collared green blouse and stiff sage slacks.

“How do I look?” she asked.

“Great,” I lied.

As she walked away, Cam gave me a look.

“I guess she switched from medicine to the forestry service,” I said.

Cam tried to hold it in. Failed. “You know the meet-and-greet’s outside, right? It’s gonna be a hundred degrees.”

“Pretty sure that’s her most revealing outfit.”

“I’d hate to see what she wore on your wedding night. A baptism onesie?”

We both froze. That kind of joke—about sex? Modesty?—you don’t make in our faith. Especially not with someone else’s husband. Sacrilege.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I just... I say things sometimes.”

I didn’t want her to feel awkward. I liked her too much already.

“It was two, actually.”

She tilted her head. “Two?”

“Two baptism onesies. Claire said she wanted the ‘immersive experience.’”

We laughed so hard we had to step outside. And when it faded, we just stood there, side by side.

Not quite friends.

Not yet lovers.

But something was forming.

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3: The Touch

Cam stayed.

After the last box, she didn’t leave.

Instead, she helped me carry my iron age bedframe up the stairs.

Claire had already left to the med school meet-and-greet. She told me she’d be back by ten, even though I knew the thing ran till midnight. Nothing holy ever happens past midnight.

As Cam and I set the bedframe down, I offered to finish it alone.

But she insisted. “Let’s just get it done,” she said. “Better than sleeping on the floor.”

My bedframe also doubles as strength training for the Olympics. The slats only clip in if the center bar is either lifted or pushed just right. A two-person job. Or Goro from mortal Kombat.

I pulled up from above.

Cam laid underneath the beams and pushed from below.

Everything about it was wrong.

From the outside? Innocent.

But inside? Something else entirely.

Like playing twister at church.

Her body was laid out under mine. Her tank top clung to her skin from sweat.

I worked my way from her feet up, sliding in each slat.

When I got to her upper chest, I had to place a knee between her legs—not touching anything—but close. Danger close.

The last slat wouldn’t snap.

We both grunted, trying to force it.

Her hand reached up to help mine through the gap.

It clicked.

I rested my hand on hers.

Just a second longer than needed.

She didn’t pull away.

I felt her wrist under my fingers. Felt the sweat. The tension. The vacuum.

Everything stilled.

No sound. No breath. No air.

Just me, her, and that uncrossable line that we quickly approached.

Warning bells went off in my head.

Religious ones. Familiar ones.

I moved to push away.

Then she gripped my forearm.

“Hey,” she said, joking lightly. “Don’t leave me under here.”

Her hand didn’t move.

It wasn’t cheating. Not yet. Just inevitability pulling us where we were already leaning.

—

Later, we made it back downstairs.

“Thanks again for the help,” I said.

I was about to apologize when she cut through the tension.

“Minus getting trapped under your bed,” she said, smiling. “Don’t tell my husband.”

I should’ve left it alone.

But I didn’t.

“The rules say I can’t have anyone but Claire in my bed,” I said.

“Doesn’t say anything about someone being under it.”

She barked out a laugh—loud, real. Then silence.

We didn’t move. Our bodies were still too close.

She didn’t run. She didn’t flinch.

Her eyes stayed locked on mine.

We weren’t neighbors anymore.

Not just friends.

Not yet lovers.

But something in between.

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4: The Spark Catches

Desperate doesn’t even cover it.

I became obsessed. Pathetic, even.

Every time I passed my front window, I’d glance out—hoping for a glimpse of her. Of Cam.

I started “accidentally” taking my daughter outside to draw with chalk at the exact moment her kids were out.

Timing that wasn’t a coincidence.

I Googled—literally Googled—how to seduce a married woman.

Also:

How to tell if a married woman is into you.

Yeah. That bad.

Guilt didn’t stop me. Only strategy did

Cam, for her part, never encouraged me. Not really.

She only came to the pool or the park if a group of moms went.

Always plausible deniability. Always safe.

About two months in, I gave up.

Claire hadn’t noticed a thing. She never does.

I tried to reconnect with her. I really did.

But she was checked out.

Cam later told me she’d been pissed at Adam—said he didn’t care that she spent more time with me than with him.

Still, I couldn’t recapture the spark from our first meeting.

I wrote something cringe-worthy in my journal that night.

I’ll share it anyway:

Journal Entry

What do you do when the fire dies?

Do you throw on another log that never catches?

Do you hunt for kindling—

but lack the breath to light it?

The break I needed came when Cam left for her inlaws. I was tasked with caring for their hampster, Gimly.

All was normal, unexceptional.

Then she texted me.

Cam: Just kill me.

Me: Hamster withdrawal?

Cam: Sanity withdrawal.

Cam: I swear Adam loves his mom more than me. I could’ve stayed home and gotten the same attention.

Me: If it makes you feel better, I like you way more than I like Adam’s mom.

Cam: She's such a... Sweetheart

Me: Pretty sure you mean Bitch.

Cam: lol. I needed that laugh. I’d honestly rather be home with you. This is awful.

My hands shook reading that.

She’d never said anything like that before. Not that direct.

I stared at my phone, writing and deleting, writing and deleting.

Eventually, I sent:

Me: Glad I could make you smile. And just being honest—I wish you were here too.

So I could see it.

A pause.

Then a photo came through.

Her face.

Smiling.

Not posed. Not forced.

Warm. Real.

From that day forward, everything changed.

We texted more—about dumb stuff.

But there was always something underneath.

An implication. A door slightly cracked open.

She became warmer.

Started accepting my invites.

Started making her own.

We touched more.

Playful shoulder bumps.

A light hand on my hip.

Lingering eye contact that held just a second too long.

Journal Entry

I can’t stop thinking about her.

It was lust at first, I can see that now.

But she’s taken something more.

She has my mind.

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5: Something Between Us

The pool had just reopened for summer.

Packed. Loud. Easy to blend in.

I’d staked out my usual spot—back corner, near the chain-link fence. Shade, semi-privacy. Tactical.

To my surprise, Cam approached.

She never came into my little zone before. Not at the pool.

“Mind if I sit?” she asked—already halfway reclined before I could answer.

We lotioned up our kids, sent them off to splash and scream, then both leaned back.

I almost dozed off.

Until I heard the scrape of cheap aluminum on concrete.

Cam was adjusting her chair.

Except now she’d taken off her cover-up.

The church moms never did that. Always modest. Always layered. But there she was—in just her one-piece. Black with pink and white specks. Her skin looked even paler in the sun—thighs, shoulders, all of it exposed.

Unshielded. For the first time.

I lowered my sunglasses like a cliché.

Drank her in.

Feet. Legs. Hips. Breasts.

She caught me.

I smiled. Shrugged. Let my head tilt back like I hadn’t just consumed her with my eyes.

Another scrape.

Her chair was a foot closer.

Then she raised her knees. Feet flat. Legs rocking side to side. Slowly. Wider with each swing.

I saw it. The faint outline between her legs. Not obvious. But not nothing.

My body reacted before my brain could censor it.

I crossed my legs. Adjusted. Pretended nothing was happening.

She stood. Could’ve walked to the pool the normal way.

Instead, she stepped over me.

Over me.

Her thighs cut the air inches from my face. I could smell the sunscreen on her skin.

When she came back, she dragged her chair right next to mine.

Pulled out a book.

My heart was still slamming in my chest. But once the erection passed, I tried to play it cool.

“What’re you reading?”

“Girl stuff.”

I reached for the dust jacket.

She squealed and shoved me. I tickled her. We wrestled, laughing, legs brushing, bodies crossing boundaries that weren’t supposed to be crossed.

She didn’t move when I leaned over, still half in her chair, and read the synopsis in a deep, mocking voice.

When the laughter faded, our legs were still touching. She didn’t pull away.

I had the perfect view down her swimsuit.

She looked up.

Caught me again.

Smiled.

“Pig.”

Before I could say anything, one of her kids ran up.

We sprang apart. Parental reflex.

Then we saw him.

Brother Malton.

Standing across the pool. Staring.

Face like stone. Mouth pressed tight. Eyes sharp.

Cam’s smile vanished.

“He’s watching us,” she said quietly.

I shrugged. “At what? We didn’t do anything.”

She shook her head. Not disagreeing. Not agreeing. Just shaking.

“Whatever this is,” she said.

“Between us.”

I waited.

Then:

“I like what we have.”

She nodded. Eyes still on Malton.

“We should be careful.”

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6: Porchlight Confessions

We sat on the porch swing I’d hung last week. Just me and Cam.

Claire was asleep upstairs. Her med school schedule had her running on fumes.

Cam stared up at her own apartment’s second floor, where her husband was supposedly asleep too. She pulled her knees up, hugged them close.

“He’s gone five days a week,” she said. “And even when he’s home, it’s like he’s not.”

I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to speak.

She chewed her cheek, then said, “Can I get some booty?”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

She threw her arms wide and dropped her voice into a cartoonish bro impression.

“Can I get some booty?”

“That’s the only thing he’s said to me in a week,” she said. “Seven days without a real conversation. I get out of the shower, and that’s what I hear: ‘Can I get some booty?’”

I waited.

“And?” I asked.

“And what?”

I elbowed her. “Did you give him some booty?”

She laughed, but it rang hollow.

Then, more quietly: “Yes.”

"Wait really?" I asked. "That works? Where was this information 6 months ago."

"That long?" She asked.

I winced.

I hadn't meant to reveal how long it’d been for us. "Sadly," I said, instantly regretting it.

"I'm sorry," Cam said.

I shrugged. “Claire only wants it when she’s in the mood. And if she even suspects it’s expected? Forget it. Every birthday, every holiday—zero chance. If I so much as show desire? Game over.”

Cam pulled at a loose thread on her sleeve. Her voice dropped.

“Adam will only do it from behind.”

I raised an eyebrow.

She nodded. “He says he doesn’t like me watching him. He says it's distracting, that he feels judged when I look at him..."

She trailed off. Then, quieter still: “I can’t.”

“It’s okay,” I said. Meaningless words. But I meant them.

“It’s so embarrassing,” she whispered. “If I look at him over my shoulder, he stops. Turns the lights off.”

We were both starving. The only difference was—I’d already decided to eat.

I swallowed.

“I’ve never had sex with the lights on,” I said.

“Never seen Claire totally naked. There’s always something on—tank top, pajama shirt. I just… work around it.”

Cam turned toward me. Moved closer.

“Thank you for telling me that,” she said. “You’re the only person I can talk to like this.”

So many things crowded my tongue.

I wanted to say she was beautiful. That I wanted her. That she deserved more than a ghost in her bed.

I said none of it.

Instead, I reached for her hand.

It fit perfectly. The texture, the warmth—it felt right.

She gave it one long squeeze.

Then stood.

“Goodnight,” she said.

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7: Double Life

Church smelled like sweat and old paper.

The AC was out, amplifying the signature aroma of stale Cheerios and decaying hymnals.

I wore my usual suit. Claire wore an ankle-length white dress covered in little pink roses.

I didn’t want to be there.

Across the chapel, Adam was blocking my view, but Cam leaned back and caught my eye.

Just a look.

But it carried weight—like a touch neither of us dared make.

She smiled.

There was something different in her face now.

Intensity.

Purpose.

A kind of energy that hadn’t been there before.

Claire leaned against me and laced her fingers with mine.

Affection, out of nowhere.

The timing was cruel.

Twelve hours earlier, I’d confessed everything to Cam.

Sexual secrets. Marriage rot. Stuff I’d never said aloud—not even to myself.

Now Claire was holding my hand like we were still us.

I looked back toward Cam—but Adam shifted.

She disappeared behind his broad shoulders.

I should’ve felt something. But the masquerade mask fit better every week.

The service dragged.

Claire got up to join the choir.

She sang. She actually looked radiant. For a moment, I felt a pang of guilt.

Music does that to me. Cuts deeper than sermons, deeper than guilt.

Then the preaching started.

Three talks.

Two were about resisting temptation.

The last was on the sanctity of marriage.

By the time Claire returned to our pew, I felt like a fraud.

She scooted close.

I flinched.

I couldn't stop fidgeting.

I’d decided—I would stop seeing Cam.

It was too much.

Too dangerous.

That decision lasted about one second.

Cam walked up in a form-fitting dress, her breasts practically bursting through the fabric.

Claire greeted her with awkward smiles.

Adam stood behind, oblivious.

Cam kept the conversation short, then left with him.

I sat. Waiting.

My phone buzzed.

Cam: How awkward was that meeting? lol

I stared at the screen.

Me: Awkward? What part? The boring talks, or my wife almost fainting over how stunning you look?

Cam: The talks of course 🙂 I’m not that pretty.

Me: The fact that I still can’t stand up without making half the sisters faint says otherwise.

Cam: Oh?

Cam: Huh.

Cam: Sorry not sorry.

Me: Sigh. The plight of the modern man and his reaction to exceptional women.

Me: But for real—you looked absolutely stunning today.

Cam: Thanks 😉

We texted like that for another month.

Innocent on the surface.

Flirty underneath.

We’d officially entered the double life.

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8: The Almost

Every year, the med students in our complex rented a beach house.

Multi-family chaos.

Kids, parents, sand in everything.

Claire and I got a room on the second floor overlooking the ocean. Wispy curtains spilled from the windows like seafoam, fluttering in the salt breeze. They made the whole room feel soft. Like it wasn’t real.

That room is burned into memory for three reasons:

One of the best night’s sleep of my life.

The only time Claire ever wore lingerie.

And the almost.

That morning, I woke to the smell of bacon and sea salt. Claire was already gone. Her lingerie—if you could even call it that—was balled in the corner like she’d been embarrassed by the effort.

The kitchen buzzed with activity. I spotted Cam immediately.

Our eyes locked.

She glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then hit me with our usual hand signal:

Two hands over her chest. One hand over her crotch. One over her eyes.

Translation:

Did she get naked for you? Top off? Bottom off? Lights on?

I shook my head, then mimed flat hands across my chest and eyes.

She’d worn the lace bottoms, but threw a baggy Pantera tee over the corset. Not that it mattered—I couldn’t see anything anyway.

Cam gave me a pouty face. I pointed to my eyes, then to her. She shook her head, stuck out her tongue, raised her hands like a begging dog.

Took it from behind again.

After breakfast, most of the group hiked out.

The kids got cranky halfway through, so I volunteered to drive them back to the house. Claire stayed behind—she lives for hikes. So did Adam and a few of the guys.

Cam came with me.

An hour before sunset, we arrived.

Cam and I ended up in side-by-side hammocks. Our feet touched, pressed, pushed, just enough to keep the swing alive. Just enough to pretend it meant nothing.The kids played nearby. The other dads were glued to the TV inside.

I recorded a lot from that night in my journal, but I’ll just quote what matters:

“This is so much more relaxing with just you,” I said.

Cam snorted. “Feels mean to say it, but I agree. I love spending time with you.”

Eventually, the kids started playing a game where one chased the others with a plastic shovel. Predictably, it ended with a crash and crying.

We followed the sound into my bedroom.

My daughter clutched the shovel like it was the last fuck she had to give.

“I think it’s someone else’s turn with the shovel,” I said.

She scowled and hurled it behind her—out onto the balcony.

“No one gets the shovel,” Cam said. “Everyone upstairs. Pajamas.”

We stepped out onto the balcony together.

The sun was low. The wind cool.

“Wanna trade rooms?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said. “We’ll just move Claire and Adam’s time slot to your bed.”

She laughed and bumped me with her hip.

Then, silence.

“Better get upstairs,” she said.

As we turned to go, the hallway breeze shifted.

The wispy curtains blew outward, toward the ocean, wrapping around us like something out of a dream.

It felt private.

Holy, even.

We laughed as they swirled—light purple waves of cloth cascading between us.

For one suspended moment, we were alone in a world made of fabric and wind.

And something shifted.

We both pivoted at the same time.

Our eyes locked.

The air between us changed—charged, dense, alive.

“Thomas,” she said.

Not “Tom.”

Not “hey.”

Thomas.

I stepped closer.

Close enough to feel her breath against my lips.

I reached up, brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

I wanted to kiss her more than I wanted to stay faithful. More than I wanted to be a husband. More than I wanted to be good.

Stop, my brain screamed. Stop now.

But I didn’t.

I leaned in, slow.

“I…” she began.

Then she looked down. Her body started to tremble—visibly shaking.

“I should go check on the kids,” she said.

Her voice cracked.

She placed a hand on my chest, gave me a sad, trembling smile, and slipped through the curtains.

The fabric fell limp in her absence.

I stood there, breathless.

Wanting.

This was the turning point.

I didn’t feel guilt.

Didn’t feel shame.

I felt committed.

Next time, I’d finish what we started..

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9: The First

I didn’t write much after the beach. Not because nothing happened. But because everything already had.

We played it off like nothing had happened. But the tension between us? Palpable. Thick enough to chew on.

I wanted her.

Not just sex—I wanted everything. Her thoughts, her laughter, her time, her body.

I wanted to be the one she looked for in a crowded room.

I didn’t have to wait long.

Six days later—church again.

Cam showed up late.

No Adam.

The speakers were already mid-talk. Her kids were fussy, and she looked like a wreck.

Me: Adam on rotation?

Cam: Adam’s on “being an asshole.”

Me: Anything I can do?

Cam: Got a spaceship?

That made me smile. Even now.

She was unraveling, but still trying to joke.

That made it worse somehow.

She had to take her oldest out of the chapel twice before he finally calmed down. Eventually, an older couple behind her offered to help, and she accepted like someone grabbing a lifeline.

The final speaker—I don’t remember his name—started in on “staying on the gospel path.”

Translation: Don’t stray. Don’t wander. Don’t sin.

Then came the kicker:

Avoiding temptation.

Cam stood up abruptly and walked out.

From the pulpit, it probably looked like a moment of spiritual clarity.

But I saw her face.

It wasn’t revelation.

It was collapse.

I waited a respectful interval, then leaned over to Claire.

“I need to hit the restroom,” I whispered.

She squeezed my hand. “Love you,” she said.

I walked out.

Checked the women’s bathroom. Nothing. No sound.

Tried the nursery.

She was there.

In the corner, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around tight.

Still crying.

She looked up as the door scraped across the carpet. Got to her feet fast, wiping her face.

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

The heavy knob clicked shut.

She flinched.

But her face didn’t show fear.

Or anger.

Or even sadness.

The word I wrote in my journal was: resignation.

She knew.

She knew what was coming.

I didn’t hesitate.

Three long strides.

The carpet felt like nothing.

Just a frictionless void.

“Thom—” she started, but that was all she got out.

My lips were on hers.

There was a flicker of hesitation.

A stutter in her breath.

Then it changed.

The hesitation cracked.

The hunger came.

She clawed at me. Pushed her tongue into my mouth.

Fingers tangled in my hair, sliding up the back of my neck.

Then she grabbed my face—both hands—and shoved me back.

“I… Oh God, help me,” she whispered.

Then she pulled me in again.

Another kiss.

Deeper.

More desperate.

No hesitation this time.

I wish I could describe that first forbidden kiss.

I tried in my journal.

I failed.

Some things have to be experienced.

She broke away, finally.

Eyes darting—to the door, the window, the corners of the room.

“Oh no. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit,” she said, wiping her lips, smoothing her dress, trying to press everything back into place.

“I—Not now,” she stammered, and slipped past me out the door.

I didn’t follow.

I didn’t stop her.

I smiled.

Not from joy.

Not from victory.

From recognition.

That same resignation I saw in her?

It lived in me too.

Whatever happened next—

It was already in motion.

There was no going back.

I didn’t fall—I stepped. Eyes open.

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10 — She Breaks First

From here on out, things get darker.

Not because I sinned.

Because I stopped caring that I had.

Up until now, I’d always considered myself to have a moral compass. A conscience.

But in my experience—with all the women I’ve slept with—things usually go one of two ways:

Regret, guilt, shame.

Or a new lifestyle.

I used to believe that if I cheated on Claire, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.

That fear—not morality, not compassion, not even the thought of hurting my wife or the women I slept with—was what kept me from crossing the line for so long.

Realizing that?

It was awful.

But it was honest.

And that honesty led me here.

Living a lie is hard. But so is everything else.

You pick your hard.

I picked mine.

Anyway—back to it.

Journal Entry:

I’m freaking out. Did she tell Adam? Did she tell the Bishop? I should’ve waited. I should’ve been more careful. I need to talk to her. I hate not knowing.

Most of all—I hate that she’s not in my bed.

Three days.

No reply.

About 3 million texts.

All unread. Or ignored.

I’d see her dash to the car and back, always with her kids or Adam in tow. No solo walks. No waves. No lingering glances.

Church came and went.

She ignored me completely. No hand signals. No inside jokes. Just polite, robotic stillness.

I got so desperate that I answered three telemarketer calls thinking it might be her.

I couldn’t eat. I started pacing in front of the window, watching her door like a deranged stalker.

It got so bad, even Claire asked what I was waiting for.

Journal Entry:

I should feel guilt. Or shame. Or fear. But I don’t. I’m angry. A hunter doesn't cry over a missed shot.

Maybe because of the time and energy I gave her. Maybe because I failed. She doesn’t owe me her body—but I know she wanted it too. That’s why I’m pissed. I didn’t win.

Claire could tell something was off.

One night, she came to bed in nothing but an oversized t-shirt. No bra. No underwear.

She was trying.

I wasn’t.

We started.

But we didn’t finish. I was too aggressive.

She said it hurt.

I couldn’t get hard again after that.

We went to bed without a word.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

So I wrote a letter. A real, pen-to-paper note.

I waited until Adam left for the day, then slipped it through their rusted brass mail slot.

I didn’t keep a copy, but here’s what I remember:

You don’t have to explain.

I understand—it may not have been the right time.

I’m sorry if I scared you.

I just can’t stop thinking about how it felt.

I miss your smile.

Your laugh.

The way you make me feel—like I’m wanted. Needed.

I know you have a family.

I’m not trying to take that from you.

But I can’t give up on what we have.

There was something there.

Right?

If you felt even half of what I felt—

Please don’t let this disappear.

Don’t pretend it meant nothing.

Don’t cut me off just to soothe your guilt.

—T

Just writing it gave me peace.

I didn’t expect a response.

I got one anyway.

Less than an hour later.

Cam:

Please don’t. This is already hard enough. I need to think and pray.

I thought that was the end.

But she was already breaking.

I just hadn’t seen it yet.

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11 — The Storm

That was it.

I expected guilt. What I got was relief.

After a few days, I actually felt good.

Was I disappointed? Sure. But I was also excited.

If I could pull a faithful church mom to the brink like that, imagine what I could do with women who were already broken, or who weren’t even trying to resist.

That’s when I knew I’d changed. I wasn’t waiting for forgiveness—I was hunting the next hit. I even scoped out the single mom three houses down

I’d written Cam off.

Maybe a little too early.

The hurricane that hit later that summer was one of the worst I’d seen. Power lines down. Streets flooded. No electricity for three weeks.

Claire moved into the hospital to sleep in the bunk rooms with the other med students. My daughter got shipped off to a church family out west to escape the heat.

The house turned into a sauna. A dead, wet oven.

The night it happened was a Thursday. I remember that clearly—because the clock above the kitchen still worked. It read 10:27 p.m. when I heard the knock.

The front door was propped open with an old computer case. The moonlight framed her like a spotlight.

She looked liked the crazy girlfriend in overly dramatic rom-coms or budget horror movies.

Hair matted. Puffy eyes. Cheeks flushed. Wearing Adam’s windbreaker over bare, pale legs I hadn’t seen in months.

“He left us,” she said, voice cracking.

I didn't hesitate.

I pulled her in. Sat her down. Held her.

“Who left?” I asked.

“Adam,” she said. “He went to the hospital. Didn’t have a shift. Just left. Won’t answer. Won’t come back. I sent the kids to the Carsons—they’ve got a generator. I couldn’t take it anymore. I feel like a terrible mom.”

She leaned back, resting her head against my collarbone.

“How does your hair still smell good?” I asked.

She gave a shaky laugh.

“Used the gym showers. No heat, but there’s still pressure.”

We sat like that a while. Listening to the trees shake outside, wind clawing at the walls.

Then, softly:

“I’m sorry.”

I tried to hush her, but she kept going.

“I thought I could move on. Thought I could forget. I ignored you because I didn’t need you. But then... I did.”

She wiped her face. Looked up.

“I just can’t do this anymore. I need to feel something. I need to be connected. I need to be part of something.”

She was wrecked. Drained. Wide open.

I should’ve walked her home. Talked her down. Given her a forehead kiss and sent her to bed.

But that was the old me.

I pulled the zipper on her jacket.

Underneath: a sports bra. Simple white panties.

She groaned, twisted onto my lap, knees bracketing my thighs. Her mouth hit mine—hot, desperate.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please, I need to feel something.”

I lifted her and carried her to the kitchen counter.

The wind raged outside. Trees cracked like bones.

Inside, she clawed at me like she was starving. Bit me just above the collarbone. Whispered again:

“Anything. Anything.”

She lifted her hips. I pulled her panties down—those white, innocent-looking panties. So pure. Unblemished.

She was soaked.

I pressed against her entrance. Paused. One last chance to walk away.

We both looked down.

Then I pushed in.

We became cheaters.

I don’t know how long it lasted. It was hot. Violent. Perfect. Her body seized around me. Her breath came out in one guttural exhale. She shook like a leaf.

She cried the whole time.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she kept whispering.

I didn’t stop.

As I tensed, she repeated: “please, I need to feel something”—like it could absolve us.

When I came, I leaned in and said:

“Mine.”

She pulled away slowly. I slid out with a wet pop.

I carried her to the couch and held her while she sobbed. It was fascinating to watch.

She left that night without saying much else.

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12 — The Sleepover

The next few days were surprisingly normal.

We spent time together—like dating in reverse. First sex, then friendship. Then... routine. (Not that we had more sex. That was a 1 time thing).

Cam never brought up the night we fucked like animals. That was fine. She was warm now—too warm, maybe. Clingy. Smiling too much. Sleeping too close when we napped.

The rest of the year blurred.

We sexted more than I expected. Fooled around in her SUV while the kids were at dance. That didn’t go far—someone walked past the window, and she practically levitated.

Still, it was always there. That low-level pressure. That knifes edge tension. Like a thunderstorm parked overhead, rumbling, waiting to strike.

I knew the end was coming. Adam was about to graduate. Residency meant a move. I started sniffing around the single mom three doors down. Cute. Flirty. Safe.

But Cam kept asking questions.

“What’s Claire’s rotation this month?”

“New call schedule?”

“She switching to nights?”

So curious. About everything Claire.

One night, I kissed Claire through the window of our beat-up Cavalier. “See you in the morning,” I said.

I made it halfway to the door when Cam’s oldest ran up behind me, asked if my daughter come over to play?

I said sure. Sent her on her way.

Five minutes later, they all came back—with backpacks and sleeping bags, then rushed down the street to a mutual friends house.

Sleepovers. All around.

No words were needed.

Cam stood in her doorway, watching me the same way I watched her. Her eyes said everything.

She turned slowly, glanced back over her shoulder, and left the door ajar.

I showered and got dressed like a man possessed. By the time I opened her door, the sun was nearly down.

The deadbolt clicked behind me. The air smelled of perfume—floral and citrus. Warm. Welcoming.

The house was a plush temple of quiet. Thick rugs. Soft chairs. Like the whole place was holding its breath.

Upstairs was shadowed. I made my way by feel, one hand out.

There it was—faint candlelight beneath her door.

I opened it.

Cam was bent over the vanity, lighting one last wick. It joined a dozen others, flickering against the mirror, throwing warm shadows across her skin.

“Hi,” she said.

I smiled.

She walked up and kissed my cheek.

“Got plans for tonight?” I asked.

“I wanted to do this right.”

“So do I.”

She bit her lip. “Anything in particular?”

“I think we both have unmet needs. But let’s take it slow. I want this to last.”

She dropped her gaze. “Sorry. I’m just... not good at this. Not a lot of practice.”

“I want to see you,” I said.

She raised an eyebrow.

“Naked.”

She swallowed, then nodded. Started lifting her shirt.

I stopped her. “Let me.”

She stood still. Not shy—obedient. Like a soldier awaiting orders.

I circled behind her. Kissed the side of her neck. Slowly lifted her shirt.

A soft cotton V-neck with jeweled buttons—undone all the way down. Maximum cleavage. Minimal effort.

I tossed the shirt aside and kissed along her shoulders. Her collarbone. She moaned—low, guttural, real.

Next, the black denim pants. I unsnapped them with a satisfying click. Kissed her hips. Her stomach. Just above the waistband.

She shivered.

“Perfection,” I whispered.

She moved to cover herself.

“Don’t.”

Her bra was white lace. Simple. Soft. I unhooked it, catching the cups before they fell.

Her breasts—small, pale, pink-nippled—were perfect in a way Claire’s never were. Softer. More... feminine. Claire always looked like a teenage boy compared to this.

I turned her toward the mirror.

Made her watch.

Made her see what I was doing to her.

What she was becoming.

She stared. Entranced.

Her panties matched the bra—white lace. I slid them down and kissed her everywhere but the one place she wanted most.

“Perfect,” I said again. Shaved. Pale. Exquisite.

She undressed me next. Kissed the tip of my cock. Looked up with those eyes.

We showered together. Touched. Explored. I slid my fingers inside her—slow, purposeful.

Afterward, she pulled her phone from her pants.

Called her husband.

“Hey babe. They making you stay all night again? I know. I know. Just wanted to say goodnight. I love you too.”

She hung up and melted into bed like someone had taken out her bones.

Cam had sold her soul over speakerphone. I was just there to collect.

We talked. I don’t remember a word.

But what happened next? That I remember.

“You just want to look at it?” I asked.

“I don’t get to, usually.”

She slid down my body like a curious detective. Played with my cock. Kissed it. Rubbed it on her cheek like a cat nuzzling its favorite toy.

She laughed. Called it ugly. Said my balls were fascinating.

She never said it out loud, but I knew what she wanted.

I’d never gone down on a woman before. Claire said it was “icky.”

But Cam? Cam was different.

I kissed down her body. Got a giggle when I tickled her stomach. Pushed her knees up. Began to explore.

Her pussy lips were softer than I expected. I licked. Like I’d read about. Like the porn said to.

The taste? Fine.

The smell? Nothing.

But her reaction?

That’s what I was after.

This calm, collected woman turned into a thrashing, moaning, breathless ball of need. Her fingers found my head and held it there. I kept my tongue stiff. Let her use me like a tool.

“Hey. Hey.”

“Do you want me to st—”

“No. Fuck no. Keep doing that.”

First time I ever heard her drop an F-bomb.

She started to grind on my face. Rocking. Gasping. Grunting.

Then she broke.

It was beautiful. She babbled. Moaned. Sobbed. Like she was breathing for the first time in years.

Her orgasm wrecked her.

I tried to hold her. Tried to calm her.

“Thank you,” she finally whispered. “My God. Thank you.”

She rolled over and lifted her ass.

But I turned her back.

“I want you to watch.”

She opened her legs.

I knelt. Rubbed the tip of my cock against her slit.

She shuddered. Reached up. Forced herself to hold eye contact.

Together, we watched me slide into her married cunt.

I fell on top of her and kissed her. Fucked her slow. Sucked her nipples. Gyrated.

“You’re the best I’ve ever had,” I whispered. “I need you.”

We fucked. Hard. Candlelight flickered across our bodies. Sweat clung to us. The room reeked of sex and heat and hunger.

“Look at me,” I said.

She opened her eyes.

“You’re mine.”

“Always.”

“Say it.”

She hesitated.

I slowed. Pulled out almost entirely.

“Say it.”

She smiled—devilish. Unrepentant.

“I’m yours.”

I thrust back in. She clenched. Moaned. Screamed.

Came again. Shouted something guttural.

I kept going.

“I’m yours. Oh fuck, Thomas, I’m yours. Please. I can’t. I’m—”

“Look at me.”

And there, in the bed she shared with her husband, I erased the last piece of who she used to be.

I came inside her.

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13 — The Aftermath

It sounds fake, I know. But the aftermath was better than the sex.

I was a conqueror. El Capitán. I’d Oceans Eleven’d my way into another man’s sacred space and walked out with a prize more precious than diamonds.

I loved the way her naked body draped over mine. The way she looked at me—loving, trusting, completely unaware that look didn’t belong to me.

That was the real high. Not just the sex, but the knowledge that I’d courted and consummated something forbidden right under Claire’s nose. I’d given parts of myself—intimate, vulnerable parts—to someone else. Parts I’d promised belonged only to Claire.

And every time I’ve cheated since, it’s that same rush I chase. That same power. That same control.

Sure, ramming my cock into married pussy or ass is a hell of a bonus—but if it were just about sex, I could hire a hooker or file for divorce. It’s not about the release. It’s about the game. The thrill. The conquest.

Anyway—back to the story.

“We’re moving at the end of the month,” Cam said, her voice soft, dreamlike.

“I figured,” I told her.

“Maybe…” she hesitated. “Maybe Claire could get into the same residency program as Adam?”

“It’s possible,” I lied.

It wasn’t. I knew exactly where they were going, and I had no intention of following. I’d already squeezed everything I wanted from Cam. I was already lining up her replacement.

She rolled on top of me, straddling my waist. The white sheets fell from her shoulders, exposing her again—perfect tits, soft skin, glowing in the early light.

“I need you,” she said, biting her lip and looking away.

She was nervous. Waiting for reassurance.

I could’ve told her the truth.

That I didn’t need her.

That I was already gone.

But instead, I gave her what she wanted.

“I need you so much, Cam,” I whispered. “I wouldn’t have survived these years without you. You’re everything to me.”

I paused. Gave her a look I’d practiced a hundred times in the mirror. Soft. Sincere. Vulnerable. It worked. I felt her body relax on top of mine.

“I’ll talk to Claire,” I added. “She’s always said she’d value my input on residency choices. Maybe we can make something work.”

Cam practically melted at that. She snuggled into me, her nipples brushing my chest.

“I needed you,” she repeated, more to herself than to me. “I’ll always need you.”

“You’ll always have me,” I said, brushing her hair behind her ear. “I’m yours.”

We made love one more time. Slow. Deliberate. She rode me like we were sealing some sacred covenant.

She cried again when it was over. Whispered promises. Made hopeful declarations. I echoed them, of course. I knew how this went.

I’d keep in touch for a while—text here, phone call there. Then I’d let her drift. Let silence do the work for me.

The last few weeks before Adam’s graduation were chaotic. I didn’t see Cam as much as I wanted. I wouldn’t have minded one more round. Maybe tried anal. But life doesn’t always deliver the cherry on top.

The morning they left, she pulled me into the vacant apartment. The rooms were stripped bare. Nothing left but a few sun-bleached spots in the carpet.

She kissed me hard. Desperate.

“I love you, Thomas,” she whispered.

I almost missed my cue. My eyes had drifted to a warped slat in the blinds—just in time to spot the new girl from church outside. She was talking to Claire, all animated smiles and single-mom energy. Young. Vulnerable. Lonely.

Easy pickings.

“I love you so much, Cam,” I said. “I know we’ll be together again someday.”

She kissed me one last time and left. I watched the moving truck disappear around the corner.

In the end, it wasn’t about freedom. It was about the thrill of the hunt.

I took a deep breath, turned right, and stepped into the sunlight.

“Hi!” I called out. “Sarah, right? I’m Thomas.”

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