Every Sunday
"It started at his wedding reception. Five years later, it hasn't stopped. Every Sunday, he visits for 'family dinner.' His wife helps in the kitchen. He helps her mother in the bedroom upstairs."
It started at my wedding.
Reception. Champagne. A hundred and fifty guests celebrating the beginning of my marriage to Sarah.
Her mother cornered me in the hallway outside the ballroom.
"Ten minutes," Diane said. "Coatroom. End of the hall."
I should have said no.
I didn't.
She was waiting when I arrived.
Fifty-six years old. Curvy in ways that made her daughter look like a rough draft. Still in her mother-of-the-bride dress, champagne flush on her cheeks.
"Close the door."
I closed it.
"We have ten minutes before someone notices." She was already lifting her skirt. "I've wanted this since Sarah brought you home. Since you looked at me and I knew—I knew—you wanted it too."
"Mrs. Hayes—"
"Diane." She pulled me toward her. "And don't pretend you don't want this. I can see exactly how much you want it."
She was right. I was hard. Had been since she whispered in my ear.
"This is my wedding day."
"I know." She freed my cock. Stroked it. "Think of it as a wedding present. From your new mother-in-law."
She turned around. Braced against the wall. Pulled her dress up.
No underwear.
"Quick," she said. "Before they come looking."
I fucked my mother-in-law at my own wedding reception.
Came inside her while my wife wondered where I was.
Walked back to the party with her taste on my lips.
That was five years ago.
We haven't stopped.
Every Sunday
"Family dinner at Mom's," Sarah announces.
It's Sunday morning. We're in bed. She's already texting, already planning the day.
"Same time as always?"
"Six o'clock. You know Mom—she likes her routines."
I know exactly what Diane likes.
We arrive at 5:45.
Sarah goes straight to the kitchen—she always helps with dinner. It's tradition. Mother-daughter bonding.
It's also the only time Diane and I have alone.
"Paul." Diane greets me in the foyer. A kiss on the cheek—innocent enough. "Sarah's already cooking. Why don't you help me with the wine?"
The wine is upstairs. In her bedroom. Always has been.
We have fifteen minutes.
Sometimes less, if Sarah works fast. Sometimes more, if dinner is complicated. But always enough.
Diane is already undressing when I close the bedroom door.
"I've been thinking about you all week," she says. Her blouse hits the floor. Her bra follows. Those heavy breasts—full, soft, bigger than Sarah's will ever be. "Every night, alone in this bed, thinking about Sunday."
"Diane—"
"Don't talk." She pulls me toward her. "We don't have time for talk."
I fuck her hard.
We don't have time for slow. Don't have time for foreplay. Just her bent over the bed, my cock driving into her, both of us racing the clock.
"Yes—right there—don't stop—"
She comes in four minutes. Always fast—she's learned to be. I follow a minute later, pumping into her while she muffles her moans in the pillow.
We clean up. Dress. Check ourselves in the mirror.
"Wine?" She hands me two bottles. "Take these down. I'll follow in a few minutes."
Sarah doesn't suspect.
She's never suspected. Five years of Sunday dinners, five years of disappearing upstairs for "wine," and she's never once questioned it.
"Thanks, honey." She takes the bottles from me. "How's Mom?"
"Good. Tired. Work's been stressful."
"I should visit more often."
"She'd like that."
Diane joins us ten minutes later. Perfectly composed. The perfect hostess.
We eat dinner as a family.
And I taste her on my lips the entire time.
Year One
The affair settles into routine.
Every Sunday. Fifteen minutes upstairs. Sometimes I eat her out; sometimes she sucks me off; sometimes we fuck standing up against the door because we're out of time and desperate.
It's never enough.
It's always too much.
"I feel guilty," I tell her one night. We're in her bed—Sarah stayed late at work, giving us a rare hour.
"About Sarah?"
"About all of it. The lying. The sneaking. The—"
"The fucking your wife's mother every week?" Diane laughs. Climbs on top of me. "If it helps, I don't feel guilty at all."
"How?"
"Because I need this." She sinks onto my cock. "Sarah has you every other day. I have you for fifteen minutes. This is survival, Paul. This is the only thing keeping me sane."
I stop feeling guilty.
Or I bury it so deep I can't find it anymore.
Same thing, really.
Year Three
Sarah starts talking about children.
"Mom would be such a great grandmother," she says. "Can you imagine? She'd spoil them rotten."
I can imagine.
I can imagine explaining to a child why Daddy disappears upstairs every Sunday. Why Grandma looks at him a certain way. Why they're never allowed to go looking for the wine.
"Maybe soon," I say.
"You always say that."
"I mean it this time."
I don't.
Year Five
We're in Diane's bed.
Sarah's making turkey—Thanksgiving, an hour of uninterrupted time. The longest we've ever had.
"Five years," Diane says. She's riding me slow. Savoring. "We've been doing this for five years."
"I know."
"Longest relationship of my life." She laughs. "Longer than my marriage. Longer than anything."
"Diane—"
"Don't say you want to stop." She grinds harder. "Don't ever say that."
"I wasn't going to."
"Good." She leans down, kisses me. "Because I couldn't. Even if I wanted to. You're in my blood now."
I know the feeling.
Sunday
Every Sunday.
Forever.
Sarah cooks dinner. I help with the wine. Fifteen minutes upstairs, sometimes more, always enough.
Diane says it's tradition now. Part of the family. A ritual as sacred as the dinner itself.
Sarah thinks her mother looks forward to seeing her daughter.
She does.
She looks forward to seeing me more.
We're at dinner.
Sarah tells stories about work. Diane laughs in all the right places. I nod, agree, play my part.
Under the table, Diane's foot touches mine.
A reminder. A promise.
Same time next week.
Same time forever.
Until one of us is gone.
And maybe not even then.
Some affairs don't end.
Some affairs become life.
This one became mine.