MARRIAGE RETREATS
By Anthony Beal

Copyright 2011 Anthony Beal
Smashwords Edition

Published on Smashwords by Literate Deviant Press, an imprint of Krysalgen Publishing.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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When it finally happened, none could guess who was the more surprised of the two of them.  "One thing led to another" was the usual explanation given to such a series of events as had brought them there and undressed them.  In this case, the proverbial thing had been the need for a break from discussing Desmond's imminent assumption of his first solo project since joining the edible imports enterprise that employed them both.  This had taken him and his supervisor Melina out of the office together to run an unrelated banking errand and maybe pick up lunch on the way back.  The proverbial another to which the thing inevitably leads found them where together they currently writhed, a sticky heap of pressed skin surfaces and shed clothing and hearts exhilarated for finally having surrendered to iniquitous urges present since the day they met.
They were animals of instinct, their flesh the skin of primordial beasts racing to actualize the entity that was their lust and lunacy joined.  Their acts scrawled lascivious cave paintings across the interior of one of three company vans that employees drove when making deliveries.  She was a fistful of hair, a soft breast jostled free of an unbuttoned short-sleeved blouse, a pair of hips that bucked as if beset by dancer's art begging Desmond for choreography, by unheard melodies pleading with him to be composed.  He was to her a slab of bared shoulder muscles for the clutching, a slick dancer's pole from which to swing as she abandoned misgivings along with all consideration of consequence.
There had been signs. In his first week on the job, seeking to better know her new employee, Melina had approached Desmond to ask if he would take his lunch with her in the company break room that day.  The gesture would have seemed unremarkable, had she not fumbled the request, had she not invited him to join her in the "bedroom" instead of the "break room." 
Desmond had had the good sense to ignore the slip.  Realizing what she'd said, Melina had immediately corrected herself.  Desmond had denied noticing any such misstep and the two of them had enjoyed eating together and getting to know each other.
Framed photographs of Melina and her husband decorated her office.  Their smiles hung frozen in what had to be happier times.  On vacations, at home, in the homes of family and friends, they looked comfortable with one another.  Desmond wondered whether, as he found happening between himself and his wife Alice, that same comfort level once achieved, had led to some dimming of ardors that once had blinded man and wife to each other's realities.  For his part, Desmond noticed more niceties sacrificed every day between him and his wife.  There’d been a time when their disagreements had led to rational discussions, the clear-headed search for resolution, or at least compromise.  These days, differing opinions incited escalations of screaming rancor to which their hurling of epithets and convenient breakables at one another never offered any closure.  If asked, neither would be able to account for how it had come to that, but there they were, and it daily shoved them a bit farther away from each other, diminishing that sense of duty that kept most husbands faithful.
Desmond knew better than to ask Melina whether similar matrimonial breakdown fueled the slap of her nether regions against his.  The reasoning didn’t matter, didn’t change what they’d done.  All that mattered as Desmond shoved himself inside her, as Melina’s hot hands upon his hips jerked his every downward thrust toward her, urging him deeper and deeper still, was that they come together.
“We shouldn’t come back to the office,” she’d joked with him on the elevator ride down to the company parking garage, “It’s too nice a day.  We should just hop the next flight to Aruba and enjoy the beach.”
Desmond had smiled, and replied, “I love beaches.  You’re okay with swimming nude, right?”
Altogether inappropriate, the comment had escaped his lips without warning.  His damnation and absolution had been Melina’s smirking answer, “I’m okay with doing lots of things nude.”
They’d laughed then.  Her playful touch of Desmond’s arm had ignited the air between them.  Then the laughter had stopped and the thunder, that which he’d never have dared allow himself to hear had she not followed her blue joke with a caress, had risen in Desmond’s rib cage and his hands had found her waist.  She’d drawn him close, her arms a perfumed bracelet about his athletic frame.  There existed between them no care then beyond his loins mashing hers, pinning her buttocks against the elevator wall, beyond Melina's flushing murmurs as Desmond's molestations made her quake against him, beyond her stroking of his rising firmness stealing his breath, making Desmond’s vision swim.  Their solitary kiss had been a needful thing; one that had led to other things once the elevator doors opened.
In the rear of the van parked in the darkest corner of the garage’s third sublevel, Desmond’s hardness massaged madness into Melina’s sex. His supervisor, Melina Gennaro of the immaculate business suits and quick smiles and laid-back managing style was not here.  There was only Melina the feral, naked sylph; she of the dripping pussy that he could still taste; she of the fevered loins and wet, wanton mouth urgently devouring his erection as if her life and every future happiness depended upon taking his cock as deeply between her thigh and far down her throat as she could stand, and wringing it dry.  Melina bit Desmond's throat, gripped his biceps hard enough to roughen his handling of her, but took care not to leave marks that his wife would recognize as evidence of another woman's passion. When Desmond flipped her over to ravish her from behind the way her husband never did, Melina, an agnostic, cried out for a god whose existence remained suspect.  On her knees, she sat back on Desmond's thighs and let him mash her spittle-slick breasts, thumb her clitoris, let his rakish whispers praise the glorious tightness of her pussy.  Rocking upon Desmond’s stiffness, Melina came, her cries drawing forth Desmond’s release, freeing his pain to run with hers.
Their shared orgasm rolled Desmond’s eyes white, set Melina’s teeth chattering, its bliss a torment that would end too soon, but an addiction they would feed again, every chance they got. The agreement passed unspoken between them, carried in their eyes, in their clasped hands, more intimacy apparent there than either's marriage had afforded in a regrettably long time.
Lying exhausted in Desmond’s arms, Melina recalled meeting Alice at last year’s office New Year’s party.
"Your…wife seems–" she began, her words driven by the mystery of what had carried her married subordinate, henceforth her lover, astray.
"Don't," Desmond intervened.  Though it seemed an odd thing for her to say just then, he found his thoughts returning repeatedly to her husband and what had happened between them to lead her here.  He too had nearly voiced his curiosity, but a peculiar distraction took him that same instant.
Desmond could no longer feel the wedding band hugging his ring finger.
They kissed, tasting tears.
END
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anthony Beal enjoys writing, wines, and cooking spicy food. He has published in over one hundred print and online publications. His erotica is influenced by the work of Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller. When he isn't writing about sex, he enjoys maintaining his website at http://www.TheOfficialAnthonyBeal.com. His collection of horror erotica stories, titled Funereal Diseases of the Mind: fifteen tales of dark erotica, is on sale now, and continues to receive positive reviews. Follow him on Twitter at @aberoshorror or "Like" his Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/DarkEroticaAuthorAB to keep up with the latest news and offerings from this author.
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"MARRIAGE RETREATS" was first published in the November 11, 2010 edition of
EveryNightErotica.com.
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COVER IMAGE: Can Stock Photo