My heart was pounding wildly, a dull thud echoing in my temples. I looked in the rearview mirror at my reflection: out of breath, with an unnatural flush on my cheeks and overly shiny eyes. I was now biting my lips, which I had so carefully lined with ripe cherry-colored lipstick, until they hurt, trying to push back the obsessive thought: “You're a traitor. You're a bitch. You're doing this.” Rain splattered the windshield, turning the city lights into blurs. The car smelled of my perfume—Black Opium, his favorite. My phone, lying on the passenger seat, vibrated again. I glanced at the screen: "Husband." A breath caught in my chest. Just a couple of hours ago, I'd been kissing this man, my husband, cooking him dinner, listening to him talk about a boring day at the office. And now I was racing to the outskirts of town, to the cheap Eden Motel, which smelled of despair and lust, not paradise. "Meeting with Lenka, I'm running late, don't wait up, kisses," I sent this message an hour ago. The lie was so smooth, so familiar, that it was scary. Five years of marriage. Five years of predictable sex on Saturdays, identical touches, and quiet evenings in front of the TV. I longed for a storm. And I found it in Him. Matvey. A colleague. The one whose gaze scorched me at corporate events, whose casual hand on my waist during a report discussion made my insides clench in a sweet spasm. Thirty-two years old, muscles visible through his white shirt, dark hair streaked with gray at the temples, and a goatee I longed to feel on my skin. And that gaze—hungry, commanding, promising all my sins at once. I parked next to a dingy building, illuminated by a flashing neon sign. My legs buckled as I stepped out of the car. The rain immediately began soaking my blonde hair. I practically ran to the number I needed, my heels sinking into the soggy asphalt. The door was ajar. I walked in. It smelled of cheap air freshener, cigarette smoke, and something else, vaguely familiar—sex. The room was immersed in semi-darkness, only the neon lights from the street casting lilac-red reflections on the walls. The air conditioner hummed, and the rain pounded monotonously outside. And then I saw him. He was lying on a huge bed with a sagging mattress, already stripped to the waist. A muscular torso, dark hair on his chest, a tattoo on his shoulder. And his penis—thick, veiny, already half-erect, lay on his thigh. He looked at me with a look that took my breath away. "It's like you're walking to the scaffold," his voice was low and hoarse. "Relax. You're safe." Before I could say anything, he stood up, walked over to me, and pulled me close. His lips found mine without any preamble. It wasn't a husband's kiss—gentle, predictable. It was a conquest. His tongue entered my mouth roughly, his hands fisted in my hair, throwing my head back. I moaned, clinging to his shoulders, feeling my whole body flare up. He tore my wet coat off, and then, in one sharp movement, unbuttoned and pulled off my blouse. The buttons clattered across the floor. "Beautiful," he croaked, looking at my black lace bra, barely holding my breasts in. "But this is unnecessary." He didn't bother with the clasp, but simply pulled it down. My breasts swelled, and he immediately latched onto my nipple, sucking, biting, making me arch and cry out. His tongue was hot and rough, and his fingers squeezed my other breast, and the pain mingled with incredible pleasure. Through the thin lace of my panties, I felt his hard cock pressing against me. “Matvey...” I moaned, no longer able to resist. "Be quiet," he snapped, kneeling in front of me. "Just feel." He pulled my skirt and panties down, leaving me standing before him completely naked, shivering from the cold and arousal. His hands slid down my hips, lingered on my waist, and slapped my round bottom. "The perfect slut," he chuckled, and those words sent shivers down my spine. Guilt, sharp and intoxicating, rushed to my head. Yes, I was a slut. His slut. He stood up, took my hand and led me to the bed. “On your knees,” he ordered softly but firmly. I sank down onto the creaky carpet, my knees digging into the pile. He stood before me, his enormous cock now right in front of my face. It throbbed, and a bead of moisture glistened on the head. I cupped the base with my hand, feeling the veins bulge beneath my fingers, and carefully ran my tongue along the length. A salty, musky taste. His sigh encouraged me. I took him into my mouth, trying to envelop as much of him as possible with my lips. He was so big I could barely breathe. I moved my head, trying to please him, feeling him pressing against my throat. Tears welled up in my eyes. "That's it," he growled, placing his hand on the back of my head. "Suck it. Properly. Give me everything." He began to move his hips, fucking my mouth. I choked, drool running down my chin, but I didn't stop. The adrenaline and feeling of complete submission were more intoxicating than any alcohol. My phone vibrated on the table again. My husband. He was calling. The ringing was nerve-wracking, and without breaking away from his cock, I reached up and pressed the silent button. The betrayal had reached its peak. In the silence of the room, all that was heard were the slurping sounds, his heavy breathing, and my intermittent whimpers. “Enough,” he finally said, pushing me away. “I want your pussy.” He turned me over onto the bed and knelt between my legs. “Look,” he directed me to the mirror on the bathroom door. “Look how your pussy is flowing for me. It’s all shiny. It’s mine.” I looked at my reflection—disheveled, with smeared lipstick, my eyes half-closed in pleasure. And I saw him part my lips with two fingers, revealing pink, moist flesh. “Please,” I begged. “Fuck me. Fuck me like he can’t.” He lay on top of me, his weight pressing me down onto the mattress, and it was unbearably pleasurable. He entered me with one long, slow, but relentless thrust. I cried out. His cock was so large that it filled me, pressing against my very core. He began to move—slowly at first, measuring the rhythm, then faster and faster. I wrapped my legs around him, digging my heels into his muscular buttocks, rising to meet each thrust. “Yes... just like that...” I moaned, feeling everything inside me tighten into a tight, hot ball. He flipped me over, placing me on top. Lotus position. I straddled him, feeling his cock penetrate even deeper. My hands braced against his chest, and I set the rhythm, bouncing on him, feeling my clit rub against his pubic area. The neon light caressed his face—he looked at me with such animalistic lust that I wanted to cry. "Finish," he ordered. "I want to see you cum on my cock." And I couldn't take it anymore. The orgasm washed over me like a wave, crushing and merciless. Everything inside me clenched, then suddenly released. I screamed, throwing my head back, my body convulsing. He held me by the hips, not letting me stop, continuing to enter my pulsating flesh. When the spasms subsided, he wordlessly flipped me over onto all fours. Doggy style. I felt like an animal, and it was amazing. He entered me from behind again, his balls slapping against my skin. With one hand he squeezed my breast, the other moved lower, to my anus. "Relax," he whispered, and I felt his finger, lubricated by our shared wetness, press against the tight ring. He pressed. It was painful, unusual, but oh so forbidden. He entered with one knuckle, stretching me, and I moaned. "Yes... fuck my ass!" I blurted out, and I was surprised at my own depravity. He pulled his finger out and focused on my pussy again. His fingers slid inside, stretching me, two, then three. The sensation was unbearably intense, almost painful, but incredibly arousing. He fucked me from behind, I heard the squelching sounds, his hoarse breathing. I rested my forehead against the cool wall, looking into that very mirror, and saw our reflection—two possessed demons in the lilac light of Eden. “I’m going to cum,” he moaned, and his movements became sharper, more chaotic. He pulled out and I felt hot streams splash onto my back and stomach. He came slowly, with a groan of relief. I rolled over and looked at him. His face was distorted with pleasure. He smeared his cum across my stomach, marking me. We lay in silence, listening to the rain die down outside. It smelled of sex, sweat, and us. He reached for a cigarette, lit it, and handed it to me. I took a drag, even though I hadn't smoked in five years. The smoke tickled my throat. Then he leaned over and kissed the bite marks on my chest—gently, lovingly. This mixture of roughness and care was maddening. An hour later, I was standing in the shower. The water washed away his scent, his semen, but not the guilt. It had ingrained itself into my skin. I looked at my clear reflection in the foggy mirror and didn't recognize myself. The house was quiet. My husband was asleep in our bedroom. I lay down carefully next to him, afraid to wake him. He turned over and hugged me in his sleep, his hand resting on the very same stomach where another man's sperm had been just hours earlier. I froze. My insides still ached, and I felt a light, barely perceptible pulsation—the ghost of his thrusts. He muttered something sleepily and pulled me closer. I closed my eyes, pretending to sleep. Guilt burned inside me, bitter and acrid. But beneath it, deep down, another flame smoldered—the memory of his hands, his lips, his voice. And I knew this was only the beginning of my downfall.