"Mommy, your tits are fucking perfect. I could suck on them for hours. The way they fit in my hands... fuck, I want to watch you feed our baby someday. Want to see these beautiful breasts full of milk. But right now? Right now they're mine. Only mine. Let me worship them, Mommy. Please." I'm 33 years old, and I just had my first orgasm. Not by myself-I'd figured that part out years ago, in the dark, while my husband snored beside me. No, this was different. This was given to me. I'm not supposed to be here-naked in a stranger's bed, covered in marks I'll have to hide, still trembling from watching a 22-year-old lose himself in my breasts like they're his salvation. I'm supposed to be home. Making dinner. Being the dutiful wife to Vikram, who hasn't really looked at me in a decade. Being the ignored mother to my fifteen-year-old twins, who see me as the woman who cooks and cleans, nothing more. Aarav Kapoor. 22 years old. Domestic cricket player training for nationals. All lean muscle and easy smiles and eyes that actually SAW me when he looked my way. He took me to bed-not his bed, but mine. The bed I share with my husband. Today, he touched me like I mattered. Kissed me like he meant it. Put his mouth on me in ways my husband called "degrading." Made me come so many times I lost count. He called me his. Called me Mommy while he begged to fill me. Told me he'd make me leave my husband, that we'd build a life together, that he'd make the national team and give me everything I deserved. And god help me, I believed him. Cheater. Homewrecker. Cradle robber. But I'm also a woman who spent sixteen years being treated like furniture. Who endured a husband's affairs in silence. Who raised children alone while married. Who forgot what it felt like to be touched with desire instead of duty. So yes, I'm having an affair. Yes, this is wrong by every conventional standard. But it's the first thing that's felt right in over a decade. Let's begin.