It was the last night before the unanticipated storm. Our kids were downstairs in the basement rec room, her husband was upstairs presumably asleep, my wife was at home, having refused at the last minute to make the trip, the den was lit only by the television and the light from the basement, and my head was pounding from too much thinking and too much random noise from too many sources. We had been kissing gently at first and then with increasing urgency when she had broken off suddenly, had peered down the basement steps at the kids and then tiptoed down the hall to the front stairs, presumably to check on her husband.

I sat waiting, wondering what the next day would bring, staring into the dark when she reappeared still wearing only the denim skirt and loose t-shirt.

She kneels in front of me, unbuckles my belt, unzips my fly, pulls the pants down to my thighs and takes my cock in her mouth, just enough that I am completely ready.

Downstairs the children shout. Upstairs her husband sleeps. On the television bad actors in a bad cable soft porn movie take off their clothes.

She mounts me.

The pain behind my eyes is intense, but the pleasure in my cock is more so.

She bends forward and kisses me, gently, and then hard, and soft, warm, and pliant, tongues groping, my hands on her nipples, her hips beginning to move, milking my cock.

The pain and the pleasure begin to blend into a giant flaming ball of something unidentifiable inside my head and my hands are on her hips and I am hurling her up and down and she is turning her usual beautiful shade of purple and the pain and the pleasure and the pleasure and the pain and the giant flaming unidentified ball expands and spins as she bounces and squeezes and moans and her squeals intensify the pain and the pleasure and I come setting her off, collapsing on me, the world returning to my senses around me, the pleasure lingering, but the pain remaining, an unrecognized metaphor of the year to come.