February Sucks for Walter Mitty - Sex Stories

February Sucks for Walter Mitty

... Playbook, minus the crazy.

I spin her out and her fingertips slide to the end of my arm. Her eyes are on mine, aflame with desire. She caresses my hand as I circle my arm around her waist. Our feet in perfect sychrony.

"Come here often?" she breathes, her eyes glittering with desire.

"Only with the right partner," I whisper into her ear. She shivers.

"Am I the right partner?"

I hold her with my arms. My eyes. "The only partner."

Her pelvis presses into me. Every nerve on my body--her body--is raw and hungry, desperately absorbing the touch of our skin through our clothes. Her breath hitches and I can smell her--beneath the perfume, beneath the familiar bouquet of her shampoo--the musky, needy scent of my wife, my partner. I feel spring welling up inside me, coming alive after months of winter slumber.

It's nice when my daydreams match reality.

When the music ended, we drifted back to the table. "My God!" Jane exclaimed, fanning herself. "I think you melted the dance floor!" Linda preened as she found her way to her seat.

"No kidding!" Dee said, her face flushed. "Where did you learn to do that?"

"We took dance lessons when we were in college," I said. "It was an elective and the professor partnered us up. It kind of became our thing."

"ONE of our things," Linda corrected me. The table broke into laughter.

"I've got the next one, Linda," Dee's husband Dave said.

Dee was smiling, so I figured she had her own agenda, but Linda quickly ...

... shot Dave down. "Nope, tonight all my dances are for my husband." Then she looked at me and her eyes softened. "I'm thinking just one or two more," she whispered, and I nodded my head.

It was a perfect night. And then Marc LaValliere showed up.

*

When Linda dropped my hand and scurried to the dance floor with LaValliere, it took me a moment to realize what was going on. At first I thought it was a joke, that she'd turn around, come back and say "Just kidding, babe, let's get out of here."

But then she didn't.

As I watched them moving around the floor, it began to sink in that my wife had ditched me without a word. That, in the blink of an eye, I'd plummeted from the marital equivalent of an Aruba beach to an Alaska snowbank.

I started to get up, but Jane put her hand on my shoulder. "Let her have this," she said. "It's Marc LaValliere, the Bills' new tight end."

I brushed her hand off, but she clutched my arm. "Don't!" she hissed. Her fingers tightened. "It's just a dance, Jim. Let her have it." I looked at Linda on the dance floor and felt numb.

Isolated.

Looking at the smug smiles of the women at the table--and the embarrassed expressions of their husbands--I felt exposed. Humiliated. I had two choices: Do as I'm told and sit down like a good little boy, or make a scene, and make my humiliation even more public. More shameful.

Fuck you, Linda!

I imagined what I would do if this was a movie, if I was some sort of international assassin, or a ...