Remember that feeling when you're halfway through a 'respectable' dinner party, making polite small talk, and your mind drifts to the night before? When you can still feel the ghost of a hand on your thigh, taste stolen kisses that were anything but polite. That sharp, secret contrast between the life you're living and the one you're feeling. The guilt is a dull ache, but the memory of her wet pussy gripping my cock, the sounds she made when I came deep inside her… that’s a fire that burns the monotony right out of me. Makes me wonder what’s more dishonest: the affair, or the empty smile I wear at home.