I don’t believe there’s such a thing as a completely faithful man in this world. We all cheat on our partners. Not because we don’t love them, but because it’s just normal for us. It’s impossible to love and desire one woman for ten years without glancing at younger beauties. Especially now, in times like these, when young women practically throw themselves at men nearly twice their age. Back then, I was still young and full of fire, as they say.
I had just turned forty, and my wife, Emily, was thirty-two. I loved Emily deeply in our younger days; I married a woman I absolutely adored. But time passes, and feelings gradually cool. Still, I had profound respect and attachment for her. I started cheating on her two years after we got married. We’d been married for ten years by then. At first, it was women her age, then younger and younger. I was amazed at how easily these girls fell for my stories. But I didn’t lie—I always made it clear that these were no-strings-attached relationships, nothing serious could come of them. Morally, I stayed loyal to my wife and had no intention of divorcing. She’s the mother of my three children, after all; you can’t just do that. I was certain I’d stay with Emily no matter what.
Then, Olivia came into my life. I was crazy about her, like nothing I’d ever felt before. She was stunningly beautiful, slightly curvy. A brunette with dark brown, almost black eyes. One look at her, and everything inside me ignited with the desire to have her. It started with pure magic but gradually grew into something deeper. I felt myself becoming indifferent to my wife, longing to return to Olivia’s tiny apartment. I brought her huge bouquets of flowers, jewelry. I rented her a spacious apartment in the city center, just to keep her happy. With the other women I’d seen, I knew they had their own side flings. But Olivia was faithful to me. She easily gave me the passwords to her social media accounts and let me access her cloud without hesitation. I could call her anytime and find out she was either at home, at the gym, or at the pool. I wanted her to love me. I knew it would bring complications, but it was a part of life I wanted to fully embrace.
Olivia became closer to me than Emily, dearer than my wife. I couldn’t get enough of her; I was insanely jealous. Yet when I arrived, I was ready to forgive anything. She’d greet me in lingerie or fishnets, always in stockings. She wasn’t shy about toys and was completely uninhibited in our moments of magic. But there was something special about her. Her mere presence created comfort. After work, I’d rush to her, and right after our moments of magic, I’d rest my head on her soft thighs, wanting to stay like that forever, in bliss. She’d stroke my hair, whisper sweet nothings, murmur tenderly. I cherished those moments. Olivia never demanded or asked for anything, never pushed me to leave my family. But by then, I wanted it myself.
I stopped feeling anything for Emily. Despite all her beauty and wisdom, I’d choose nineteen-year-old Olivia any day. It wasn’t just about age—it was about feelings. I fell in love with my mistress, something I’d never done before. My knees went weak whenever Olivia was near. My beauty, my angel. She’s more than a mistress, more than a girlfriend. The mere thought of someone else taking her, marrying her, her having someone else’s child, or even just hugging someone else—it drives me wild. Jealousy raged inside me like I was twenty again. I’m consulting a lawyer about a divorce now, but I won’t tell Olivia—it’ll be a surprise. I’ll leave the apartment to Emily and the kids; I can’t just throw them out. But child support for three kids? That’s something I’ll have to figure out, or it’ll bankrupt me.
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