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The sun streamed through my bedroom window, illuminating the room in morning light. It was Tuesday, just like any other Tuesday, or so it would appear to the casual observer. My parents were already at work, their predictable routines unfolding without a hitch. And I was in my room, preparing to cut my university classes, a silent rebellion that had become a comfortable, almost mundane, part of my weekly schedule. My destination, as always, was Hudson's house, where he would be working from home, his wife away.

I chose my clothes with a practiced hand: a knee-length skirt, a simple button-down blouse, and my ever-present cardigan. It was my uniform, the modest attire that camouflaged the whirlwind of forbidden desires and raw experiences churning beneath the surface. As I buttoned the blouse, my mind drifted, replaying the last six weeks that had reshaped my existence.

It had all begun with such accidental, mortifying innocence - that nude photo, sent by mistake, leading to his quiet, knowing gaze and the shocking coaxing that resulted in my first blowjob. From that dizzying, terrifying start, we had somehow, inexplicably, become lovers. A routine had quickly formed, Sundays and Tuesdays, clandestine hours spent in the guest room of his home, a secret world built just for us. It had been tender, mostly, filled with passion and whispered compliments, a deep physical connection that felt less like just sex and more like truly making love. The guilt, once a suffocating cloak, had gradually thinned, replaced by a strange, exhilarating confidence.

But then, last Sunday, everything had changed. My clumsy, childish jealousy towards his wife, Amy, had ripped through the fragile peace we'd built. His anger, his harsh words, the violent, possessive way he had taken me in their master bedroom, filling me with his cum without protection - it all swirled in my mind, a jarring contrast to the gentle lover I had come to know. The memory of Amy's unwitting condescension, her calm dismissal of me, still stung, fueling a deep-seated frustration.

I felt conflicted, a tangled mess of emotions that pulled me in opposing directions. Shame still pricked at me, a lingering residue from his words, from the feeling of being demeaned. Yet, paradoxically, a fierce arousal also hummed in my body, a response to his raw, dominating passion. Despite the lingering unease, I had no desire to end things. The thought didn't even cross my mind. Instead, I sought understanding. I imagined this afternoon would be difficult, yes, a conversation fraught with tension, but also fruitful. We would talk, we would resolve things, and then, perhaps, we would spend the afternoon in bed, finding our way back to the tender intimacy we had shared.

A peculiar sense of pride swelled within me, a quiet triumph for facing this head-on. I felt, in a strange way, very mature, navigating these complex, adult emotions with a strength I hadn't known I possessed. Despite the lingering questions, despite the pain of his words, I craved the warmth of his embrace. I yearned for his touch, for the familiar comfort of his body pressed against mine, a physical reassurance that even after everything, he still wanted me.

Later, as I was getting ready to leave my house, my phone vibrated. A text from Hudson. "Can't meet today," it read. "Something came up." No explanation, no hint of what had happened. My shoulders slumped, a wave of disappointment washing over me. I was let down, a physical ache settling in my chest. I tried not to think about it too much, tried not to spiral into the familiar anxieties of being alone with my thoughts. I wanted to believe that something really had come up, something unavoidable that had nothing to do with me or our strained last encounter.

I texted back, a short, hopeful message: "See you Sunday?"

His reply came quickly: "That's the plan." A small reprieve, a fragile promise.

When Sunday rolled around, I went to his house in my church clothes, just as usual, my heart aflutter with a renewed sense of hope. But once again, Amy answered the door. My stomach knotted with a familiar dread. Amy, her smile as bright and unsuspecting as ever, made polite small talk, asking about my classes and if I'd met any nice boys at school.

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