Friday Afternoon

By Sylvia Ryan

BDSM never gets old.

Before kids and the responsibility of life, Levi and I shared a spontaneous, erotic, and deliciously deviant marriage. Years transformed what we had into something comfortable and worn. It hurts me to think his desire for me has cooled. I miss that look of his. Slightly evil and totally hot, like he wanted to devour me. Haven't seen it in ages.

When I first married Mia, she submitted to every one of my erotic needs. Then came the children. With little complaint, I abandoned my pursuit of kink, content to be married to a beautiful, intelligent woman who's a great mother to our twins. Out of the blue, Mia confesses she misses the intimacy in our marriage, misses the sex. After this enticing revelation, my plan to reconnect with her unfolds.

In our secret, kinky, Friday afternoon meetings I'm going to give her everything she wants and take everything I need. Will this be the answer to fixing our marriage?

30,828 Words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyrical Press
• Release date: Apr 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781616504816

Sylvia Ryan

Sylvia Ryan is a wife, mother, and professional, living in Midwest Suburbia, USA. She reads voraciously and loves to lose herself and fall head over heels for the alpha males in her favorite novels. When she gets the chance to shed the prim and proper persona of average wife and mother, her secret identity, Sylvia Ryan, emerges. This alter ego strives to write original ideas in extraordinary settings for her readers to remember long after the book has been read. Her dream is to transform her racy thoughts and naughty nature into tangible works of erotic fantasy for others’ secret identities to enjoy.

Book preview

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Friday Afternoon

FRIDAY AFTERNOON

By SYLVIA RYAN

LYRICAL PRESS

http://lyricalpress.com/

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/

To my Friday afternoon playmate.

1

Mia

I slip out of bed quietly and enter the large walk-through closet and dressing anteroom to the master bathroom space, locking the door behind me. An anguished huff of air rushes out as I sit on the tiny stool in front of my vanity and twirl a half circle, facing myself in the mirror. The overhead lighting is stark and unforgiving. I’m not the young woman I was a year, or five, ago. I’ve tried as hard as I can to forget I’m closer to forty than I am to thirty.

When I linger long enough to take inventory of myself, like now, I discern more of the slight lines making their home on my skin. I never notice them when I float through mornings, functioning on nothing but my first sips of caffeine. But now, at this moment, I see them as clear as day. I’m older, not sexy anymore, I suppose.

I swallow down the hurt. Levi used to look at me with hungry eyes, even when I was pregnant with twins and fat as a cow. Now the sight of me naked, whether it be coming out of the shower or spreading my legs beneath him, no longer draws interest from his cock. Tonight brought any speculation, any hope he’s still attracted to me, to an end.

I’m angry first and then sad as I realize I’ll never experience the twirl of excitement and shiver of anticipation from the expression of hunger on my husband’s face. That hasn’t happened for quite a while, and now I know for sure nobody will look at me with similar hunger again. I’m stunned, aware those intense desires go hand in hand with youth, new possibilities and new passions, and I’m faced with a blatant fact. That part of my relationship with Levi is long past.

Yet to my mind, there’s a lot of middle ground between being hungry with young love and being so indifferent you don’t get off anymore. It’s taken us exactly fifteen years to span from one end of the you-turn-me-on spectrum to the other. During the last decade, the progression of our sex life from brilliant to bland has been so infinitesimally small, it went mostly unnoticed until now.

I’m shaken. The sudden realization I’m not sexually exciting to my husband anymore and probably never will be again knocks me off my rails. I feel ill and wrap my arms around my waist and duck my head between my knees. I breathe deep and swallow repeatedly trying to allay the bile creeping up my esophagus. The repeated gulps also push the hurt away, staying the tears, leaving me whole enough to wonder how–when–this happened.

In the beginning, when we were newly married, the passion between us burned at the speed of light, carrying us headlong into the deliciously forbidden.

From the first, Levi owned me. The raw masculinity and power he possessed weakened my knees to the point I wanted to bow before him. He was larger than life, and he took my breath away.

There was an intrinsic element of deviance that defined the moments he chose to sate our sexual needs. To him, it didn’t matter where we were or what we were supposed to be doing instead. I think those scandalous acts of passion were the reason I fell so madly in love with him in the first place.

God, just thinking back on them makes me catch my breath.

My gaze shifts from my mind’s eye back to the mirror. I find myself smiling ear to ear.

He was fun.

We were fun.

Levi perfected the art of ambush early in our marriage. I’d be washing dishes or folding clothes and he would stalk me. He was good at it, and I rarely caught him before he descended upon me from behind. He’d pounce with a raging hard-on, reaching around to cup my mound and press me more firmly against him. It usually took less than a minute for him to rip my clothes off and sink inside me. It was so damn hot.

I sigh, sadly surveying the woman with the wistful smile looking back at me before turning away from the mirror.

It’s quiet on the other side of the door. He’s probably fallen asleep. I turn off the room’s overhead light and feel comforted by the familiar yellow glow of the night light.

How can he be so oblivious to the fact I’m sitting in this locked room devastated because I’m no longer able to get him off? That this slightly used body can’t excite him to orgasm anymore? I’m left reeling at the confirmation of my faded youth and angry at him for being so insensitive that he doesn’t even realize how affected I am.

But I don’t want to fight, and I don’t want to cry, so I stay locked in here, hiding. I lie down on the fluffy, round rug in the middle of the floor in the dressing area to gain the thin cushion of it under my back as I stare up at the ceiling. I slide my hands between the hard tile floor and my head.

I smile again as I close my eyes and comfort myself by shuffling through my memories. God, it used to be so good between us, spontaneous, almost primitive. How did we end up here with everything so changed I barely recognize us anymore?

I’ve never even been tempted by morning fucking, probably because I have way too many concerns about what my breath smells like and if I’m fresh enough downstairs to even want to use the equipment.

And at night, well, with twins in the bedroom next door, it’s a near heroic feat to even think about sex, let alone actually manage to get any.

We’ve always primarily been during-the-day fuckers. Since we turned into grown-ups with a family, it’s been pretty hard to get any during-the-day fucking in. On the rare occasions when we get a window of time, it’s a race. For as long as I can remember, fucking in our house is an extremely quiet race to our orgasms. When it’s over, it’s followed by a mad rush to put our clothes back on and pretend in front of our children that nothing happened.

After doing this for over a decade, sex has become more trouble than it’s worth, I guess. I can’t lay a finger on any exact day or moment when our marriage turned into something worn and comfortable, but the process more than likely started with the birth of the twins, Ella and Luna.

For me, their birth marks the threshold that took a deliriously happy, newly married me to a violent end, to a cessation of everything. My career, my marriage, who I’d always been as a person. It was like falling down while water-skiing, bone-jarring and suffocating. Despite the sheer joy of my new baby girls, their birth created the tiniest gap in what has subsequently grown into a rift between Levi and me.

After that, the inevitable cascade of thousands of days, filled to the brim with the mundane matters of life, followed. Mostly, paying the mortgage and taking care of my girls have monopolized the years of our marriage. Every day is so similar to the last. It all blurs together now.

Here I am fifteen years into this life I’ve built, lying on my bathroom floor, hiding and wondering what happened to this love of a lifetime I’d been blessed enough to find.

I try to force myself to accept those days of my life were good ones, but they’re over now. I’m thirty-something, and I assure myself this is the normal progression of things, but it doesn’t help.

I feel sad, needy and want my husband back. Not only the companion, but the man. Levi is the best lover I’ve ever had. He puts in the time and effort to make sure I come. But even that, over the years, has become rote. He’ll eat me to orgasm and then fuck me for the five minutes or so it takes him to come. It’s pretty much the same way every time.

Before tonight, it had been weeks since Levi and I had sex. I have no doubt it’s the longest we’ve ever gone without some kind of sexual gratification between us. Even right after the twins were born, we still got each other off.

I shake my head, feeling the hard weight of it rolling over my laced fingers. Even when we’re intimate, we’re not. Not anymore. I feel lonely and disconnected from him more than usual. We’ve grown apart, and the expanse between us widens a little more every day. The sense of deep intimacy that once sustained us has been squandered, unappreciated until now there’s little, if any, left.

This thought brings about the niggling worry that’s been

Reviews for Friday Afternoon

[snarkymom · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Sometimes I decide to read a book (in exchange for an unbiased review) basically because the content resonates with me. This was such a book. Okay, so The Man & I aren't getting our freak on every Friday afternoon (we tried that a couple times, and Little Dude was the result - 'nuff said) but really - who hasn't worried about their marriage &/or sex life becoming stagnant? At just over 100 pages, this is an easy read - but more importantly, it's a GOOD read! On the basic level, it is encouraging, and could even be a road map, to couples everywhere that try to figure out that age old dilemma - how do you connect sexually in a household with kids - especially kids that are in puberty & would KNOW what was going on?In this story, you hear from both the wife and husband as they examine where they feel their love life took a detour, and how they go about putting themselves back on track. All I have to say is that this is DEFINITELY a story that should be shared with your partner - especially if you've been together for a while! Sylvia Ryan dissects a marriage in a caring and thoughtful way, while throwing in REALLY H-O-T sex scenes between the husband & wife (remember those?). This is NOT a book for the carpool lane, because you will find yourself squirming and you won't want to put it down when your kids get into the car - and we all know that we must let our kids believe they were the result of an immaculate conception & that all parents are asexual...Here's your warning - there is some spanking, flogging, anal toys & penetration, sex toys and consensual submission - and what makes this even more special is that all of these things are done with love and compassion for each other. I think the only question is going to be if Sylvia Ryan plans to tell us about the weekend that they are to spend together!