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Angela told me her first story over dinner one night. It was the story of
how her husband and her didn't love each other any more, and how the
inevitable ending was bearing down hard on them. It was a love story,
bitter with small grudges that kept gained momentum as the years went by.
The ending was good though. It ended with us running off together,
shedding all of our problems like a bad book that's finally had it's cover
closed. Her story was a lie, but I loved her for telling it.

That same night, when we kissed and nibbled in my car with the tinted
windows, I told her a story of my own. It was the story of my wife, and
how much she had changed these last few years. It was a tragedy, detailing
how this once great woman had fallen into a cycle of mental instability.
My story had a happy ending as well. It ended with the full lips of
Angela's kisses, in the honeysuckle smell of her long, brown hair and
climaxed with the promises we whispered to each other as my hand slipped
under her shirt. I didn't know it either, but my story was a lie as well.

My tragedy and her love story were placed aside that frenzied night. As
the minutes of our secret freedom ticked away, we hurried to write the
opening pages of our new story. I remember the simple pleasure of watching
her take off her shirt. Her brown eyes smoldered whenever I would touch
her lips with my fingers. My mouth descended on her bra, licking,
nibbling, tasting and devouring the abundant skin of her breasts. Her
cupid bow mouth delivered their own pleasures, re-teaching me the joys of
kissing, reminding me how hard the heart could pound from a single swipe of
a tongue against nervous lips.

As I removed her bra and suckled at her faint, pink nipples, Angela
poured dialogue that melted my ears, speaking endlessly of pleasures
promised, and delights yet to be imagined. Biting on her nipples only
solicited more stories, all of them decadent and delirious. Angela told me
the story of how she would make love to me, of what her long legs could do,
and what parts she would hold onto while she rode me till we were spent.
All these things she would promise as I rolled her nipples between my lips,
and these stories were completely true.

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Many stories are told between lovers having affairs. I often told her a
story about how I loved to dance, especially with her. This wasn't true,
but it made her smile. When we were alone in an empty house, I would dance
with her, telling her that I dreamed of little else. Angela's brown eyes
would shimmer with happy tears that she would blame on the sad songs
playing on the radio. I don't know if she knew I was lying. I just know
that she wanted someone to tell her that fable.

The best stories I ever told her was when I was between those lovely
thighs. When I was entering her, and her sex would greet me with warmth
and strength, I always told her the story of my happiness. It was the same
tale every time. It was the story of how a man could think love was dead,
but then discovers it from an older woman. She never tired of this plot,
always arching her back to receive my hips as they meet hers. Instead of
applause, she would clasp her ankles around my buttocks, kicking me deeper
inside her. Her moans in my ears were the only reviews I heard, and they
never lacked in praise. When she climaxed, it would be with a full body
tremor that shook her completely, wrenching a tortured orgasm from her
lips. No better payment could a bard ever receive.

Some stories were silent, or rather, complete admissions of unpleasant
truths. I never found out what she did for her husband for Valentine's
Day, and Angela never found out what I got my wife for her birthday. I
think it's the stories we don't tell that are the most important sometimes.
How could our story survive if I knew that Angela sucked her husband that
morning? Where could our story go if Angela knew how much I still loved my
rainy day walks with my wife? There was missing chapters from the novels
of our lives, but they were the parts that the other didn't want to read.

There are stories that only lovers could tell, stories that are so
perfect, they couldn't possibly exist in an honest relationship. Angela's
insistence on performing oral sex was such a story. Oral sex with my wife was always quiet, tender stories, while Angela only told the ribald version
of these tales. Long wipes of her tongue, from balls to tip that could
never be told by a wife. Loud, messy sucking noises that burn the ears
with their lewd passion were standard elements in the story of Angela's
mouth. If she wasn't squeezing my cock between her full breasts, she was
stroking my cock to explode in her mouth. Only in her stories would I be
allowed to grab her hair so roughly, or bounce my balls into her chin as I
emptied myself into her lips. Lovers always write the stories to allow
things that they would censor with their spouses. It's the exchange of
fiction that makes an affair work.

Our story ended like most stories do, at a beginning rather than an end.
The stories we wrote, for each other's ears and on each other bodies, had
built up so quickly, and yet with so much work. They were fiction, they
were at many times false, but we never minded because we always had an
appreciative audience, each other. As accomplished as we had become, we
began to understand that we were writing for the wrong people. At some
point in our marriages, we had stopped listening to the tales our spouses
told, and instead chose to see the tales of our own misery.

Once upon a time, there lived two people who decided to give their
marriages a second glance. They whispered their good-byes one summer night
while the hot wind caressed their joined bodies. Dancing for the last
time, they let go of the characters they had become. They didn't live
happily ever after, but for once, they started to really live.

But sometimes, when the night is quiet, and one of them is alone with
the silence of their thoughts, one of them remembers a story. They might
see the flaws or the untruths of the story they remember, but they can
never forget the passion in which the story was told.

The end.