There’s Bola, with her massive tush. The first time I fucked her from behind, the slap slap that my potbelly made against it almost muffled her moans. Later, she bit my upper arm and drew blood as she came. It hurt, but I smiled – I guess it was the look on her face, of painful pleasure, this harelipped woman, so unbashful.
I didn’t know that she knew my wife – apparently, they’d been friends back in college. More than friends, actually: when my wife introduced her to me, months after I’d actually met Bola, she said: ‘Honey, meet my bloodless sister Bola. We met back in school.’ I offered a smile, shook her hands, my heart hammering insanely. Then my wife went to fetch her a drink from the kitchen, leaving us alone together, and Bola chuckled, covering her harelip with a palm, like a teenager.
‘How interesting. So your wife is my friend!’
I should have stopped seeing her then; I should have just ended things, but I answered when she called the next day and said she missed me; drove to her flat after work. That was two months ago.
Last week, my wife said she’d found out about our affair. She wasn’t angry; in fact, she looked strangely pleased.
‘Bola deserves someone like you. What do you plan to do with her?’
I made a show of coughing.
She continued: ‘It’d be nice to have her around.’
I stood up, gave her a long look, then walked away