The Forbidden Hunger

I’ve carried this secret like a live wire in my chest—burning, dangerous, impossible to ignore. Some of you will judge me. Call me a whore, a cheat, a sinner. But I don’t care. I need to get this out.

I’m a married woman. Twenty years with a good man. We own two printing factories—one in Durban, one in Joburg. My husband spends weekdays in Joburg, comes home late Thursday or Friday. A comfortable life. A safe life.

But safety has never satisfied me.

Before marriage, there was my boyfriend—the one who took my virginity in the back of his father’s Mazda behind the stadium. We fucked like animals until I got married.

For three years after the wedding, I was faithful. Then… fuck, then we reconnected. Now? We meet two, three times a week—quick, hungry sessions in hotel rooms, in his car, anywhere we can steal time before he goes home to his wife.

But this story isn’t about him.

This is about him.

The Driver

During COVID, when the world was locked down but travel was still allowed, I needed to go to Joburg to see my sister. Flights were risky, so my husband sent me with Sipho—our black driver. Early thirties. Big. Muscular. Single. Always clean, always smelling like something dark and addictive.

I’d never looked at a black man before. Not like that.

Seven hours in the car. Me in the backseat. Two weeks since I’d been fucked—starving, aching, restless.

At first, it was just talk. Then the flirting started.

"Indian women are a dream," he said, eyes flicking to me in the rearview mirror. "Especially you."

I laughed, but my thighs pressed together.

"Do Indian women like black men?" he asked.

"If the man is hot? Why not?"

"Am I hot?"

"Fuck yes."

His grin was slow, dangerous. The air in the car thickened.

Then he said it—"What if I pounded you so hard you passed out?"

My breath hitched. "I’ve never experienced that."

"You don’t know what you’re missing."

Minutes later, without warning, he swerved onto a dirt road. "Bio break," he lied.

The car stopped. The doors opened. Then he was in the backseat with me, pulling me against him before I could protest.

"Just a hug," he murmured, but his hands were already roaming, his mouth already hot on my neck.

I should’ve pushed him away.

I didn’t.

His scent—god, he smelled good. Then his mouth was on my breast, sucking my nipple hard, and all I could gasp was "Oh fuck—"

That was all the permission he needed.

Dress shoved up. Fingers inside me. Then his cock—thick, relentless, stretching me in ways my husband never could. I was pinned beneath him, moaning, clawing at the seats as he fucked me like he wanted to ruin me.

"Don’t come in me," I begged.

He didn’t listen.

Forty minutes later, he came deep, pumping me full as I shuddered beneath him.

Panic hit after. Plan B. Lady Smith. A silent, tense drive the rest of the way.

The Addiction

That should’ve been the end.

It wasn’t.

Now? Every week, when the paper rolls are delivered, he’s there.

And every week, I let him take me—raw, rough, no condom, no mercy.

Bent over the desk.

Pinned against the stacks.

One leg hooked over his arm as he drives into me, my back slamming against the wall.

I got an IUD. I can’t risk a pregnancy. My husband—devout, clueless, kind—would divorce me in a heartbeat.

But I can’t stop.

The hunger is too deep.

The sin is too sweet.