I told my wife we only needed the maid once a week. But after the first time with my maid, I invented excuses to have her over more. She’d bend over just a little too far when she mopped, smirking when she caught me staring. One Tuesday, I “accidentally” walked into the guest room while she was changing.

She didn’t cover herself. Just looked at me, bold and knowing. That was all it took. Now, her visits always end the same way—her mouth on me, my hands in her hair, both of us reckless and breathless. I know this could ruin everything. But every time she whispers, “Tell me what you want, sir,” all my good sense disappears.