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My wife Sarah and I had been married for twelve years, a length of time that had transformed the fiery passion of our youth into a deep, comfortable, and predictable affection. Our son was away for his first-ever week of summer camp, leaving us with a quiet house and a Friday afternoon to ourselves before a planned weekend getaway. Our sex life was good, even great by the standards of our friends who complained of infrequency and boredom. We made love regularly, and it was always affectionate, but it had settled into a comfortable routine, a familiar dance where every step was known and every outcome assured. It was loving, but it rarely surprised me anymore.

Sarah was, by every definition, the perfect kindergarten teacher and a truly beautiful woman. At thirty-six, she still possessed the youthful glow that had first captivated me in college. She was a petite 5'4", with a warm, curvy figure that she was often self-conscious about but which I found endlessly appealing. Her sandy blonde hair was usually pulled back into a practical but elegant bun, and her face, free of all but the most minimal makeup, was dominated by a pair of large, expressive blue eyes that radiated kindness. It was her smile, though, that was her most arresting feature—a wide, genuine curve of her lips that made you feel like you were the only person in the world. She was sweet, universally adored by her students and their parents, and carried herself with a wholesome innocence that I found both endearing and, at times, incredibly erotic.

...

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