Authors Note: I've been very much a recluse lately in every spectrum of my life. I have committed myself to reestablishing my prowess as a writer. It helps with sanity. I've missed words does that make sense. I've missed storytelling and dialogue. I can't promise prompt updating, but I can promise some form of curiosity for what stories can do. This is basically me uploading my previous stories from the series "The Era." I do think the delicious Scandal promo helped with my defunct writer's block. I had ideas but not the motivation. I know I can be unpredictable and I have the overt tendencies to delete stories with no regard or remorse to those that enjoy them. I've been a bad girl, please forgive me. Enjoy, formerly known as apollonianlust.

The Unfaithful Housewife

She was going to end it she had professed to herself. It was almost like a prayer a sinful chant that needed to be reiterated every five minutes, but what she couldn't comprehend was the sheer unhinged disregard for her marriage vows she had stabbed into oblivion. The word slut sat at the tip of her tongue waiting to curl it's fangs into her psyche. Olivia Pope was definitely a saint.

She with skilled careful fingers had twirled the perfect dapple of frosting on dozens of cupcakes for her daughter's class bake sale, she had championed a fundraiser for the girl's soccer team and she even played hostesses serving cucumber salads to the wives of her Mulberry-esque neighborhood. The doting mother she portrayed, but inside she was caged with wanton need. A lack of orgasms had been the cusp of this torrid affair. But it was more to it than that, to pine it as a simple tawdry dalliance would cheapened the devastating emotions that dripped from her heart. She had fallen in love for the first time and it frighten every vein in her body. Every touch he gave her was an indelible smudge to her marriage.

In the beginning he had been sweet, her lover. It was the blistering kisses that lingered, that made her weep into her pillow each time her husband tried to touch her. Edison's touch although familiar now made her wince with an undeniable prejudice. He was her husband and she couldn't stomach his clumsy fingertips and awkward thrust. Sex had never been great between the two but she had managed to find her own pleasure in the quiet stellar of their closet. It was in those needy minutes with her buzzing vibrator in her hand that she felt such shame. She had become the cliché, the lonely housewife who masturbates alongside her envious row of spectacular heels, espadrilles, loafers, ballet flats and sandals.

She shied away from mirrors, mirrors taunted her shared her lustful ridden secret with an ambivalent gaze. The laser like gleam of her wedding ring startled her each time so she had decided that mirrors were out to get her. Yet she stood before the mirror today in a sheer wine colored bow neck blouse and wheat A- line skirt that swayed just below her mid thigh. Lace gathers at the soft peak of her breast and she wonders who is she wearing this for? Definitely not her husband. The sleeves billow out at the elbow and taper at the wrist. Pleats curved her ribcage and accentuate the lush flesh of her body.

A nervous finger runs through her hair that's curled at the end she's bundled it into a slick ponytail leaving a sultry swoop to cover her eye. She decides makeup is too much of a hassle so she paints her lip in a dangerous shade of red. A shimmering burgundy that makes her look like a woman plotting revenge instead of an escape. Does she know what she's doing? Red is for whores and prostitutes.

There is no guilt just conviction.

There was her daughter Isadora curious and shy. Her wondrous pout and engaging eyes made Olivia simply putty in her five year old hands. She couldn't resist her sticky kisses and endless chatter about Princess Tiana, Frozen and trips to the library. What would her daughter think of her?

And then her husband Edison whose paternalism was endearing the first year of their marriage but now achingly stifling. The condescension that cakes his voice and the obvious eye rolls he's patented specifically for her whenever she opined a thought. How could she have ever thought this was love? It was comfort surely and her parents adored him because he could be affectively charming, but underneath the tailored suits was a man she hardly knew or maybe she knew exactly who he was but just casted a blind eye.

There was something wrong with her marriage she could willfully admit, but what was this persistence to salvage her marriage. Edison lying chaste kisses on her temple each morning before whistling out of their door way and into a world she hardly ever ventured out of. His world of advertisement called him to be powerful in a world that could render him powerless just by the shade of his dark brown skin. She bathing and clothing Isadora with a mother's gentle touch before shuttling her off to school. Grabbing groceries from Target getting Edison's suits from the cleaners she had thought life offered more. It was the routine that tired her, her stunted dreams that seemed to taunt her each time a college friend of hers squealed with delight at making partner, getting a promotion or opening their own firm. She could boast about her being president of the P.T.A or the lengths she went to ensure that Isadora got into the best school, but what did it mean if every waking breath felt like a slow death.

Her B.F.A in Interior Design lay in a box in the dusty space of their attic.

It seemed they had perfected a performance of a normal suburban couple.

If Edison was powerless she was boxed in, tightly shut and sealed.

/

As soon as the passengers descend from the train platform she glances around meekly her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. She notices a mother kissing her daughter's wrist as the little girl quietly cried into the mother's bosom, Olivia's heart ripped literally lifted for the seam. A staggered old man whistled a whimsy tune each shaky step a breath of fresh air. Teenagers idly looking for caution mischief. She's peers out into the buzzing traffic of the throngs of passengers and she sees him. Her heart beats a simple chant of love. It's a feeling she had never had before. The typical butterflies scraped her ribcage making her a nervous wreck. She couldn't possibly do this today.

Olivia stops timid and exhilarated, hundreds flow past and yet she can't possibly move because this incredibly gentle man has her heart staked in his palm. What a terrible way to feel. The absolute weight of your heart not owned by your husband, but a lover with soulful blue eyes.

She needs him. It suddenly grips her.

Olivia tries shooing the epic wave of colossal emotion aside, she wants to think of her daughter rocking her little body to sleep, with selfish intent she needs to allow herself to be the woman she's afraid of.

The woman who would fall in love simply because love had chosen her. She didn't ask for love it sank its fluttering fangs in her heart and tugged. What Olivia had been desperate for was a good fuck. A rippling of orgasms that left her fatigued for a week, love wounds on her neck, she wanted to be spanked bent over and fucked mercilessly.

Her poor husband.

Fuck her husband.

Fuck him for not fucking her right.

Fuck him for not knowing how to love her.

Another train whizzes by and she's struck by the beauty of him.

A calm smile paints his face a flash of his roving fingers seeking out her perk breast comes through her mind. She crosses her legs before her, a hint of feverish blush tinting her cheeks. How could she be aroused at the sight of him? She immediately chastises herself at the erotic picture she has tainted in her thoughts. She is not this person, but she can't help but smile at the rugged curl of his hair and the slight scruff that marks his face. He's adorable in this menacing way. He could whisper a sonnet full of love in her ear and then dip his two wonderful fingers deep inside her with his right hand delicately around her neck and not bat a possible eyelash.

She takes timid steps to meet him in the midst of the ongoing traffic. Her eyes wander above him and she can't look into his stony blue eyes that seems to frighten an enchant her.

Her stomach rolls as he approaches shifting on the balls of her feet she pinches her fingertips into her palms. She will explode if he doesn't touch her soon.

Crisp footsteps meet hers and she's standing before him anxious as ever. She needs to find something to do with her hands she decides to lay them at her sides, but that makes her feel plain. So she stuffs them in her brown trench coat pocket she imagines she looks like a rag doll thrown aimlessly through the air. Looking up his eyes seemed to sear her flesh.

A lopsided grin is what he offers.

"Hi."

"Hi." She says in a broken whisper a sheen of tears threatening to fall from her eyes. She seems to focus on the neckline of his indigo t-shirt. This could all go wrong. A patronized husband with a revolver and brain matter splattered everywhere, and she would be the culprit. The whoring wife who couldn't keep her legs cost. The risk is worthy.

He studies her a light touch of his thumb to her cheek and she shivers.

And he touches her like she's porcelain because she is. Today she doesn't feel like scum.

"What's wrong Livvie?" He smiles ruefully tugging her by her waist with a patient delicacy.

She can't look at him. Her voice crumbles under the plight of her conviction "I knew exactly what I was going to say the moment I saw you, but you're here Fitz and God I can't think straight."

She pushes him away a little but never fully leaving his embrace. Raising her head to peer up at him she knows that all pretense is null in void. What's this thing that has captured her heart? Why can't she just end it and run away? The impossible truth is Olivia would like to be devoured by love. To have her heart gobbled in a pit of flames by her lover's eyes, she's bashful of these thoughts, because to her these are not thoughts of a thirty year old woman, but a hopeless thirteen year old girl scribbling her crushes name in her diary.

"I missed you." She whispers softly to the ridge of his ear. Suddenly the urge to cry threatens to spill forth; she bites down on her lip harder.

His hands frame her face and he's looking at her like she's the only woman in the world. She turns away simply frenzied at his unrelenting gaze. She shuts her eyes tight as he lifts her off her feet and hugs are closely to his body.

"It's been a week Livvie. I'm disappointed in you." His tongue traces the pucker of her lip.

"I'm sorry."

"Let me take you home lover."

/

The wind bit into them as they casually walked hand in hand out of the train station and into the combusted street. She leaned into him thinking how good it felt to walk the fragile concrete with her lover's hand in hers. Her lover. This sweet tender man had taken her heart and ran away with it. She let him without a second thought. It was very easy to fall in love with him; the falling in love part didn't keep her up at night surprisingly. It was the wanting. The slow ache for him when she was home helping Isadora with her homework and looking at her husband's empty chair at their kitchen table.

She couldn't recall the moment she knew she fallen in love it could have been when they drunkenly performed She's Like The Wind at a local tavern a reckless thing she had done of course, or was it when they went to a French restaurant for a early lunch and he fingered her at the table and she cried out with her face buried in his neck. He had kissed her sweaty brow and told her he loved her. Maybe it was when he ate her out so selfishly at the cinema theater a boneless heap of nerve tingles is how she could describe her body after he was done with her.

He loved her on purpose.

/

He takes her back to his loft Otis Redding is blaring and she can't help but want to wrap her arms around him and collapse into the strength of his body. He whisks her into the bedroom that is dark with only a peek of sunlight slipping through the crack of the mahogany drapes.

Linen bed sheets are toss on the floor and only the fitted sheet remains. They are having a picnic in his bedroom. Pepperoni pizza and white wine. She doesn't turn up her nose at the feast she instead takes a pepperoni into her mouth and smiles faintly.

"What am I doing Fitz?"

"We are eating pizza and drinking wine. I'd say we're having a party."

She smacks her teeth folding her arms before her. "I am someone's wife."

"I'm sorry I didn't pick upon that small hindrance before."

"Don't be smart."

"Livvie we've had this conversation before. I'm aware your married it doesn't bother me, but it bothers you. I love you more than I should and damn it I just can't get enough of you."

"I'm going out of mind Fitz. It's funny I see myself as this woman that has it all under control and then there's you simply fucking my entire life out of focus and I'm left wondering who I was before this and the scary thing is I'm not sure I ever want to go back."

"You don't have to go back."

"This is absolute madness."

"Livvie you aren't the devil for falling in love with me and you're not a terrible person for cheating on your husband."

"What I am then Fitz."
"You're a lot of things but coward isn't one of them."

"Fitz be quiet."
Abruptly he stands rushing to his closet. She watches him amused but slightly apprehensive at his sudden surge of energy. Turning back out of the closet he has two ties in his hand.

Her stomach clenches. His jaw tightens and he comes to her wrapping the ties around his neck.

"Tell me you trust me."

She nods slowly. "I trust you."

Fitz raises an eyebrow. A swaggering arrogance consumes his strides he takes her hips in his hand pulling her entire body flush to his. She whimpers like it's her last breath.

"I don't want to hear you utter another syllable about your pathetic fucking marriage."
She blanches mouth opening mid vowel, but she silences the words before they come to her throat. He was absolutely right. Her marriage was pathetic.

And she missed the salty taste of his cum.

/

The darkness greets her she's blindfolded. Her wrist are tied bound behind her. He pins her against the wall the tip of her breast kissing the paint.

She doesn't expect the roughness. He's never been rough with her. Always so sweetly even in his strokes, but today a Fitz is man that cannot contain his frustration. She understand it.

He smacks her bottom hard her legs twist and her toe curls before tipping into a arch. The blend of pain draws her to erotic insanity.

Chest heaving she slams her shoulder blade against the wall he's kneeling in front of her his hands roaming her ample hips biting her flesh. He will leave marks, because he's desperate. She will let him because she does not care anymore.

"Say it." He says in voice that would frighten Satan. taking a fistful of her hair in his hand he pulls a little not enough to hurt. He doesn't want to hurt her. Her knees scratch the wall. She doesn't speak she would like to tease him. It's a game.

A hard smack reaches her left butt cheek and a harsh moan leaves out her mouth. Pulling her backward by her hair his tongue runs along the side of her mouth.

"Say it Livvie." He presses the length of his body against her his erection poking her backside.

"It's yours."