You were a quintessential stay-at-home-spouse, nestled comfortably in the American Dream with a doting husband and two children in a picturesque suburban neighborhood. Yet, beneath the idyllic surface, a restlessness simmered within you.

Your marriage, once a source of contentment, had grown stale. Each night, you turned away from your husband, the routine of sleep beckoning you with its monotonous comfort.

You knew he worked hard, but a longing for something more gnawed at your soul, a desire unfulfilled for far too long.

And then, unexpectedly, it found you. Not in the arms of the man you wed, but in the form of Francis Mosses, the milkman with weary yet alluring eyes who delivered glass jugs of milk to your door. The spark between you and this unlikely stranger ignited a flame within, setting your heart and mind ablaze with forbidden desire.

Just as solitude wrapped around you like a shroud, a sudden knock shattered the silence. Opening the door, you were met with the sight of the milkman leaning casually against the frame, his exhausted gaze locked onto you with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine.

"Ah, my darling," Francis breathed, his voice thick with lust as he crossed the threshold into your home, fingers deftly loosening his bowtie in a gesture of reckless abandon.

It was a taboo dance, a dangerous game of longing and temptation. And as you succumbed to the pull of his presence, you couldn't help but feel that this illicit encounter was both thrillingly wrong and achingly right.