Poppy's Secret Confession {Wild Steamy Diary}

Poppy's Diary

When I first met Asher, I didn’t think much of it. He was just another one of my husband’s friends and colleagues; older, confident, the kind of man who seemed to carry a permanent ease with the world. My husband admired him deeply. I remember the first time he brought up Asher’s name; it was over dinner one evening after one of his non-profit meetings.

“Asher got the new sponsorship approved,” he’d said with a wide smile. “You should meet him sometime, Poppy. He’s a good guy, one of the best.”

At the time, I just nodded, proud of my husband’s excitement. I had no reason to feel anything else. I was 33, married to a wonderful man who treated me like a queen and was great in bed. I had no complaints… Our life was quiet but full. We laughed a lot, shared everything, and there was never a day I doubted his love. But then Asher entered the picture.

And yet…what was it with him? His great looks with that nicely trimmed grey beard? The constant parade of women who wanted to have sex with him? I heard all the rumors about how great he was in bed and also how he cast aside his conquests like old newspapers. And yet no one ever turned him down. The girls wanted him, even for only one night. He was always away from home 3 weekends out of every four, working as a volunteer for a non-profit, and he had a host of girls to pick from and he did. Rumors were he had over 200 women.

 I had an active sex life with my husband, and he liked my fantasies as they turned us both on, but I never told him about “Asher” being in them. The fantasies were always about strangers or movie stars. My husband would return from weekend retreats and would tell me all about Asher’s latest conquest, and it turned us both on.  I also worked as a paid secretary for the same organization and one weekend my husband told me Asher had arranged free office space at his college for our local office.

I was happy to move all the clutter out of our home and into a real office. Even though it wasn’t much of an office, as it had no windows, not even at the door. We only used the office on Tuesdays and Thursdays and seeing him those two days as my husband worked in a different school was something I was looking forward to.

A few weeks later, our local office was moved into a small space that Asher had arranged at the college where he taught. It was a plain room with a copier, two desks, and endless stacks of folders. But to me, it felt like a new start.

When I found out Asher would be there most Tuesdays and Thursdays, I tried not to sound too interested. “Oh, that’s great,” I told my husband, smiling as he explained it. “It’ll be good to finally have a proper office.”

Inside, my stomach twisted. I wasn’t sure if it was excitement or dread.

The first day in that new office, I arrived early.

I busied myself setting up files, organizing the desk, pretending I didn’t keep checking the door every time I heard footsteps in the hall, but he didn’t show up throughout the week and I must say disappointment washed over me.

*****

The following Tuesday, I was at my desk when someone called out to me.

“So this is the famous Poppy,” he said, his voice a smooth drawl. “I’ve heard plenty about you from your husband.”

I laughed nervously. “I hope only the good things.”

He grinned. “Only good things, of course, though I did tell him he was lucky to have such a beautiful and charming lady all to himself.”

I chuckled lightly at his words.

“You’re early,” he said, placing the box down. “That’s dedication.”

“I like things neat,” I replied, trying to sound casual.

“I can tell.” His gaze lingered for a moment longer than it should have. Then he looked away, opening the box and handing me a few folders. “We’ll make this place feel like home soon enough.”

We spent the next few hours working side by side. It was plain professional, polite until it wasn’t.

At one point, he leaned over me to look at a document I was typing, his arm slightly brushing mine. His warm, woodsy, expensive cologne filled the air. I froze with my hands hovering over the keyboard.

“You’ve got a typo,” he murmured, with a low deep voice.

“Oh… thank you,” I stuttered, barely beyond a whisper.

He stepped back, and I could breathe again, though my heart hadn’t stopped racing. ‘It’s nothing. He didn’t mean anything by it,’ I told myself. But later, when he laughed softly at one of my jokes and looked directly into my eyes, my fantasy came rushing back to me.

“Poppy, I must say my friend has eyes for good things… You are not only pretty, you’re smart. You are now even prettier and hotter than the first time I met you,” he said.

There was nothing inappropriate in his tone… just charm. Yet, there was this feeling about that moment that made my pulse skip. I brushed it off as flattery; the kind older men sometimes give without meaning much by it. But when I caught him glancing at me again later, across the room during a team meeting, that same flutter returned.

“Poppy, get your act together. You’re imagining it,’ I told myself. ‘He flirts with everyone. You’ve heard the stories, girl. Come on Asher is your husband’s friend’, I thought.

And yes, the stories were endless. The other volunteers… especially the younger women always had something to say about Asher. How he carried himself, how he could talk his way through anything, how he’d dated half the women who passed through the organization. I used to roll my eyes at the gossip, which is truth. But now, watching him laugh with someone across the room with that same easy smile lighting his face, I caught myself wondering how much of it I wanted to hear.

I didn’t want to admit that I was curious, but I was.

******

By the end of the day, I felt restless. I thought of my husband, of how he’d tell me stories about Asher’s weekend trips, his adventures, the endless admirers who followed him. We used to laugh about it together, teasingly, and yes, I see Asher the same way those women did.

That night, as I cooked dinner, I caught myself replaying small moments: the sound of his voice, the warmth of his arm near mine, the look in his eyes. My husband came home cheerful as always, wrapping his arms around me. I smiled, leaning into him, but part of me felt guilty of the thoughts I couldn’t push away.

‘What is wrong with you, Poppy?’ I scolded myself. ‘You love your husband. You have everything you need.’

But sometimes, attraction doesn’t ask for permission! Yeah, it just happens. It’s quiet at first, almost harmless, like a match that hasn’t yet caught flame. But the more I tried not to think about Asher, the more he seemed to appear in my mind… in the rhythm of my day, in the echo of his laugh.

The next few weeks went on like that. We saw each other twice a week, exchanged small talk, shared coffee during breaks. There was nothing overtly inappropriate, but something simmered beneath every word. Once, as we stood by the copier waiting for it to finish, his hand brushed against mine. Neither of us moved it away immediately. His hand moved down and squeezed my hand gently. I looked at him with a rush of emotion, hoping the time would pause, but sometimes life is not always as we imagined it.

When he looked at me, I felt an ache deep inside, one I couldn’t explain or justify.

Later, driving home, I told myself I was being ridiculous. It was just harmless tension, the kind that happens between people who get along well. But the truth was harder to admit.

I liked how he looked at me. I liked the attention, the subtle thrill of something forbidden.

And yet, every time my husband kissed me goodnight, I felt a pang of guilt strong enough to make me close my eyes and whisper a silent apology.

‘You’re not doing anything wrong,’ I tried to tell myself. ‘You’re just imagining it, it’s all your fantasy, that guy didn’t see you that way.”

But deep down, I knew that was a lie.

********

The following Thursday, I stayed late at the office to finish some reports. The halls were quiet; the rest of the staff had gone. I was halfway through typing when the door opened behind me.

“Asher,” I said, startled. “I thought you left.”

“I did,” he said, smiling faintly. “Then, I realized I had forgotten my notebook.” He paused, stepping closer. “I didn’t expect to find you still here.”

“I just wanted to finish this before tomorrow.”

He nodded, standing beside me for a moment, watching the screen. The silence stretched. Then, softly, he said, “You work too hard, Poppy.”

I turned to look at him… and for a heartbeat, neither of us spoke. There was a quiet understanding in his eyes, something that made my breath catch. I could almost feel the pull between us, invisible but undeniable.

He turned around standing at the back of my seat and massaged my shoulder gently. I  felt my tense muscles relax. Suddenly, he stopped and then smiled, picked up his notebook. “Goodnight,” he said softly.

“Goodnight,” I whispered.

When he left, I sat there for a long time, staring at the empty doorway hoping he would turn back. The air still carried the faint trace of his cologne. I didn’t move until it faded.