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A Comedy Of Errors

This is my first story for Lush. I haven’t written anything in a long time. This is a true story, with some details and dialogue changed to fit into the word limit. Constructive suggestions are appreciated.

I knew we were in trouble when my wife stumbled out of the beer tent. She had texted me ten minutes ago, about an hour later than I was expecting. I was glad I was picking her up, because a stranger could easily have taken advantage of her condition. With halting steps sideways and forwards, she dropped her cell phone once, twice, three times, struggling to bend over to pick it up each time. She also struggled with her lit cigarette, and I was worried she would burn her finger. Finally she made it to the van, where I waited for my promised reward.

“I’m a little drunk,” she stated proudly.

“So I noticed,” I shot back at her, more angrily than I expected. “Why didn’t you text me sooner?”

“Oh, I ran into sooo many people that I knew. One beer turned into a seltzer and a hard lemonade, and then more beers,” she slurred. “I just kept visiting.”

“What do you want to do now?” I asked her with disappointment in my voice. Her mother had sold her house and moved out of town the previous summer, so we had lost our safe spot for town-festival sex.

“Don’t worry, I’m ready to go,” she purred seductively. “Just drive out towards Fort Champion. We can always find a little drive-off where they conduct combat drills. And the van seats fold down.”

“Are you crazy? If we get caught it’s a federal offense!!” I practically shouted, amazed that my conservative wife would suggest such a thing. We never even had sex in the living room, let alone outdoors.

“It’s festival weekend, nobody is going to be out patrolling the grounds. Trust me,” she said. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was speaking from experience.

I drove for a few miles, hoping that the further we got out of town, the more traffic would thin out. We finally saw a driveway with a clearing that was hidden from the road by a row of trees. It was now or never. I realized that my wife was too drunk to get out of the van or get herself undressed. This was going to be harder than I thought.

I opened the sliding side door and tried the position we would be using for sex. Wow, not even close. I would have to put the seats down. I opened the lift gate in the rear, only to find cases of soda and luggage. Fuck, now what do we do? I put the seats halfway down, grabbed the freight, and shoved it into the passenger area, which allowed me to completely lower the rear seats. I left the lift gate open for ventilation.

I got my lovely wife out of her seat, holding her upright as she swayed in the moonlight. I half-carried, half-walked her over and sat her on the van floor. We were both already horny, so the normal shirt and bra/titty foreplay access wasn’t necessary. I focused on getting her pants and panties down, realizing I would need to remove a shoe in order to get them completely off.

This was not how I had pictured my evening proceeding.

Having undressed her, I turned to myself, also removing a shoe. I had never felt so exposed in my life, and it was both exhilarating and frightening. I helped my wife get into position in the rear of the van, and proceeded to hit my head as I climbed in next to her. She giggled, while I was seeing stars. When I recovered, I tried to get in position over her, but found out there wasn’t enough head room. Because of our bellies, the only position we use is called upright missionary, and there’s no way I can fuck while kneeling and ducking my body the whole time. This is where having a blanket in the van would have come in handy. We could have been fucking outside in the wet grass ten minutes ago if we had a blanket.

So it’s everything in reverse. Get dressed, put the seats back up, and dress my drunk wife, which is harder than it sounds. We try not to look too obvious as we leave the clearing. On the way back to the motel, I texted my daughter to find somewhere to go for thirty minutes. She understood what I’m asking and replies, “You’re gross. You’re too old to screw.” We’re only forty-seven years old, but must seem ancient to a sixteen-year-old.

I told her she was being mean, to which she replied, “You would probably break something.” Why did I have to raise such a smart-ass?

In about five minutes, we got back to our motel, where we were met by our daughter and dog. I handed her the keycard and told her to take the dog for a walk before bed. I set the deadbolt and chain on the door just in case. As we made our way to the bed, clothes went flying. We shoved the covers back, and started brief foreplay in order to get our equipment ready and lubricated. She turned and put her head on the end of the bed. I moved up and got in position, with her placing the head in her pussy. I shoved home and started thrusting. She started her usual string of dirty talk and “oh yeah”s while I tried to establish a rhythm. I don’t know if it was an adrenaline crash from all the running around I did getting the van ready for sex, or relief that we made it back to the motel, but things were not going well. Just then there was a keycard and a banging on the door.

“Mom, dad, are you in there?” The dog barked and she banged again.

Coitus interruptus.

I slipped on my pajamas while Christine donned her nightshirt. Too late to cover the sex smell, I opened the door.

“Eww. I knew you two were having sex.” Smartass.

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