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My wife and I sat on the living room couch of our home, looking out the picture window. The shades were not drawn. The lights were off.

“The window always reminds me of a movie screen,” said V. “Like the drive-in.”

“Ooh, I love the drive-in,” I said.

“Don’t I know it,” she teased.

I leaned over to touch her cheek, turning her lips toward mine. I traced her lower lip with my tongue until I was unable to hold myself back. I gave her a slow, long, wet, sitting-alone-on-the-couch-with-my-wife-on-a-Saturday-night kiss.

When our lips parted, I retreated. V regarded my face. She ran a fingertip along my jawline, but did not otherwise speak.

“Someone said the world’s a stage,” I said. “But I think the world’s an audience. Everyone’s watching. No one’s performing.”

Outside, on the other side of the glass, night had fallen. The streetlights had flickered on about an hour ago. Lights were on in most of the houses, and dull shadows thrown from the glow of televisions danced on the walls and faces of our neighbors. Cars drove by at safe, reasonable speeds. Cats scampered past, bodies pressed close to the ground, chasing mice and squirrels and birds with lazy perseverance. Someone out of the frame of the window was shooting hoops, the thump and the tinny, hollow ring of the basketball echoing down the nearly empty streets. 

Headlights briefly splashed across our walls. A car pulled into the driveway across the street. A young man with flowers emerged from the car, slammed the door with his foot, walked up the steps to the front door, and rang the doorbell. 

“Aw, he brought her flowers,” exclaimed V. “What a nice young man.”

“They’re both eighteen.” The defensiveness in my voice surprised me.

“Are you jealous?”

“No,” I said. “Are you?” 

She responded by sliding her hand from my jaw, down to my chin, to my chest. Her fingers spread as she found my nipple and gently tweaked it. She moved down to my belly, and I expected her to make her way to my pants and lay her hand over my rapidly deploying cock. Instead, she playfully stuck a finger inside my shirt and into my belly button and laughed.

“Jealous of the young woman answering the door?” As if on cue, the door across the street opened. The pretty girl who answered the door tilted her head and smiled as she reached out for the flowers. “No. I may miss the first blush of dating and sex. All the discovery and excitement. But there’s no way I’d rather be in her place.” She tickled my belly button with her finger, then withdrew it and continued her downward journey.

“And why is that?” I asked, my cock responding to her fingers, straining to feel their touch.

“Because I am with you.” She slid her hand over my hard length, gave it a squeeze, then, maddeningly, stood up and walked to the far side of the coffee table. “Although, I’ve noticed you never bring me flowers like he does. I’m a little jealous of that.”

She canted her hip to the left on the word “that.” She began to sway, and the liquidity of her movements spread out to the rest of her body like waves, down her thighs, up the giddy curves of her waist and tits, eddying through her arms before unfurling to her fingers. Even her clothes followed her motion: her blouse stretching and pulling as her breasts rose up against the material, her short skirt swirling around her legs like an attention-starved cat.

“I bring you flowers.”

“You’ve brought me flowers. Though not recently.” She beckoned me to stand with her fingertips, and began walking backward, away from me, toward the picture window. I wondered how her ass looked from outside the window, tracing heady figure eights in the heated air.

I remembered the lights were off. No one could see inside. I’d actually tested it: all they saw was a reflection of the street, and themselves.


She leaned her ass against the window. The glass creaked, almost inaudibly. She brought her hands up to her breasts and held them, presenting them to me. She tweaked her nipples, pinching them between thumb and forefinger. They stiffened under her blouse.

I stood, hopelessly ensnared. I hopped the coffee table with a move that in my mind’s eye seemed graceful, but which earned a barely-hidden smirk from V. I crossed the room. Our eyes locked on each other. V’s smirk dissipated.

“Pull on my tits,” she whispered, suddenly flushed and needy.

As I grasped her nipples and teased them outward, she slid her hands from under my own and put them on my shoulders. I pulled hard; she moaned loudly and wrapped her legs around my waist.

I pressed her against the movie screen expanse of the picture window. The glass bowed out and trembled, but held. My cock strained against my pants and the bunched material of her skirt. I slipped my hands from her nipples and slid them inside her skirt, supporting her.

Beyond her, the young man and the girl, having apparently located a vase for the flowers, exited the front door, a disapproving parental face appearing ghostlike in the doorway for a few fleeting seconds. They walked to his car, hand in hand.

V reached down, unzipped my pants, and took my hardness in her palm. With insatiable precision, my wife pulled aside the gusset of her panties and slid my cock against her wet, inviting lips. The glass of the window groaned under our combined weight. 

“Honey,” said my wife. “We can’t do this. The glass isn’t gonna hold us.”

The head of my cock entered her and I knew I wouldn’t be able to control my actions much longer. Instinct would take over. I saw an image of the window cracking around us like ice on a pond, the two of us tumbling to the front lawn in a rain of shattered glass.

“I’m not sure I can stop,” I told her.

“I’m not sure I want you to stop,” she sighed. “But if we break through the glass, the two kids across the street will see us.”

“Don’t worry, I’m watching them,” I told her. I was. They sat in the front seat of his car, making out furiously, hidden from parental oversight by the shadows of the garage. She teased the head of my cock with warm, wet lips. 

“Are they behaving responsibly?”

“No. They’re acting like horny teenagers.” 

“Imagine that.” She dug her fingertips into the meat of my ass, urging me onward.

“Well, he did bring her flowers.” I entered my wife with deliberate slowness, until my entire length buried inside her, cutting off her giggle and replacing it with a thrillingly untamed moan. The glass complained loudly, straining against our weight.

My sexual Rubicon arrived. I crossed the point of no return and surrendered to the tidal pull of V’s familiar mysteries, resigned to the possibility of breakage and discovery. If the glass was going to break, it was going to break, if it wasn’t, it wasn’t; we were much too committed to stop anytime soon.

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