Betty’s sex House

We were having an early cocktail. It was a Friday in late summer, still sunny and warm at 6:30, and it was our traditional “Thank God it’s Friday, only two more working days until Monday,” celebration.

“Hans made an email pass at me today,” Betty said.

“Hans, the guy in from Denmark?” I asked, Betty had mentioned him before.

“Yeah, that Hans.”

“He knows you’re married, doesn’t he?”

“Uh, no. No, he doesn’t. We haven’t even had a real conversation. And what happened today is that we started talking in the corridor when I got paged. When I got back to my office there was this email, that’s all.”

Hmm.

“When’s he going back home?”

“Oh, in a week or two,” Betty replied.

“Didn’t you tell me he was pretty young?”

“Yeah, late 20’s, according to the gossip at lunch.”

“He’s pretty young to be asking out a woman who’s…”

“Don’t say that word! I’m 39 years and 24 months old, and that rounds down to, oh, about 35 by my math. Maybe even less.”

“I keep forgetting you accountants can make numbers add up to anything,” I joked. “You must have been pleased he asked.”

“I was, kind of. He is cute.”

“Dinner, huh?”

“That’s what he suggested, yeah.”

“Did you accept his invitation?”

“What? Of course not! What a silly question.”

Our conversation drifted to other subjects: my work day, Martha, who was on vacation and whose house we were keeping an eye on, some projects we wanted to do at our house — those sorts of things.

“You know,” Betty pointed out, “we really should check out Martha’s place tonight.”

“You’re right. Let’s do that on the way to dinner.”

Martha was a lawyer who had made it big. She was on a couple of week vacation — her second in four months — and she’s been Betty’s friend since high school.

Martha’s house was isolated, on a large heavily treed and shrub lined lot. The grounds looked in good order. We disabled the alarm system, and began our patrol of the house itself.

Once inside, “Let’s sit here for awhile,” Betty lead by example, as she settled onto the living room’s sofa and pressed the remote control to light the gas fired fireplace.

I sat beside her.

Holding hands led to kisses, to caresses, to making out like teenagers with hands under blouses and into unzipped slacks.

“Wow, what got into you?” If whatever exited my wife could be bottled I’d make a fortune, if I could bring myself to sell it and not use it all myself.

“I was thinking about Martha living here, wondering how often she did it on this sofa, wondering what it was like to be single and successful and dating at her age, that’s all, and it turned me on.”

“Well, she’s… she’s… uh, the same age as you, right, thirty something? That’s not too old to date or anything,” I felt on dangerous ground.

“You’re catching on to the age thing, fella, good for you. I was just thinking about that stuff, that’s all,” Betty said.

The pawing at each other continued. “Let’s go to her bed room.” Betty put into words what I was thinking.

My Lord, she was trashy in the bedroom! Our clothes were not neatly folded, they were scattered everywhere, and there was zero foreplay in there. It was “Fuck me now! Fuck me hard!”

I did.

Towards the end of all of that fucking, I lay beside her, my fingers caressing her as I often did before. This time, her own hand reached down, and covered mine. I took one of her fingers, and moved it in her, too, forcing it to touch her as I so often did.

It led to a final small shudder for her. I was too spent to have anymore outwardly obvious orgasms, but the inner one happened again, when she put her fingers, wet with us, on my lips. “Taste us!”

I did, and fed her my fingers, too.

Afterwards, I had to know: “What got into you?”

“Oh, being in Martha’s place, in her bed, thinking about what she does with men in here, and the variety of men she does it with, that kind of stuff. It made me hot,” she admitted.

“I’ll have to figure out how to make you feel that way more often, you were terrific.”

“Yeah, that would be great.” She cuddled against me, getting ready for sleep. It was an unspoken agreement, we’d be spending the night there.

It was a restless night for me. Being in a different woman’s bed, having a wife who responded like Betty did to those circumstances, all of that left me uneasy. Uneasy, but really aroused.

It was early — still dark — when what little sleep I was getting was interrupted by a hand probing a sensitive part of me, a part that had begun responding to being touched while I was still asleep.

Betty obviously had awakened without waking me. She had found what had to be the sexiest Baby Jane shortie nightgown kind of thing — she and Martha were pretty much the same size – – and lit some of the thick candles that were scattered around the bedroom. She wanted more!

I was on my back, and her hand turned my penis into a club. When she climbed on top of me, I did my duty as a husband as best I could. “You’ve turned into a nympho!” I grunted, part way through encore, totally excited by this candle lit, scantily clad woman, her garment concealing nothing, rising and falling over me, using me. I was nothing more than a device to be used to pleasure herself, that what she was doing pleasured me was incidental.

“Good stuff,” was the praise I earned when the dirty deed was over.

“Thinking about Martha really excites you, huh? We’ll have to come here every night.”

“Um hum…”

“Hey…”

“Huh?”

“Are you a little jealous of her?” I asked, realization dawning.

“No, of course not. I like my life, I like being with you.”

I was confronting a thought that surfaced after lurking just below awareness. “Well, would you like to sample what her social life is like some time, maybe?”

“What are you talking about?” Betty raised up on one elbow exposing her wonderful tits to view.

“I’m thinking, acting single once or twice,” I suggested, “Like, it might be fun for you to accept Han’s dinner invitation.”

I heard a bit of a gasp. “Are you a mind-reader of some kind? I was kind of fantasizing about that.”

I went on, the thought becoming a plan as I spoke. “Sure, accept his invitation. Give him this address, and have him pick you up here. And, at the end of the evening, make him bring you back here too. It’s a single woman’s house, it would fit the role you’d be playing perfectly.

“And if he was nice to you, and attractive, and you wanted to reward him for taking you out, you could invite him in…

“And sit on the sofa with him,” Betty jumped in. I could feel her twitching, making little involuntary movements as I continued.

“And maybe, if the mood was right, what would happen with the two of you is what happened to us tonight.”

She pulled me onto her, spread her legs so I’d fit between them, and reached down toward my penis, found it hardening, and lead it to where it belonged.

“And he’d be doing this to you. It could happen tomorrow night, or the next day. It could happen that soon!”

“You’re a bad man with a dirty mind!” she teased.

Soon talking gave way to action.

“You’d let me do that, you’d let me date him?” she asked.

“I’m thinking, it’s not a case of ‘let’, it’s a case of ‘want’. I want you to date him, I want you to let him think you live here, I want him to bring you back here, and I want you to do this,” — I demonstrated, and had a last, feeble, ejaculation — “to him.”

Betty’s response was all I could have hoped for. Her “Unnnghh” grunt, the characteristic sound I’ve come to realize meant I satisfied her completely, came just as I did. It was another successful sexual encounter.

We rested, recovering from an evening that had more sex than we’ve had in years.

Betty, snuggling against me again, whispered, “That was so sexy, talking to me like that. You say the sexiest things in the heat of passion.”

“Got you off, didn’t it? It worked for me, too.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, “it did. People don’t do things like that, though, pretending to be single, and all that stuff.”

I let a heart beat or two go by, then responded. “They do sometimes. Sometimes people do things like that.

“And, if you want to, you could be one of those people, one time, if you wanted to. If you wanted to, with Hans. I think I’d enjoy seeing you do that.”

I could feel her go tense against me. “You’re joking, aren’t you? I wouldn’t know how to do that, how to act. I wouldn’t feel safe. I mean, it’s one thing to joke about it, but to do it is something else. I’d feel like I was sneaking behind your back, having an affair or something.”

“It’s not sneaking if I know about it.”

“I wouldn’t feel safe…”

“How about if I was nearby?” The thought of being a voyeur sprang fully developed into the fantasy.

“Nearby?”

I confessed. “I just realized how much I’d want to be nearby if you did that. How much I’d want to be a fly on the wall, and watch you and Hans, if you ever did that with him, how horny it would make me.”

“You mean, you’d want to see me do that with him. Is that like being cuckolded — is that the word?”

“I think the word describing me watching is ‘voyeur’, but you’re right, the other word to describe a guy who’s wife does that is ‘cuckold’.”

“You want to be, uh, “cuckolded”, if that’s the right tense, but I’m not worried about grammar, I want to know what you’re thinking about.”

“I was thinking about what you were thinking about — what it would be like if you and Hans ‘bumped uglies’, like we used to say, and I’m finding out the idea gets me right in the libido.”

“What would you do, where would you be, I mean, what are you thinking about?”

“There are probably a thousand ways to be a voyeur here. I think I’d make sure the draperies were open a little, here in the bed room and in the living room, and I’d hang around outside while you, uh, uh, messed around in here.”

My wife rolled so her back was to me, and we assumed our ‘spoon’ position, me holding her, her arms over mine, holding me to her.

“You’re a naughty man, husband, thinking thoughts like that. Naughty, but very sexy.”

We slept.

It was a little after daybreak when we awoke, and sort of embarrassed by the night’s activities and confessions, avoided taking about sex, and agreed we looked presentable enough to go to IHOP for breakfast.

As set the alarm and locked the house. “We’ll have to come back and wash the bedding and stuff before Martha comes home,” Betty needlessly reminded me. “Let’s walk around the house before we leave.”

As we finished most of the circuit, I took Betty’s hand and pulled her into the shrubbery that helps provide the house with privacy. “Look,” I told her. “Here’s the patio that’s outside the living room, and that window is to the bedroom. If you were here with Hans, here’s where I’d be. You’d be safe with me nearby, and you could do anything you wanted.”

“I wasn’t sure,” Betty said, ” you’d still be thinking about that in the light of the day.”

“I am,” I assured her. “Are you?”

“I am, too. We’re both weird, aren’t we?”

“I think sexy is the right word. You’re pretty sexy, for a thirty nine and a few dozen month old woman.”

“You are, too, for an even older guy.”

We left for breakfast.

“You gonna do it?” I wanted to know.

“You’ve given me some things to think about. I don’t know, and I don’t want to talk about it now, OK?”

You won’t be surprised to learn I spent a good part of that Saturday and Sunday fantasizing.

Sunday night: the weekend was over.

Bedtime.

We cuddled as we usually do. “Uh, Bruce?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you still serious about that Hans thing?”

I pulled her tight against me.

“Damned right.”

“So, if he asks me again, is it OK if I say OK?”

“Damned right!”

“I want to understand… it’s OK with you to be cockeyed?”

I interrupted: “The word is cuckold, and the other word is ‘voyeur’, and if it takes the first for me to the second, the answer is ‘Yes’.”

“I’ll think about it somemore. Goodnight, sexy old man.”

“‘Night, sexy woman.”

It wasn’t unusual that I left home before Betty was awake — I had a lot to do at work, and early morning is a good creative time for me.

At noon my phone rang.

“Hi, hon,” my wife’s voice said when I identified myself.

“Hi!”

“Honey, what’s that street we turn onto from the highway, to go to Martha’s house?”

“It’s left on Dewart, then right on Beaver Brook. Why?”

“Hans emailed me about going to dinner tonight, honey. If I accept I could have him pick me up at Martha’s. If I go I’m going to have to give him directions, if my going’s still all right with you.”

Talk about losing concentration!

“Well?” the voice on the phone asked.

“Well what?”

“Well, do I accept, do I give him directions?”

I thought of being outside, looking in, of the images I’d see and I couldn’t find a way to take a breath!

“If you don’t want me to, tell me, please,” the voice spoke, with a nervous trimmer.

I somehow got enough air into my lungs even though the knot in my stomach reached to my throat. It was more a croak than a voice: “Accept the invitation, Betty. I want you to.”

“OK. I will. I’ll see you at home honey, but if I make the date I’ll be leaving for Martha’s early, OK?”

“OK,” I replied.

“Think about this. A couple of hours after that, you’ll probably be seeing me — vicariously. ‘Bye.”

The longest 5 hours of my life were from noon until I left work. I’m glad I got to work early, my productivity in the afternoon was zero! I got home in time to find Betty finishing dressing. “I have to hurry, he’s going to pick me up at 7.”

Her hair, long enough to reach her shoulders, was swept up, exposing her neck. I kissed her there – it’s one of her hot spots.

“Don’t get me started, Bruce! I’m already so nervous I can hardly stand it.” She looked carefully at me. “Is this still all right with you?”

“Look,” I told her, pointing at my crotch. It looked like that old May West joke – “are you carrying a gun, or are you happy to see me?” I wasn’t carrying a gun.

“I see. It’s still OK.”

She turned her back to me. “Zip me up, please.”

The simple black dress she was wearing looked wonderful on her. It wasn’t extreme, reaching to her knees, and the scoop neckline was modest enough, but like I told her, “If it was dinner time, I’d want you to be the main course.”

“Well, Bruce, if I understand you correctly, what you want is to look at the desert tray, and maybe have some leftovers. When are you going over to Martha’s? I hope now, with me. I gotta go pretty soon.”

We took her car, and somehow managed to get to Martha’s without driving off the road. Not that I was allowed to touch her —

“I don’t want to get all messed up, and if you start I know we won’t stop,” she said, and she was right about that.

She went right to the bathroom. “You know me, I have to touch up my makeup.”

A minute later I knocked on the door. “There’s a car coming up the driveway, baby. It’s time!”

I watched from an at-home office window as this youngster – he looked no older than 20 — came to the front door. I heard the knocker sound, and a moment later the murmur of voices. Within a minute my wife was being lead to a car. Hans opened the passenger door, Betty slipped inside, and in a moment the car disappeared down the driveway.

How long does dinner take? If it was me, with the evening I hoped for, it would be Mickie D’s take out — 10 minutes, max!

A couple of hours, I decided. They’d be gone until 9 or so. How can I make a couple of hours go by?

A drink! I’d have one of those, first.

That used up 10 minutes. Now what?

I had better reconnoiter, and be sure sight lines are OK. They were. The bedroom curtains were lacy enough to offer clear views, the living room draperies did the same from the edges.

OK, that was done. What next?

I went into the Master (Mistress?) bedroom — Betty was a wild woman there just a couple of nights ago.

Hmm. I decided to check out the dresser.

Wow! Martha may be a single woman, but the nightwear she had would entertain any guy – sexy stuff: On top was the teddy thing Betty wore a couple of nights ago — so this is where she found it, she went through these drawers, too! I wondered if she’d be using anything from here to entertain Hans.

I lay on the bed, thinking about what we did. Thinking about what we were planning she do here in a little while.

I confess. I unzipped, and eyes closed, thought about Betty, and in no time at all was fully erect, and stroking.

I’m glad there was a tissue box on the bedside table.

I looked at my watch. 8 PM. Interesting, most times after I ejaculate I’m done with sex, I lose interest. Not now. I lost my erection, but not interest. Well, if things go according to plan, I thought, my penis won’t be the one that had to be erect.

I revised that thought. It would have to be, later, after the show, after I became — what did Betty call it? Cockeyed! You know, this whole thing is cockeyed, she was right.

I got myself organized, prick back in pants, pants zipped, and the bed straightened out.

It was time to get ready to spend some time outside. I mixed a big martini: that should hold me.

I found a kind of small beach chair in the garage, and set it up near a window. I sat, testing viewpoints. Man, this was as close to ringside as I’d ever be! It was no more than 6 feet from the window to the sofa in the living room, with sort of a quarter – front view, from the bedroom window I was looking across the bed at an angle from its foot. An ideal Peeping Tom arrangement.

I sat, waiting. It seemed like a year later – although my watch claimed it was 45 minutes, there was the sound of a car.

At last!!

A car door closed. Only one car door? Wasn’t he coming in?

A second door shut. Yes, he was.

Betty came into sight in the living room, turning on a single table lamp, then leading Hans, and pointing to where he was to sit. She turned to the wet bar, poured a wine for herself, and obviously asked him what he’d like. It looked like he drank straight Beefeaters, a man with good taste.

Hans settled onto a chair – a chair! while Betty did her hostess duties, and returned with two glasses.

“Betty, you’ve got to stop looking at the windows!” I sent as strong a telepathic message as I could. She kept looking right at where she knew I was!

She settled onto the sofa, and raised her glass in a toast toward Hans. He raised his, and I raised mine, too, in a mock salute to the evening.

There were a few minutes conversation, and then I saw Betty tap the sofa next to her.

That woke Hans up, he moved from chair to sofa, setting down next to Betty.

And just sat there!

Finally, after a few minutes, they turned towards each other, and Betty made that small womanly move with her head that can’t be described but that every man knows means. “Kiss me.” I guess it’s a universal move, understood by men from Denmark, too, because Hans moved toward her, and there it was! He was kissing my wife!

Oh man — my erection returned.

There was another kiss, and he was caressing her face, too. It was starting.

But going no further. Their lips must have met a dozen time, but he did no more than that, and his fingers moved from lips, to ear, to neck, but no lower. He was being a god damned gentleman.

And now they moved a little apart, returning to their drinks. Betty was on the side of the sofa away from me, so when she turned to Hans, she was also facing me. I could see her face was a little red, a little flushed.

There was some more conversation, a little smiling, a little laughter, a little more sipping at drinks.

I watched carefully. If my reading of body language was correct, Hans was actually thinking about getting ready to leave! I almost screamed “No, no, Betty, don’t let that happen!”

Betty stood, taking his glass, and walked to the wet bar to refill it. I had the sense he protested, but she poured him another, anyway. After she handed it to him, she stood in front of him for a moment, said something to which he nodded agreement, then she walked out of the room. What the hell was going on?

I saw the light go on in the bedroom, so I moved the 20 feet or so to look in that window.

Betty was looking in the dresser, and finally reached in, finding what she wanted. She extracted another negligee, not the teddy one, but a full length thing. She went into the bathroom, and in as short a time as I’ve ever known her to undress, reappeared, wearing this satiny looking thing that wasn’t exactly flimsy, but was as sexy as anything I had ever seen. It hung from two thin shoulder straps, and the material just either draped beautifully or clung to the curve of her hips and breasts as she moved. The neckline was modest enough, but the back was almost no there – I mean, it was a vee that started at the shoulder straps and descended to at least her waist. It took my breath away.

She reached for a matching robe, and pulled it on. Bare footed, covered, but she couldn’t lose two hands of strip poker without being naked.

Betty spent a moment looking at herself in the mirror – I looked too, but then went back to the living room window. I wanted to see her entrance and its effect on Hans.

Hans was standing near the sliding doors that opened to a garden outside the living room. My spy hole was a side window on the same wall – God, I’m glad he didn’t opt to look out this window!

I saw Betty at the entrance to the room, saw Hans turn, do a classic double take as he saw her, dressed in a satin robe, standing there, waiting for him, looking nervous, looking as though she didn’t know how this overture would be accepted. Silly girl!

Hans took a step towards her, then another. Betty smiled tentatively, and started to raise her arms towards him, and moved towards him, too.

He took the last several steps, they met, and there was an embrace, another kiss, a long one. I could see her arms, one around his neck, the other on his back. His I couldn’t see, but his shoulders suggested they were moving along her back.

How long can a man my age maintain an erection if he masturbated himself silly just an hour ago? I was going to find out.

They broke apart, and Betty went to her drink, her liquid courage. She raised it to her lips, while Hans, finding his gin, raised his in a toast toward Betty.

Betty acknowledged the toast with her own glass, then drained it.

By now Hans was sitting on the sofa again, and Betty moved towards him, to sit next to him.

He stopped her.

He leaned forward, holding her by the hips, and she bent, meeting his lips.

Oh God, that looked sexy.

In a moment she was standing in front of him, and he pulled her between his legs, and leaned toward her, until he was able to nuzzle at her torso, at her stomach. Oh, he was getting the idea, all right.

Betty had her hands behind his head, holding him to her. She turned her own head toward the window, where she knew I was watching, and stared there while Hans enjoyed the sensation of her covered belly on his face.

He pulled back, said something.

Betty, looking down at him, nodded agreement. She moved back a step, and reached for the robe’s belt.

Now she was looking at him as she untied it, and let go of the ends.

They fell to the side, and the robe itself started to open, hanging now from her shoulders.

Her hands moved to her shoulders, and pushed, so that the robe fell away, now held only by the sleeves at her elbows.

She dropped her hands, and the robe slid off.

I felt as though Mike Tyson landed a punch on my own belly — I had no breath at all, as I looked at her, at him.

He reached for her hips again, pulled her close again, his lips found her stomach again, but this time his hands were on her buttocks, pulling her closer to him.

She, again, was holding his head against her, this time with her back arched back, pelvis thrust forward, welcoming his mouth, his attention. The satin dressing gown/negligee was pulled pressed against her breasts, and her nipples interrupted its smooth appearance, evidence that she was aroused, too.

Seconds, minutes went by, long enough to sear into my memory that exquisite scene, until, finally, Hans moved his hands to her hips, and moved her a little away from him. I could see the dressing gown was wet from his mouth, wet over her belly, wet from his kisses, his tongue.

Betty reached for, took his hand, and pulled him to his feet.

Hand in hand them moved toward the hall leading to the bedroom. Somehow, I was able to move, too, and watched as they entered the room where the final steps would be taken, where voyeurism, and cockeyed cockoldness, and hot wife-ing would all come true.

Betty moved to one side of the bed, and motioned Hans to the other. Together they folded the bedcover back, uncovering the playground, the stage for the next act.

My view was from the side of the bed. Hans sat on the bed’s edge, his back to me. Betty knelt before him. She was busy at something, then I saw her lift one of his shoes, and drop it. She repeated that with the other one.

Then one sock, then a second one.

Hans sat up, releasing his shirt cuffs, while Betty seemed to be working on the buttons, pulling the shirt free of his slacks.

He cooperated, and pulled it off, and sat there, his bare back to me, his chest toward her.

He stood, got his belt open, and pushed his slacks off.

Oh hell, he was wearing sexy bikini style briefs! They didn’t do much to conceal the bulge there, the bulge he wanted — the bulge we all wanted — to use on Betty — IN Betty.

He lay back on the bed, on his side, looking away from me, at my wife. She stepped toward the bed, toward him, until he made a gesture, and said something.

That stopped her. What did he want? What was going on?

She took a step away, turned, faced him, looking at him as he lay there, one hand stoking his crotch. He said something again.

Betty nodded acceptance.

She raised her eyes, looked over him, at the window where I was, took a deep breath, exhaled.

She reached across her chest, pushed a strap off her shoulder, and down her arm. Holding the garment up with one hand, she pulled her arm free of the strap.

Again she looked from him up towards me, and she repeated the exercise on the other side, and stood before this man holding onto the satin garment that had been cocooning her protecting her, covering herself.

He made a motion with his hand, from high to low.

I understood.

Betty understood, too.

Her hands moved lower, carrying the shroud of a night dress with them.

There was the swoop, that wonderful slope of the top of her breasts, then most of the top was exposed, and her hands moved fractionally lower, and this nipple, and that one, were on view, then her entire breasts, and lower still, until her belly was exposed too, and then that dark hair that marked the top of her pelvis, then more hair, and finally her hands were at her sides, mid thigh, holding the gown in a swoop to her knees, fully exposed.

He said something else. There was another deep breath then she opened her hands. The cloth wafted down, it fell to her feet, and she stepped out of it, over it, nude, towards him.

He rolled onto his back, fully in control, put his hands behind his head, and said something else.

Betty nodded, got on the bed, and knelt at his feet. She leaned toward him, reached along his legs to his hips, and her hands closed on the side of his briefs.

He lifted his hips, bridging, and she pulled, exposing hair, then cock.

What a sight, what a scene to be watched from the side, as she bent over him, doing that, then as she straightened up, pulling more, as he let his hips drop to the bed, and lifted his legs.

She finished her task.

They were both nude.

He reached for her, and she leaned toward him, moving to lay on top of him.

No, that wasn’t what he wanted.

He pulled at her legs, positioning her, until she was kneeling astride him, at about his belly.

I was sure he wanted her to ride him, that he’d put her over that cock, and shove it into her. I wanted that, too!

No! He pulled at her hips, pulling her up along his body, then moved again so his arms were under her thighs, and he now pushed at her from behind, forcing her higher still, until her pelvis was at his chin.

Betty had to support herself, her hands on the head board, as he wrapped his own arms over her legs until his hands met at her pelvis.

It looked like he was opening her, spreading her, then I was sure of it because he pulled her up a little more, and tilted his head toward her pelvis, and even though the closed window I heard her cry out a long devastating moan of lust fulfilled and I knew what was happening, I knew his mouth was on her vagina, that his tongue was having its way with her vaginal pocket, with her clit. I knew it because she was thrusting her hips at him, her back an arc of ecstasy.

His own penis was erect, isolate, standing there, no attention being paid to it, as he worked on her, driving her, and me, crazy.

Then he stopped, and began changing positions on the bed, moving lower, towards its center. He pushed and pulled at her, until she was again astride his head, but facing his cock.

His hands were once again around her, he was once again going down – or in this case, maybe going up is more correct – on her.

Betty leaned forward, her hands met at his own pelvis, and I saw her lips kiss at the tip of his penis.

He let go of her legs, stopped spreading her, and reached between them as well. One of his hands took his cock, and the other reached behind her head, and pushed her towards it.

He used his lower hand to find her mouth – I saw her kiss at his fingers, accept them in her mouth, then lower that last inch, and accept his penis there, too.

It turned into a classic 69, each being satisfied, and satisfying the other. And me.

At last, they stopped and he rolled both of them over so that he was in the superior position.

He turned, kneeling between her legs, then extended himself over her, cloaking her.

I watched from the window as he looked between the two of them, in a classic push-up position, his cock pointing at her.

He said something, and she looked too, and reached between them, taking him, it, in one hand. I saw her legs move more apart, I saw her hips rotate, saw her look as he lowered himself, saw her lift, saw both of her hands now move down there, flat on her pelvis, I was sure opening herself for him, but I could still see that rod reaching toward her, then grow shorter as he lowered himself, until there was no space at all between them, until they were connected, until the deed was done, a different man’s cock was in her, a different man’s pubic hair was pushing against hers — it was done!

His hips started that exotic cycle, moving up, rotating, revealing a now gleaming shaft, making it clear there had been no resistance, no physical resistance, no psychological resistance, to his cock being in her, fucking her.

He moved, and she did, too, lifting to meet him, pulling away as he did, augmenting his own movements, fucking him as he fucked her.

I suddenly realized her head was turned to the side, he was kissing at her ear, and she was looking at where I was. There was a trace of smile on her face as her knees bent to cradle his hips, as she rolled her pelvis up to meet that incoming cock!

Of the three of us, I came first, I couldn’t help it.

Hans was next, a few seconds later. Body language made it clear he was pushing in her as deeply as he could, every instinct in him trying to push sperm in as far as it could go.

He withdrew, finally, and lay beside my wife, flaccid now, but still attentive. He was fingering her, talking to her, masturbating her, until finally her body had its spasm, too, her hips lifted, she grabbed at the hand doing magic to her, pushing the fingers deeper into her, and at last sagged back, spent.

They were done.

Hans reached down to pull a sheet up over them, but it was too late to cover anything.

I saw that there was a conversation going on, and learned later Hans was asking if he could stay the night.

He didn’t object too strongly when Betty rejected that idea. A few minutes later he sat up, and she did too. She retrieved the robe, shrugged her shoulders into it, started to wrap it around her when Hans said something. Betty laughed, and stopped wrapping it, let it hang open, let her wonderful breasts and groin exposed.

Hans had dressed, went to her, embraced her, and she him, then he half turned her in that classic pose, the woman being held up, tilted way over on her back, as he kissed her.

The kiss went on, but now he was holding her with only one arm, the other found a breast to grope, then traced down her body, until his fingers were over her vagina, then in it.

The kiss continued, lips doing one thing, she was holding on to support herself while his fingers poked and prodded where his cock poked and prodded only a little while ago.

Her hand covered his, the one that masturbating her, until I saw him change his grip, and instead of putting his own fingers there, he moved hers there, too.

At last he lifted her upright again, said something else.

He offered her his fingers, the fingers that were wet with her, and with him, just as we had done a few days before. She moved her own hand, also wet, to his lips.

That was the last bit of the erotic show: her mouth opened, and his did too, each accepting the other’s fingers, accepting their joint juices, their mutual flavors.

A moment later, he departed.

I heard a door close, and a few seconds later a car door shut. An engine started, and a car made going away noises. By then I had gone to living room sliding glass doors, and entered the house.

I heard Betty’s voice from the bedroom: “Where are you, Bruce? Come in, come to me.”

I went in, almost at a trot, and she turned to me, the robe still open, her pubic hair matted, looking flushed, looking a little worried.

“Are you all right, is that what you wanted?”

I had smothered the last words with my lips, proving it was what I wanted.

I felt her hand on my cheek, she lifted my head away from her, so she could look into my eyes.

“Are you all right?”

“Are you?” I needed to know she was.

“Yes, sure, but you’re the one who was cockeyed, or whatever…”

Her hand on my cheek felt wet – it was that hand, the hand that, the hand he held, the one who’s fingers were in her, the one wet with both of them.

I turned my head, so that my lips were against her fingers.

“I’m very all right,” I said, those fingers moving on my lips as I spoke.

“Are you sure?”

I nodded my head.

I had thought the final bit of erotic behavior happened earlier, when they kissed good-bye, was when those fingers on my lips were in his mouth.

That wasn’t true.

It happened now.

It happened because I opened my lips, my mouth, too.

And took in those same fingers, and tasted that same flavor, his flavor, and hers!

“I’m completely all right,” I said, my words partly muffled by her hand, while I was tasting things I had never ever tasted before.

“Completely all right.”

And we were on the bed, mingling perspiration, and saliva, and lubricating secretions, and sperm, proving how all right I was.