Chapter 1
We didn’t originally plan to rent it out.
The apartment above the garage had always been a guest space, a little retreat for visiting family or the occasional friend passing through. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was clean, fully furnished, and honestly kind of charming.
We had put some real effort into decorating it over the years. Minimalist, neutral tones, natural light. Nothing trendy, just calm. Last month, while going over the budget, my husband brought it up. “If we rented it out,” he said, tapping numbers into his phone, “it could cover most of the mortgage. Maybe more.”
That night, we sat on the porch with a glass of wine, going back and forth about it. I was hesitant at first. We liked having that space open. It felt like ours, even if we rarely used it. But the numbers made sense.
And once I pictured that monthly payment shrinking, I started to come around. The next morning we got to work. We deep-cleaned everything. Every drawer, every dusty corner, every smudge on the windows. Luckily, we didn’t have to furnish or stage anything. The place was already set up for guests. It just needed polish.
After that, we pulled up a few YouTube videos on how to photograph a space for rental listings. I made Eric stand in the corner of the room to test angles, and after we argued lightly over which photos looked best. They didn’t come out professional, but they were solid. The space spoke for itself. We posted the listing that evening. And then forgot about it.
It only took a few days. We were shocked to see someone had already put in a request. Not for a weekend, not for a week. For six months. His name was Austin. Mid-30s. Musician. Verified profile. We clicked into it, half expecting something shady. But there were dozens of reviews.
Hosts from all over the country. Words like respectful, clean, easy to communicate with. No red flags. No horror stories. Eric read one out loud while sipping coffee: “Austin was a great guest. Quiet, polite, left the place spotless.” “Sounds like a golden retriever,” I joked. “Or a serial killer,” Eric added. We laughed, shrugged, and hit accept.
A couple of weeks passed as we got everything ready for our first guest. Eric made a checklist. Spare linens, an extra roll of toilet paper tucked under the sink, and some other small items. I added a small potted plant to the kitchen window and swapped out an old rug in the entryway. Nothing major. Just small touches to make it feel lived in without feeling ours. We both wanted it to go smoothly. First impressions mattered.
The morning he was set to arrive, I found myself moving slower than usual. I’d already vacuumed the living room twice, even though no one was going to see it but us. I fixed my hair without really meaning to. Nothing special, just a quick run of the brush and a bit of mascara. My eyes always looked better when I did just a little touch.
But it was more than I normally did for a random weekday.
I was outside watering the rosemary planter when the sound of tires crunching on gravel made me look up. Black car. Windows down. He pulled in like he’d been here before—slow, controlled, one arm draped out the window, fingers tapping the side of the door. I stood still, hose in hand, watching as he killed the engine and stepped out.
First impression? Tall. Lean. Strong. Confident. He wore a white t-shirt, jeans, and beat-up boots. His arm muscles flexed naturally as he pulled a duffel bag from the backseat. His skin was tanned. His jawline looked like it had been cut from stone. He looked exactly like the kind of man who never had to try very hard.
Eric stepped out from the garage just a moment later, perfectly timed. “Austin?” he called out. Austin turned, squinting toward us with a smile. “Hey, yeah. Thanks again for letting me stay.” His voice had that gravelly texture. Eric extended a hand. “No problem. I’m Eric. This is my wife, Claire.”
Austin’s eyes shifted to me. He nodded politely, but held my gaze a beat longer than was polite. Not creepy. Just… sure of himself. “Claire,” he said, like he was testing the shape of it in his mouth. “Nice to meet you.” “You too,” I managed. Eric handed over the keys. “Everything should be set up. Wi-Fi password’s on the counter. Let us know if anything’s missing.”
“Appreciate it,” Austin said. Then he looked back at me, not as long this time, but enough to make my skin feel warmer than it should’ve. He slung his guitar case over his shoulder and walked toward the stairs that wrapped up the side of the garage. I stood there longer than I meant to, watching the lines of his back move beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.
When I finally turned, Eric was looking at me. We walked back into the house without saying a word. Eric set his keys down on the counter and opened the fridge like it was any other day. Like he hadn’t just watched his wife gawk at a younger, shredded musician hauling a guitar case across our driveway. Austin wasn’t just good-looking. He had that thing. That quiet confidence. That ease. The kind of man who doesn’t just enter a space, he shifts it. And Eric noticed. Something had shifted.
Eric had to run a few errands that afternoon—something about picking up parts for the lawnmower at the hardware store. He kissed me on the cheek before heading out, his tall frame stooping slightly as he grabbed his wallet from the counter. “Won’t be long,” he said, his average build filling the doorway for a moment before he disappeared into the garage.
I watched his car back out of the driveway, feeling a strange mix of normalcy and anticipation. With the house to myself, I busied my hands, but my mind wandered back to Austin. He’d only been here an hour, and already I could picture him up there, unpacking in that small space.
As a helpful wife—and honestly, as our first long-term renter—I decided it wouldn’t hurt to check on him. Make sure he had everything he needed. It was the hospitable thing to do.
I smoothed my wavy dirty blond hair, which fell casually around my shoulders in its innocent, unstyled way, and headed across the driveway. The stairs to the apartment creaked under my feet as I climbed, my mid-40s body feeling oddly light with nerves. I knocked softly on the door, hearing faint movement inside.
Austin opened it almost immediately, his super athletic frame filling the doorway. Up close, he was even more imposing mid-30s, with very muscular arms that strained against the sleeves of his tank top, and I could just make out the outline of his 6-pack through the thin fabric. His strong arms flexed as he held the door open wider. “Claire? Everything okay?”
“Yeah, just wanted to see if you needed help settling in,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “Eric’s out running errands, and I thought… maybe the kitchen or linens? We left some basics, but I can show you around.”
He smiled, that confident grin revealing straight white teeth. “That’s sweet of you. Come on in. I was just doing some unpacking.”
The apartment was small but cozy, the neutral tones we’d chosen making it feel welcoming. His duffel bag was open on the floor, clothes spilling out, and his guitar case leaned against the wall. I headed to the kitchen first, opening cabinets to point out where we’d stashed plates, glasses, and a few pantry staples. “We left some coffee and filters here,” I said, reaching up to the top shelf. I felt his eyes on me, but it was polite, appreciative. As I bent slightly to check the lower cabinets, I sensed him step closer, his presence warm behind me.
“Looks great,” he murmured. “You guys thought of everything.”
Next, I moved to the bedroom to help with the linens. The bed was bare, just the mattress we’d freshly bought. I grabbed the fitted sheet from the closet, shaking it out. “Let me get this on for you,” I offered, always the helpful type.
As I leaned over the bed to tuck in the corners, bending at the waist, I felt the hem of my simple sundress ride up just a bit. Nothing scandalous, but enough to expose the backs of my thighs. I didn’t think much of it at first – until I glanced back and caught Austin watching. His eyes lingered, tracing the curve of my legs up to where the fabric met skin. He didn’t look away immediately, and a flush crept up my neck. He was smitten, clearly, his muscular chest rising and falling a little faster.
“Uh, thanks,” he said, his voice a touch huskier. He stepped forward to help with the top sheet, our hands brushing as we smoothed it out. The touch was electric, innocent but charged. “You’re making this feel like home already.”
I laughed lightly, straightening up, my heart pounding. “That’s the goal. Let me know if you need anything else.” Our eyes met again, that sure gaze of his holding mine. I felt seen, in a way that made my skin tingle. I mumbled a goodbye and slipped out, the door clicking shut behind me.
Back in the main house, I leaned against the kitchen counter, breathing deeply. What was that? Just a spark, I told myself. Harmless.
But as the days turned into weeks, that spark grew into something more insistent. Austin became a fixture in my daily thoughts, a distraction that wove itself into the fabric of my routine. I’d be doing housework—folding laundry in the living room, the scent of fresh detergent filling the air—and my mind would wander to him.
The fantasies started small, but they consumed me.
One afternoon, as I sorted through a basket of clothes, pairing socks and folding Eric’s shirts with mechanical precision, I pictured Austin’s strong arms wrapping around me from behind. His hands, calloused from his guitar strings, sliding over my hips, pulling me close. I could almost feel the heat of his body, the way his 6-pack would press against my back, hard and unyielding.
My hands trembled as I folded a towel, imagining those muscles flexing as he lifted me effortlessly, his breath hot against my neck. The thought sent a wave of heat through me, pooling between my legs. I pressed my thighs together, trying to ignore the ache, but it only intensified the fantasy.
What would it feel like to have someone like him—so athletic, so powerful—desire me?
Eric and I had been married for 20 years, our love steady and comfortable, but our sex life had always been…lackluster.
I’d never orgasmed from intercourse, not once. I assumed it was me—some flaw in my body, my wiring.
But in these daydreams, Austin proved me wrong. I imagined what having sex with him would be like.
Powerful, erotic—sex like in the movies. Where the woman always cums.
I imagined his size, thick and curved, filling me in ways Eric never could, hitting spots that sent electric shocks through my core. The guilt hit like a splash of cold water—I loved Eric, truly—but the pull was undeniable. I finished the laundry with damp panties, my arousal a secret shame that thrilled me.
Eric sensed my infatuation, of course. My husband, mid-40s like me, tall with his average build, wasn’t blind. One evening, as we bumped into Austin outside—he was carrying groceries up the stairs—I smiled a little too brightly. “Need a hand?” I asked, my voice light.
Austin grinned back, his muscles flexing as he balanced the bags. “I got it, but thanks, Claire. You’re always looking out.”
The flirting was subtle, a shared look, a lingering smile. It sent a thrill through me, arousing in a way I’d never felt. My cheeks flushed, my body warming.
Eric saw it all, standing beside me. That night, in bed, he turned to me. “You like him,” he said, not accusing, just observant.
I froze. “What? No, he’s just… nice.”
But to his surprise, and mine, noticing my giddiness around Austin aroused him too. He pulled me close, his hands roaming in a way they hadn’t in months. He passionately fondled my breasts and suckled my nipples. He entered me and after just a few quick thrusts, he let out a subtle grunt, came, and it was over.
“Frick? He is already finished. What the fuck.” I thought to myself. “And what was that grunt about?” That was new.
Our sex that night was hurried and lackluster for me as always. I’d never orgasmed with my husband, and he was my only sexual partner, ever.
I loved him deeply—our marriage was solid, built on years of companionship—but in bed, it never quite clicked. I assumed it was me, some flaw in my body. After he finished, and I lay there, unsatisfied, my mind started drifting to Austin.
We both fell asleep.
In the coming weeks, my fantasies escalated while doing chores. Ironing Eric’s shirts, the steam rising, I’d daydream about Austin’s hands on me, his muscles pressing against my body. One day, in the garden, I was on my knees pulling weeds, soil under my nails, when Austin appeared at the foot of the stairs. “Hey, Claire. Mind if I join you? The view’s nice out here.”
His words were playful, but his eyes raked over me as I knelt, my sundress clinging to my curves from the light sweat. I stood, brushing dirt off, but he stepped closer, offering to help with a loose shelf in the garage I’d mentioned in passing. Inside, as he reached up to fix it, his tank top rode up, exposing that chiseled 6-pack. I handed him tools, our fingers brushing, the air thick with tension. “You’re handy,” I said, my voice breathy.
He smirked, muscles rippling. “I like using my hands.” The double entendre hit me hard, arousal flooding me. I felt myself soak through my underwear, the fabric sticking uncomfortably as I shifted. His proximity—his scent, masculine and clean—made my pulse race. We flirted more openly, laughs turning to lingering touches on arms, waists. It was incredibly arousing, my body betraying me with every glance.
In the shower later, water cascading over my skin, I’d touch myself, imagining Austin’s fingers instead. The guilt hit hard—I’d never cheated, never considered it—but the pull was stronger. His presence in the guesthouse was a constant temptation.
Eric was confused by his own arousal at my infatuation. He’d watch me watch Austin, and it’d stir something in him. But he said nothing, but something was starting to simmer.
Then, one stormy night, Eric was out of town for work. The power flickered, then went out completely in the main house. Darkness enveloped me, the heat cutting off, leaving the air chilly. But through the window, I saw lights on in the guesthouse—Austin’s place ran on a separate circuit.
My phone buzzed: a text from him. “Are you ok? Is your power out over there? Come over if you want. Got A/C and light here.”
My heart raced. I slipped on a simple dress, the cotton soft but clinging in the humidity. Nervous, I crossed the driveway barefooted, rain pattering lightly. He opened the door, shirtless this time, his 6-pack on full display, strong arms welcoming me in.
“Claire, hurry, come in out of the rain! Come in.”
I stepped inside with my hair and dress a little wet from racing across the driveway.
“Here, let me get you a towel to dry off.”
We sat down on the sofa together. Flirting started innocently—he got me something to drink, and we started talking about his music. But it intensified. His hand brushed my knee, his eyes darkening with desire. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”
I was very nervous, my body trembling, but incredibly turned on. In a moment of passion, our lips met. His kiss was hungry, experienced. Clothes came off slowly, sensually—his hands sliding the dress off my shoulders, tracing my curves with reverence.
“What am I doing? I need to get out of here. I should not be doing this,” I thought to myself.
Just then, my eyes darted downwards, and I saw him fully aroused.
I was shocked. His penis was…large. Long, thick, with a slight upward curve that promised something new. I’d only known Eric’s, average and straight, never quite reaching those depths. Never hitting the right spot.
“Fuck it” I said to myself.
He was gentle at first, his mouth exploring my neck, breasts, down to my core, his tongue skillful, building tension I’d never felt. Emotions swirled: guilt, excitement, raw need. As he positioned himself, entering slowly, I gasped at the stretch. He filled me completely, that curve pressing against my G-spot with every thrust, a sensation so intense it bordered on overwhelming. His stamina was endless; he varied his technique: slow, deep strokes building pressure, then faster, rhythmic movements that had me arching.
Positions shifted: missionary, where I could see his muscles flex; then his strong hands grabbed me and flipped me over. He grabbed me by my hips and pulled me up into doggy, and pulled me back, guiding me onto him.
The emotions were a torrent. Any trace of guilt was erased by the feelings of pleasure and passion. I thought of his size, how it stretched me perfectly, the shape hitting just the spot relentlessly, waves building until I shattered into my first orgasm from sex ever. It was mind-blowing, body convulsing, cries escaping as pleasure ripped through me. He followed soon after, his experience prolonging my bliss.
After, guilt washed over me, but so did bliss. I lay there for a few minutes until I decided I needed to leave. I hurried home in the dark, the power still out.
Eric returned the next day. He noticed my glow immediately. “You seem… happy.”
Everything was about to change.
