I’d had too many beers, the cheap kind that taste like metal and make you laugh at nothing. The fire was warm, my husband’s arm was around me, Lauren was telling some loud story about her last Tinder disaster, and everything felt easy. Then the world tilted sideways and I knew I was done. I kissed him on the cheek, mumbled something about bed before I fall in the fire, and stumbled inside. The living room spun a little as I made my way to our bedroom, the faint smell of smoke clinging to my clothes and hair.
I peeled off my jeans slowly, hips swaying more than necessary in the dim light from the hallway. The denim dragged down my thighs, catching for a second on the curve of my ass before sliding to the floor. I stepped out of them, left them in a heap, and tugged my top over my head. The smoky fabric came away with a soft whoosh. Underneath I was just in my soft cotton boy shorts, the kind that hug low on my hips and ride up between my cheeks. I slid a hand across the front of my panties, my pussy begging to stay awake, but the room was spinning too much. I pulled on an old long t-shirt that hit mid-thigh and crawled into bed instead, passing out almost instantly.
I woke up maybe an hour later, mouth dry, bladder screaming. The house was dark and quiet except for the low crackle of the fire still going outside. I padded barefoot down the hall toward the bathroom, legs a little unsteady.
That’s when I saw them through the screen door.
Lauren was on her knees in the grass, moonlight and firelight striping her bare back.
My husband stood over her, jeans around his thighs, hand tangled in her messy hair. Her head moved slow and deliberate, lips stretched around him, taking him deep, then pulling back until he glistened with her spit. The soft, wet sounds drifted through the screen like they were meant only for me.
I hid instinctively, pressing myself against the wall just inside the door, hidden in shadow. The cool plaster against the backs of my thighs made me aware of the heat radiating from my pussy. My hazy mind tried to catch up, running slow from the drinks, but then I heard them more clearly. Sloppy sucking noises, low moans, like they wanted to be caught. I pressed my legs together instinctively and before my brain could catch up, my hand moved across my stomach. I rubbed my palm over the outside of my cotton boy shorts. The fabric was instantly soaked through.
The need was too urgent to tease. I shoved the cotton aside with two fingers, exposing my swollen lips to the cool night air. They were already slick, puffy, parting easily as I dragged my fingertips through the wetness. I spread myself open with my middle and ring fingers, middle finger circling my clit in slow, slippery loops while I watched Lauren’s mouth work him. Every time she hollowed her cheeks and sucked, I pressed harder, matching the rhythm. My other hand slipped under the t-shirt, found my nipple, pinched it sharp enough to make my breath hitch.
They didn’t know I was there. My husband’s head fell back, a low groan tearing out of him as Lauren took him all the way to the root, throat working visibly around his length. I pushed two fingers inside myself, curling them against that spot that made my toes curl against the hardwood. My palm ground against my clit with every thrust of my hand. The wet, obscene sounds of my own fingers fucking in and out matched the sloppy rhythm of her mouth on him.
When she turned, bent over the chair, ass high and thighs spread, he slammed into her from behind in one brutal stroke. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood to keep from moaning out loud. I added a third finger, stretching myself, feeling the delicious burn as I fucked deeper, faster. My thumb stayed mashed against my clit, rubbing frantic little circles while I watched her tits swing, watched the way her back arched every time he bottomed out. Her moans were shameless now, loud enough to carry, and I let mine slip out too—just soft, broken whimpers swallowed by the night.
I watched her come first, watched her push back against him, greedy and shameless, body shaking as she clenched around him. Then she turned her head toward the house. Her eyes swept past the screen door, hazy with pleasure, and for one frozen second, I thought she saw me. My breath stopped. My fingers froze inside me, buried to the knuckles. But she only moaned louder, arched harder, and looked back at him, lost again.
I plunged my fingers in again, three now, fucking myself in perfect time with his thrusts. My thumb ground my clit until the orgasm hit me like a freight train—my knees buckled, thighs quivering, a hot rush of wetness coating my hand and dripping down my inner thigh. I pressed my forehead to the cool screen, panting, pussy fluttering wildly around my fingers as aftershocks rolled through me.
My husband came with her name on his lips, quiet, wrecked, perfect. I came again right after, smaller but sharper, biting my own arm to muffle the sound while my body jerked against the wall.
Lauren dropped to her knees one last time, sucked him clean with slow, deliberate licks, then kissed him deep and filthy before walking inside barefoot without a word. She passed within three feet of me, smelling like sex and smoke, and never knew I was there.
I stayed in the dark until my breathing slowed, until the sticky mess between my thighs started to cool. I finally pushed the cotton boy shorts back into place, the fabric clinging wetly to my swollen lips, every small shift sending aftershocks through me. Then I slipped into the bathroom, peed, and stumbled back down the hall.
I crawled into bed, head still hazy from the drinks, the massive orgasm, and only partially believing that had actually happened. The sheets felt cool against my flushed skin as I pulled the covers up, the memory of them—of her mouth, his groans, the way she looked at him—still pulsing between my legs.
He woke up late, head pounding like a drum from the cheap beer and the vodka shots. The bed was empty beside him, sheets cool where she should have been. Sunlight sliced through the blinds in harsh lines across the room. For a second, everything felt normal—then the memory hit like ice water: Lauren’s mouth, her ass in the firelight, the way she’d walked back inside without a backward glance.
The backyard camera. The motion-activated one mounted under the eave, pointed right at the fire pit.
Panic clawed up his throat. If it caught anything—if there was even a blurry clip—he had to delete it before anyone else saw. Before she saw.
He slipped out of bed barefoot, heart thudding, and padded down the hall. The house was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge. He kept his steps light, avoiding the creaky floorboard outside the office.
But there was already noise coming from inside.
A soft, wet sound. A stifled gasp. The faint click of a mouse.
He eased the door open an inch, just enough to see.
His wife was in the desk chair, legs hooked over the arms, knees wide, feet planted on the edge of the desk. Her long t-shirt was rucked up to her ribs, exposing the soft swell of her belly and the dark triangle between her thighs. The big monitor glowed with last night’s footage—frozen on the exact frame where Lauren was bent over the Adirondack, ass up, his cock buried deep. The timestamp blinked in the corner: 2:17 a.m.
One hand was clamped hard around her own breast, squeezing the full globe until the flesh spilled between her fingers, nipple pinched dark and tight between thumb and forefinger. The other hand worked furiously between her legs—three fingers now, plunging in and out of her soaking pussy with wet, rhythmic slaps. Her hips rolled up to meet every thrust, clit swollen and flushed under the heel of her palm. She was grinding against her own hand like she was trying to fuck the screen itself, eyes locked on the frozen image of Lauren’s arched back and his own hips slamming forward.
Her head fell back, mouth open in a silent cry as the orgasm hit. Her whole body seized—thighs trembling violently, back arching off the chair until only her ass and shoulders touched the seat, fingers buried to the knuckles. A low, broken whimper escaped, then a fresh gush of wetness coated her hand, dripping down her wrist and onto the leather chair. She kept circling her clit through the aftershocks, hips jerking in tiny, helpless pulses.
He backed away before she could open her eyes, cock painfully hard in his boxers, mind reeling. Confused. Guilty. Aching.
He slipped back into bed, pulled the covers up, and lay there pretending to sleep, pulse hammering in his ears.
Minutes later, the door clicked. She padded in, climbed under the sheets without a word. Her body was still flushed, skin fever-hot. She pressed her ass back into his crotch, found him rigid, and let out a soft, knowing hum.
She disappeared under the covers. Warm mouth closed around him in one slow, greedy slide. She tasted everything—him, Lauren, the night still clinging to his skin. The realization made her moan around his length, the vibration shooting straight up his spine. She worked him deliberately, tongue swirling under the head, cheeks hollowing as she took him to the back of her throat, then pulled off slow, letting strings of spit connect her lips to his tip before diving back down.
She edged him mercilessly—long, languid sucks, then fast bobbing, then stopping with just the tip between her lips while he groaned and hips jerked. When he was gasping, leaking steadily against her tongue, she crawled up his body and pressed her mouth to his ear.
“I saw you,” she whispered, voice husky and wrecked. “I saw everything.”
He swallowed hard. “I know.”
She shifted higher, straddled his face, and sank down hard. No teasing, no gentleness—just raw, desperate need. Her pussy was still swollen and slick from earlier, lips parting around his tongue as she ground against him. She rode his face aggressively, hips rolling in filthy, wide circles, smearing her wetness across his chin and cheeks. He gripped her thighs hard enough to bruise, licked deep into her, sucked her clit between his lips and flicked it with the tip of his tongue until she was shaking.
When the orgasm crashed through her this time, it was brutal—her whole body locked up, a sharp cry tearing out of her throat, then a sudden hot rush; she squirted in short, pulsing waves against his lips and chin. He drank it down, tongue lapping greedily, sucking her through every tremor until she was whimpering and oversensitive.
While he was still working her through the aftershocks, she leaned forward, took him back into her mouth. She was different now—freer, bolder. One hand stroked the base in tight, twisting pulls while the other slipped lower, teasing over his balls, then pressing a single finger against his ass, circling slow before sliding inside, slow and sure, curling just enough to make his hips buck.
The dual sensation broke him. He came with a muffled groan against her pussy, hips jerking hard, spilling thick and hot down her throat in heavy pulses. She swallowed every drop, humming around him like she was savoring the taste, milking him with her mouth and finger until he was shuddering and spent.
They collapsed together, tangled and drenched in sweat and each other. Her head on his chest, his arm around her waist. The room smelled like sex and smoke and secrets finally laid bare.
They fell back asleep like that, bodies heavy, minds quiet for the first time since the fire died down.
