Jen winced as the floorboards creaked under her feet. Michael was downstairs in the study, tapping away on his laptop, and she knew he’d have music playing through his headphones as he worked through the night, but she worried about waking Pete. The spare room was uncomfortable enough to begin with, with its fold-out sofa bed and draughty window; further challenging their guest’s ability to sleep by clomping across the landing to the bathroom felt like distinctly inhospitable behaviour.
Jen still wasn’t sure what to make of Pete. He seemed friendly enough, but there was a distance in his eyes, and he rarely sat with them in the evenings, preferring instead to slouch into the tatty old armchair out on the porch and swig from the beer bottles Michael tossed him periodically through the kitchen window. He’d paid for the three weeks up front though, and Jen didn’t believe in turning down good money just to avoid a bit of social awkwardness.
The toilet flushed – why did everything in the house have to be so damn loud?! – and Jen flipped the lid down wearily. A nocturnal husband wasn’t so bad most of the time, but there were nights when she wished he’d go to bed at the same time as she did, so there was someone to snuggle up against after 2 am trips to the bathroom. Someone to go downstairs and fill her water bottle each time it ran dry. Someone to roll over and slide a hand between her legs when…
Jen angrily pushed the thought out of her head. She knew she’d struggle to get back to sleep anyway, without reaching for her vibrator and starting something she’d only want Michael to come upstairs and finish. She picked up the bottle from the bedside table and gave it a rueful shake. Laziness battled thirst, and she considered switching on her phone to message Michael, in the hope he’d bring her a fresh bottle; as she reached for it though, her hand missed her own mobile and knocked against his, sending it skittering onto the floor and quickly making her mind up for her.
The stair runner beneath her feet muffled Jen’s footsteps as she padded down to the kitchen. Cool air crept underneath her nightshirt, tickling the soft wisps of hair above her cunt. Her stomach clenched, and her brain noted with sleep-fuzzed detachment that she was slick and hot; pulsing steadily with a slow-burning need. She glanced across the hallway towards Michael’s study. The door was closed, but pale light leaked out from under it, and Jen thought again about the comforting weight of his body; the hitch in his breathing whenever he shuddered and came inside her.
On the other side of the hall, Pete’s door was ajar. A surge of guilt hit Jen for a second time as she remembered the noise her footsteps had made. Perhaps she’d disturbed him enough that he’d gone back out to the porch to enjoy some silence under the stars; if so, she should take him tea, or even a nip of the Scotch they kept in Michael’s liquor cabinet.
Jen took a step towards the kitchen then hesitated, suddenly torn. Tea was the sensible option, but fetching the whiskey would mean going into the study, and she knew that if he saw her like that, hair tousled and nipples hard against her thin shirt, Michael would find it hard to resist setting his work aside for the night and dragging her off to bed. She summoned a brief, familiar mental image of his eyebrows knotting in mock severity, and felt sure that any exasperation he felt at being interrupted would quickly be replaced by an arousal to match her own.
Her feet pre-empted the final decision, one heel spinning till she faced the study, and propelling her towards it. Jen smiled and reached for the door handle, only registering as she did so that the breathing she could hear against the quiet of the hallway was not her own. It came from inside the room: a low moan that seemed to die as it reached her, raising the hairs on her arms with its quiet urgency.
Jen pressed her finger against the door, half expecting to feel the wood vibrate from the sigh that passed through it. She nudged it off the latch and it eased open just enough for light to stream out. As her eyes adjusted to the change, Jen tried to focus on the source of the sound.
Pete’s head was tossed so far back into the heavy green curtain that it took her several seconds to struggle past the initial, surreal image of a department store mannequin propped up on the wooden desk, being enthusiastically blown by her husband. The grunt he made each time Michael’s head bobbed down to the base of his dick was unmistakably human though, as were the fingers that twisted and flexed in the kneeling man’s hair.
Jen knew she should swing open the door and stop whatever was happening from going any further. She blinked and swallowed hard, but her feet wouldn’t move; instead it was her fingers that jammed hard between her legs, as Michael spread and splayed his hands on either side of Pete’s dick, like he was offering up a prayer as he sucked it.
With a flush, Jen remembered the evening she’d caught a glimpse of Pete slipping into the bathroom in just a towel. She’d wondered idly what sort of cock he was packing in amongst the bunched muscles and delicate ridges of his wiry frame. He’d half-turned, almost as if he sensed her presence, and she’d seen him in profile; just for a second, but that was enough to reveal the tight bulge he made in the cotton, and to send her scurrying back up the stairs in a mixture of embarrassment and slightly shocked arousal.
This time though the instinct to flee refused to kick in, and as Michael rocked back on his haunches she finally saw it properly, dark and heavy against the white of Pete’s stomach. It was so hard that her cunt ached at the sight of it, and at the thought of her husband’s mouth, hot and bruised from its fierce, swollen throb.
Jen rubbed frantically, and recalled the gentle, careful way that Michael’s tongue had flicked over her clit earlier that evening. As always, he’d been precise and softly percussive in his movements; likewise, whenever she sucked him it was done with a finesse guaranteed to make his toes curl long before she coaxed him to deep, shuddering orgasm.
The contrast with the frantic hunger she saw on Michael’s face as he leaned forward to take Pete’s thick cock deep in his throat once again was enough to make Jen gush all over the palm of her hand. She slumped against the wall, her thighs tight and shaky but determined not to buckle. Inside the study neither man gave any quarter, and Pete’s moans as he thrust up from the desk were matched by the soft hiss of air that escaped Michael’s mouth each time the head slipped back out across his lips. Jen felt a second spasm knifing through her. She squeezed her eyes shut, and opened them again in time to see Pete curl a hand around his cock, using the other to hold Michael in place on his knees.
“Yes,” she heard her husband whisper, so loud that Jen thought for a second he must be talking to her. “Yes, fucking do it. Fucking come all over me.”
Pete pumped his length with rough, jerky strokes. Jen could see the strain in his hand as it bumped up over the ridge and covered the head. He kicked a heel against the desk with a violent thud and pulled Michael closer, forcing his mouth open again. Everything seemed to blur for one agonising second, before snapping back into sharp, forensic clarity. Jen bit down on her lip to stifle a gasp, as blurred ropes of cum flew between the two men, coating Michael’s stubbled skin. He sucked in air, chest heaving and eyes wide in what seemed to her a mix of shock and uncontrolled lust. Pete’s dick still oozed cum, and he brushed it over Michael’s lips like a make-up artist, painting them once, twice, with a sticky smear.
Jen waited, unsure what else to expect. The care with which Pete nuzzled his cock against her husband’s cheek made her wonder how many times they’d played out this scene while she slept. It also fired her curiosity: what else had they done together? And why hadn’t Michael said something?
Pete reached for one of the two glasses that sat side-by-side on the desk. He raised it in a silent toast and tipped his head back, draining the contents in one long pull as Michael looked on, seemingly too exhausted to move. Jen wrenched her gaze away from Pete’s cock – still somehow hefty and solid, even resting limp against his thigh – and crept back across the hallway. She felt like she was intruding on something she didn’t yet fully understand. Perhaps answers could wait for daylight.
Bundled up in her duvet, Jen fiddled with the alarm on her mobile. She set it for 02:00 the following morning and put the phone back on the nightstand.
Perhaps answers could wait for daylight. Or perhaps some things were only understood by embracing the darkness.
Also by Exhibit A: