“Ooooh, Dane!” she squeals. “Yes, just like that!”
He growls and his blue eyes gleam.
“You like it in your kitty, Amelia? Is this what you’ve been craving?”
“Yes, yes!” she pants, her words muffled as her swollen folds stretch around his length. “Ooh, it feels so good!”
Dane’s expression grows even more taut, and he pushes that length deep inside her depths, the thick rod disappearing inch by inch as I watch with my mouth open. Holy cow, how is it even possible? He must be ten inches at least, and yet as I watch, his wife takes it all. She wriggles a bit, as if in discomfort, but there’s no way she’s going anywhere. She’s in a headstand, for crying out loud, so she’s stuck good and tight on that massive rod.
Dane’s expression grows even more intense as he edges in further, but then he stops. Or more accurately, the penetration stops because there’s just no way for it to go in further.
“You comfortable, Amelia?” he growls, gripping his wife’s thighs so that they stay wide for him.
“Unnnh,” is her only reply. “I’m okay.”
“Good,” he grunts. “Because now we’re ready for the final scene.”
With that, Dane begins a steady rhythm. He keeps dipping his member into her swollen twat, again and again, while coaxing her to release. Finally, the gorgeous man reaches one hand forward and plays with her hard nub while giving her the deep pound. With that, Mrs. Jones comes undone. I watch with amazed eyes as her legs straighten for a moment, the toes pointing hard, and then she lets out a huge squeal as her pussy folds convulse.
“Ooooh!” she screams. “Oh god, Dane, it’s SO GOOD!”
But Mr. Jones doesn’t come in her. Instead, his thrusts grow with increasing force and depth, even as the muscles on his chest tighten. Then at the last moment, he pulls out and spurts all over her creaming cunt, the white batter spraying over her hole and coating the insides of her thighs.
“Fuck!” he roars. “Oh shit!”
But then, I get the shock of my life because as his hose pumps and drains itself, suddenly, the handsome man looks up and meets my eyes. Oh shit, does he see me here? Immediately, I duck down below the windowsill, my cheeks pink and breathing hard. He just caught me! As the roars and moans from inside continue, I scrabble away on my hands and knees, trying to get out of there as quick as possible.
But something stays with me, and that’s the memory of Dane Jones smiling as he looked into my eyes. Can it be? Did he want me to be there? Was he titillated by the thought of a curvy young woman staring at him and his wife while they did it? Holy cow. It can’t be … but it is.
2
Dane
“Here you go,” says Amelia, tossing the papers onto the kitchen counter. “It was nice, but it’s time that we finished this, once and for all.”
I stare at my wife. Or should I say ex-wife? After all, once these divorce papers are signed, we’ll be done with one another, forever.
It’s a little sad, come to think of it. Amelia and I have been together since freshman year of college, which was about twelve years ago. Back then, we fell head over heels in love; she with the handsome, strapping young jock, and me with the pretty blonde with the sweet smile and nerdy glasses.
Life progressed as you might expect it to. We were together for all four years of college, and after graduation, we tied the knot with family and friends in attendance. She was beautiful in her white wedding dress with a wreath of flowers in her hair and a gentle way about her.
But now, Amelia’s different. She’s still beautiful, but she’s hard. Her beauty has taken on a glassy effect, and it’s a little scary sometimes, to be honest. She’s still slim, but that blonde hair is now highlighted within an inch of its life, and her blue eyes often look like impenetrable marbles to me. Sometimes, I try to initiate small talk, but more often than not, she stops the conversation in its tracks.
“Dane, I’m busy,” she’ll say in a short voice. “Not now.”
It’s not like I was asking her for sex, although we don’t have much of that now either. It’s more that I was trying to re-kindle the intimacy in our relationship. She’s supposed to be my soulmate, and yet I have no idea what goes on in her head anymore.
So yeah, the last two years have been hell. I’m married to an ice princess who seems to place more emphasis on work than anything else. I get it. She’s a professor at our local community college and just got tenure last year. But still. It seems foolish to sacrifice your marriage on the altar of academia. After all, are those books going to keep her warm at night? Or the scholarly articles? Or the endless faculty meetings?
To be honest, I suspect that my wife’s been having an affair, although I have no proof. Even worse, I suspect that it’s with an older professor at the college who’s in her department. Gerry Ludlum is in his sixties, and he looks like your regular, rumpled professor with his tweed jackets and brown scuffed shoes. He’s pretty unimpressive in my opinion, but I guess Amelia finds him attractive. Maybe it’s his “incredible intellect” and “awe-inducing conversation.” Hardly. It’s more that somehow we’ve just lost our spark, leading to this divorce.
I glance at her.
“So after that last minute friendly-fuck, you still want this, don’t you?”
Amelia yanks the belt of her silk robe even tighter around her narrow waist.
“Please Dane,” she says tiredly. “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be. We agreed to this divorce months ago. We’ve been living like roommates ever since, and yes, that was just a last-minute nookie that didn’t mean anything. I mean, it felt good but there was no emotional connection.”
I let out a snort. There was no emotional connection because Amelia hasn’t given a flying fuck about our relationship in years. She’s too obsessed with her career and that geriatric-looking Gerry at the university with his smoking pipes and stained shirts. What does she see in him? I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.
Leaning down, I sign my name on the dotted line, and then flip a few pages to sign again. Then I sign again, this time on the last page. I guess a divorce is complicated and it takes a couple signatures to complete the packet. But at least it’s done now.
“Okay,” I say in a harsh voice. “You’re no longer Mrs. Jones.”
Amelia rolls her eyes.
“I was never Mrs. Jones,” she says in a haughty voice. “You know I never changed my name legally and have always professionally been referred to as Ms. Tinsley.”
I nod.
“Your maiden name suits you. And it suits me just fine too.”
She rolls her eyes.
“I have no idea what that even means, Dane. Don’t make this harder than it has to be. After all, you have your goals and I have mine. They’re no longer compatible, and this is for the best. I realize you didn’t want to be divorced at age thirty, but trust me, neither did I. Life sometimes just leads us in different directions.”
I stare at her. Does she even hear herself? I did so much to support this woman, including working overtime while she got her Ph.D., and putting food on the table as she went onto a years-long postdoc. In fact, she only just got this job at the community college, and it’s the first real job she’s ever had. Her lack of appreciation astonishes me.
Yet, as crazy as it sounds, I was willing to overlook all that if she would give me a child. That’s the straw that broke the camel’s back in our relationship. When I brought up the idea of starting a family, Amelia drew back in horror.
“What?” she sputtered as we sat at the kitchen table. “You can’t be serious.” This was during her post-doc, so we were living a frugal student lifestyle in a cramped apartment with linoleum counters and hand-me-down furniture.
“I am serious,” I said in a tight voice, gesturing to our living room. “I know we don’t have much right now, but we could put the baby’s crib in that corner,” I said, pointing to a space by the couch. “And in the beginning, he or she could even sleep in our bed.”<
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Amelia squinted, her mouth open, as she stared at me.
“Dane, you can’t be serious. I’m still studying,” she said.
“No, you’re done studying,” I said, my voice firm. “You’re doing your post-doc now, so there aren’t classes, so to say. You’re doing research and in charge of your own schedule. You can schedule a baby in there.”
“Yes, but it would be difficult!” she gasped, her blonde hair held back in a severe ponytail. “I mean, I work a ton of hours on my research, and you work a ton of hours too at your job. Even if we had money, how would we raise a child? What kind of support would we provide for a baby?”
I grimaced.
“Although it may shock you to hear this, plenty of people with less have children. People at the border, who are undocumented immigrants, manage to have children. People in Syria, who live in a war zone, manage to have large families in fact. So it can be done, with a little spit and shoeshine.”
But Amelia just throws me a disgusted look.
“Dane you’re out of your mind. You’re literally comparing us to war zone refugees and undocumented immigrants. Do you hear yourself? They can’t provide for their kids, and their children will likely be stuck in poverty their entire lives. Is that what you’d want for a baby?”
This time, I roll my eyes.
“No, of course not. I’m just saying that we’re not them. We both have college degrees, and I have a full-time job. Soon, you will too so we’ll have two solid salaries. It’s enough to raise a child with. Plus, we’re getting older Amelia. We’re fucking thirty years old now! How much longer are we going to wait? Until your eggs dry up?”
She shot me a frigid smile then.
“My eggs are nowhere near drying up, I assure you,” she said in a cold tone.
But that’s where I begged to differ.
“Female fertility peaks at age twenty-three,” I said in an equally cold tone. “You’re already seven years past that, and frankly, I’m getting tired of waiting. Why are you so hesitant? There’s never a “right” time to have a baby. You’ll never be “fully prepared.” So why not now?”
Amelia merely shut her book with a loud bang and stood up.
“I’m not talking with you about this anymore,” she said in a clipped tone. “I’m not ready to have a baby and that’s that.”
I sat there at the kitchen counter, stunned, as she stalked out and locked herself in our bedroom. Was my wife serious? Was she refusing to talk, as if her decision was the end all-be all? There are two people in this relationship, and I wasn’t going to let her get the last word in just like that.
But Amelia eventually got the final laugh. That encounter was two years ago, and our relationship only went downhill from there. My attempts to bring up the topic were shut down immediately, and pretty soon we didn’t kiss or hold hands anymore. We didn’t talk about anything really, and were basically two ships passing in the night between our two very different schedules.
Thus, the divorce proceedings. My wife initiated them about six months ago. It was bad timing because we’d put an offer in on a house in the burbs by then, and the offer was accepted at around the same time the divorce was initiated. But what can you do? Some things just aren’t mean to be. As a result, we moved to this homey suburb, knowing we were getting a divorce. Frankly, I was beaten down at that point. It was easier to go with the flow, and I honestly didn’t care that much anymore. As a result, we’ve never occupied the same sleeping space in this house. Instead, I moved straight into the guest bedroom while Amelia took the larger master. No one was crying any crocodile tears.
So yes, I suppose we’re divorced now despite living in the same house. With a satisfied smile, Amelia gathers the papers and shuffles them into a neat pile on the table.
“Thanks Dane. I’m sad about this too, but you just have to go where life takes you right? I’ll be out of your hair by next week, I promise. You’ll have this place to yourself.”
I lift an eyebrow at her. This was news to me.
“Oh really? Where are you going?”
My ex-wife goes red and yanks the tie on her silk robe even tighter.
“There’s some faculty housing on campus,” she lies while biting her lip. “I’m going to stay there.”
Yeah, right. It’s more like she’s going to move straight into Professor Gerry’s bedroom. Well, good riddance. At this point, I was completely done with the cold-hearted bitch.
“Great,” I say carelessly. “I’ll see you around then,” I utter over my shoulder while stalking back to my room.
Amelia doesn’t even say anything. She merely shrugs and goes back to her room as well, probably to pack her stuff.
Once I’m alone in the darkness of my room, I sit on the bed and let my shoulders slump. Fuck. That was much-needed, but it still doesn’t make things any easier. A divorce is a divorce, and I never in my wildest dreams thought I’d be divorced at thirty. I thought I’d have two kids by now, with a loving wife by my side, as well as a dog and a cat prancing around the house. What the hell went wrong?
But then, my mind whirs and a small smile creeps onto my face. There was that girl from our neighborhood who’s been giving me the hairy eyeball. Okay, maybe “hairy eyeball” isn’t the right way to describe it. More like she’s been staring at me like I’m a cool drink of water that she desperately needs after walking fifty miles through the desert. She’s cute and round, with a big bottom and even bigger breasts. Even more, I caught her looking through the window as I pounded Amelia for the final time, and the new girl liked what she saw.
Maybe with my divorce, it’s time to get to know this mystery girl. After all, I’m a single man now, and as free as a bird. The Ice Queen is gone, and I’d like to meet a curvy, gorgeous girl who’s warm, wet, and willing.
3
Margot
It’s the night of our neighborhood block party, and I check my appearance in my mirror nervously. Oh my god, are Dane and Amelia Jones going to be there? Of course they are. This is their official introduction to the neighborhood after moving in, so they’ll probably be the center of attention, come to think of it.
Plus, I know that Dane saw me making love to his wife. Okay, making love probably isn’t the right expression given that what I saw was filthy and nasty in all the right ways. But still, I loved it. In fact, I was a little jealous that it was that skinny blonde getting the pound and not me. I wish it were me, although I’ve never done a headstand in my life.
But no matter. Dane Jones will be there, and there will probably be no way for me to avoid him. If he brings it up, I’m going to have to pretend like I have no idea what he’s talking about, and laugh it off as a mistake. At the very least, I can look pretty while I’m doing that.
I survey myself in the mirror. These jeans hug my butt and squeeze it in, although there’s no way my bottom will ever look small. The curves are round and huge, but at least the tight material also emphasizes my small hips. My boobs are positioned in a purple scoopneck tee that skims my curves without being overly suggestive. They too are gigantic, but what’s a girl to do? I’ve considered breast reduction surgery before, but always decided against it. Elective surgery is scary to me because who wants to go under the knife sheerly for aesthetic purposes? I’ve never had back pains or anything like that, and to be honest, my big boobs get me a lot of male attention sometimes.
Turning to my dog, I shake a finger at him.
“You be good, okay Buster?” I admonish. “Mommy will be gone for a few hours, but you stay put and be a good dog okay?”
My golden retriever smiles at me and thumps his tail on the floor loudly.
“Okay. Your water is where it always is, and I promise there will be treats when I get back. Salmon-flavored baked whoopies. Does that sound good?”
At the word salmon, I swear Buster’s tail gets even more enthusiastic. Most times, I think Buster’s IQ is a bit below the doggie average, but some days, I’m not so sure. Maybe he just wants m
e to think he’s dumb so that I don’t get incensed whenever he does something he knows he shouldn’t.
I shake my head while heading for the door. Dang. I’m getting into this animal psychology shit too much. Buster is a dog. Period. He doesn’t think about anything except chasing squirrels and his next meal.
With that, I head down the block to where the party’s being held. It’s mid-afternoon and my neighbors have done a great job with the decorations. Folding tables are set up with heaps of food on each one, and there are balloons tied to lamp posts, giving the block party a festive feel. Kids run around, squealing and laughing, and I see they’ve even set up several kids’ games like hopscotch, a water balloon toss, and some game with a bunch of bouncing balls. It’s cool that the kids are outdoors and playing happily. You hear so much about how children are addicted to their phones now, so it’s good to see that at least today, it’s not true.
I stroll over, smiling at Jane McKenna, who’s in the process of wrangling her two year old daughter Jilly.
“Jilly, please,” Jane says, pulling firmly at her daughter’s hand. “You can’t do that. We need to save them for the water balloon toss, so you can’t keep throwing them on the ground. Hey Margot, how are you?”
I see from several round wet splotches that Jilly has probably already smashed quite a few water balloons on the pavement. The four-year-old is so cute with her curly blonde hair and big blue eyes, even if right now, she’s currently struggling to get away from her mom’s hold. I decide to step in.
“Here Jilly,” I say. “How about a water balloon toss with your Aunt Margot? Would you like that?” I ask, grabbing a green balloon from the bin.
Jilly squeals and hops up and down from one foot to another.
“Yes, I like!” she giggles. “Toss me the balloon!”
Jane sighs and lets go of her daughter with a smile.
My Neighbor's Husband Page 2
