Through My Window

by Jayne Rylon

  Suddenly it is her I empathize with, not him. He has lost something to be sure, but she has lost more. I welcome her into my embrace, enjoying the way our bodies fit together, softness to softness. She looks into my eyes and sees my empathy, recognizes our bond.

  Before I realize what’s happened I’ve broken one of my cardinal rules. Her mouth descends, covering mine with supple lips that massage and tease rather than plunder. I reach out my tongue to lick the taste of mint from her lips. I lose myself in the exchange, pressing her to her back on the bed while I settle between her now-spread thighs.

  Our breasts press against each other. Our hard nipples dent the soft flesh of each other’s form. A ragged groan breaks into our serenity. We turn to look at the agonized face of her husband.

  “It’s always been a fantasy of mine.” He grimaces. “How ironic that when it finally happens, I can’t enjoy it.”

  His wife stiffens beneath me, some of her enjoyment lost.

  “Being unable orgasm or get totally hard doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy this.” His wife nods at my words. She squeezes my hand, encouraging me to continue. “Why don’t you take off your clothes? Lie down next to us. Relax. Kiss your wife. Hold her. Share the moment. Just because you can’t experience sex as you’ve always known it doesn’t mean these things are no longer pleasurable. Yes?”

  “Yes.” The single word cracks as he utters it. Moisture lends his eyes a touching sheen in the indirect light of my loft.

  “If something more happens, then fine. Don’t put so much pressure on yourself. Enjoy what’s there and see what happens, okay?”

  It must be okay because he begins to remove his shoes. His socks, shirt and pants follow. He’s not the most attractive man I’ve ever laid eyes on, but something about him makes him far sexier than the body he was born with. His wife agrees. She shifts below me, stroking our skin across each other, ready for the next stage of our adventure.

  I can smell the musk of her arousal and it turns me on.

  The bed shifts as her husband joins us, gathering her close to his solid trunk. She turns her face from me to greet him with a searing kiss. One hand lands on his haired chest, seeking connection with the man she loves. Watching their interaction up close is one of the most arousing things I can remember seeing.

  I adjust my position so our legs interlock. My thigh presses her steaming center, drawing a moan from deep in her throat. At the same time, I straddle her wider leg and begin to move, grinding on her in a pattern guaranteed to stoke the embers in her core.

  Only, I can’t pleasure her without doing the same to myself.

  Their kiss breaks when she gasps, writhing beneath me now.

  “She needs more.” Her husband knows as well as I do when it’s time to move on. I bet he was a phenomenal lover in his prime. I want him to be part of this. Want him to give his wife as much as he can. Otherwise, he will never obtain satisfaction.

  “Help me get ready?” His pupils dilate and he growls. A sound that thrills me. He reaches across his wife’s torso, pausing to caress her breasts, and collects the harness I’d set out. His curiosity drives him to inspect the device.

  Attached to the leather strapping, a dildo faces outward. A shorter, curved, insertable plug rides high on the interior, intended to pleasure the woman wearing the contraption. I rise onto my knees so he can fit the tip of my end to the opening of my pussy.

  He works the blunt instrument into my channel bit by bit, making my head fall back as I welcome the thick intrusion as deep as it will go. His wife moans then shifts beneath me, urging us to hurry. He buckles the flat, black leather around my waist, tightening the straps until the bullet vibrator embedded in the center tucks against my clit.

  A heavy rubber cock juts from between my legs. The weight of the appendage tugs on the segment buried inside me. I want to fuck as never before, but I hand a condom and the lube to the husband first.

  He groans as he rips open the package with his teeth as though he’s done it a million times before. The rubber is rolled down the artificial length of my cock within seconds. I wait for him to drizzle lubrication on the shaft, but he dips his fingers between my hips and his wife’s instead.

  He brings the glistening digits to his mouth and cleans her arousal from them. “She doesn’t need this.”

  The tube is dropped to the floor, forgotten.

  The man grabs hold of the strap-on more roughly than I would have. Guys have a way of knowing their limits when it comes to the hard flesh between their legs. Even I am not as bold as a fully aroused man when he touches his own cock.

  He guides me to his wife, fitting the broad, plum-shaped head to her saturated folds. The resistance of her clenched muscles drives the portion of the device inside me deeper, making me shudder and moan.

  I can’t help but push again and again until I work the strap-on inside her even as I grind myself on the solid intrusion. Soon we are both moaning and wriggling together. Her husband alternates seductive kisses at her mouth with love bites on her neck and breasts.

  When I am lodged as far as I can be in her pussy, our slick tissue is separated only by the thin panel of leather our toys are riveted to and the metal sphere it also holds. Oh God. The vibrator! This experience has me so carried away I almost forgot.

  I grab the remote from my pile of supplies and hand it to the husband. He grins when he sees what I’ve given him. The ability to control our ecstasy now lies in his grasp.

  I begin to fuck with steady strokes—slower, deeper and more gently than any man has made love to me. The motion highlights every nerve ending, caresses every pleasure point and arouses with every decadent glide. Focused on assuring our pleasure, I lose track of the husband.

  Moans and sighs fill the air. I can’t say if they’re mine or the wife’s or both. Just when I think I have to move faster or kill us both with unfulfilled longing, her stare flies to mine. I cry out with the intense rapture assaulting my clit. But as quick as it appeared, it vanishes.

  My mouth hangs open as I turn to face the husband. He now reclines with a grin worthy of the Cheshire cat, his hand idly stroking his half-hard cock. With no pressure to perform, it seems he’s able to regain some ground. His wife’s hand has meandered up his thigh. Her fingertips manipulate his shriveled scrotum, making his balls roll between her fingers.

  I’ll have to remember that trick.

  It sure as hell seems to drive her husband wild.

  When he catches us staring, he blasts us with pulses from the vibrator. The riot of sensation washes over me, shocking me back into action. I buck my hips, glad to see his wife doing the same. We fuck each other, grinding into the vibrator between us when we need more stimulation or away if it becomes too much.

  Between us, the balance is perfect.

  With the control in hand, her devious husband keeps us suspended on the brink of orgasm for longer than I can keep track. Time slips away in a haze of pleasure, surpassing anything I have known tonight. Maybe ever.

  We continue our dance, one of us leading while the other follows before our roles reverse again until—finally—the wife cries for mercy beneath me.

  “Please, please,” she cries, her body shaking. “Make me come. Fuck me harder.”

  Her gaze leaves mine, focusing only on her husband. “Make us come.”

  The buzz between us reaches a fevered pitch and neither one of us can resist his control. The soft flesh beneath me, cradling me, convulses. It jiggles and cushions my tense muscles. My hardened nipples leave an impression in her warmth and my pussy smothers the object within it as I explode.

  The husband places a hand on my back, rubbing soothing circles when I begin to come down from the peak. He kisses his wife as he drinks in her fulfillment.

  I lay shivering and spent, completely wrecked, over the beautiful, limp woman beneath me. Together we snuggle, getting comfortable as we turn our attention to the man who made our experience possible.

  I’m surprised when he kneels over us,
tall and confident, a full erection in his grip.

  I start to get to my knees, already reaching for the last condom behind me, but it’s too late.

  He bellows as his orgasm slams into him. His wife and I watch as cum arcs from the slit in head of his penis. She sighs when he paints her breasts with the pearly liquid. Line after line splatter across the mounds of her chest, decorating her in a decent imitation of a Jackson Pollock painting.

  His orgasm is impressive, unleashing months—if not years—of unsatisfied lust. And when it is complete, his wife reaches for his hip then draws him near. She laps the last drop dangling from his shrinking organ and savors the taste. The moment.

  I feel like a trespasser violating their intimate success. I avert my eyes and stir, but the wife redoubles the embrace of her arms around my shoulders. Her husband joins us in a pile of boneless limbs, soft words and lingering caresses that outlast our prescribed hour.

  When we finally rise, gather our clothes and head downstairs, I’m exhausted.

  The husband kisses my cheek then exits the tight space, waiting for his wife on the cobblestone street outside.

  “Thank you for saying what I couldn’t find words for. I think that made all the difference.” The wife leans forward to kiss me—soft, slow and sincere—before parting with a smile. “I’ll always remember you.”

  “Same here. Good luck.”

  I am many things—whore, lover, teacher, psychologist, nurse—but, above all, a woman like any other. Watching the couple depart, their bond strengthened, cemented, does my heart good. Knowing that I had a tiny part in their happiness warms my soul as much as it clenched my pussy.

  Sharing their joy is a benefit of my position I could never quantify or adequately explain to someone who has never experienced it before.

  I smile to myself as I realize they never asked my name. And that, had they wondered, I would have told them.

  To them I am not important. Not me specifically.

  The anonymity makes the encounter perfect and my night complete.

  Daybreak

  Through my window, the dawn is approaching.

  I don’t see the trampled fliers advertising women who fuck dogs on stage, the empty drug baggies or the condom wrappers littering the streets—flotsam and jetsam of another stormy night in Amsterdam—as I lock my window behind me. I choose to watch the halo building over the row houses and the elegant swans gliding along the canal in the reflection on the pane instead.

  I stretch my tired muscles as I turn toward home, prepared to crawl into bed—alone—and dream of the next time I’ll be so connected to the heartbeat of life.

  I smile at the promise of another night to come, another series of adventures.

  From the outside looking in, I know there are more lessons to be learned about myself and the world surrounding me.

  Though my window is my destiny.

  About the Author

  Jayne Rylon’s stories usually begin as a daydream in an endless business meeting. Her writing acts as a creative counterpoint to her straight-laced corporate existence. She lives in Ohio with two cats and her husband, who both inspires her fantasies and supports her careers. When she can escape her office, she loves to travel the world, avoid speeding tickets in her beloved Sky and, of course, read.

  Jayne is a member of the Romance Writers of America (RWA), the Central Ohio Fiction Writers (COFW), International Heat and Passionate Ink.

  Jayne welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.

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  Also by Jayne Rylon

  Driven

  Phoenix Incantation

  Picture Perfect

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