Standing beside my parked car, I gaze at the modest bungalow in front of me. Clad in brown sandstone blocks, it seems solid and reassuring. Within are two people I have travelled north to meet: man and wife. Actually, ‘meet’ is the wrong verb. I have come for her.

Since leaving home, I have played out every possible scenario. They are strangers, really, faces I only know from photographs and characters from their text messages. Now, the time is nigh. My libido fuelled by Viagra, I lift my overnight bag from the seat, slam the door, and, as I step onto the footway, blip the key fob and hear the locks clunk as they lock.

Just five paces carry me to the front door, and after a moment’s hesitation, I firmly rap the knocker. It seems an eternity before I hear a sound from within, then the door swings open.

“Hi, Bob.” It’s all I manage—flat, ordinary. The kind of greeting you offer a neighbour, not the man whose wife you’ve come to sleep with.

“Good day, Stan. Welcome, come in.”

Once inside, I glance around at the narrow hallway with a door to each side and a flight of stairs ahead. For a moment, I am nonplussed. It’s a bungalow, not a house. There should not be stairs.

“She’s upstairs, Stan,” Bob says, as if reading my confusion. “Waiting for you in the bedroom.”

I nod silently, then, grasping the single handrail tightly, start my climb. Halfway up there is a small landing, and the way turns sharply right. With each step, their bedroom takes shape, and through the open door, I see a pair of legs clad in dark blue slacks.

At the top, I pause and knock gently on the open door. “Hello, Louise. It’s Stan.”

Gingerly, I edge forward until I can see her fully, sitting on the bed, hands tightly clasped in her lap. She looks much prettier than in the pictures Bob sent me. Her round face is framed with a short, blonde perm, and she wears a soft white cashmere-style top that clings gently to her ample bust. The navy-blue slacks that I saw as I climbed the stairs complete her ensemble. Between her palms, I see a white handkerchief balled tight, a sign of inward tension.

I glance around the room, compact with barely a margin around the bed. It’s tucked into the roof space, the ceiling sloping down in line with the roof above.

Louise looks up at me, her eyes wide, her mouth moving silently, until finally she speaks hesitatingly, “Hello, Stan.”

I place my bag on the floor and sit beside her, half-turned, so I see Louise in profile. Her hands are still clenched around the handkerchief. I lay my hand over hers.

“Louise, I’m just as nervous as you are.” She turns and looks into my eyes. “Perhaps more than you.”

A smile lights up her face, and she seems to soften. “If you don’t want to go ahead,” I add, “I’ll understand.”

“Thank you so much, Stan; you’re a gentleman. I do want to. I want to make love with you.”

I lift my arm and let it settle across Louise’s shoulders, drawing her gently towards me. My lips brush her cheek, warm and faintly scented, and I softly kiss her warm skin. Then, I gently turn her head, guiding until our lips meet, tentative at first, and then deepening as we begin to move together, slowly, into something shared.

 Louise’s breath catches slightly as our kiss breaks. Her eyes linger on mine, searching for reassurance, for something unspoken. I keep my hand on her cheek, thumb brushing the soft curve beneath her eye.

“I wasn’t sure I’d go through with this,” she says quietly, almost to herself. “But now you’re here…”

Her voice trails off, and I nod, not needing her to finish. The room feels smaller now, more intimate. The sloped ceiling presses in, wrapping us under its closeness.

I shift slightly, easing my shoes off with a soft thud against the carpet. Her hand finds mine, and she draws it into her lap, resting it atop the crumpled handkerchief.

“I’ve never done anything like this,” she says, eyes lowered.

“Neither have I,” I reply. “But I think we’re allowed to want something.”

She looks up again, and this time her smile is steadier. “Yes,” she says. “Just this once.”

I lean in with quiet intent. Our foreheads touch. Her breath is warm against my skin. The moment stretches before we begin to move together again, slowly, deliberately, discovering each other in real time.

Our kiss is long and languid, gentle probing and flicking while drinking in the taste and aroma of one another. When we break, I whisper, “This is beautiful, Louise, but I think Bob is expecting us to join him downstairs.”

Her face blooms into a broad smile, radiant and unguarded, and her happiness melts my heart.

“Oh, Stan,” she says, almost laughing, “I’d forgotten him. You’ve worked some special magic on me.”

I rise, then unbutton my shirt and pull it off, letting it flutter to the floor, before releasing my trousers and stepping out of them. In no more than a pair of boxer shorts, I wait, exposed, for her reaction.

She lifts a hand, delicate and curious, and traces the rim of my navel with a fingertip, then stands beside me, peels the sweater over her head and slides her slacks down her legs.

I glance down, seeing a white bra cupping her full boobs and, below, a pair of modest white briefs – granny style for sure – but intensely erotic to me. Two of Louise’s fingers touch beneath my chin and lift my gaze until our eyes lock.

“It’s for you to take off the rest,” she says, voice low, “but not until we are with Bob.”

Then she leans in, lips brushing mine again, and we move together—bodies pressed close, arms wrapped tight, the kiss deepening with shared intent. There’s no rush now, only the slow unfolding of something special, something mutual.

We linger in the embrace a moment longer, lips parted but still close, breath mingling. Then Louise steps back, her fingers trailing down my arm, across my belly and down the front of my boxers. Her fingers wrap around my erect shaft for a moment before she turns toward the door.

She catches my eye and smiles—not the broad grin from earlier, but something softer, more intimate.

We leave the bedroom, Louise leading, descending the narrow staircase in silence. At each step the shape of her buttocks shifts beneath her knickers, and the tent in my shorts grows more pronounced. Each step carries us closer to Bob and to whatever this evening will bring.

At the halfway landing, Louise reaches up for my hand. Her grip is firm, not for balance but for reassurance. I squeeze back.

When we reach the hallway, the door to the lounge is ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling across the carpet. From within, I hear the faint clink of glass and the low hum of some unobtrusive music.

Louise pauses just outside the door, turns to me, and whispers, “Ready, Stan?”

I nod. “As I’ll ever be.”

She pushes the door open, and we step inside.

The room is compact and homely. A sofa lines the wall to our left; a television rests beneath a window to the right. In the corner, a standard lamp sheds a soft glow, the only light in the room. Ahead, in an armchair, Bob sits quietly, cradling a tumbler of water. He’s unchanged, still dressed in the blue jeans and tee shirt that he wore when he greeted me at the door.

Bob has invited me to screw his wife, not as a voyeur or desire for humiliation. No ordinary cuckold, he is a man with only one functioning sex organ – his brain. He loves Louise deeply and unselfishly, but surgery has robbed him of the ability to pleasure her, and this is his way of giving her what he no longer can.

I stand behind Louise, looking over her shoulder at Bob. He gives a gentle nod to us, his acceptance and consent for what is to follow.

Lightly, I press on her shoulders, signalling Louise to turn. As she pivots, I turn to meet and face her, with me looking towards the sofa. I really don’t want Bob in my line of sight, not now as we start to play.

Louise’s arms wrap around my neck, drawing me close, and I lower my face to meet her proffered kiss. Her mouth opens, inviting, and then our tongues meet, twirling softly in her mouth. My hands rise, fingers tracing delicate patterns across her back until I find her bra clasp, and with practised ease, slide the hooks apart.

I sense the release as it loosens, and her full breasts push into my chest. She releases her grip on my neck, and I slide the straps down her arms until they fall between us.

Her skin glows in the lamplight, soft and warm. Her breasts rise between us, nipples taut with anticipation. I cup them gently, thumbs brushing across each peak, and lean in to kiss her again—deeper this time, with everything unspoken between us.

When we break the kiss, the only sound is our passionate breathing. Her hands rest on my arms while one hand drifts down. I slip my fingers under the hem of her knickers and push on, slipping across the thick thatch of her pubes, then over the cliff edge of her mound until I feel the wetness of her sex.

My fingers explore and gently prise her lips apart, then slip inside to pull back until I feel the hardness of her clit. Louise gasps while my finger slides up and down the little shaft. Her arms encircle my waist, pulling our bodies together.

“Don’t stop, I’m on fire,” she whispers. Her head is resting against my shoulder while little shudders wrack her body and a stream of moans and whimpers escape her lips.

Louise’s ragged voice urges me on. “Faster, harder,” her words are taut and desperate.

Gradually, I increase the pressure of my finger on her bud and feel her body react, hips jerking with every movement I make. Her fingers dig deeply into my back.

Her breath hitches again, but she doesn’t speak—just holds on. I have forgotten Bob sitting nearby—it’s just the two of us, united by the pressure and heat of passion.

Her breath comes in ragged bursts, warm against my neck. "Oh. God. It feels like...” Her words trail off into a long, soft moan.

"Harder, Stan. Crush it." Her voice is raw, almost unrecognisable.

I sense Louise is losing control of her movements just before a shudder ripples through her, sudden and violent. She gasps for a suspended moment before collapsing against me.

"There..." she breathes, trembling.

Still panting, she clings to me as I pull my hand up until the waistband is between my thumb and finger, and I gently tug at the garment until it slips down her legs.

Louise removes my shorts in the same way, and for the first time, we are both completely naked together. Her hand slips between us, and she grasps my erect shaft firmly, stroking it gently as our mouths touch and we kiss passionately again.

I don’t want the kiss to end. The feeling of her hand gently working my cock is so nice. My hands stroke her buttocks, squeezing and kneading the soft flesh while beautiful feelings spread out from my loins.

She lifts off my lips, and we stare deep into each other’s eyes. Her panting breaths play on my face.

I lift my hands to cradle her cheeks and say, “Louise, kneel down, and lay your head and arms on the sofa. It is time.”

Louise’s eyes search my face. "What do you mean by time?" she whispers, her breath warm against your palms.

I say, "It is time for you to submit, time for my cock to slip inside you. Kneel for me to take you from behind. You want this, you need it, and Bob wants you to do it."

Louise turns and kneels, settling her upper body into the sofa cushions, legs apart, and her fleshy buttocks turned up, inviting me to take her. My fingers hover near the small of her back, feeling her warmth radiating on me.

I kneel, the worn carpet rough beneath my knees. Louise’s breath hitches as she presses her face deeper into the sofa’s faded cloth.

"Don’t make me wait," she murmurs, the words muffled in the folds of the cushions. Her hips lift slightly, and my hands settle on the swell of her buttocks as I guide myself between her trembling thighs.

"Louise," I start, but she cuts me off with a sharp exhale.

"Don’t talk, Stan. Just do it." Her knuckles whiten as she grips the cushion edge, and I realise this is much more significant to her than kissing and touching. This is the moment when she becomes unfaithful, a married woman giving herself to another man. Bob’s consent means nothing now and cannot quell the turmoil inside her head.

She gasps as I push forward, my hand holding my shaft, wiggling the tip around in her wet pussy, seeking the entrance I need to find. Suddenly, I feel her surround me, and I release my shaft as I glide inside her tunnel.

"Deeper," she demands, her voice a low rasp. "I want to feel it." I oblige, driving in, the slick friction drawing a groan from us both. Her body arches, meeting each thrust with a roll of her hips. Sweat beads on my brow, the only sound now the ragged rhythm of our breathing and the soft, wet slap of skin against skin.

Panting, Louise twists her head to glance back at me, her eyes dark and unfocused. A strand of hair clings to her damp brow.

"Getting what you want, Stan?" Her words are thick, almost slurred with pleasure. I grip her hips tighter, pulling her harder against me, and she cries out—a sound that dissolves into a shuddering moan. Beneath my hands, her muscles tremble, her skin flushed and hot.

The rhythm of penetration becomes punishing. I can feel her clenching around my cock, her thighs slick with sweat and the wetness between them.

"Yes—fuck—" she gasps, her upper body lifts, taut as a bowstring, as her fingernails scrape frantically against the cushion.

Her climax hits like a tremor—a violent shudder that ripples through her from shoulders to calves. She buries her scream in the cushion, muffling it to a choked sob.

"Don't stop," she begs, her voice raw. "Not yet." Her hand snakes back, fingers digging into my thigh, anchoring me in her.

My thrusts turn savage, each one driving the air from her lungs in ragged gasps. The sofa’s frame creaks louder, a sharp crack echoing as one leg splinters beneath the strain. Louise doesn’t notice. Her eyes roll back, unfocused, saliva smearing the velvet where her cheek is pressed.

"Yours," she slurs, the word thick and possessive. "I’m yours."

My rhythm falters as she grinds back, demanding more, her body a furnace of desire. I can feel my own release rising, hot and urgent, deep in my gut. The room narrows to the slap of flesh and her choked whimpers.

"Inside," Louise demands, her voice guttural. "Fill me. Now."

She arches violently, forcing me deeper still. Her demand leaves no room for refusal. I drive into her one final time. A low groan escapes from my throat as I spill into her.

She collapses forward, panting into the cushion. Her body continues to pulse around me, milking the last shuddering drops.

"So good," she breathes, the word thick with satisfaction.

I ease back, and my softening cock slips free. A trickle of fluid leaks down her inner thigh, glistening in the dim light. Louise shifts, wincing as she pushes herself up onto her elbows. The sofa groans, its fractured leg splayed at an angle. She glances back at me, a slow, possessive smile spreading across her flushed face.

"Made a mess," she murmurs, not sounding displeased. She drags her fingers between her thighs, then holds them up, examining her hand with hooded eyes, before extending her arm to the side, towards Bob.

I glance over and watch his hand stretch out and close over her slimy fingers. Louise’s gaze is fixed on her husband, and something deep passes between them. “I love you,” she murmurs softly.

“Love you, Beezie.”

For a few seconds, I feel like an outsider, seeing something so intimate and private, and I understand the power behind Bob’s invitation, the power of absolute love.

._.