“I’m worried about Simon,” said Greg, gazing out of our kitchen window. He was looking across the two gardens that separated us from our neighbour’s house on this grey Tuesday afternoon in mid-November.

I thought I knew why, since we’d just returned from the funeral for Simon’s wife, Liz. But I was interested to hear Greg’s take on his new situation, so I asked anyway. “Why’s that, my love?”

“He’s been such a devoted husband, caring for her all these years. I can’t imagine what he’ll do now she’s gone. They don’t have any family nearby, and I don’t think he has many friends or hobbies. I think he’ll struggle to find a purpose, now he hasn’t got Liz to look after.”

Greg’s words echoed my own concerns. We had been friends with Simon and Liz, whose house backed on to ours, ever since we’d moved in seven years ago. And we’d grown closer over the past two, as her condition worsened. Motor neurone disease is an awful affliction. It had been hard to watch Liz steadily deteriorate from hobbling about on a stick, to crutches and then into a wheelchair. Simon had dutifully provided a supportive arm while he could, then he’d wheeled her around their lawn every day the weather allowed, letting her sniff the roses and listen to the birds sing.

I had sent a hot meal across the gardens every Sunday these past few months, and held Liz’s hand while we talked about happier days whenever time permitted. Greg had taken Simon to the local pub for a pint and a chat on a couple of occasions, but they had struggled to find much to talk about. Greg’s police work and Simon’s insurance business shared little common ground.

“I think you’re right,” I said, as I took off my dark navy jacket and laid it over a chair arm. I’d struggled to find suitable clothes for the funeral as they are rare events in our lives, thank goodness. I walked over to join Greg at the sink, and peered through the bare branches. Simon’s kitchen window was a distant smudge of light as dusk was deepening, but clearly visible with the leaves all fallen from the single poplar tree. “So… what do you think we can do to help?"

“I’m not sure I can do much,” he said, slipping an arm around my waist and giving me a gentle squeeze. “But I suspect you could find a way to cheer him up… if you wanted to.”

“I don’t know what you mean!” I said to Greg’s smiling reflection in the glass, knowing full well what he meant. “He must be sixty, Greg! And as far as I can tell, he’s never had a single naughty thought in his entire life!”

“All the more reason, then,” he said, moving behind me and leaning his hips against my backside, squashing me gently against the stainless steel sink. Greg brought his hands up to cup my breasts through my dark grey silk blouse, pinching and rolling my nipples through the material. It was sending mini shockwaves to my brain and pussy and making me gasp.

“Greg! Stop it!” I hissed, wanting him to continue. “What if somebody sees us?”

“There’s only Simon out there,” he said. “And he could do with a thrill.” I could feel his erection through his suit trousers, pressing against me, sliding between my bum cheeks. He purred into my ear, “Why not give him a reason to live… put a spark back into his life? You know you enjoy a challenge.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! I can’t just… Ooh!” Greg’s hands had moved from my chest down to my hips, and were now hoisting my dark grey skirt upwards, revealing my black stocking tops and suspenders. The only dark stockings I possessed that were suitable for a funeral needed suspenders and a belt to hold them up. Greg had been playing with my suspender buttons throughout the service, tweaking them with his fingertips through my skirt, pulling them and letting them snap back against my thigh. He knew it drove me wild and now the cool afternoon air reached my already damp panties and chilled my overheated pussy.

It didn’t stay chilled for long. As my panties were pulled down to my ankles I felt his hot tongue stroke upwards between my bum cheeks.

“Oh, God!” I groaned, stepping out of the panties and moving my legs apart. Greg’s hand on my back urged me to bend forward over the sink, then he was prizing my lips open with his thumbs and delving into my wetness, lapping and sucking at the juices gathered there.

Now, if this seems like inappropriate behaviour from caring neighbours in a polite part of suburbia I should perhaps explain: Greg and I have lived together for ten years, although we are not married, which isn’t so unusual these days. What is unusual, according to my friends, is his total acceptance of my need to share my love with others.

Greg has no problem with my girlfriends coming to stay and sharing our bed, especially as he gets to be intimate with them quite often too. And he enjoys the holidays we spend with a married couple who are close friends. He agrees that sharing partners is fun and keeps our sex lives simmering near the boil. The key ingredient is there are never any secrets between us; we share all the details of every horny encounter, and thus there is no need or excuse for jealousy.

Consequently, his suggesting I make a pass at our neighbour wasn’t a total surprise, even if it was just a joke, a tease to make me even hornier than I already was. And it was working.

“Oh God… mmm… don’t stop,” I mumbled as his licking delved deeper and my legs began to shake.

So he promptly stopped.

“Ohhh!” I moaned in disappointment. I looked over my shoulder to see him hopping around trying to get his suit trousers off. Very sensible, if he was planning what I hoped he was.

“Aaaah!” I gasped as he put that plan into action, grabbing my hips and thrusting his thick cock straight up my vagina in one go. To my surprise he held me there, both of us on tiptoe and holding our breath, for several thumping heartbeats until he whispered in my ear.

“See,” he hissed, “that’s what happens to bad girls who tease their men during a funeral service.”

I think he was referring to me ‘accidentally’ brushing my knuckles against his erection every time we sat down or stood up. Served him right for playing with my suspenders, I thought.

“So… what happens to good girls then?” I squeaked, feeling as though I’d been impaled on a fence post.

“Good girls…” he said, reaching between me and the sink with his right hand and finding my clitoris, “good girls get to cum first.”

He started strumming my clit with his fingers like he was playing a banjo. And a few seconds of that was all it took for me to start singing like a soprano.

“Oooh fuuuck!” I squealed as my pussy started to spasm. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, ahhh FUUU….” I ran out of breath before I could finish my aria, my legs twitching with a monster orgasm while I hung on to the mixer tap for dear life.

He finally slowed his strumming to a gentle circular rubbing, and eased me back down to the floor. My legs were still shaking with the aftershocks, and he was still balls-deep in my pussy, but at least we had both started breathing again.

“Right,” he growled, “my turn.”

Both hands returned to my hips, his fingers curling around my hip bones to hold me steady as he slowly slid back until only the tip of his penis was left inside me. Then, just as slowly, he slid it all the way back in.

Over the next couple of minutes, he continued his deliciously slow pumping in and out, keeping me hovering on the verge of another orgasm, without quite pushing me over the edge. Then his thrusts started to develop a more urgent, piston-like quality, until he was slamming into me like a pile-driver, his balls slapping against my clit each time.

I was now cumming non-stop and thought I might pass out from too much pleasure, but trapped against the sink, there was nothing I could do but hang on and wait for the explosion. Finally he pushed deep again, held himself there and grunted as his cock pulsed and throbbed, and his semen spurted inside me over and over and over.

I studied our reflections in the kitchen window. Greg's eyes were closed, his head tilted back, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed and tried to catch his breath. My face was flushed, hair messed up and eyes glowing, a smile spreading across my red lips. We were a work of art, if ever I saw one.