"A Quicky"
(apologies to The Grass Roots) 2/20/2011
© 2011 Riccardo Berra, all rights reserved
I stood at the doorway, my face burning in shame. My wife of thirty years lay in the bed with her book obscuring her face.
"Claire came over this morning looking for you. She looked incredible —a younger version of you. Messy red hair, the skintight sweats, those crazy tank tops she wears. Anyway, her phone's on the fritz so she didn't get your message that you'd be out. You know I worked all night on that story, the one that has been kicking my ass. I needed a breakthrough. I found it at about 4 a.m.."
A noncommittal "uh, huh," came from behind the bodice ripper.
"So this morning, the doorbell roused me from a deep sleep. I rushed down and opened the door. No shirt, no pants. I didn't even think what I was doing. Barely awake and definitely in no condition for company."
"You look happy to see me," Claire chirped as she brushed past me. It was then I felt how exposed I was, how far my morning boner was protruding through my boxers.
"My God, I'm sorry," I stammered.
"Well, I'm not," she laughed. Her hand lingered at the gap in my shorts where my cock jumped in a burlesque of its owner, neither of us knowing quite what to do with a visitor. You know how small our foyer is. I couldn't escape her touch even if I'd wanted to.
And I didn't want to."
And I didn't want to."
"Ah, I think he'd like to come out and play," Claire said, pulling her top down over her luscious tits. She knelt at my feet and took out my erection. I barely had time to close the door behind her. God knows the talk if a neighbor happened by and saw her on her knees with my cock between her creamy mounds.
Remember the time at Lake Morrison when she was eighteen and went into the water without a bathing suit? How her wet smock and sheer panties left nothing to the imagination? She also fucked my best man, the night before our wedding. I doubt she ever told you. The two of them in the barn caught like scared rabbits in highbeams. She knew I saw the whole thing and ever since, she's always teased me when you aren't looking.
Between her tits and her lips, I was ready to blow all over her face, but in the twisted calculations of adultery, I figured, hell, in for a penny, in for a pound. So I pulled her to her feet and hustled her into the dining room. I'm sorry about the dishes we broke as I pushed her onto the table and peeled her sweats off. Does she ever wear underwear? I guess I'd always wondered if her cunt would look and feel like yours. It did, red and bushy, wet and tight, just like you, but twenty years ago, when you were still hot for me.
I'm afraid that our pounding loosened the legs of the old table. I'll need to get that repaired."
I'm afraid that our pounding loosened the legs of the old table. I'll need to get that repaired."
"Mmm," came the reply from behind the book.
"But after Claire left, I felt guilty. So guilty that I made up my mind to tell you. I know what I did was wrong. It only happened once, well twice actually. Again on the sofa, but what I mean is just today. Never before and God, never again. I was just hoping, I hope, we can get beyond this. There's no excuse, but maybe we can recapture what we …"
The book lowered very slowly. My wife pushed her hair back and removed her earbuds; the music still tricking out of them. "You say something?" she asked.
"Your sister stopped by this morning," I replied. "She was looking for you."
"Uh huh. I know." She replaced the earphones in her ear canals and looked up at me. "I'm sorry. Was there something else?"
"No," I said, "Sorry to bother you."
Riccardo Berra, Love on the Edge, (c) 2011
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Riccardo Berra, Love on the Edge, (c) 2011
