I bet you she told you I grabbed her ass. That I made the move first. Yves, she's a fucking terrible temptress and an even worse liar. Ever since we'd met, she'd been a handful. Always dressed to show off those gorgeous tits of hers and that spankable ass. If it wasn't skin tight yoga leggings and a barely there tank top, it was a tiny dress with a plunging neckline. It's like sweatpants or jeans don't exist for her.
And then the flirting. Lingering eye contact. The way she licked her lips and looked at me. Her dunce of a husband Adam couldn't - or wouldn't - see what was going on under his nose. And Amanda, bless her heart, was so happy to have found a new friend that she wasn't paying attention to how this new friend was eye-fucking her husband every chance she got.
So yeah, I grabbed her ass. But she was asking for it in every way possible. Those denim cutoffs she wore to the music festival last year barely covered her butt cheeks. When I walked up behind her it was as if my hand had a mind of its own - before I realised what I was doing, I had reached out and squeezed it. Gently, mind you. It's like my brain just wanted to know how soft it was, how pliant. And maybe, just maybe, I wanted to see how she'd react. She'd turned and given me this look: a mix of annoyance, surprise and just a hint in those green eyes of something else.
That something else kept me up that night as I stroked myself, as stealthily as I could, on my side of the bed, trying not to wake Amanda.
And once I'd touched her, all I could think about was doing it again.
Then Halloween happened, and somehow, that ass was on display again. Such a tiny dress. Such delicate lace panties. I just had to. My hand - and my dick - they had their own agenda. Me, I was just along for the ride. The moment passed, and we were suddenly back at the table, as if nothing had happened. All I knew was that I needed more.
Before I knew it, we were home, and everyone had gone to bed. Amanda, who had so many beers she'd passed out without even taking off her makeup or clothes. Adam, who I could hear snoring away in the guest room. But where was Yves?
I heard soft footsteps in the kitchen downstairs, and the sound of a tap running. That must be her. Then the footsteps traced a path to the living room, and the squeak of the springs told me Yves must have settled in on the couch for the night. A quiet settled over the house.
Come on, Joe, I told myself. Just go to sleep. There'll be hell to pay in the morning anyway, once Amanda wakes up with a hangover. But my mind kept going back to that look she gave me. Those green eyes. That soft, soft brush against her ass. My cock was nowhere near going to sleep. Its rigid length strained uncomfortably against my boxers.
Do it again. That's what she'd said. She had liked it. She had wanted more. I reached down and pulled out my growing member - it wasn't the biggest I'd ever seen, but I knew it was way longer the average, and it was thick. Amanda complained incessantly about how it was too big, how it hurt her to blow me, how sore she got from having sex. No matter how much lube I used, or how much foreplay we had, she never quite got used to my size. As a result, we didn't have as much sex as I wanted. And now, my dick wanted some action.
Precum was already oozing from the tip as I began to stroke my shaft, gently. I wanted a little lotion tonight, so I got up from my bed to head to the bathroom. As neared my bedroom door, I heard the faintest whimper. What was that? Who was that? Yves? Was she still awake?
Curious, I pulled on my boxers and headed downstairs to investigate. Now the way our townhome was laid out, the living room looks out into the backyard, and a full moon was shining in. Tonight, that moon illuminated the incredible sexy view of that troublemaking Yves reclined on the couch, legs spread, with one hand jilling herself senseless. I could see how wet she was from the sheen on her fingers. I could hear her breathy moan and the faint squishing noises of her busy fingers as they pistoned in and out of her cunt.
My dick flexed reflexively, as if to remind me of its existence. I reached down and started rubbing it. It was difficult to get my hand around it in the confines of my shorts. From the pace of her fingers and the sound of her breath, Yves was close to orgasm, so I took a calculated risk that she wouldn't notice me standing in the shadows by the stairs and quickly shed my shorts. My dick sprung free, and I began to quickly stroke it, matching the speed of Yves' busy fingers.
I briefly thought about simply joining her but something held me back. Perhaps it was the illicit thrill from watching her masturbate, of seeing her open and raw with need. Perhaps it was the fear that acknowledging the mutual attraction would lead inexorably to things we would regret in the morning. Temptation was fine - look, but don't touch as my mother would say. Touch, but maybe don't fuck, as my conscience echoed. Think about Amanda upstairs.
The devil on my shoulder retorted, Amanda? That woman who drinks herself senseless, who doesn't care that you're wanking into a sock every night, who makes you feel like fucking you is a chore? That Amanda? That wife? Your vows were broken long time ago, and not by you. Think about this woman in front of you instead. She wants you. And you want her. It can be that simple.
Yves was now on the brink, gasping and mewing, four fingers buried in her snatch and her other hand fiercely rubbing her clit. God, how erotic that was. I picked up the pace of my strokes, my cock felt like it would burst. And then I heard her call my name.
