Luisa
I moved into their spare bedroom in the finished basement when I was 25. I had a separate entrance from the garage, but we shared the kitchen. I helped with the dishes and cleaning. Sometimes I would even eat dinner with them and their three-year old. They were a young couple, mid-30s, fit and ambitious—somehow already living some secret to happiness everyone else was searching for.
Sometimes when couples finally marry, they seem to shut everyone else out. Maybe so they don't have to share each other, maybe so they don't have to share themselves. But they were not that couple.
I met George at training in Seattle for our new jobs at a nationwide company. He was perhaps the most handsome and charming man I had ever met. He was tall and broad and had obviously been weightlifting for many years. He towered over me and made me feel small and dainty, but safe in his presence. His face was kind and he was always cheerful.
When he talked about his wife, Johanna, and their son, he beamed. I thought he was fantasizing—projecting some image of the idyllic family-man. The more I got to know him and his family, the more I realized he was actually happy. I asked him what his secret was and he told me there was none. I had an enormous crush on him, but I kept it to myself.
He made me believe that happiness after marriage, even children, was possible—which I had long considered to be a myth that mothers told their daughters so theirs daughters would go off to marry and have grandbabies.
When George found out we were getting assigned to the same city, Boise, he and Johanna offered to rent me a room in their home while I searched for more long-term lodging. I gladly accepted, hopeful that I might pick up some of their tricks to joy and secretly admire him from much closer up. If nothing else, I could finally glimpse into their hidden despair, validating my happily ever after pessimism and ridding myself of my consuming schoolgirl crush. I didn't want to be right though.
I moved in late Fall. The city was cold and a bit lonely, but their family was warm and inviting—enveloping me with their kindness in this strange, new place. Winter took hold quickly and as the snow deepened, George and Johanna encouraged me to abandon my home search until Spring. I happily obliged. I loved their presence.
Sometimes I'd think I heard their soft moaning or their bed frame knocking the wall in a steady rhythm. It could have been their son playing or the neighbors fixing something, but I liked to think it was their love making. Sometimes I would catch myself and imagine it was George and me moaning together into the quiet, dark night—his broad body surrounding me, holding me safe in his arms as we writhed together toward climax.
-
It was a Thursday night. George was grilling and invited me to join for a late dinner. Their son was already in bed. I always loved George's grilling since when we were in training together. This night was no exception.
We started in on the wine, and the conversation quickly took us away. I loved this about our friendship—they were like the happy older siblings I could always admire, but never had myself. The hours wore on, the laughing and the stories until it was after ten. We were all a little drunk and had work the following day.
George went outside to clean up the grill while Johanna and I kept talking at the dining room table.
"I can tell George likes you," she said, unprompted, but kind.
"Oh," my pulse quickened. I knew she didn't mean it in the way I wanted her to mean it. "I'm glad. I like you guys, too." After a pause, I added, "I really appreciate getting to live here with you. It's nice."
"We love having you. We can get bored when it's just us," she giggled.
I took a sip of wine.
"What do you think of him?" she asked.
I lowered my brows eyes, "What do you mean?"
"My husband is a handsome man."
I nodded, worried my voice would give everything away. I adored her husband, almost since the moment I met him. He was a magnificent. Of course he was paired with such a beautiful and strong woman. But my little crush didn't have to mean anything. I was never going to do anything about it. I loved their family too much to hurt any of them.
She laughed a little, warm. "It's really okay," she said. I think she meant it. "You can say it."
"Yeah," I admitted it, flat, hoping my admission would make her stop her questions.
"We like having you here," she said again. Her eyes were soft, smile warm as she leaned into the table for emphasis, making me look directly in her eyes. Speaking in this way about her husband made my heart hammer, but I didn't want her to see the effect he had on me.
"Woah, I am stuffed," George bellowed as he came back inside the house. He kissed Johanna on the forehead and then leaned down to bite her ear. I could hear his breath exhaled through his teeth and reverberate against her skin. She giggled and looked up at him.
"So tell us, Abby," Johanna said. "Are you seeing anyone?"
I took a deep breath, "No."
"Any dates?"
"You know I haven't really been looking—just focused on getting settled."
"Well, I'm sure whenever you're ready, you'll find someone."
"She doesn't have to date, Jo," George chimed in. "Let her do what she wants."
"I only meant she's charming...and beautiful, of course."
My cheeks felt a little flushed. I wasn't used to being complimented by such a sexy woman. "Thank you."
"I'm off to bed. See you upstairs," George said to Johanna. Then he looked at me, "Night, Abby."
I smiled at him, but said nothing. My cheeks burnt hot imagining his breath on my own skin.
-
One night, I was in my room writing at my desk in the low lamp light. I guess my door was ajar, because I heard a soft knock and when I turned, George was peaking from inside the door frame.
"I was just coming down to get the laundry, wanted to check on you."
I smiled, walking toward the door. "I'm good, how are you?"
His grin faded. "Do you trust me?"
I didn't know what he meant, but I said, "Of course."
He nodded slowly. "And you'd tell me, if I ever did anything that was too much—that you didn't like?"
"Of course."
"I never want to scare you," he said. "I like having you around too much." He smiled and began to move as if to leave and my heart started pounding afraid our moment in the dim light of the empty basement would slip away and never return.
"Why would you scare me?" I said, a little breathless.
He shrugged, unsure or unable to say, I didn't know. "I am a man," he said after a while.
I nodded slightly, to show him I heard, but I still didn't understand.
"I'd imagine most young women would feel uncomfortable living with a married couple."
"I like you," I said and then I hesitated, because I had meant to say I like it. So I added, "Both of you."
He didn't smile. "I like you, too," he said. "Goodnight," and closed the door.
-
As the months went on, they grew more and more comfortable with my presence, slowly indoctrinating me into their family. They bickered more in front of me, but never fought. They would touch each other more, sometimes kiss. Sometimes they would be washing dishes or folding laundry, and suddenly George would stop, take Johanna's face in his soapy hands and he'd kiss her in a way I didn't think was possible after the first year of marriage. I'd watch the soap bubbles slide down his thick forearms and drip onto her blouse, and then I'd quietly excuse myself to give them some privacy.
On one of the those particularly hot summer days, George had practically ripped her blouse open in front of me. A few hours later, I was making tea in the kitchen when he came in.
"How are you?" he said from behind me.
I was a bit startled, but said, "Fine."
He started pulling out leftovers and plates for dinner.
After a few minutes, he said, "I'm sorry about earlier today, if that made you uncomfortable."
I looked over at him, his body turned to face me, open and concerned. I tried to shrug it off, "It's your house."
"True," he chuckled softly, "but we don't want to make you uncomfortable. We like having you here."
George reached to open a cabinet above me, his hips pressing briefly against my ass. He continued with his tasks as if nothing happened.
Bearing witness to their intimacy stirred me after years of poor dating and work had deadened my sex drive. Watching them had reawakened that ache I used to feel in school, when the right boy would smile at me. When I watched George and Johanna kiss, when I excused myself, it was as much for their privacy as my own. I'd go downstairs to my room and lay on top of my blankets, letting my hands roam free, pretending it was a wide, strong man touching me, exploring me almost lazily, like we had the rest of our lives to touch each other.
I'd slip my fingers inside my waistband and feel every inch of myself, spreading my wetness, as if readying myself for my imaginary man to fuck me. I came the hardest when I pretended it was George, bearing down upon me against the kitchen counter, his hands soapy and hot from washing the dishes, the suds dripping down my bare breasts, tickling my skin and making me squirm against him. He'd grab hold of me tighter and that's when he'd cum, laying into me his broad, shaking body. So much man falling to pieces in front of me. I'd drift off and awake sometime later, still atop my bed the sky dark and my clothes still on.
I tried not to fantasize about George as much. I was worried if I kept it up, the more nervous I would become around them, as if they could tell and would be embarrassed or even threatened by me. My greatest fear was they would suddenly realize how inappropriate it was to let a single, grown woman live with them in their home.
-
A few days later, Johanna and I were in the living room reading while George was getting their son ready for bed. She put down her book and said, "Abby, do you like living here?"
I was surprised. "Of course I do."
She nodded slowly. "You seem," she looked down as if collecting the words from the carpet. "A little shy, lately. Is everything alright?"
I nodded.
"Is your family alright? Work?"
I nodded again.
"You know you can talk to us. You feel very much a part of our family and we'd like you to let us in."
If only she knew exactly how I wanted them to let me in.
"Is it our PDA?" she asked. "I'm sorry if it's too much. I worry we may feel too comfortable around you."
"It's your home," I told her. But she was right. I had withdrawn so much, afraid they might notice my arousal. I missed them.
"You'd tell if something was up, right?"
"Of course," I nodded.
She sighed, "Abby, you know we like you."
