The water pounded down around us and I slapped Kayley's pretty ass, making her squeal and giggle as she threw it back on my dick. With both hands on the tile wall of the large shower stall, she pushed her torso down, almost horizontal, and I watched the water splatter on her back, pooling and splattering off of her skin as I slapped against her hips into her pussy.
Kayley's hips ground and swiveled, she was ready to wrap up, encouraging me to cum by locking down on my shaft and working it with her velvet sleeve. My hands dug into her hips, the sleek Pilates toned flesh of her ass strong, my cock buried in her to the hilt. I came into my wife's waiting pussy. Overwhelmed by the sensations of her, the slick tightness, the heat, and her gentle motions, she coaxed the last of my spunk into her hungry slit.
Slipping off of me, she turned and bent to kiss my softening cock, cleaning it up with her hand under the hot spray. "Now get out, Hemingway, I have to get ready for school."
*
Kayley and I were married at 26, those annoying people who'd fallen in love the moment we set eyes on each other at 19, together since early in the first semester at University.
We'd done all the young love things. We'd finished school, endured the months apart while she finished her practical teaching in a small reserve town in Nunavut, and I bartended my way through delivering a dissertation, and we had a shitty apartment with scavenged furniture.
After the wedding, Kayley worked as an elementary teacher, while I struggled with writing, still bartending at The Blue Whale, writing on my nights off, trying for any writing work I could get. Every so often, I'd sell a short story. Kay would hold me and kiss my neck from behind, promising me it would all work out.
She was a stunner, had been since she was a strange girl standing in my doorway in rez, daisy dukes and a crop top, shouting at me in my sweats for standing her up. Her long blonde hair had hung down to her butt, tied into a loose ponytail to fit the cowboy hat she wore. Bright blue eyes shone at me, red, kissable lips snarling locked my attention. I guessed she was five-five, maybe one-ten. Plump b-cups, a narrow waist, and an ass you could bounce quarters off.
I had no idea what she was talking about, never having seen the beautiful drunk girl before, but knowing that I'd never forget her. "You've got the wrong room, but I can make you a coffee if you'd like." Embarrassed, we'd sat in the hall and talked for two hours while she sobered up.
---
Eventually, I'd finally had to admit I couldn't bartend for Bob at The Blue Whale any longer and wait on my big break. I'd gotten a real job at twenty-eight. I still helped out here and there, and we went in for a drink. Bob and The Blue Whale had become family, the old Bloor Street strip near High Park a never-ending rise and fall of old businesses replaced by empty stores, and eventually a Starbucks or a chain pet food store.
Five years later, I was the manager of a technical writing team doing documentation and instructional videos for an app. It was a good job, we were making enough to think about a house. We'd been trying for kids, if only an egg would take hold. Our doctor was nice, but not hopeful. Kayley felt constant guilt about it, and I tried to assure her that it would be okay. We got a little frenchie that she named Baxter. He'd come to the office with me, riding in a little doggie basket on my bike when it was warm.
One night after a heartbreaking pregnancy test, we left Baxter at home and went for a drink. Bob insisted that I take the pint on him when he saw Kayley's downcast face. "Onna house, Wyatt," the white haired older man insisted. He'd always adored her, telling me I was like the son he'd never had, 'an' that angel is the wife you hit the lotto on.' He was over sixty by then, creeping to seventy, thin, working off his cheeseburgers through hauling kegs and slinging pints.
We'd sat making small talk enjoying those beers when a crash came from the kitchen. Bob had suffered a heart attack, a big one. Two weeks later, me and Kay are in a lawyers office with Bob's estranged son, Gregory. The lawyer looked at Gregory, a sour man a couple years older than me, confirmed his identity, and handed him the deed to the bar.
Then he looked at Kay and I, confirmed we were us, and informed us that Bob left us his house.
*
The house wasn't much to look at, but, it was a house. A detached house. In Toronto in 2016, that was a hell of a gift for a couple nearing their middle-thirties. Two bedrooms upstairs, a huge bathroom, a big downstairs with a huge kitchen and dining room, a nice little study with a fire place at the front, an addition at the back for a living room. It took six months to clean and fix up, getting the "old man spunk" smell out, as Kay called it, but it was ours. Oh, we'd had to spend a little money on fending off Gregory, but the will was rock-solid.
Kay spent months taming the back yard. It'd been overgrown to the point that we had no idea how deep it was until she'd cut back decades of vines and weeds. Bob had pretty much just sat on the deck drinking beer and barbecuing, but never even mowed.
The house itself was just south of Bloor street, one of the main east-west corridors through town, a few blocks before the outer edge of High Park began. It was like a Hobbit house in many ways, at least that was what Kay called it. We loved it, slowly settling in.
It wasn't long until Kayley was running naked through the house demanding that I catch her. When I did, I'd take my time with her, torturing her for her crimes, glad that we didn't have neighbours who shared a wall as she was a vocal prisoner when her pussy was eaten or fucked. She particularly objected to being bent over the couch in the front room where my study was, and being dick-searched for contraband.
Her fantasies would get pretty out there and schlocky, and I was right with her for the ride.
*
Three years later, we were both thirty-six, and the winter was in full swing. "Have you heard back from that publisher yet," she asked me that morning after the shower.
"Nope, you know how it is, now that they've talked to me, they'll ignore me until they need pages for the next issue or for some collection they're putting together," I told her pulling on my pants. I kind of hoped I wouldn't hear from the publisher today. I had employee reviews all day, and I'd be in a meeting non-stop. I'd become a reliable source of short stories to fill page counts. A good hand, but not fated for a marquee. It helped pay bills, and kep me honest, though.
"I'll probably just give them some choices from the slush drawer." She rolled her eyes as she checked her hair in the mirror.
"Wyatt, come on, give them something new. The new stuff is fresh." I thought on it, my writing had slowed since I got a real job, it was harder to find time to come up with ideas, but they still trickled through sometimes.
"I'll try," I promised. She kissed me, walking to the door.
