It's a beautiful Sunday in late May, and we have a list of open houses to visit. I sit on the couch in the living room waiting for you to come down, still feeling an afterglow of affection from last night. And a pleasing hint of soreness in my crotch.
You come down the stairs wearing a simple dark blue knee-length skirt and a white silk sleeveless top I haven't seen before. It's got a sort of scooped cowl-neck and is somehow both loose and form-fitting. As you walk down the stairs I can't help but notice how the white silk slides against the swell of your breasts. I catch myself staring and look you in the eye.
"Is that new?" I say.
"Is what new?" you say, one brow slightly raised.
"The blouse."
"It is. You like?"
"I do."
I do.
We've been having a recent flirtation with a town about 20 minutes from ours. Everything seems a little bit better there: better restaurants, cuter downtown, better bookstores, better coffee. We had dinner there last night, in fact. Had a couple of drinks, got flirtier with each other than we've been in a long time.
Living there was beyond our means until my recent job change. We haven't made any decisions about moving, but we've been dabbling in open houses for a while. Somehow this is a more organized, purposeful trip. It feels different.
There are six houses on the list, and during the short drive over we talk logistics: the order of the visits, the prices, the number of bedrooms and bathrooms, lot sizes. The list completed, we fall into a pleasant silence.
You take a heavier breath than normal, and I can feel you looking at me.
"What?" I say?
"I keep thinking about last night," you say.
I nod. "It was fun."
"It was."
I know this is out of your comfort zone. You can be shy about these things, and it's unusual for you to talk about the night before. It excites me. I start to think about what tonight might bring.
But six houses to get through first.
House #1 is unstaged and full of house-hunters. We know almost instantly, without speaking, that we are not interested in the house. We exchange enthusiastic greetings with the realtor and then wander from room to room. You have a tendency to browse more patiently than I do, and so I reach the master bedroom ahead of you. The bedroom itself is nothing special but the bathroom is huge and has been recently renovated. I know it will interest you and so I wander back down the hallway to find you.
You're in one of the bedrooms with another couple, chatting pleasantly about the house. You're slightly backlit, and for a moment I can the curve of a breast silhouetted through your blouse. And then I notice the other man is noticing too. I catch your eye and you give me a little smile.
"I want to show you something," I say, and you follow me down the hallway, through the master bedroom, into the bath.
"Oh wow," you say.
I stop in the middle of the bathroom, facing a spacious shower on the right and huge soaker tub on the left. You ease up behind me and I can feel your breast press gently into my back.
"Nice, huh?" you say, nodding towards the tub and for a moment I can see us in the steamy shower, my hands groping your wet soapy tits while I thrust from behind.
"Very nice," I say.
At house #2 you get stuck talking to the realtor. He is intense and enthusiastic, with heavily gelled hair, a dark suit over a pristine white shirt, and slightly too much cologne. He looks you directly in the eye. Except, I notice, when he doesn't. I decide to leave you to him and move on into the house. My first guess is that you'll this guy tremendously annoying. But am I wrong about that? Maybe I should wear suits more often. Pay more attention to my hair. I don't wear cologne myself, but I know you like it. I know you'd like me to.
I make a quick circuit of the main floor. Back in the entryway you're still talking to the realtor. His eyes bounce from your face to your chest and back again. He says something that makes you laugh and you reach out and pat him on the shoulder. He smiles and glances a beat too long at your chest.
You turn away and make your way over to me. I can see the faint trace of your nipples through your bra and blouse.
In house number three we circled the large master bedroom, looking in closets, checking the view in the windows.
"The hard thing," you say, your voice echoing strangely in the empty room, "is to imagine what it would be like in here."
Something about the way you said 'it' caused an image to flash across my mind. Our bed is here and we are in it, naked. You are on your back, legs spread, heels in the air. I am over you, thrusting inside of you, making your breasts jiggle.
"What what would be like in here?" I say.
A slightly too long pause. "You know, living. What it would be like to actually live in one of these houses."
You walk out of the room but I hang back. Once you're gone I circle back to the bathroom and quietly open the medicine cabinet. I find what I'm looking for: a masculine-looking glass bottle with the polo rider on it. I glance over my shoulder to make sure I'm still alone and then take it off the shelf. I'm sure there's a right way to do this, and I'm sure I don't know it. I take the cap off and aim a spritz at the middle of the room. Then I aim a very gentle spritz and my neck. Then I'm off to find you.
Houses four and five are duds. As is often the case, the open house day loses energy. There are fewer people in the houses and the realtors are ready to pack up and go home. We spend as little time in each as we can get away with, not wanting to hurt the realtors' feelings but not wanting to waste their time. The light is settling in to the shadowy glow of late afternoon. As we park settle the car outside number six I take your hand, give it an extra caress, and suggest we consider skipping the final house. Eyeing your blouse, I notice that the cowl neck has shifted and I can see a hint of your cleavage.
"We're here," you say, smiling. "You never know, this might be the one."
Number 6 is tucked at the end of a leafy cul-de-sac. It is after 4:30, nearing the end of the open house, and the realtor, a woman in her fifties, is sitting in her car, clearly ready to go. She doesn't even get out of the car, just rolls down the window and hands us a flyer.
I can tell you are immediately taken by the house, and so am I. We are the only ones in the house, it has a peaceful and secluded feel, and despite the tree-cover in front, it opens out to the sun in the southern-facing back of the house. We talk little but pass from room-to-room, nodding appreciatively, making eye contact, raising eyebrows approvingly.
Upstairs the master bedroom is sun-drenched through a row of open windows. You make a breathy, approving sound and lean to the left of one of the windows, looking out over the yard. I step behind you to see what you see out the window and put my hands on your shoulders. I begin to gently massage and you let out a little breath and say, "it's good, right?"
"It's good," I agree.
You lean your back and ass into me and nestle in. I feel myself hardening and have to adjust my jeans to make room for my erection. Before I have time to wonder if you've noticed you reach a hand around and press it against me. We're both still looking out the window.
"What's going on back here?" you ask.
My voice catches. I gently clear my throat and try for nonchalance. "I don't know what you're talking about," I say, kissing you lightly on the back of the neck. "But maybe we should go."
You thrust your hand roughly inside my jeans, inside my briefs, and take hold of my cock.
"I'm talking about this," you say.
"Jesus Christ, honey," I say. You start to stroke me.
"I like this house," you say.
"Me too."
"You're really hard."
I try to say "yes" but it comes out as a gasp.
