“I need you,” she would whisper in my ear and hug me close, while her husband slept in their apartment next door to mine.
The breathy way she said it, the cleavage of her full breasts bulging from the top of her dressing gown, on tiptoe, barefooted in the hall, what was a man to say? Get lost? No way…
Her husband was older, divorced with two kids in college. And here was his nubile love lust mid-life crisis bride, wife of what…one year plus, applying high-pressure entreaty to a next-door apartment peddler in a suit and tie.
On other days, mornings after seeing hubby farewell, she would suddenly pop into my bedroom, disrobe, revealing her earth mother symmetries and slip under the covers with me. She was an aggressive wench (if I may be permitted that dated term, a character from an 18th century bawdy novel); she had hungers, and her sweet desires under secrecy drove her harder to my benefit. She liked to straddle me and ride her “grocery store pony.” She pretended to deposit a quarter in some orifice of choice, and got down to some serious traveling. We showered together; we fucked on the dining room table, on her back, legs spread, buttocks near the edge, feet locked behind my waist. And of course over in her apartment we mirrored everything we did in mine…maybe more so. She seemed to enjoy having me on her sofa, or a kitchen chair, the living room rug, or on the edge of the bed. Once we did chair fucking at night on the porch facing the street, pedestrians strolling by.
Being a beginning bachelor salesman in those days, my job sent me away at last to another furnished apartment in another state; that was a good thing before we got too wild and careless, and caught. Then one rainy cold night she called me long distance and told me she’d confessed everything to him…
“We had a big row and he threatened to kill us both,” she said and giggled, “but then he calmed down and we cried and he forgave me…and now he wants to talk to you and work things out…”
“We’ve got nothing to work out, okay…” I said.
“I need you, baby,” she whispered, “more than ever…”
“Sorry, sweetie pie, but a little practical advice…keeps your needs local,” I said. “End of story, I’ve moved on…” and gently hung up the phone.