He fucks my wife on the porch

They went upstairs at nine in the morning and shut the door properly this time. I stood in the middle of the wrecked living room, sun flat through the blinds, and did not know what to do with myself.

So I cleaned.

There was no decision in it. I picked up a bin bag, started. Once I'd started I couldn't stop. Glasses to the sink. Towels into the machine. The throw folded in three. The sofa shoved back square against the wall. Cushions beaten, turned. All the while, quietly, in the bright ordinary morning, I kept finding it.

Drops. Four of them on the hall floor by the bottom stair, already dried to a faint shiny film. A long smear on the kitchen island where she'd sat, swung her legs afterwards. Another on the tile between the islands, right where she'd knelt. One on the banister at hand height, where she'd steadied herself on the way up. Two on the landing carpet. A wet patch on the bathroom mat, the ghost of a handprint on the tiles by the sink.

She had been leaking all morning. It had been running out of her while she made coffee, while she stood at the counter, while she walked up my stairs. She had not once cared enough to wipe it.

I got down on my knees with a cloth, cleaned my own house of my best friend, and the whole time the ceiling above me had the ghost of the night in it.

They slept for hours. I heard the bed settle, then nothing, then in the early afternoon a murmur of voices, a tap running, then nothing again. I lay on the couch under the throw in the daylight with the TV on low, did not really sleep at all. Every time I closed my eyes I saw the shine on his back.

...

Monday came grey, ordinary. The alarm went off at half six. I was almost grateful for it.

Shower. Shirt. Tie. Jacket over my arm. Shoes by the front door. The house was still, dim at the edges, the hall clock said seven minutes to seven. I had my hand on the latch, the door half open, when she called down.

"Wait."

Anna came down the stairs.

She took it slowly, one hand on the banister, in lingerie — the black lace set, the sheer one she'd bought last spring, never worn because she said it was indecent. The bra cups were so thin they were barely there; the knickers were not knickers at all: a lace triangle at the front, a string behind, the whole pale length of her moving underneath it as she descended.

She walked past me out onto the porch, into the cold grey morning, turned, put her back against the railing.

The lace sat high on her hips. When she leaned back into the wood, set her heels, the triangle pulled up and away, her cunt was out in the open air. Not hidden. Not by anything at all. Bare, pink, still faintly puffy from the weekend, the pale shine of the last two days dried on her inner thighs.

On a Monday morning. On a street where people walk dogs.

"Anna," I said. "You can't. The postman comes at seven —"

"Wait," she said again.

Behind me the front door opened. Mike came out naked.

He was hard already. Fully, standing up off him in the cold, thick, pale, heavy, swaying with his steps as he crossed the boards. No robe, no towel, nothing. Bare feet, bare chest, bare everything, on my porch, in front of my house, at seven in the morning.

"Wait, honey," Anna said. Her eyes were bright as a girl's. "Watch him take your wife."

...

He stepped in behind her. She bent forward over the railing, both hands gripping the top of it, put her feet apart on the boards, dropped her back into the arch.

The lace rode up her spine. Her tits hung heavy in the sheer cups, spilled over the top of them, the string of the knickers cut between her cheeks, the whole of her offered out to the street.

Mike spat in his hand, put the head of himself against her, pushed.

Her face changed at once.

It was the same fight as every time, somehow worse to watch in daylight, on a porch, under an open sky. Her mouth came open in a wide silent O — no sound at all, just the shape of it, all the breath stopped in her — her jaw clenched, her eyes screwed shut, her knuckles went white on the railing, her whole body strained against the size of him.

The lace at her hip pulled tight. Her thighs began to shake.

"Breathe," I said.

She shook her head minutely, eyes still shut, mouth still open in that silent O. He pushed again; she made a thin high sound in her throat, rose up onto her toes.

"That's it," I said. "Come on. Let him in."

"Big," she got out, thin, cracked. "Oh God, he's so — oh —"

"Let him all the way in. Come on, Anna."

He worked his way in an inch at a time. She took it with her forehead down, her back rigid, her mouth still open, silent; the sheer cup slipped entirely, one of her tits came free, hung there in the cold air, the nipple drawn up hard, gooseflesh breaking out all over her arm.

A bicycle bell went off somewhere down the street.

Then the postman came round the hedge.

He had his bag on his shoulder, a bundle of letters in his fist, stopped dead on the path six feet from the porch, just looked.

Anna lifted her head, saw him, did not cover anything.

"Morning," she said, thin, strained.

"Morning," he said, faintly.

Mike pushed again; she grunted, low, guttural. The postman's eyebrows went up. He took one slow step backwards, stayed.

Across the road a door opened. Mr. Halliwell from number fourteen came out in his dressing gown for his milk, stood on his own step with his arms folded. Then a car came down the road too fast, slowed, slowed, stopped, the driver wound his window down, got his phone up, started taking photos.

Anna looked straight down the barrel of it, smiled.

Then she put her forehead back down, let Mike work.

...

He got the last of it in, she cried out — a proper cry, loud, unashamed, carried off the porch, down the quiet street — her toes came up off the boards, her whole body sagged with relief, then she was full of him. All of him. He stood still a moment, hips flush against her ass, balls tucked up under her.

"God," she said, to the railing. "Oh God, that's it."

"All the way in?" Mike said, low, over her shoulder.

"All the way. All of it. God —"

"Say it again."

"All the way in," she said. Her voice shook. "Right up in me. Don't you dare pull out."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Then he started fucking her.

Deep and good. That was the thing — deep, good, long full strokes that went all the way in, all the way out, her tits bounced hard with each shove, up, swinging, down, the sheer lace did nothing to hold them. Her whole body rocked forward over the railing, back with every stroke, the wood creaked, her bob swung, her feet slid a little on the boards.

"Oh — oh — oh —"

"Good?" he said.

"So good — oh — so good —"

The postman hadn't moved. The car hadn't moved. Mr. Halliwell's arms were folded but he had come down two of his steps.

Mike got a hand on her waist, held her, went harder.

Her voice dropped — deeper, more out of the chest — got louder. She stopped shaping words, just made sound, the sound carried. A dog two doors down started up.

"Ah — ah — ah —"

"That's it," Mike said, his voice rising too, rough, open on the hard ones. "That's it, Anna. Let them hear you."

"Ahh — oh God —"

"Louder."

"Ohh — yes — yes —"

The two of them together were making a noise you could have heard from the corner. The lace cup was down around her ribs now, both her tits out, swinging, slapping against each other with the force of it, her hips going pink under his hand, her knees beginning to sag inwards.

The driver whistled, low, long.

"Look at that," he said, to nobody. "Bloody hell."

Anna laughed — wrecked, delighted, breathless — then the laugh turned into a moan, the moan went high.

"Good morning," she called out, shrill. "Good morning, everybody — oh — oh God —"

"Morning, love," Mr. Halliwell said, cleared his throat.

"You're all getting a show," she said. "Ah — aren't you —"

"Best one on the street in years," the postman said.

"Then watch," she said, pushed her hips back into Mike hard; he grunted, drove in to meet her.

...

He changed his angle. Up, the way he had before, drove it home against the top of her. Anna's head came up, her mouth came open, she looked straight ahead at nothing with her eyes wide, streaming.

"There," she said. "Oh — there, there, there —"

The railing rattled. Her knuckles were white, her arms rigid, he was hammering now, quick, hard, her ass slapped into his hips, the sound of it flat, wet, loud in the grey morning.

"Oh so good," she cried. "He fucks me so good, honey — oh — so good —"

"Tell him," Mike said.

"He fucks me so good," she said again, louder, to the street, to the phone, to me. "So good — oh God — so deep — he's right up against the top of me, honey, can you hear how wet I am? Can you hear it?"

I could hear it. Everyone could.

"Don't stop," she said. "Don't you dare stop, Mike, don't you dare —"

"Not stopping."

"Harder. Harder —"

He gave her harder. Her feet came up off the boards entirely, she was braced on nothing but the railing, his hand, her face red, her mouth wide, her eyes shut tight.

"Ah — ah — ah —"

"That's it," Mike grunted. "Come on. Come on, Anna."

"Oh God — oh God, I'm — Mike —"

"Come on the porch," he said. "Go on. Let them see."

"MIKE!"

She came.

It was a big one, the biggest of them, or it sounded it. Her whole body locked, then broke, she screamed his name into the street with her head back, her throat stretched long, pale, shuddered in hard rolling waves, her cunt clamping down on him, her legs going to water. Her forehead dropped onto the railing. She kept crying out — small broken ones, "oh — oh — oh" — her hips jerked back into him over and over without her telling them to.

The postman said, "Christ."

Mr. Halliwell uncrossed his arms.

...

Mike couldn't hold it.

His rhythm broke. He drove in twice more, hard, then jammed up, held, made a sound like he'd been hit, his balls pulled up tight under her.

She felt it coming. She lifted her head off the railing, her mouth came open, her eyes went wide, soft, she pushed her hips back to take it.

"Yes," she said. "Yes — in me — in me —"

The first pulse. Her face changed — wonder, heat, a kind of greed — her lips parted, she breathed out shakily, "ohhh," tilted her hips up under him to make room.

"Yes — that's it — oh —"

Second. Third. She cried out with each one, her hand came off the railing, went back, found his hip, pulled him in tighter.

"All of it," she said. "Give me all of it — don't waste a drop —"

Fourth. Fifth. He was groaning over her, open, loud, she cried out in answer, her thighs shook, her cunt milked him in slow rolling pulls.

"Good boy," she panted. "Good boy — oh — fill me right up —"

Sixth. Her legs gave.

She caught herself on the railing with both hands, her knees bent, her whole body sagged, she had to hold herself up, both arms locked, head down between them, breathing in rags.

Seventh. Eighth. His hips made two last small pushes, stopped, his forehead came down onto the back of her neck.

Her hips were still twitching. She made a soft high sound on every breath.

Then nothing. The porch creaked. The dog at the end of the street barked once.

...

Anna lifted her head very slowly.

She looked out at the postman, the car, Mr. Halliwell, the woman with the dog at the corner. She was flushed scarlet from her throat to her ears, her bob stuck to her cheek, both tits out of the lace, one strap hanging off her shoulder.

She was grinning like a woman who'd won something.

Mike pulled out. She winced, clamped her thighs together, it came anyway — a slow pale thread down the inside of her leg — she didn't try to stop it.

"Right," she said, pushed herself up off the railing, turned round, pulled the lace back into place over a cunt that was dripping onto the boards.

Then she shouted it down the street — at me, at all of them, at the whole grey Monday.

"Mike's going to fuck me all week. All of it. Every day." She pointed at me, hair in her face, still grinning. "You go to work."

The postman started clapping. The driver honked twice.

I got in my car.

At the end of the road, I looked in the mirror, they were still there — her in the doorway in the ruined lace with her arm round his waist, him naked beside her in the cold, both of them waving.

To be continued.