...massive pervert with minimal boundaries, loose morals, and an even looser sense of responsibility. (Hooray, .)

so he couldn't help reminiscing the time he and Charlotte had that one naughty fling in the unisex restroom in the middle of one of their host's anniversary parties, somewhere in central France, when nobody was looking. Well, except that one random grandlady who he swore was watching them through the crack in the stall via the mirror. But she liked it. Yeeah, she did.

Those were the good old days alright. Now the wife barely remembered to kiss him before heading off to work, sometimes.

Thanks, you, he grabbed his protruding stomach with a hefty pinch, half sarcastically. It wasn't like he was humongous or anything. He was still average in mass and not horridly out of shape.

It was just a beer belly. Everyone developed one after, like, 45. Of course, he was more like 44, but that wasn't the point.

Okay? That wasn't the point. Forget it, move along.

Anyways. They both might have aged since that time, but she was definitely hot, as much as time can be accommodated to maintain it. Not as spry and youthful and glowingly cute -- but definitely hot. He, on the other hand, aged like non-pasteurized milk.

But our girl -- well...

Both eyes fell to the beaming lass just in front of him in the photo. Below, in the present tense, his inner loins twitched.

His prime time girl, bangs-donning, hazel-eyed Monica was the spitting image of her mother.

And she was kind of a high school brat, now. No **** junkie, school dropout, no. Just at that phase where being pretty much an adult yet still a kid meant you were suddenly consumed by the necessity to treat all adults like kids. And roll your eyes at them. And laugh at how out of touch they were. And never treat sincerity seriously, because why, sincerity is so lame and kind of awkward. With parents particularly.

So yeah. Monica was definitely her age.

And she was hot.

Like Charlotte -- if you went back in time to high school Charlotte, violently grabbed her by the waste, took her back with you to present-day, dabbed a little darker hue to her perfect, cute hair and added a nice button nose with just as killer of a bod, only spotless and with not a single hint of sag.

In other words, she was as good looking as his wife at her prime, and it kind of drove him nuts.

Never told about it to a soul, of course.

But the devil on his shoulder certainly knew.

Too bad she basically ignored him and never gave a damn about her chores. Her friends were negative influences, seriously. Dr. Phil would agree.

"Too bad indeed," he murmured to himself as he heard a car pull up onto the driveway. At the jingle of the keys, he came downstairs just in time to see the front door unsheathe a bag-carrying Charlotte from outside.

"Hey honey," she noticed him as she set the bags down in the kitchen. "What's that? A diary?"

"Just a notebook I found." His hand found her lovely hip, and he planted a quick kiss on her forehead. Drawing away, he raised it up between their faces. "In the closet, of all places. This yours?"

"What?" Charlotte laughed, turning to retrieve the fruits, cooking oils, and other accessories from the bags she'd lugged home. "I didn't leave that there. I don't keep notebooks."

"Well, neither did I, nor do I." 'Twas a fact. How quickly computers took over. Educate yourselves, future generations, on the article once known as paper.

The brunette shrugged as Latimer eyed her thick bubbly bum from behind. Discrete as a tiger. "Hey, hon, do you think you can go get my phone looked at? You should take it to that store in Edison Mall, I heard they have the best customer service. Better than the one you always go to."

Latimer's snort was equal parts disdain and resignation. "Really, babe? You should at least come, then."

"You know I need to do this," she gestured to the table, now littered with generic culinary clutter. "The girl-friends are coming over, remember?"

Oh, right. Great. Fantastic.

More gossip ready, perky women to spin wives' tales and play Monopoly. They were all attractive, though. Some even heart racingly striking. A few downright hot. Yeah, he'd definitely included them in a few masturbation fantasies. He was a massive pervert with minimal boundaries, loose morals, yadda yadda yadda.

"Besides," she winked, "you have all my info if you need it. Or just call the telephone if you have any questions."

"What's wrong with it?"

"What?"

"Your phone."

"The touch screen isn't... responding." The woman offered another shrug as she grasped a knife and splayed out a pair of lemons onto the cutting board. "I think it might be water damage."

Charlotte, walking eye melter, popping curves, of proper derring-do and sordid conviction. Not much of a techie.

But a pretty good mother. And, love life aside, a good wife, too.

Just... 'good' wasn't really 'enough', not for Latimer. Too vanilla. Demanding. Down to earth. Sure, they could say they 'loved' each other -- but they didn't really have a fair relationship, and that spark had been dying for a while now. He had it good on the surface, but below, he didn't really have his hand on the wheel. She did. He didn't really have a say on the how's, why's, when's of sex. She did. He, really, might as well have been a hook on the wall.

Just like how it was in every other aspect of his life.

Nobody, thought the man as he went up the stairs to grab his coat, nobody respects me.

Back in the master bedroom, as Latimer was about to fling the notebook onto the top of the dresser, he was possessed by a brief, abrupt pause. As if struck by a whimsical thought.

But you know who might?

He lifted the object in his hand.

Dumb, inanimate objects.

He pulled out a pencil, and flipped to the first blank page of the notebook. Then, he scribbled into it.

It is normal for women to go pantsless when downstairs in the Ross household.

Yeah. Yea-hea-yeah.

Now that? That would be hilarious. And hot. Mostly hot.

If only, right?

Letting the notebook be, Latimer dusted off his coat and checked his teeth in the wall mirror before retreating from the room. If nothing else, writing that was one outlet to whet his sexual appetites. Maybe fuel some imagination for some private time sausage beating.

Yeah.

Get some of that out of his system.

After all, there was little else he could do these days. He was an adult working the grind, playing the game. There was no bowing out. There was no fire escape.

This was what life looked like as a functioning adult. Having a job, a spouse, kids, a house, a car, and, of course, an acceptance of the possible and impossible. It was crucial, integral to understand that the explicit reality of one's living arrangements was reliant on the incessant trustworthiness of routine. Repetition. Day in. Day out. Because the only way to make change was to keep on doing the same thing over and over and over again. Until the paint chipped off. The grass became straw. The wrinkles touched bone. The--

"Oh, holy," upon reaching the foot of the stairs, Latimer instantly turned, blinked, then faced forward once again, only to grow redder. "Shit! Charlotte!"

Before him was a a set of clappable butt cheeks. As round as two generously shaped marble orbs, and juicy enough to fondle with three hands. That was the first thing he saw. Second was a pair of thighs, the back of them, that was, pursed with trim fat and a shape made to support Greek architecture.

Third was her pretty, inquisitive face.

The woman turned her head to look over her shoulder at Latimer. "What? And why are you red?" She furrowed her brow, then cast a look downward. "Oh my god is there a bug? Where is it? Where is it, Latimer, help me out here, I'm not playing around!" Her two naked legs did a semi-dance as she re-allocated her weight from one side of her body to the other.

"N-n-n-n-o, there's no bug, honey, it's, just..." A haggard laugh stumbled out of the middle-aged man's lips. His eyes planted down. His throat swallowing air.

She looked up curiously at him. "What then?"

Another gulp. "...it's just..."

'What then?'

'What then'!? Did she ask that? She really just asked that?

How could she be so nonchalant, right now, she --

Her pants...

...her pants!

Her friken pants were on the friken gotdamn tiled floor!

Just a moment ago, they were properly, if a bit tightly, wrapped around her waist and entire second, lower half; fully covering her entire, pleasant and befitting southern continent. Blue, denim, looped tight by a 40-dollar belt she probably bought online. Now pooled at her feet, curled up like a fabric kitten, in turn showing off her toned legs and meaty set of ass cheeks, clad in white cotton panties, in front of him.

Right in his face.

In the kitchen!?

"Charlotte," repeated Latimer, walking up to his gobsmacking wife and her behind-baring self, "your friken pants!"

"What?" A pause. Then a dawn of realization fluttering over her lashes as she re-evaluated her state of dress, and spoke up once more. "Oh, snap. Duh. Yeah, that... that was my bad. I didn't have time to put them on the sofa or even stool. So I just shucked them off here and thought I'd set it aside later. Mind taking them up to the room, hon?" Like a record, she gestured to the table once more. "I do need to get to this by the hour and a half or so." Helpfully, she stepped out of her jeans, getting out of the way.

Latimer blinked. Then, he looked down, at his wife's discarded pants as she smiled and returned to cutting lemons. Ass slightly jiggling right under his nose. Man his woman's body was to cum for.

On.

In.

For.

Without thinking, Latimer came to a decision. He grabbed Charlotte's pants and quickly, but carefully, climbed back up the stairs to their bedroom. Upon reaching it, he grabbed the notebook off the dresser, then took his pencil, and erased the line he had written earlier.

I have to try something. I have to try something else. If this really is true, it it's all really true, then I gotta know for sure!

For a second, he just stood there, staring at the blank page, when he suddenly realized how quiet it was. That's right, he remembered. It's quiet... because someone's supposed to be cutting--

"Hon?"

The voice at the door caused Latimer to jerk forward, causing him to bang his head against the upper cabinet lattice. "Agh!"

...lemons.

"Latimer!" she stepped into the room. As Charlotte came over to hold his wrist, he rubbed his forehead vigorously, feeling more than a little stupid. "I'm fine. I'm fine," he mumbled.

"What were you doing up here anyway?" Charlotte asked as she looked down at the open notebook below.

"Nothing!" Latimer walked back, clearing his throat. Now composed enough to actually see, he realized Charlotte had grabbed the pants he'd just left on the chair and sliding them back on.

But actually, very, very, very much not nothing. The man gulped, notebook back in hand. I think... I think I found more than just a notebook in our closet. I think... I think that...

"I better get back down there." Mrs. Ross' voice once again revved through his thoughts, and he was blinked back into the present. "And you should get going. My cell's on the table in the living room."

"Charlotte!" he stopped her, causing her to swivel back to face him. "Why did you take off your pants?"

A look was spent his way for a shred of a second. Latimer thought he could see a faint angle of light in both eyes sitting, then vanishing. The woman took a deep breath in, casting a moderately distant look at a miscellaneous point on the wall, then shook her head. "I don't know. It just... got a little warm and, well. Why not, right? Just don't be expecting that to be a thing, mister. Now chop chop," her hands clapped together. "Else the mall's gonna close."

No, Latimer felt like saying, no, that's not true.

You took off your pants right after I wrote, 'It is normal for women to go pantsless downstairs in the Ross household.'

You acted completely cavalier about it. Until, that is, I erased it.

You... did something as a result of my making you to. Through some kind of really, really weird spiral bound notebook that feels like it might be over a century old.

I just--

"Latimer!"

"Y-yes!"

A glaring Charlotte, a hip clutching Charlotte, a very serious Charlotte, awaited him. All of them were wearing pants this time. "Get going now or I'll throw both our phones down the toilet bowl!"

"I'm going, woman, I'm going!" Latimer rushed past his partner, notebook clutched against his chest.

As he snaked through the house, he felt his pulse intensify. Quickening like bloops on an EKG hooked to a man on a one-way ticket to a plastic container. His head was reeling, and that was only partly the cabinet's fault.

So hey, fresh air never hurt.

And neither did a mall, packed to the brim with nubile, pretty young women.

He was pent up. Come now. Have sympathy for the devil.