The Rogue Housewife

6 min read

I can’t say the guys in the neighborhood didn’t warn me about the “rogue” housewife. It wasn’t just that Stacy had a tuft of white hair mixed in with her reddish bangs — just like the comic book heroine she was nicknamed after. They say she could suck the life out of a marriage through her fingertips.

“Watch out,” warned a neighbor. “She’ll come prowling when you least expect it.”

Stacy seemed like a simple mom who got her kids to the bus stop five minutes early while walking the dog. Rumors of her promiscuity were belied by a baggy line of clothes that stole her shape away. Her frequent smile, too, seemed to conceal a complicated sub-terrain.

Stacy didn’t hide much when she was alone — or thought she was alone. From our guest room, I could see into her garden. One bright morning I caught her planting bulbs, wearing only a little more than Eve. I played with myself as she got down and dirty. Her slick chest was soiled by earth and her tiny gray shorts darkened with sweat around the outline of a thong. Her hair — braided tight like rope on two sides — lingered and swayed over her big breasts, sometimes slowed by the thick bumps of her nipples. I came all over myself thinking of taking her hair by the reins and steering her mouth deep over my cock. Traces of guilt ran down my legs as I tried to catch my breath.

I told myself it was integrity that kept me from introducing myself to Stacy, but it had always been my shame that disrupted my relations with the opposite sex. Still, we were destined to collide.

Stacy showed up at our doorstep a little past 10pm one night when my kids were asleep and my wife was at a neighborhood book club that Stacy wasn’t invited to. I opened the door to find Stacy in a tight tank top that made her breasts pucker up.

“Hi, I’m Stacy from next door,” she said, holding a plate full of steamy chocolate chip cookies.

“Oh, so nice to finally meet you,” I said. I hate to admit I had fantasized some lines to get her into the house. The cookies were unexpected, and I riffed in unexpected ways. “Can I offer you a tall glass of milk to wash down those cookies?” I said. “I could warm it up.”

“Oh, that’s nice of you,” she said. “Is your wife about?” The want in her voice made my cock crawl and my palms slick up with anticipation.

“Actually, she’s out with some friends,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm as I rested leisurely against the door frame. “Probably won’t be back for a few hours.”

The excitement left her face. She cut short the pleasantries and walked home with cookies in hand.

After that, Stacy seemed to avoid me. I was away on a business trip when she finally got that introduction to my wife. “Stacy brought cookies,” my wife texted. “So nice. I can’t remember the last time I had a glass of milk!”

They hit it off so fast that I didn’t need clarification when I’d come home to find a note saying “we” were taking a trip to the mall, walking around the lake, or making margaritas and watching a movie.

One night my wife came home late and I could tell something was off. “We” had a little too much tequila before sitting down to watch Magic Mike, she said. She was nodding off when she felt Stacy’s hand on her knee. “I didn’t move it away,” she said, sounding ashamed. “She kept moving it further up my leg. Then she leaned over to kiss me.”

“Did you kiss back?” I asked.

“Kind of,” she said.

I gave her a perplexed look.

“We stopped the movie because I wasn’t feeling comfortable,” she said.

“Because of the kissing?” I asked.

“Well, more because of the touching,” she said.

“The touching?” I said. “Where?”

“A little bit over here,” she said, motioning over her crotch. “Above my jeans.”

I tried to dig but she wasn’t in the mood to talk. She wanted to fuck. I bent her over the island in our kitchen and ripped her jeans and underwear down her bare legs. Her tortured pussy lips hung loosely from her body and I dangled them in my mouth like smothered grapes.

“I need your dick!” she said.

I slipped in easy and answered her pleas to go deep. It was the first time in a while I didn’t come too quickly but that was only because she was done in a few minutes. She pulled her jeans up and went gingerly up the stairs, and by the time I had made my way up she was asleep.

Perhaps I was naive, but I found her encounter mildly intriguing. I was collecting more details about Stacy over whiskey and cards with the neighbors. She had strained some friendships but she was no home wrecker. Joe’s wife had her breasts fondled by Stacy — Stacy claimed she had merely lost her balance and needed something to latch onto. Tim’s wife was drunk when Stacy convinced her to take a shirtless selfie together. He still had the pic and showed it to us, covering his own wife’s boobs but leaving Stacy’s plump breasts exposed. They had a good laugh.

“Any stories from you?” Joe said.

“Nah,” I said. At least none that felt finished.

Weeks went by and I asked my wife why she was no longer hanging out with Stacy. I had to coax it out of her that she thought I had become jealous of the relationship. She seemed relieved that I didn’t find Stacy threatening — should I? — and wasted no time rekindling the friendship.

I came home exhausted on a Friday night to find her in a sexy tank top I was always asking her to wear and a short skirt I’d bought her for Mother’s Day.

“We’re going to get a drink,” she said. “Stacy likes this.” She was paying more attention to the mirror than usual and didn’t notice that I was getting hard just looking at her.

I annoyed my wife with my taste in skirts, failing to understand her resistance to the idea of wearing something more appropriate for high school — even though she had a 40-year-old body to pull it off. Honestly, I didn’t notice the color or the pattern. I just wanted a skirt that would grab her ass with authority and leave my favorite part of her legs uncovered—the toned section between her knee sockets and the start of her butt cheeks.

I was thankful that Stacy’s tastes held more sway than mine.

I relished my time alone, even if I was unproductive. The well-read generation never had to contend with online erotica. But eventually I got bored and wanted my wife home. A little after midnight I sent her a mildly annoyed text.

“We’ll be home soon,” she said.

I waited another hour before making my way to bed, and I tossed and turned until I heard a car pull into the driveway an hour or so later. The front door opened and I was relieved by the commotion in the kitchen. I figured she was coming home horny and my cock jumped at the first footstep on the stairs.

The pattern was off though. It wasn’t her footsteps. Or, at least as the sound came closer, I realized there was a conflicting pattern. It was the sound of footsteps in competition.

At the top of the stairs, a woman giggled quietly and provoked some drunken shooshing that was even louder. I heard the guest room door open through the wall and the sounds of women’s voices, laughter, and the occasional clink of wine glasses.

Things got quiet for a little while, no matter how hard I pressed my ear to the wall. I got back into bed and was drifting off when I first heard a faint vibration. I emptied out my water glass in the bathroom sink to use it as a listening device, which seemed to help but only because the moaning was getting louder.

I could tell it wasn’t my wife — I imagined she had her tongue lodged in Stacy’s pussy. Eventually, I heard the higher pitch of my wife as they had apparently moved onto fingering or scissoring or something to get equal enjoyment. When the sounds became muffled I gathered they were probably both licking pussy. It got so loud as they went on for 15 or 20 minutes that I thought I should tap on the wall to keep them from waking the kids. But I couldn’t do anything to make them stop. They climaxed within a minute or two of each other with a whiny chorus of fuck yeses and yeah babies and it took them a few minutes to quiet down. It was another 15 or 20 minutes before I heard the guest room door open and the footsteps — of only one person — retreating downstairs.

The bedroom door opened quietly and my wife tried to sneak into bed. She was still naked and put a suspicious hand on my restless, leaky cock. “Oh baby, I’m sorry,” she said, pulling my dick out for hand job. “Do you want to hear about my night?”

I squeezed her breast and gave her a wet kiss. Her tongue had a foreign taste of a foreign body that was even more pronounced when she stuck three fingers in my mouth. She jerked me off violently as she confessed where each of her sweet fingers had been that night. I quickly exploded all over the sheets.

As conscious thoughts cleared my mind, I felt a dreamy affirmation that I had gotten the best of Stacy. She would have never approved of me getting a rogue taste of her pussy, I thought. And I wouldn’t let it be my last.

Junkman (@slipperyjunk) | Twitter

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