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But Mr. Jones doesn’t come in her. Instead, his thrusts grow with increasing force and depth, even as the muscles on his chest tighten. Then at the last moment, he pulls out and spurts all over her creaming cunt, the white batter spraying over her hole and coating the insides of her thighs.
“Fuck!” he roars. “Oh shit!”
But then, I get the shock of my life because as his hose pumps and drains itself, suddenly, the handsome man looks up and meets my eyes. Oh shit, does he see me here? Immediately, I duck down below the windowsill, my cheeks pink and breathing hard. He just caught me! As the roars and moans from inside continue, I scrabble away on my hands and knees, trying to get out of there as quick as possible.
But something stays with me, and that’s the memory of Dane Jones smiling as he looked into my eyes. Can it be? Did he want me to be there? Was he titillated by the thought of a curvy young woman staring at him and his wife while they did it? Holy cow. It can’t be … but it is.
2
Dane
“Here you go,” says Amelia, tossing the papers onto the kitchen counter. “It was nice, but it’s time that we finished this, once and for all.”
I stare at my wife. Or should I say ex-wife? After all, once these divorce papers are signed, we’ll be done with one another, forever.
It’s a little sad, come to think of it. Amelia and I have been together since freshman year of college, which was about twelve years ago. Back then, we fell head over heels in love; she with the handsome, strapping young jock, and me with the pretty blonde with the sweet smile and nerdy glasses.
Life progressed as you might expect it to. We were together for all four years of college, and after graduation, we tied the knot with family and friends in attendance. She was beautiful in her white wedding dress with a wreath of flowers in her hair and a gentle way about her.
But now, Amelia’s different. She’s still beautiful, but she’s hard. Her beauty has taken on a glassy effect, and it’s a little scary sometimes, to be honest. She’s still slim, but that blonde hair is now highlighted within an inch of its life, and her blue eyes often look like impenetrable marbles to me. Sometimes, I try to initiate small talk, but more often than not, she stops the conversation in its tracks.
“Dane, I’m busy,” she’ll say in a short voice. “Not now.”
It’s not like I was asking her for sex, although we don’t have much of that now either. It’s more that I was trying to re-kindle the intimacy in our relationship. She’s supposed to be my soulmate, and yet I have no idea what goes on in her head anymore.
So yeah, the last two years have been hell. I’m married to an ice princess who seems to place more emphasis on work than anything else. I get it. She’s a professor at our local community college and just got tenure last year. But still. It seems foolish to sacrifice your marriage on the altar of academia. After all, are those books going to keep her warm at night? Or the scholarly articles? Or the endless faculty meetings?
To be honest, I suspect that my wife’s been having an affair, although I have no proof. Even worse, I suspect that it’s with an older professor at the college who’s in her department. Gerry Ludlum is in his sixties, and he looks like your regular, rumpled professor with his tweed jackets and brown scuffed shoes. He’s pretty unimpressive in my opinion, but I guess Amelia finds him attractive. Maybe it’s his “incredible intellect” and “awe-inducing conversation.” Hardly. It’s more that somehow we’ve just lost our spark, leading to this divorce.
I glance at her.
“So after that last minute friendly-fuck, you still want this, don’t you?”
Amelia yanks the belt of her silk robe even tighter around her narrow waist.
“Please Dane,” she says tiredly. “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be. We agreed to this divorce months ago. We’ve been living like roommates ever since, and yes, that was just a last-minute nookie that didn’t mean anything. I mean, it felt good but there was no emotional connection.”
I let out a snort. There was no emotional connection because Amelia hasn’t given a flying fuck about our relationship in years. She’s too obsessed with her career and that geriatric-looking Gerry at the university with his smoking pipes and stained shirts. What does she see in him? I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.
Leaning down, I sign my name on the dotted line, and then flip a few pages to sign again. Then I sign again, this time on the last page. I guess a divorce is complicated and it takes a couple signatures to complete the packet. But at least it’s done now.
