His Father's Side

Drew still knocked, which was manners or nerves.

Paula opened the door in paint clothes. Forty-five. He was twenty-nine, taller than the man who had left, and holding a toolbox the sash window did not need. She had married his father when Drew was twenty-six and already living in another city. The father had been gone a year. The toolbox was the third excuse this month.

"If you kiss me," she said, "it is not an accident."

"I know who you are. His wife. Not my mother. I was a grown man when you moved in. Tell me to leave."

"Don't leave. Fuck me in the bed he doesn't use."

They did not get upstairs cleanly. The landing took the first kiss, the bedroom the rest. Paula pulled her shirt off. Drew stared, then put his mouth on her tits, then her cunt, greedy, grateful, filthy. She came with a hand in his hair. He pushed into her on the bed and she hooked her legs around him and told him not to be gentle.

"Say it," she said.

"I'm fucking my father's wife."

"Yes. Harder."

He fucked her harder. The headboard tapped. She came again with her hand between them. He came deep, shaking, and stayed there until the street noise came back.

"Thursday," she said. "After your job. I want you in my mouth first."

Paula did not let him leave the bed. She took his cock in her mouth while he was still sensitive, tasting herself, and sucked him hard again. Drew swore and held her hair because she put his hand there. She pulled off, climbed on, and rode him facing him so he had to see whose bed it was.

"Say it while I do this," she said.

"I'm fucking you in his bed. You told me to."

"Good."

She came with a hand on her clit and his cock deep. He followed, smaller, wrecked. They lay in the paint-smudged duvet and listened to the street.

"Thursday," she said. "After the job. Mouth first. Then you can have me however you want, as long as you can leave if you need to."

"I won't need to," he said. "I'll still be able to."

She kissed his wrist. "That's why you can stay."

"I'll be here," he said.

Paula took him in her mouth until he was hard again, then rode him on the bed his father did not sleep in. She made him say it. He said he was fucking his father's wife because she told him to. She came with her hand on her clit. He came inside her, wrecked. They lay there and listened to the street. "Thursday," she said. "Mouth first. You can leave if you need to." "I can leave," he said. "I won't need to." She kissed his wrist. On Thursday he knelt and licked her until she came, then fucked her against the wardrobe with her paint shirt still on. She kept the toolbox by the door. He kept coming back.

Thursday he was early. Paula put him on his knees in the hall and made him lick her before she took him upstairs. She wanted his mouth first, as promised. He gave it until she came standing, one hand in his hair, paint still on her wrist. On the bed she took him in her mouth, slow, then turned and had him fuck her from behind so she could hear the headboard and know whose bed it was. She told him to come in her. He did.

After, they ate toast in the kitchen with the toolbox by the door. "You can stop coming," she said. "I will not make it a duty." "I don't want to stop," he said. She nodded. The next week he fucked her on the sofa with the television on, ordinary and obscene, and she came with her heel on his back and his name, not his father's, in her mouth.

Paula kept him the whole evening. After the toast she bent over the kitchen table and he fucked her with her paint shirt open, the toolbox in the hall like a witness. She came with her cheek on the wood. He came deep and stayed there, kissing her spine. Later she took him in her mouth on the sofa until he was hard, then rode him with the news on, ordinary and filthy. She told him he could stop. He said he would not. She believed him because he looked at her when he said whose wife she was, and because he still knocked. Thursday became a habit. The bed stopped being anyone else's.

Paula stopped calling the visits jobs. Drew still brought the toolbox, because the neighbours liked a story, and fucked her on the kitchen table with the radio on. She came with paint on his shirt. He came inside her and ate toast after, ordinary, wrecked. She told him the bed was theirs now in the only way that mattered. He knocked anyway. She liked the knock. It meant he could still leave, and that he was choosing not to. On the third Thursday she took him in her mouth in the hall and did not let him upstairs until he had come on her tongue. He did. She swallowed and led him up.

Drew stopped inventing sash cords. Paula met him at the door in nothing but the paint shirt and put him on his knees. He licked her until she came, then she took him to the bed and rode him until the headboard complained. He said whose wife she was. She came on it. He came in her. They showered and did it again, slower, her leg over his hip, the radio still on in the kitchen. The neighbours saw the toolbox and assumed virtue. The virtue was a knock, a yes, and his cock in her mouth in the hall before the tea was poured. She liked the ordinary filth of it. He kept coming back.

They did it again before they slept, slower and filthier, and neither of them pretended the night had been an accident. The door stayed locked. The want did not. She kissed him once more and kept him there.