The Creak I Never Oiled

The crunch of gravel under my tires was the only sound as I pulled into the driveway of our little bungalow on Maple Street three hours earlier than expected. The regional manager meeting had been canceled last minute, some bullshit about budget reviews, and I’d decided to surprise you instead of heading back to the office. Your text from this morning still sat in my phone: “Don’t worry about dinner, I’ll just have toast. Missing you already.” I’d replied with a wink emoji and told you I’d be late, knowing full well I was already turning onto our street.

The front door opened with that familiar creak I kept meaning to oil. I slipped off my work shoes in the hallway, the carpet soft under my socked feet, and that’s when I heard it. A low murmur of voices coming from the bedroom. Male laughter, then your nervous giggle, the one you make when you’re fidgeting with the hem of your cardigan.

My stomach did a weird flip. Not anger, exactly. Something else. Something that made my pulse tick faster in my throat.

I crept down the hallway, staying close to the wall where the floorboards didn’t squeak. The bedroom door was slightly ajar, a sliver of golden afternoon light spilling through the crack. I positioned myself against the doorframe, barely breathing, and peered through.

You were on the bed, on all fours, facing directly toward the door. Your grey hair was loose from its usual clip, falling around your face in soft waves. Your glasses were slightly askew on your nose, and you were wearing that sheer, loose dress I’d seen once before, the one that made you blush when I told you how much I liked it. It was bunched up around your waist now, leaving your lower half completely bare. Your average breasts hung down inside the fabric, nipples visible through the thin material, stiff and dark.

Behind you was a man I didn’t recognize. Maybe mid-forties, fit in a casual way, jeans pooled around his ankles. His hands were on your hips, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there, and his cock was buried deep inside your pussy. I could see the glisten of your wetness on him every time he pulled back, the way your folds clung to his shaft before he pushed in again.

You were making these small, breathy sounds. Not performative moans, but genuine little gasps, like you were surprised by every thrust. Your knuckles were white where you gripped the bedsheets, and your body rocked forward with each push from behind.

I should have announced myself. I should have cleared my throat or dropped my keys or done something to let you know I was there. Instead, I stayed hidden in the shadow of the hallway, one hand braced against the wall, watching.

The man said something I couldn’t quite catch, and you nodded, your grey hair bouncing. He reached around and cupped one of your breasts through the dress, thumb rubbing over your nipple, and you made a sound that was almost a whimper. Your hips pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts with a clumsy, unpracticed rhythm that was so utterly you, so endearingly shy even now.

Then your head lifted. Your eyes, magnified slightly by your glasses, looked directly at the crack in the door. At me.

I froze. My heart slammed against my ribs. But you didn’t stop. You didn’t gasp or pull away or tell the man to get out. Instead, something shifted in your expression. Your nervousness melted into something else, something I’d only seen flickers of before. A slow, deliberate awareness.

You held my gaze through that narrow gap, and your hips began to move differently. More intentionally. You arched your back, pushing your ass higher, and the man behind you groaned appreciatively. His thrusts became harder, faster, and you took every one of them while looking right at me.

Your mouth formed words silently: “Watch me.”

So I did.

The man’s pace increased, his thighs slapping against the backs of yours with wet, rhythmic smacks. His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to leave marks, and you let out a real moan now, louder than before, your voice cracking in the middle. Your pussy was making these obscene squelching sounds, wet and hungry, and I could see your arousal smeared on the man’s cock, on your inner thighs, glistening in the afternoon light.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” the man grunted, and you blushed, actual red creeping up your neck, even as you pushed back harder against him. Your glasses slipped further down your nose, and you didn’t bother to push them up. Your focus was entirely on me, on the crack in the door, on the knowledge that I was watching.

I felt my own cock hardening, pressing uncomfortably against my work trousers. I didn’t touch myself. I didn’t move. I just watched, barely breathing, as my shy, inexperienced wife put on the most explicit show of her life.

The man pulled out suddenly, his cock slick and veined, bobbing in the air. He flipped you onto your back, your dress riding up around your ribs, and you let out a surprised squeak. Your legs fell open automatically, and I saw your pussy fully exposed for the first time. Swollen lips, dark pink, glazed with your own wetness. Your grey curls were damp and matted. Your clit was visible, a small, hard nub peeking out from its hood.

He positioned himself between your thighs and pushed back in, and your head fell back against the pillow, your mouth opening in a silent cry. Your hands came up to grip his shoulders, nails pressing into his skin, and he started fucking you with deep, grinding strokes that made the bedframe knock against the wall.

Your eyes found the door again. Found me. And you smiled. A small, nervous, utterly filthy smile.

“Harder,” you whispered, and it took me a moment to realize you were talking to him, not to me. “Please, harder.”

He obliged. The sound of his body slamming into yours filled the room, wet and brutal, and your breasts bounced with every impact, still trapped inside that sheer dress. Your nipples were so hard they looked painful, and I wanted to suck them, bite them, roll them between my fingers.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, ankles crossing at the small of his back, and your hips started lifting to meet his thrusts. You were getting closer. I could tell by the way your breathing changed, the way your moans became higher and more desperate. Your fingers scrabbled at his back, leaving red lines, and your inner thighs were trembling.

“I’m going to come,” you gasped, and your eyes were locked on mine, wide and pleading, like you needed my permission. “I’m going to—”

Your body seized. Your back arched off the bed, your pussy clenching visibly around his cock, and you let out a wail that was half my name, bitten off at the last second. Your legs shook, your stomach muscles spasmed, and the man groaned as your orgasm milked him, your inner walls fluttering and squeezing.

He lasted maybe three more thrusts before he pulled out, his cock pulsing, and shot thick ropes of cum across your belly and the bunched-up fabric of your dress. You flinched at the first splash, then relaxed, letting it happen, your chest heaving.

For a long moment, no one moved. The man was panting, pulling his jeans up with clumsy hands. You lay there, dress around your ribs, cum cooling on your stomach, glasses completely fogged. Your eyes were still on the door.

“Thanks,” the man said awkwardly, already backing toward the bathroom. “I’ll, uh, see myself out.”

You didn’t answer. You just watched the door.

I waited until I heard the front door close, until the house was silent except for your ragged breathing. Then I pushed the bedroom door open and stepped inside.

You didn’t move. You didn’t cover yourself. You just lay there, looking up at me, a mixture of terror and triumph on your face.

“You were early,” you said.

“Meeting was canceled.”

“I see.”

I walked to the edge of the bed and looked down at you. At the mess on your stomach. At your still-twitching pussy. At your fogged glasses and tangled grey hair.

“You knew I was there,” I said.

“Yes.”

“And you kept going.”

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips. “You were watching. I didn’t want to stop.”

I knelt on the bed, still fully clothed, and reached down to trace a finger through the cum on your belly. You shivered, your muscles jumping under my touch. I brought my finger to your mouth, and you sucked it clean without hesitation, your eyes never leaving mine.

“Did you plan this?” I asked.

“No. He was just… the plumber. He came to fix the sink. And then he was looking at me, and I was wearing this dress, and I thought about what you said last time, about wanting to watch, and I just…”

“You just decided to put on a show.”

“Yes.”

I leaned down and kissed you, tasting salt and something bitter on your lips. Your hands came up to grip my shirt, pulling me closer, and I felt the sticky wetness of your stomach pressing against my clothes.

“You’re not angry?” you whispered against my mouth.

“I’m so hard I can barely think,” I said. “Does that answer your question?”

You laughed, that nervous giggle again, and reached down to fumble with my belt. Your fingers were clumsy, still shaking from your orgasm, and I had to help you. Together we got my trousers and boxers down, and then my cock was pressing against your thigh, hot and insistent.

“I want you inside me,” you said. “Please. I want to feel you.”

I didn’t make you wait. I positioned myself between your legs, still slick and open from the plumber, and slid in with one smooth motion. You gasped, your head falling back, and your legs wrapped around me just like they’d wrapped around him.

But this was different. This was slower. Deeper. I moved inside you with long, deliberate strokes, watching your face, watching the way your glasses bounced on your nose with every thrust. Your pussy was so wet, so hot, still spasming from your earlier climax.

“I love watching you,” I said, my voice rough. “I love seeing you like this. So fucking beautiful.”

You blushed, actual color flooding your cheeks and chest, and that blush did something to me. I fucked you harder, faster, chasing my own release now, and you held on, your nails digging into my back through my shirt.

“Come inside me,” you whispered. “Please. I want to feel it.”

That was all it took. I buried myself deep and let go, groaning your name as I spilled inside you, my release mixing with the wetness already there. You clenched around me, milking every drop, and for a long moment we just stayed like that, tangled together on the rumpled sheets.

Afterward, I collapsed beside you, both of us staring at the ceiling. The room smelled like sex and sweat and something floral from your perfume. Your hand found mine and squeezed.

“So,” I said eventually, “did he actually fix the sink?”

You started laughing, that full, genuine laugh I loved, and turned to bury your face in my shoulder.

“No,” you admitted. “The sink is still broken.”

“I’ll fix it tomorrow.”

“Or we could call him back.”

I turned my head to look at you, at your wicked smile and fogged glasses and sex-tangled hair, and I felt a surge of something that was equal parts love and lust and sheer amazement.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” I said.

“I’m sixty years old,” you said. “I figured it was time to stop being so nervous all the time.”

I kissed your forehead, right above the frame of your glasses. “Best plumbing call we ever made.”

You snorted. “He wasn’t even a very good plumber.”

“He was good at other things.”

You smacked my chest lightly, but you were smiling, and so was I, and the afternoon sun was still warm through the bedroom window, and everything felt exactly right.

Later, much later, after we’d showered and ordered pizza and you’d put on your favorite cardigan, I caught you watching me from across the living room with that same expression you’d had through the crack in the door. Calculating. Hungry. A little bit nervous, but pushing through it anyway.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing,” you said, tugging at your sleeve. “Just thinking about next time.”

And I believed you.