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‘Sarah, I’m old,’ I complained to my wife. ‘Look at this. A grey pube. A grey pube for fuck’s sake.’
My wife glanced at the pubic hair, which I had plucked from my crotch just two minutes ago, and burst into laughter.
In most ways, Sarah and I are a typical mid-thirties couple. We own a small house in a modest area, we have two girls who attend the local primary school, and we drive unremarkable cars.
The only thing that sets us apart from our peers is that neither of us work full time. Five months I ago I saw a job advertisement for a position in my field offering a thirty hour working week. Rather than the usual Monday to Friday, eight to five grind, it was Sunday through Tuesday, eight through seven. The pay on offer was close to my current salary, and when both Sarah and I calculated the cost savings that would result from not it came to not having to pay for as much vacation care during school holidays, we realised that we would end up no worse off if I won and accepted the position.
I didn’t expect to receive an interview, let alone to actually secure the job. It might have been ‘in my field’, but it was a bit of a step up and to the left. All the same, I embraced the position with gusto and last week was informed that I had successfully completed my probation period. My new employers were very happy with me, and I with them.
Since our second daughter was born six years ago, my wife has worked four short days a week for a local electrical goods store. She works in their office, doing underwhelming administration work, but her hours mean that she’s available to drop off and pick up the girls from school, and she has each Wednesday off to run errands and do the weekly grocery shopping.
Well, she used to spend her Wednesdays running errands and doing the shopping. Ever since I took on my new role, I’ve been the one doing these jobs on Thursdays and Fridays, and our Wednesdays have become days of strict leisure and enjoyment. How many married couples have an entire day off each week – during school term at least – to spend with one another? And even if we all were blessed with this arrangement, how many of us do you think would spend our days scrubbing toilets, going to the bank, and buying groceries? My point exactly. We spend our Wednesdays fucking each others brains out, which is exactly how it should be.
‘I’m not seeing much sympathy,’ I told her.
Sarah reached over and plucked the offending item from my hands. She held it against the palm of her other hand to check the colour was indeed what I said it was, then went and tossed it in the bin.
‘Devastating,’ she told me, in a tone that suggested she found it anything but. ‘I’ll take this as a sign that our sex life is about to end.’
‘Jesus, that’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?’
Her bright blue eyes were alight with mischief and on her face she wore the kind of expression she always wears when she’s messing with me. We’ve been together thirteen years and I’m more crazy about her than ever. She’s a little heavier than she was when we first met, but she’s quite fit, so she’s both fleshy and firm. Nice tits, nice arse, and a stomach that’s incredibly flat and unmarked for a woman who’s had kids. Plenty of men still look her way, although these days, the men are in their late thirties onwards and they’re more discreet than their younger counterparts.
I could only dream of women gazing at me in a sexual way. Like Sarah, I’ve not been able to escape the extra weight that comes with age, and I’ve been noticing more and more grey hairs on my head, in my stubble, and on my chest. I’ve been starting to contemplate buying some Just for Men and dying it, but it feels kind of weird to ask your wife to dye your hair for you, so I was instead hoping she’d realise what I wanted, and offer to do it.
Sarah walked over to me, stood on her tip toes, and kissed me. ‘Let’s go and buy some lunch and a bottle of wine, take it back home, and eat out the back. It’s a beautiful day.’
I couldn’t argue with that. It was a warm spring day, and I was feeling hungry after a Wednesday morning spent doing not much of anything at all. We’d seen the girls off to school, done a little laundry and vacuumed the floors, but that was the extent of our morning exertion.
We hopped in her car, which was parked behind mine, and went to the local shops to buy hot roast pork sandwiches and a bottle of white. Sarah was wearing a blue cotton dress which was tailored to show off her curves without being overly tight. It was a bit too short for a woman her age, and every time she leaned over or a gust of wind came by, I was treated to the sight of her upper thighs. I was planning on getting between those thighs sometime between lunch and picking the girls up from school. I’d woken up horny and the shortness of Sarah’s dress was filling my mind with all sorts of ideas.
We drove back to our house to eat. We bought our small cottage on a whim twelve years ago. I always think of it as ‘Sarah’s house’ because denizli escort she’s the one who fell in love with it. She’s a bit of a hippy, even if she doesn’t want to admit it, and the overgrown gardens, eclectic paint scheme and battered wooden floors were right up her alley. It’s on a small block, and because of it’s unusual (as the Real Estate Agent put it) décor, it was a relatively cheap buy.
It’s also turned out to be a fucking money pit, but as my wife loves the place, I try not to focus on what it’s cost us. It’s my home, my little sanctuary from the world, and who really cares if there’s a train line three doors down, and a station just two hundred metres away? During the week barely fifteen minutes goes by without a train pulling into the station, but after over a decade of listening to the whoosh, whistles and rattles, I’ve come to find the noise oddly reassuring.
Town planning has never been the strong suit of Brisbane City Council and our street and the surrounding suburb hosted a dazzling array of architectural styles. Our own little home was sandwiched between an Asian McMansion monstrosity built with zero boundary on the side closest to the train station, and a dilapidated old Queenslander on the other.
We barely saw our Chinese neighbours. They presumably existed, because there were always five or six cars parked in their driveway and outside their house, and the cars would randomly change position, but it seemed that the occupants teleported themselves from vehicle to abode and vice versa.
The Queenslander was another matter. It’s owner had aspired to knocking the joint down and developing the land once he got the money together and to fund the mortgage payments in the interim period, he’d had a succession of tenants through the property. None stayed for long. They always left once they realised that the dodgy wiring, dripping taps, and rotting veranda were never going to be fixed.
Sarah and I were probably the only home owners in Australia who couldn’t wait for the neighbouring house to be levelled and replaced with an apartment building. You see, the Queenslander had been built not in the middle of the block, but close to the right, which meant that it’s veranda overlooked our back yard. This was a problem because to the left of our yard was a beautiful paved area with an outdoor setting, so whenever we were sitting outside we were just four or five metres away from anyone who was on the Queenslander’s veranda. This resulted in neither party having any sort of privacy.
We’d been somewhat disappointed when Jim, the owner, had told us that the banks wouldn’t lend him the money to develop the land, and that he’d decided to cut his losses and sell the joint. Three times since then the ‘For Sale’ sign had come up, to be quickly covered with an ‘Under Contract’ sticker, only for the contract to fall through and be replaced with another ‘For Sale’ sign. From what Sarah and I had heard, there were significant structural issues with the joint.
A couple of weeks ago the fourth ‘For Sale’ sign had gone up. As yet there was no ‘Under Contract’ sticker, but when we arrived at our house we saw a builder getting out of his ute at the front of the property. There was a sign on his vehicle announcing he did building inspections, which must be what he’d come to do.
I glanced at Sarah and raised my eyebrows.
‘Again,’ she remarked. ‘I wish a developer would just buy the place.’
I carried our lunch to the front door of our cottage while Sarah scrabbled around in her handbag for the housekeys. She let out a noise of frustration as they continued to elude her, and started retrieving the usual detritus of parenthood that women normally carry around; tissues, a tangled bead necklace and a wad of school permission forms. The keys, however, remained buried in the corner of her bag, and she put it down on the ground and started pulling out her purse, her make-up case and a half-eaten bag of eucalyptus drops.
As she searched for the keys, I glanced over at the builder’s ute. I noticed that the builder hadn’t yet gone inside. Instead, he was gazing at Sarah as she rummaged through her bag.
I followed the tradesman’s line of sight, and realised he was getting a pretty good view of her thighs, and maybe even a glimpse of her panties. The realisation he found her attractive hit me with a force, bringing about the usual combination of pride and annoyance.
‘Found them!’ Sarah cried triumphantly, holding up the keys.
I glanced at the builder and saw that he was heading inside the Queenslander. He’d been sprung and he knew it, and had obviously decided just to get started on his inspection of the Queenslander.
Sarah opened the door and we went inside.
‘That builder was easy on the eye, wasn’t he?’ she remarked, cocking her head in the direction of the Queenslander. ‘You’d think after all the work we’ve had done on this house we’d be due for a good-looking tradie, diyarbakır escort but we always end up with ones who are still wet behind the ears, or two years off retirement.’
When Sarah and I were first dating, I made the mistake of telling her that Jessica Alba was my celebrity crush. She took the statement as a sign that we were one of those couples who would mention to each other whenever we found anyone attractive. Since then I’ve become acutely aware that she likes tall, tanned, rough men, which would be fine if I was tall, tanned and rough, but the reality is that while I’m six foot, I’m also fair skinned, dark haired and stocky. I’m pretty much the polar opposite to her usual preference.
Sarah hummed around the kitchen, collecting wine glasses and plates, before leading me out the back door. We went to our outdoor setting, spread out our food, and poured glasses of wine. As I ate my roast pork sandwich, I wondered how the building inspection was going. I glanced up at the Queenslander. It was in a serious state of disrepair. How was it even worth bothering with?
‘It’ll cost a fortune to make that place habitable,’ Sarah remarked, staring at the Queenslander. ‘If it’s even salvageable.’
‘It’d look pretty shit hot if it was done right, though,’ I replied. ‘You’d just have to have enough money.’
She smiled and licked a glob of gravy off her index finger. ‘Everything is salvageable if you have enough money.’
‘True.’
‘I’d rather have you, than money,’ she remarked. ‘You and the kids and this house. I’d rather be happy than have a nice home.’
I leant over the table and kissed her. ‘Me too,’ I replied honestly.
We finished our sandwiches and our wine. I poured myself a second glass and offered her a refill, but she declined. She’s not someone who can tolerate much alcohol and besides, we’d have to go and pick up the girls in a couple of hours.
It was a pleasant afternoon. The weather was warm but not hot, the sky was blue and clear, and the only noise was that of a train rattling along the tracks. I sipped my wine and thought about how lucky I was to have a job that I enjoyed, two kids who I loved, and a wife who had turned out to be so much more than I’d ever hoped for or expected.
I could hear the builder stepping out onto the Queenslander’s veranda as I leant over the table again to kiss my wife. I didn’t care if he saw us. In fact, I hoped he did. I wanted to show him that she was mine. He could stare at her legs all he wanted, but it was my back that those thighs got wrapped around.
There was a garden swing to the left of the outdoor setting, and I whispered to Sarah that we should sit on it and cuddle.
She shook her head and cocked her head in the direction of the veranda. ‘No, the builder’s up there,’ she whispered. ‘He’ll be able to see us.’
‘Only if he’s looking,’ I told her.
‘If he stands on the edge of the veranda he won’t have any choice but to look.’
‘He was staring at your legs when you were out the front, searching for your keys. I reckon he’d like to see a bit more of you.’
She blushed. ‘Don’t be stupid.’
I wasn’t being stupid. I gave her a cheeky grin, stood up, and took her hand. She let out a sigh and blushed again, but she let me lead her to the garden seat.
Sarah knew all about my fantasies. I loved the idea of watching couples get frisky, and I’m enamoured with the idea of being watched. What my wife wasn’t aware of was how deep those fantasies ran.
I’m the child of country publicans, so my adolescence was marked by years helping out in the pub kitchen, balancing tills and helping to clean the hotel rooms. As I got older, I started working behind the bar, but I still spent an inordinate amount of time helping the cleaner take care of the rooms. The cleaner appreciated having a man to back her up when patrons didn’t want to leave, or when they had made a mess and needed to be bought to account.
It was a few months after my eighteenth birthday that the cleaner called in sick, and I was sent to clean the rooms. I was at university at the time, and home only for the holidays, so I was annoyed at being given such a menial task. I whinged and bitched, but in the end I headed upstairs and collected the cleaning cart.
I begrudgingly started attending to the cleaning. As I finished the third room, I realised I could hear a man and woman talking and laughing from within one of the adjoining rooms. I stopped and listened, more out of curiosity than anything else, because women rarely stayed at the pub.
I wasn’t a virgin, my city girlfriend having divested me of my virginity just as she divested me of my collection of shirts (hideous), boots (‘only forty year old office workers wear those, and only on casual Fridays) and habit of drinking ‘bogan’ drinks, but I was yet to see what the fuss was about with sex. Frankly, I found it boring. Melissa would lay beneath me almost motionless, antalya escort as I had my way with her, and would later complain that I took too long to come.
The couple down the hallway sounded like they were having fun. The girl was giggling and laughing and intermittently letting out little gasps, while her partner was laughing breathlessly, whispering to her, and having a grand old time.
I very cautiously crept down the hallway. I realised the door to their room was actually open a few inches. With my heart beating and my cock hard, I peered in. The woman was riding him – Jed, I noted, a local farmer’s son – and their laughter and endearments were being replaced by grunts and sighs and moans. It didn’t take long for either of them to come. She came first, crying out and grinding against him, and when she was done, he neatly flipped her over onto her back, speared her with his tool, and finished himself off.
I hadn’t witnessed anything more than a morning quickie before they were due to check out, but it was still something of a revelation that sex could be fun and enjoyable for both parties. And, if other men were getting the good stuff, then I wanted to, too. I went back to Brisbane a few days later, dumped my starfish girlfriend, bought a few new shirts and started dating the sort of women who enjoyed fucking.
Ever since that day at the pub I’ve had a love of watching couples fuck, and a burning desire to have someone watch Sarah and I make love. As we sat on the garden swing, kissing each other, I slid my hand up to Sarah’s crotch, and stroked the cotton gusset of her panties. She was hot and wet, and when I slipped my fingers beneath the fabric and traced them along her slit, she let out a soft moan.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see the builder standing on the edge of the veranda. He was both watching us, and pretending not to, but I could see through his charade. There was nothing for him to look at but us, and watch us he most certainly was.
My fingers were still wedged between Sarah’s damp panties and her labia. I wriggled them around a bit and managed to find her swollen clit. She moaned again, and I found myself wondering what part of this was arousing her more; the knowledge that the builder was watching us, or the fantasy of being fucked by him.
What the hell did it matter either way? She was horny, and the glass of wine had obviously helped her shed her usual inhibitions. With any luck, I’d be able to keep pushing forward and fulfil a long held fantasy of mine; fucking Sarah with an audience.
I’d never thought we’d do it out here, though. The idea of simply fucking in front of the hapless, unwilling tenants next door had never appealed because I wanted the voyeur to enjoy the experience as much as I’d enjoyed watching Jed and his girlfriend. This afternoon was different, though, because the builder was most certainly happy to partake in an afternoon’s peeping. Who was I to deny the two of us what we both wanted? The stars had aligned, and I was determined to make the most of the situation.
‘Take your panties off,’ I murmured.
‘Um…’ Sarah paused. She opened her eyes but kept them steadfastly averted from the veranda of the Queenslander. ‘Can he see us?’
‘Yep. He’s standing there having a good old gander.’
‘Oh God.’
‘Take them off. I want to feel your pussy.’
‘Yes, but the builder! He probably doesn’t want to see it.’
I snorted. ‘He wants to see it. He wants to fuck it, too, but he’ll have to settle for a little show.’
‘A little show?’ She groaned. ‘Oh God. This is your ultimate fantasy, isn’t it?’
‘Mmhmm.’ I rubbed her breasts through her dress. ‘And you’re horny. Come on. Take off your panties. Hell, take off the whole lot and sit on my lap. I promise you he won’t be able to look away. Besides, even if he gets offended, there’s not going to be a problem. He’s only there to do an inspection. Neither of us will ever see him again.’
Sarah chewed her lower lip. After what seemed like an eternity, she nodded. ‘Okay. You dressed up as a fireman for me, so now it’s my turn to do a favour.’
She stood up and turned so that she was facing away from the builder. She took a deep breath, then lifted her sundress over her shoulders. Her bra followed, then her panties. I sat on the swing, taking in the magnificent view. Her mons pubis was bald, her breasts were large and topped with coffee coloured nipples, and her face was flushed with excitement.
The builder was similarly enamoured. He was no longer pretending to be doing anything other than staring at us. And why shouldn’t he? He surely knew this show was for him. He may as well enjoy it.
Sarah gingerly straddled me. The movement made the seat swing back and forth, and I held onto her, careful not let her fall. Once we’d stopped moving, I turned my attention to her breasts. I ensured the builder didn’t miss a moment of me licking and sucking and squeezing them.
My cock was pressing against my shorts, demanding release. I wondered if the builder’s cock was also hard. Was it straining against his pants? Did he want to touch himself? I glanced up at the veranda, and saw him nod his head to me in the way men do to show they mean no offence or disrespect. I nodded back. Good. It was all good. He was enjoying this as much as I was.
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