The Spare Room

Luisa

I moved into their spare bedroom in the finished basement when I was 25. I had a separate entrance from the garage, but we shared the kitchen. I helped with the dishes and cleaning. Sometimes I would even eat dinner with them and their three-year old. They were a young couple, mid-30s, fit and ambitious—somehow already living some secret to happiness everyone else was searching for.

Sometimes when couples finally marry, they seem to shut everyone else out. Maybe so they don't have to share each other, maybe so they don't have to share themselves. But they were not that couple.

I met George at training in Seattle for our new jobs at a nationwide company. He was perhaps the most handsome and charming man I had ever met. He was tall and broad and had obviously been weightlifting for many years. He towered over me and made me feel small and dainty, but safe in his presence. His face was kind and he was always cheerful.

When he talked about his wife, Johanna, and their son, he beamed. I thought he was fantasizing—projecting some image of the idyllic family-man. The more I got to know him and his family, the more I realized he was actually happy. I asked him what his secret was and he told me there was none. I had an enormous crush on him, but I kept it to myself.

He made me believe that happiness after marriage, even children, was possible—which I had long considered to be a myth that mothers told their daughters so theirs daughters would go off to marry and have grandbabies.

When George found out we were getting assigned to the same city, Boise, he and Johanna offered to rent me a room in their home while I searched for more long-term lodging. I gladly accepted, hopeful that I might pick up some of their tricks to joy and secretly admire him from much closer up. If nothing else, I could finally glimpse into their hidden despair, validating my happily ever after pessimism and ridding myself of my consuming schoolgirl crush. I didn't want to be right though.

I moved in late Fall. The city was cold and a bit lonely, but their family was warm and inviting—enveloping me with their kindness in this strange, new place. Winter took hold quickly and as the snow deepened, George and Johanna encouraged me to abandon my home search until Spring. I happily obliged. I loved their presence.

Sometimes I'd think I heard their soft moaning or their bed frame knocking the wall in a steady rhythm. It could have been their son playing or the neighbors fixing something, but I liked to think it was their love making. Sometimes I would catch myself and imagine it was George and me moaning together into the quiet, dark night—his broad body surrounding me, holding me safe in his arms as we writhed together toward climax.

-

It was a Thursday night. George was grilling and invited me to join for a late dinner. Their son was already in bed. I always loved George's grilling since when we were in training together. This night was no exception.

We started in on the wine, and the conversation quickly took us away. I loved this about our friendship—they were like the happy older siblings I could always admire, but never had myself. The hours wore on, the laughing and the stories until it was after ten. We were all a little drunk and had work the following day.

George went outside to clean up the grill while Johanna and I kept talking at the dining room table.

"I can tell George likes you," she said, unprompted, but kind.

"Oh," my pulse quickened. I knew she didn't mean it in the way I wanted her to mean it. "I'm glad. I like you guys, too." After a pause, I added, "I really appreciate getting to live here with you. It's nice."

"We love having you. We can get bored when it's just us," she giggled.

I took a sip of wine.

"What do you think of him?" she asked.

I lowered my brows eyes, "What do you mean?"

"My husband is a handsome man."

I nodded, worried my voice would give everything away. I adored her husband, almost since the moment I met him. He was a magnificent. Of course he was paired with such a beautiful and strong woman. But my little crush didn't have to mean anything. I was never going to do anything about it. I loved their family too much to hurt any of them.

She laughed a little, warm. "It's really okay," she said. I think she meant it. "You can say it."

"Yeah," I admitted it, flat, hoping my admission would make her stop her questions.

"We like having you here," she said again. Her eyes were soft, smile warm as she leaned into the table for emphasis, making me look directly in her eyes. Speaking in this way about her husband made my heart hammer, but I didn't want her to see the effect he had on me.

"Woah, I am stuffed," George bellowed as he came back inside the house. He kissed Johanna on the forehead and then leaned down to bite her ear. I could hear his breath exhaled through his teeth and reverberate against her skin. She giggled and looked up at him.

"So tell us, Abby," Johanna said. "Are you seeing anyone?"

I took a deep breath, "No."

"Any dates?"

"You know I haven't really been looking—just focused on getting settled."

"Well, I'm sure whenever you're ready, you'll find someone."

"She doesn't have to date, Jo," George chimed in. "Let her do what she wants."

"I only meant she's charming...and beautiful, of course."

My cheeks felt a little flushed. I wasn't used to being complimented by such a sexy woman. "Thank you."

"I'm off to bed. See you upstairs," George said to Johanna. Then he looked at me, "Night, Abby."

I smiled at him, but said nothing. My cheeks burnt hot imagining his breath on my own skin.

-

One night, I was in my room writing at my desk in the low lamp light. I guess my door was ajar, because I heard a soft knock and when I turned, George was peaking from inside the door frame.

"I was just coming down to get the laundry, wanted to check on you."

I smiled, walking toward the door. "I'm good, how are you?"

His grin faded. "Do you trust me?"

I didn't know what he meant, but I said, "Of course."

He nodded slowly. "And you'd tell me, if I ever did anything that was too much—that you didn't like?"

"Of course."

"I never want to scare you," he said. "I like having you around too much." He smiled and began to move as if to leave and my heart started pounding afraid our moment in the dim light of the empty basement would slip away and never return.

"Why would you scare me?" I said, a little breathless.

He shrugged, unsure or unable to say, I didn't know. "I am a man," he said after a while.

I nodded slightly, to show him I heard, but I still didn't understand.

"I'd imagine most young women would feel uncomfortable living with a married couple."

"I like you," I said and then I hesitated, because I had meant to say I like it. So I added, "Both of you."

He didn't smile. "I like you, too," he said. "Goodnight," and closed the door.

-

As the months went on, they grew more and more comfortable with my presence, slowly indoctrinating me into their family. They bickered more in front of me, but never fought. They would touch each other more, sometimes kiss. Sometimes they would be washing dishes or folding laundry, and suddenly George would stop, take Johanna's face in his soapy hands and he'd kiss her in a way I didn't think was possible after the first year of marriage. I'd watch the soap bubbles slide down his thick forearms and drip onto her blouse, and then I'd quietly excuse myself to give them some privacy.

On one of the those particularly hot summer days, George had practically ripped her blouse open in front of me. A few hours later, I was making tea in the kitchen when he came in.

"How are you?" he said from behind me.

I was a bit startled, but said, "Fine."

He started pulling out leftovers and plates for dinner.

After a few minutes, he said, "I'm sorry about earlier today, if that made you uncomfortable."

I looked over at him, his body turned to face me, open and concerned. I tried to shrug it off, "It's your house."

"True," he chuckled softly, "but we don't want to make you uncomfortable. We like having you here."

George reached to open a cabinet above me, his hips pressing briefly against my ass. He continued with his tasks as if nothing happened.

Bearing witness to their intimacy stirred me after years of poor dating and work had deadened my sex drive. Watching them had reawakened that ache I used to feel in school, when the right boy would smile at me. When I watched George and Johanna kiss, when I excused myself, it was as much for their privacy as my own. I'd go downstairs to my room and lay on top of my blankets, letting my hands roam free, pretending it was a wide, strong man touching me, exploring me almost lazily, like we had the rest of our lives to touch each other.

I'd slip my fingers inside my waistband and feel every inch of myself, spreading my wetness, as if readying myself for my imaginary man to fuck me. I came the hardest when I pretended it was George, bearing down upon me against the kitchen counter, his hands soapy and hot from washing the dishes, the suds dripping down my bare breasts, tickling my skin and making me squirm against him. He'd grab hold of me tighter and that's when he'd cum, laying into me his broad, shaking body. So much man falling to pieces in front of me. I'd drift off and awake sometime later, still atop my bed the sky dark and my clothes still on.

I tried not to fantasize about George as much. I was worried if I kept it up, the more nervous I would become around them, as if they could tell and would be embarrassed or even threatened by me. My greatest fear was they would suddenly realize how inappropriate it was to let a single, grown woman live with them in their home.

-

A few days later, Johanna and I were in the living room reading while George was getting their son ready for bed. She put down her book and said, "Abby, do you like living here?"

I was surprised. "Of course I do."

She nodded slowly. "You seem," she looked down as if collecting the words from the carpet. "A little shy, lately. Is everything alright?"

I nodded.

"Is your family alright? Work?"

I nodded again.

"You know you can talk to us. You feel very much a part of our family and we'd like you to let us in."

If only she knew exactly how I wanted them to let me in.

"Is it our PDA?" she asked. "I'm sorry if it's too much. I worry we may feel too comfortable around you."

"It's your home," I told her. But she was right. I had withdrawn so much, afraid they might notice my arousal. I missed them.

"You'd tell if something was up, right?"

"Of course," I nodded.

She sighed, "Abby, you know we like you."

I smiled at her.

I tried to ease up. I had lived there for four months and if they didn't like me, they would have asked me to move out by now. I decided it was all in my head. I tried to make light of all the casual brushes. Sometimes George and I would bump knees under the table, or Johanna would put her hand on my shoulder for emphasis during one of her stories. I let them touch me more, reminding myself they were touching me. They wanted me there.

-

We were around the dinner table again, drinking wine and laughing. George sighed and looked at Johanna the way I always hoped a man might look at me some day.

"I love you," he told her.

She lit up instantly, "I love you."

Everyone was a little drunk and loose and giggly. George stood up and reached across to take Johanna's face in his hands and he kissed her hard and loud. I could hear their heavy breathing. She straightened up and pressed into him, as if faint and needed him to support her. It was probably all the wine. We had drunk two bottles and were on our third.

I wanted to watch them. I wanted to watch every moment of them together and in love and hungry for each other even after all those years of marriage. Instead I looked away to give them privacy.

"She's embarrassed," Johanna said.

They were looking at me.

"We're sorry," she laughed. "We like you watching us."

"Jo," George hissed softly.

"What?" she shrugged. "I like her. You like her."

George looked directly at me. I tried to smile to ease the tension, but I don't think I was very convincing. I started chewing on the inside of my lip.

"Kiss her," Johanna whispered.

I swallowed.

George looked confused and stared down at his wife for bit.

"It's okay," she said. "I want you to." She placed her hand on his chest, smoothing his shirt.

"But you don't know what she wants," he said back. Then they both looked at me.

My heart was thumping. It was what I had always wanted but couldn't speak out loud. Even now, I was nervous this was a cruel joke, an exaggeration—they were teasing me. That didn't seem like them at all, though. They had always open and honest with me.

"Don't you want to, Abby? You deserve a nice kiss, too," Johanna said.

I sat up straighter in my chair, but didn't say anything, afraid they'd catch me the fool I felt and start laughing. But they didn't.

George walked over to me, going down to his knees. He was so tall, that on his knees he was now eye-level. He put his hands on my knees and I froze, trying desperately to hide my arousal.

"It's so cute how nervous she is," Johanna said.

Clearly not well.

George kept his eyes on me, "Abby, may I kiss you?"

I looked over at Johanna, but she was smiling warmly. I licked my lips and when I turned back to George's face, his gaze jumped up to my eyes from my mouth. He parted his lips and I heard his breath now pulling steady in and out of him. It was sexy how vulnerable he was, like he wanted to kiss me.

I nodded slightly and he leaned into me, gently, one draw of his lips against my bottom lip, then two. Then he pulled back, his hands still resting on my knees.

"That's so sweet," Johanna said quietly, "You deserve it." I suddenly wasn't sure which one of us she meant it for.

-

That night, there was a soft knock on my door. When I opened it, George was leaning against the frame, his body wide, blocking the whole gap. I licked my lips momentarily imagining this body above me. I couldn't help myself with the feel of his lips still imprinted on me.

He sighed, his eyes dark, his body shaking. His chest rose and fell heavy with each breath.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

He shook his head. "You need to tell me—I never want to you to do anything you don't want to. Promise me?"

I nodded.

"All the teasing, I don't want to scare you away."

"You're not."

"Really?"

I smiled, unable to meet his eyes. "I like it," I said. His body began to relax, his arm dropping to his side.

Then he whispered, "I want you."

Those three words. I had always fantasized he'd whisper them to me between hot bites to my ear. I felt lightheaded, my eyes suddenly heavy with arousal. He was more man than any other who had uttered those words to me, and I was falling for it.

"I want to touch you," he said then winced. "I'm sorry, that was too much."

"It's okay...I've wanted you, too."

His eyes lit up. "How long?"

I mumbled something, worried I'd give too much away.

Then he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. He took my shoulders and pulled me toward him. There was barely enough space to put my hands up against his chest to stop him.

"George—"

"What?"

"Um, you're wife."

"She knows I'm down here. She told me I should."

"Why?"

"Because she knows that me liking you doesn't mean that I love her any less."

"She's okay if we do this?"

"Of course."

I was gone. My last defense fell away, matching his quivering body. It was unsettling, but exciting, to feel such a big man shiver around me. I felt small and delicate and delicious under his appetite.

But his kisses were soft, painfully soft in contrast to his hard body, as if he had to force himself to be gentle with me. Most of the men I had been with had fumbled, using all the wrong angles and I had to tell them to be gentle. With George, there was no other way with him.

Though this time, I wanted him to be rough. I needed him to take hold of me and release all this energy I had be burying for so many months. This was my one opportunity, and then maybe we could finally return to our pleasant cohabitation.

"Take me," I barely go the words out before his fingers started to claw at my clothing.

"God, you're so sexy," he said hotly against my ear. So cool and collected normally, this new intensity was shocking, but in the best of ways.

He pressed me backward, deeper into my room. His hands began grasping at my back, cupping underneath my ass and pulling me tight against his hard body. I whimpered and suddenly he was off me.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't want to hurt you."

He was large man, but I trusted him. "You won't hurt me."

"You okay?"

"Yes," I laughed softly.

He smiled then. "I've wanted this for so long. I could never tell if you did."

"You're married," I shrugged. "I wasn't allowed to want you."

He looked at me for a moment, brushing his thumb against my cheek, and then he leaned into me again.

My room felt suddenly very small under his grasp. His mouth was possessive, leaving no inch of skin unkissed. I wondered if this was how he and Jo embraced—maddening. No wonder they couldn't keep their hands off each other.

His hands started to pluck off my clothing piece by piece, finding their way to my skin and up my spine. I shivered as the cool air found my skin, but his hands were warm and firm. He pushed me down to my bed and came over top me, casting a shadow across me with his body. His passion was urgent and it overwhelmed me. Within moments I was naked and my back, and he was pressing my legs up against my chest so they were out of his way as he began to lap at my center.

I gasped—his need was intoxicating. A man hadn't been between my legs in months, maybe more. I couldn't remember, I couldn't think. I just wanted to feel him.

With his mouth still on me, he drug his fingers up and down against my folds, wetting them, and then pressing one digit inside me. He started to pump upward toward the ceiling as he latched onto my clit. My heart tried to break free from my chest, my back arching as much as it could against my legs folded against me, like a pleasant barrier to struggle against. It was almost uncomfortable, but I dared not change anything about this moment. My head reached back, letting my climax rip through me. I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out for those few, silent seconds—we could only hear that wet, rhythmic gushing sound with each of his strokes.

"Yes, baby, yes. Squirt for me," George said muffled into my skin, "God that's so sexy."

His pace slowed as I started to come down from my high. My legs and his arms were soaked with my wetness.

But as soon as I caught my breath, he was pumping me again, almost milking me to orgasm. I started to squeal, but he covered my hand with his mouth. The feel of his strong hand holding me down make me peak again.

He did this over and over. Easing up, then coming for me again, one hand thrusting between my thighs and the other covering my mouth, until I lost track of time, and place, and every other sense except the delicious ecstasy he summoned from me at his whim.

Eventually my skin became ripe and tender and I was aware of the cool wetness beneath me. I grabbed his wrist with my hand. "Please," I said breathless. "Sensitive."

He released my legs and I stretched. They were stiff and aching from straining for so long, but my body was still trembling. My heart still pound against my chest, like in a trance, somehow still having satisfying, little orgasms, mild and delicious.