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Title: "Married Life"
Author: Angela W.
Category: MSR/Alternative Universe
Summary: It helps if you've read "Byers' Dreamworld"
my PG-rated fanfic which sort of sets the stage for
this reality. Basically this is a series of vignettes
in which I've married off various XF characters, some
of whom are either dead or long-missing on the actual
series.
Rating: NC-17
Timespan/Spoilers: Since it's alternative universe,
I don't think it really fits anywhere. I guess maybe
it's a sort of a spoiler for "Three of a Kind" since
the idea for this story was vaguely inspired by the
dream sequence at the beginning of that ep.
Feedback: Sure, why not? I don't usually do
alternative universe stories.

 

I love my husband, I really do. It's just that there
are times I wonder how he *survived* before we got
married.
Take tonight, for instance. We were at a party with
my sister and her husband, along with several other
government-types. My mother had offered to babysit for
both our infant daughter and our three-year-old niece.
We weren't there five minutes before he managed to do
one of those things that make me wonder why the
federal government *ever* decided to allow the man to
carry a loaded weapon!
I was in the kitchen when Fox walked in and said,
"Hey, Melissa. Pendrell's facedown in the punch bowl."

I rolled my eyes at my brother-in-law and went to see
what had happened. It turned out it wasn't the punch
bowl, nor was Sean "face down" in it. It was the clam
dip and all he'd managed to do was splatter it all
over himself and several other agents. Everybody was
laughing, including Sean. The weird thing about him is
it doesn't *bother* him that he's a klutz!
"What happened?" I asked Dana, who was biting her
lower lip in a sisterly attempt not to laugh.
"He, um, just walked by and tripped," she explained.
"Honestly, Melissa I'm surprised you're not constantly
black-and-blue!"
"Black-and-blue? For God's sake, Dana, Sean would
NEVER hurt me!"
"I know he wouldn't purposely," she agreed. "But with
his propensity for running into things and tripping
over things, I'd think he'd just bump into you a lot!"
"He's not that clumsy!" I say in a feeble attempt to
defend him.
"Missy, I don't want to sound mean, but the man is
covered in clam dip!"
"He's not covered in it, he's just sort of. .
.splattered with it."
"Hey, Missy!" my clam-dip-covered husband says as he
walks by. "Why don't you come in the bathroom and help
me get cleaned up?"
I follow Sean to the bathroom and watch him strip off
his shirt. Then I stifle a whimper. Shit! We've been
married nearly two years now, but this sight never
ceases to amaze me. It's been my experience that most
men look better with their clothes on. Not him. With
clothes on, Sean Pendrell could be the poster boy for
Geeks Anonymous. Naked, he looks. . .good. Damn good.
"Here, honey, you want to see if you can get the clam
dip out of this for me?"
"Not particularly," I answer, reaching behind me to
make sure the bathroom door is locked. "Keep going,
G-man."
"Melissa Margaret Scully Pendrell, we are not going
to make love in the bathroom of a couple we barely
know!"
"Who said we were?" I ask, feigning innocence.
"It's that look in your eyes," he mutters.
"What look?" I ask, stepping close enough so that our
breaths mingle and sliding my hands down between our
bodies to fumble for the buckle of his belt.
"The one that says you want me," he replies, framing
my face with his hands.
"That look is there all the time, Pendrell. Kiss
me."
He does and I'm lost. I've had a fair amount of
experience, dated some guys who were, by most
standards, cooler than cool. Struggling musicians,
surfer dudes, Navy pilots - you name it. None of them
could ever make me lose it with a simple kiss the way
my lab rat of a husband can.
"Melissa, we can't!" he says when we finally come up
for air.
"Why not?"
"Because you make too much noise! You have this
tendency to scream my name when you climax."
"I'll be quiet, Sean. I promise." Just to help
persuade him, I unzip his pants and stroke him through
his shorts.
"I'm keeping my tongue down your throat, just to make
sure you do," he mutters.
Sean is as good as his word. Keep in mind, this is a
man who can't walk through his own living room without
tripping over something. But he manages to get his own
pants and boxers pulled down, strip me of my soaked
panties, walk backward to the toilet in an unfamiliar
bathroom, and get me seated straddled atop him. All
without breaking contact between our mouths.
He breaks the kiss eventually, so I can manuever up
and down on him. When I can sense I'm just about to
come, I lean in and bite his shoulder to keep myself
from screaming. As soon as I'm finished, he holds my
hips still and thrusts up into me so hard that I have
to grab onto a towel rack to keep from falling over.
Then he buries his face in my hair and moans out my
name, so quietly that I can barely hear it.
We're still joined when we hear a knock on the door,
"Missy? Sean? Are you two okay in there?" Dana's
muffled voice asked.
"We're fine," I reply, hoping I don't sound too
breathless. "Just trying to get this clam dip out of
Sean's shirt."
"Do you need any help?" she asks.
"We can handle it, thanks, Dana," Sean replies. He
has to answer, because I've just dissolved in a fit of
giggles that I'm muffling by burying my face in his
shoulder.
I get up and quickly get his shirt sponged off, then
hand it back to him. I hope that if the scent of our
lovemaking is lingering on my body, people will assume
it's clam dip.
As we walk back into the living room, Sean manages to
trip over something and stumbles into a lamp.
"Honestly," I hear Mulder mutter, "if the man wants
to come to a party and spend half his time in the
bathroom, I can hardly blame him. But he shouldn't
keep poor Missy cooped up in there with him."
"Well, he's good at his job. Maybe he just directs
all his mental concentration there and doesn't have
any left over for social situations," Dana whispers
back.
I smile at that. Nope, little sister, he doesn't
direct all his energy into his job. The man just has
priorities, that's all. So do I. I've been with men
who were great in social situations and lousy in the
sack. Quite frankly, I'm happy to be married to one
who is the exact opposite.
I love my husband, I really do.


I love my husband, I really do. It just that there
are times I wonder how we ended up married to each
other. Sometimes I find it necessary to remind myself
that we even inhabit the same *planet*, never mind the
same house.
Take tonight for instance. We were at a black tie
dinner and Langley promised he would attempt to
behave. He wore a tux, even had his hair pulled back
neatly in a ponytail. Our friend Frohike had offered
to watch our little boy for us. For once, I had hoped
Samantha Mulder Langley, up-and-coming state
department lawyer and her computer geek husband
wouldn't be the center of attention. I know we're an
odd couple, but I'd like attention focused on me for
some other reason.
Nope, it lasted until desert. Then one of the deputy
ambassadors made a statement about Y2K compliance in
developing countries. Langley was correcting the guy
almost before he stopped speaking. Of course, Langley
was right. When it comes to computers, Langley's
*always* right! Even Byers and Frohike admit that,
when push comes to shove, he knows more than they do.
But having my husband correct somebody who's about six
steps higher than I am in bureacracy hierarchy is not
going to do my career any good.
As we're leaving, my friend Marge pulls me aside.
"Honestly, Samantha! Why do you put up with him?"
"He's my husband," I reply.
"It's too bad you don't have a husband like Jack,"
she says smugly.
Marge would probably be a little less smug if she
knew her husband had an "intern habit" that would put
President Clinton's to shame. Every summer, the man
finds a new, eager young college girl that he provides
with stories about how his wife "doesn't understand
him". These three-month flings are one of the best
known "secrets" in the State Department.
Marge and Jack's problems not withstanding, I still
lite into Langley as soon as we get in the car.
"Langley, did you HAVE to correct him? Couldn't you
have just kept your mouth shut?"
"The man's ignorance could have plunged half a
continent into chaos, Samantha. I thought it was my
duty to speak up."
"Did you have to bring the Grateful Dead into the
conversation?" I shriek.
"I thought it was an apt analogy," he replies.
Once we reach home, he asks, "Did you want to come
down to Tech Haven with me? They're having that
artificial intelligence demo that I'm supposed to
moderate, remember."
"NO! I mean, yes, I remember, but no I do NOT want to
go down and spend the rest of the evening with a bunch
of your geeky friends!"
"Okay, Sammie, okay!"
"How would you feel if I embarrassed you in front of
all YOUR friends and co-workers?" I demand.
"You could never embarass me, Samantha. I'm sorry if
I embarassed you. But you knew what I was like when we
got married. I don't back down from my principles."
Langley leaves, having changed into jeans and one of
his bizarre T-shirts. After an hour or so of hanging
around the house, I decide I *will* join him. And
we'll see about his lack of embarassment.
I deliberately dress just as if I were going to work.
Expensively tailored wool skirt and matching blazer,
cream silk blouse beneath it. Silk stockings, high
heels. Except for Byers, Frohike and, obviously, my
own brother, I haven't met a lot of my husband's
friends. I know what his friends probably except his
wife to look like. Some sort of bimbo babe from a
computer generated video game. They are going to freak
out when they see the establishment career woman he's
married to.
By the time I reach the club where the expo is going
on, things have quieted down. I spot Langley in a
corner, then do a double-take when I see who he's
talking to. I don't know her name, but I've seen her
around these sort of things before. She's sort of like
a groupie, except that she hangs around computer
software designers rather than rock stars. She's about
nineteen, and is wearing a tiny, leather mini-skirt
and a bustier that barely covers her more than ample
bust.
I walk closer. I'm not really sneaking up on them, I
assure myself. All Langley has to do is turn around
and he'll see me. But he doesn't, so I am treated to a
fragment of their conversation. This. . .this. .
.*BIMBO* is offering my husband a whole smorgasboard
of sexual services. I hold my breath, waiting for his
answer. After all, the woman is - in her own way
- quite attractive. And Langley and I *have* just had
a fight.
"Sorry," he replies. "I'm married."
"Your wife would never know."
"Maybe, maybe not," Langley answers. "The point is, I
would know. I don't cheat. It's not who I am."
"What does your wife have that I don't have?," the
bimbo asks with a pout.
"My fidelity," Langley answers.
Turning to go, he nearly walks right into me. "Oh,
hi, Samantha. I thought you weren't coming down."
Taking in the way I'm dressed, he asks, "Are you going
to work for some reason?"
"*THIS* is your wife?" the bimbo shrieks. "She
couldn't possibly be any good in the sack! I've never
seen anyone so repressed in my life."
"Our sex life isn't any of your business," Langley
replies. He loops his arm around my shoulder and asks,
"Seriously, Sammie, what's up? Why are you dressed
like this? Are we going to another dinner?"
"Langley, that woman just propositioned you!"
Virtually oblivious to the subtle undercurrents of
human interaction though he may be, it finally
penetrates my husband's genius-level brain that I am
somewhat befuddled by this situation. "I'm sorry you
had to witness that, Sammie. She's probably high or
drunk or something."
It occurs to me, from the way he is handling the
whole thing, that Langley is not nearly as amazed by
this whole scenario as I am.
"Langley, has this happened before?"
"You mean has that woman made sexual suggestions to
me before? No. Would you please explain why you're. .
."
"But other women have," I say, making it more of a
statment than a question.
"Samantha, I. . ."
"Answer me, Langley!"
"Sometimes, yes. It's not like it's some sort of
daily or weekly occurance. But. . .these things
happen. In the field of software design, I'm
considered practically a mythic figure."
"And you always say No?" I ask.
Langley looks at me as if I'd slapped him. "Of course
I say NO, Samantha! We're married!"
I stare at my husband in something like amazement.
It's really that clear to him, I realize. He's married
. Married men don't have sex with women other than
their wives. Period. End of discussion. Unlike
virtually every other man I've ever met - except, I
guess, for Fox, who is so crazy in love with Dana that
he never even LOOKS at other women - Langley doesn't
feel there's any room for fudging or negotiation on
this issue.
Without warning, my eyes begin to mist over.
"Samantha, don't cry! I'm sorry. It's not like I
encourage these women to. . ."
I cut off his words with my mouth. We're almost the
same height, and with me wearing heels I can reach his
lips easily. I back him up against a wall and put my
full weight into the kiss. Lack of oxygen finally
forces me to break the kiss. I can feel his response
hard against the lowest region of my belly.
"I love you," I murmur into his ear.
"I love you, too," he says, faintly bemused. "But I
thought you were mad at me." It still hasn't occurred
to him that his behavior tonight is chivalrous or
romantic. To Langley, it's just normal. He'd probably
be shocked to realize there are men who *do* cheat on
their wives.
"Kiss me again," I demand.
He obeys, but this time he's the one taking the lead.
He goes slow and gentle, teasing me, nibbling my lips,
slipping his tongue quickly into my mouth, only to
slide it back out again seconds later.
"You're fogging up my glasses," he finally points
out."Want to go home?"
"I've got a better idea," I suggest. "You drove the
van?"
"Yeah, but we could leave it and both go home in your
car."
"No, I'm not going to make it as far as home. I'll be
lucky to make it as far as the van in the parking lot.
I want you NOW, Langley!"
"Samantha, are you feeling okay?" he asks.
"No. I'm horny as hell and I need my husband to do
something about it!"
We stumble out the the parking lot and climb into the
back of the van. Then I'm all over him, yanking off
his shirt, unzipping his pants, licking, biting,
kissing, clawing. I finally manage to remove enough of
my own clothing to impale myself on him and come
within moments. He's still hard within me and is
staring up at me with an awestruck expression on his
face, like he's trying to figure out who the hell this
wildcat is and what she's done with his nice little
wife.
"Fuck me, Langley!" I whisper.
He complies. Flipping us, he begins to pound into me
so hard I *know* the van must be rocking. Say what you
will about the missionary position, it has it's
advantages. I can look up at him, inch my long legs up
nearly to his neck and feel every ripple when he
finally climaxes.
When we're able to form coherent sentences again, he
asks "Will you please explain to me what brought all
this on?"
I love my husband, I really do.

I love my husband, I really do. It's just that there
are times when I think his "Spooky" nickname is
well-deserved.
Take tonight, for instance. We recently left a party
and I thought we'd head directly home. Emily was with
my mother, so we'd have the whole house to ourselves.
Quite frankly, I was ready for some loving. Instead,
Mulder decides we're going to drive out to the middle
of nowhere to look for a reputed UFO sight. So here we
are, sitting on a blanket beside our car and staring
up at the sky.
"Mulder, I'm cold."
"C'mere," he says with a grin and holds open his
arms. By this time I'm actually more perturbed with
him than turned on by him, but I go. Anything for a
little warmth.
He positions me between his legs and cuddles me down
against his chest. I'm beginning to warm toward him in
more ways than one. This is. . .nice. He's so big, so
damned annoyingly, overwhemingly male.
"Warming up?" he whispers in my ear, nipping it
lightly.
I whimper and tip back my head to see the smug smile
I'm getting in response. "Mulder, we *do* have a bed,"
I point out. "A nice, big warm bed. Back at our house.
Did you drag me all the way out here to look for UFOs
or to make out?"
"Uh, which answer is less likely to get me in
trouble?" he asks, giving me that whipped puppy look
he does to perfection.
I just grumble under my breath, not answering that
question. Now his hands are moving to my breasts,
stroking them gently through the thin material of my
blouse.
"I had the weirdest dream last night," he whispers,
as I sigh.
"Dream or nightmare?" I ask. Mulder often has vivid
dreams and nightmares; most of them have to do, in
some fashion, with the weeks his sister was missing
while they were children. The weird thing is, Samantha
herself seems untroubled by the incident. She's a
lawyer for the State Department, just like their
father was before her, and the freakiest thing she's
ever done is get married to Fox's computer wonk
friend, Langley.
"It's hard to say," he murmurs. "We were. . .all
alone. I think, in the dream, Samantha had never come
back. I had dedicated my life to searching for her and
you were helping me. There was some sort of shadowy
conspiracy working against us. We were still partners,
still working on the X-Files, like we did when we
first met. And it was just. . .us. All our friends,
most of our family were gone. We didn't have Emily, we
didn't have Samantha and Langley, or Melissa and
Pendrell, or John and Suzanne or anybody else we could
trust. Even AD Skinner was part of the conspiracy."
"Sounds like a nightmare to me. You're the
psychologist, Mulder, but isn't that a classic case of
paranoid delusion?"
"I'm not explaining it right," he sighs. "Because the
dream wasn't all bad. You see, even in this nightmare
world, we had each other. We trusted each other, loved
each other."
"Well, I wouldn't want to be without our daughter or
our sisters," I said. "But considering that none of
them are here right now, why don't you demonstrate
some of this love and trust?"
"You really willing to do the wild thing out here in
the open air, Dana?"
"Fox, I did the "wild thing" when I married you.
Anything else is just icing on the cake."
He laughs and pulls me closer, trailing wet kisses
down my neck and sliding his hand up my thigh and
under my skirt. I moan softly when he slips a finger
under my panties and inside of me. I wiggle against
him, feeling his arousal pressing against my bottom.
"Is that a gun in your pocket, G-Man, or are you just
happy to see me?"
He groans, partially from excitement and partially
from the staleness of the joke. "That is
*unbelievably* corny, Dana!"
I laugh and lean back for a kiss. Could I have lived
without this? I wonder as his tongue langorously
explores my mouth. I remember that first year we were
together. Working as partners, both of us doing our
damndest to ignore the sexual tension between us. We
were both pretty upset when they closed down the
X-Files and sent me back to Quantico and Mulder back
to violent crimes. Actually, though, it had been a
gift straight from heaven. Because, once we were free
of the constrictions placed upon us by the bureau's
policy regarding romantic relationships between
partners, our personal relationship roared into
hyperdrive. That year we'd spent as partners, getting
to know each other's quirks and tastes and
personalites without being physically intimate, proved
to be all the courtship we needed. We were engaged
within a month of being reassigned, married to each
other in less than six months.
When we finally come up for air, I caress his
forearms and whisper "How did you want us to. . .?"
"Like this," he murmurs, positioning me on my hands
and knees and slipping off my panties. I hear the rasp
of the zipper as he sets his cock free, then feel him
nudging my thighs apart as he seeks my center. I rock
back against him, helping him cocoon himself more
firmly in my body.
Mulder sets up a slow, easy thrusting which quickly
pushes me to my climax. He follows only moments later.
After he's pulled out and we're indulging in some
afterglow cuddling, I ask, "So, in this dream, you had
me and that was. . .enough?"
"It was enough, Dana," he confirms. "You'd saved me
and made me a whole person."
I love my husband, I really do.


I love my husband, I really do. It's just there are
times when I wonder about his sense of timing.
Take tonight for instance. In most marriages, it's
the wife whose sexual desire ebbs and flows. Usually
there are biological reasons for this - shifting
hormornes throughout the menstrual cycle. Not with us.

For the past three weeks, John and his business
partners have been working virtually round-the-clock
on a new computer applications program. The girls and
I have seen him only for dinner, which he made a point
of coming home for, and for a few hours on Sunday
mornings when we went to Mass and brunch together. I'd
sense his presence in bed beside me for a few hours in
every night, but otherwise he was showered and dressed
by the time I woke up and not home for work by the
time I went to sleep.
Now the program is completed. And it is obvious that
John wants to play. The girls are thrilled at the
prospect of having their Daddy home all weekend and
so, quite frankly, am I.
"I want to play with you, Daddy!" our youngest
daughter squeals.
"I want to play with you, too. And your sister. And
Mommy." He smiles at me over their heads, leaving me
in absolutely no doubt as to what sort of games he has
in mind for the two of us.
"What if Mommy's not in the mood to play?" I ask as
the girls run off to gather up their balls and stuffed
animals.
John's face falls, but my husband is a gentleman. And
a gentle man. His voice is tender as he says, "Then
that's okay, Suzanne. I know I haven't been a very
good husband lately. If you'd rather just spend the
evening talking, filling me in on what's been going on
in your life. . ."
"You're always a *good* husband, John," I say. "What
you haven't been late is an attentive husband."
He sighs. "I know."
Still, as the evening progresses, as I watch John
play with our daughters, read to them, tuck them into
bed, I find myself melting. Yes, he has a tendency
toward workaholism. But at least when he's working
late, I know that's really what he's doing. I realize
that John - with his neatly trimmed beard,
conservative suit-and-ties and polite demeanor - is
not what most women would regard as a sex symbol. But
his very gentleness is a turn-on to me.
Finally, when the girls are asleep, he grabs a bottle
of wine and a couple of glasses. "Come join me out in
the backyard, Suzanne?" he suggests. I nod and we sit
on the hammock, sipping our wine.
"What's been going on lately?" he asks. "Anything new
at your job or with your family that I should no
about?
"Not really. Can we talk later?"
He looks confused for a second as I place my glass on
the ground, then remove his and set it down as well.
But when I climb up his body and kiss him, he gets the
picture.
"I thought you didn't want to play?"
"I changed my mind."
He grins and flips us. Then he begins kissing his way
down my body; nuzzling my neck, then my breasts. I
find myself moaning in response, gripping the sides of
the hammock as our movements cause it to sway.
Finally, he slides my panties off and I feel his beard
against the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. I
spread my legs eagerly as he begins to lap at me.
Sooner than I would have thought possible, sensation
overwhelms me and I shatter.
When I can speak again, I murmur, "Can I do you?"
He shakes his head. "Not tonight, Suzanne. I'm too
close."
Instead he slips inside me and begins a steady
thrusting. I smile up at him in the moonlight. When he
comes, its quietly, my name the merest whisper on his
lips.
We cuddle together and discuss, in drowsy voices,
whether we should take the girls to the zoo or the
beach tomorrow.
I love my husband, I really do.


I love my husband I really do. It's just there are
times when I wonder how he is able to manage an entire
division in the Federal Bureau of Investigation when
his communication skills are so poor.
Take tonight, for instance. Although our son and I
had both told him about the performance at school, he
managed to miss it. Walter came home late and went in
to talk to Mitch. Whatever his father said must have
mollified Mitch, because the two are now outside
shooting baskets. I, on the other hand, am still
perturbed.
Eventually, I got outside to watch. They are playing
a game of one-on-one, which Walter wins. Walter always
plays to win. When Mitch finally remembers it's a
school night and goes inside to shower and get ready
for bed, Walter moves on to the weight bench set up in
the garage.
"Couldn't you let him win, Walter? Just once?" I ask.
"No, Sharon. We've been through this before. He's old
enough to play by the rules. When he does beat me -
and he will someday - he'll know it's for real."
I watch as he lifts weights, grunting only slightly
as he strains against the pressure. The man's body
really is remarkable, I have to admit. Most men
pushing fifty are pot-bellied and slack-muscled. He's
an iron man. Not just in a gym, either. The kind of. .
.problems. . .my women friends are beginning to
complain of in their middle-aged husbands have never
affected him. Instead, the two of us are still dealing
with the same problems we've had for nearly twenty
years. Mainly, Walter's insistance on keeping his
business and personal lives totally, completely
separate. He never talks about his work. With the sole
exception of Dana and Fox Mulder, we don't socialize
with other bureau employees. I sometimes find myself
jealous of his secretary. Oh, it's not that I think
they're having an affair, or anything like that. It's
just that I frequently have to call *HER* in order to
find out what's going on in his life!
Walter is oblivious to me standing there. Apparently
he feels our conversation is finished, but I don't.
Straddling the weight bench, I drop down on top of
him.
"Oof! Sharon, what are you doing?"
"Trying to get a response from you!"
"Well, you're getting it!"
He's not kidding, either. My husband is six-feet,
two-inches and 240 pounds of pure muscle. And every
inch of his body is in complete proporiton. Which
means his erections are as jumbo-sized as the rest of
him!
"What kept you late at work tonight?"
"Sharon. . ."
"Damn it, Walter, why won't you ever talk to me?"
"Because it's ugly! I have to deal with ugliness all
day at work. I don't want to bring it home to me, back
to where my wife and son are!"
I sigh. Some of my anger begins to dissapate. "You're
such a damned dinosaur!"
"I know," he agrees with a smile. "I don't have any
of the virtues a modern-day husband is supposed to
have. I don't "share my feelings". I don't "enhance
our child's self-esteem". I'm a throwback to Gary
Cooper and John Wayne."
"Yeah," I agree. And the only reason I haven't thrown
him back is that, while he may have all of the faults
of men my father's age, he also has all their virtues.
Qualities that are considered old-fashioned in this
day and age. Courage. Nobility. Honesty. Integrity. A
willingness to risk his life to do what he knows is
right.
I find myself jostled, and bite my lip to keep from
moaning as I slide against his arousal. "What are you
doing?"
"Leg lifts. Since you're apparenlty not planning on
getting off me, I figured I'd just go ahead and finish
my workout."
"It doesn't bother you that I'm sitting on you?"
"Actually, I'm kind of enjoying it."
"Well, I'm not!"
"Now who's not being honest about their feelings,
Sharon?"
I snort softly. He's got me there. After all our
years together, it must be obvious to him when I'm
aroused. And I am.
When he finally quits moving, I smile at him. "How
about I go lock the door, so Mitch doesn't walk in on
us?"
"Sounds like an excellent idea."
I lock the door leading from the garage to the house
and slide off my panties before resuming my positon on
Walter. He's pulled down both his jogging shorts and
his boxers, so I can guide him slowly into me; he lies
perfectly still beneath me, waiting for my body to
adjust.
"I'm ready," I murmur.
He pulls me down for a kiss, first, then begins to
move inside me. I'm off-balance, my feet losing
contact with the floor at every thrust. I hang on to
his shoulders, instead. When he slids a hand down to
capture my nipple and tweak it gently I lose it,
squirming on him and shuddering to a climax. After a
few more thursts he joins me, calling out my name.
I'm lying on his chest in a post-orgasmic daze, when
I hear a tap on the door.
"Dad? Where's Mom?"
"We're both in here, son," Walter responds.
"I thought I heard you calling her," Mitch replies,
sounding puzzled.
"I was just calling her to come over to this side of
the garage," his father answers. "I needed her help
with something."
"Oh. Okay. I just wanted to tell you both goodnight."
"Goodnight, honey," I call out.
"Goodnight, son. You played a good game tonight."
Even through a closed door, the note of pride in
Mitch's voice is unmistakable as he says, "Thanks,
Dad."
I love my husband. I really do.

Author's e-mail address: tapw63@yahoo. com.