[I’ve drafted more to this story but am not quite happy with the product yet. You can read part 2 and 3 if you’re anxious at /r/HotwifeInOregon. Warning: We still haven’t had sex by the end of part 3!]
Let’s start with the basics.
You’re 35, 6’3“, 210lbs, not overly muscular but strong. Strong from real life, not gym workouts. You haven’t spent your life inside this cubicle farm we’re stuck in now.
I know bits and pieces from your life – picked up in break room conversations and through careful eavesdropping.
You never graduated high school. You love going camping and fishing and spending time outside. There’s always a project at home you’re working on. Building a server or building a deck – seems like you can do it all. You earn a six-figure salary, and we work for a large IT company. I run the project. You run the servers.
We’ve spent many a night in a late-night work chats, side-texting as we watch the deployment happen.
There’s a core group in our team. You’re good friends with 3-4 guys, and I’m the woman you’ve allowed into the circle. And why not? I’m smart, funny, always up for hearing the dirty jokes, have great comebacks of my own, and have a great, great cleavage.
I don’t dress ‘sexy,’ though I do wear v’neck shirt. But we’re casual here – boots, jeans, v-neck, cardigan. We go out for drinks about once a month, take our coffee breaks together, and grab lunch together once a week.
I’m 46, married, and the mother of two teenagers. I’m old enough to be some of these our coworkers’ mother, but I’ll share a joint with you in the parking lot and be the first to flirt at happy hour. It’s safe. Almost innocent.
Our cubes are across the aisle from each other. When I look to my right, there you are. I can see your right side – the tribal tattoo on your calf is visible in the summer months. There’s another tattoo peeking out from your t-shirt’s short sleeve. I don’t know what it is. I’m dying to know what it is.
You lean back when you’re in meetings on the phone, stretching out long legs before you. When you’re puzzling out a problem, you sit forward, elbows on your knees.
You’re divorced, which we’ve never discussed, but I know from the guys that you were the one betrayed. Hurt so much that you moved across three states to land here.
You love to read. Fantasy. Horror. Sci-fi. My husband is self-defined as “not a reader,” and I never would have guessed that you are one, but damn does it make my heart do back flips. You’ve given me books, always refusing when I offer to give them back. I’m the only other reader you know, so we chat about books almost constantly.
You tell great dad jokes, even though you don’t have kids. You drink hard – $100 bottles of whiskey are your favorite. You keep spiced chai in your cabinet and offer it to me when I catch a cold. You have a collection of hot sauce tucked in your cubby, and that’s the only reason you lock it.
When I come to your cube, I lean my hip against your desk, cross my legs, and fiddle with the things on your desk. When you come to mine, you scoot over in your chair and sit next to me. You can make it in one kick. When you spin to kick back over, you always shoot me the biggest smile.
We take breaks outside in the courtyard. Sometimes as a group. Sometimes alone, just the two of us.
You have startling blue eyes, an easy smile, and what looks like permanent scruff. Your hair is short, though I know it’s been long in the past. You had a hippie phase, and I’m still in mine.
When we talk by ourselves, I learn about who you’re dating (or not), how proud you are of what you’ve accomplished, and how you don’t like talking to people much. Except me. You say you like talking to me.
I was laid off by our company two years ago, and we’ve only seen each other a couple of times since then, always with the rest of the group. We texted quite a bit the first few months after I left, but that dwindled quickly.
I’ve texted once or twice recently. You gave curt answers and didn’t try to extend the chat. Or you didn’t respond and i texted you twice in a row. I’m still tempted to text daily, but I don’t want to let on that I’m crushing on you.
In one of our last happy hours together, you’d had a day from hell. The blame for a delay in deployment had rained down on you from upper management, and I was unable to stop it.
We were both grumpy and had no desire for socializing. We sat at the end of a long table, next to each other. You were deep inside your own head, wearing sunglasses in the restaurant. Ordering drinks but no food. Looking out the window.
I leaned over and asked if you were OK.
“Yeah,” you murmured. “I just don’t want to talk to any of them.”
“No worries,” I said, “I’ve got you.”
You turned to look at me and whispered, “I appreciate that, Kelly.”
Your leg moved against mine under the table. It could have been you just shifting positions, but when I pushed my leg into yours, you didn’t pull away. We sat that way the rest of the night. I deflected questions coming your way and made you share my dinner. Mom stuff. Caretaking.
When it came time to leave, we all filed out into the alley, We passed around a vape pen, and I offered you an edible, a THC-infused gummy bear that I held up and you took from my fingers with your mouth, nipping me softly.
The after-party was happening at your house, and despite your mood, or maybe because of it, you went along. I didn’t have my car, so I rode with you and two of the other guys to your house. You opened the back door for me and ushered me in with great flourish.
The margaritas from dinner were kicking in, and I sat in the passenger-side back seat and watched the lights illuminate your face as we drove. They showed you in alternating silhouette and illuminating, shifting when lights on different sides of the road passed over us.
You looked back to change lanes and we locked eyes. You lifted one corner of your mouth in a “can you believe this shit?” grin. I laughed out loud and rolled my eyes.
I put my forehead against the cool glass and watch the scenery go by. I’m loving the ride, wherever we end up.
The entire ground floor of your house is our party space. Your house is a typical suburban bi-level with an open kitchen and an obviously-unused dining table covered in seemingly random computer parts and takeout menus.
I check out the hardwood floor I know you installed yourself. It’s perfect. I’d never know an IT guy did it. I had listened to you prattle on about it at break time for weeks. You loved telling me about the progress you were making.
“It turned out gorgeous!” I say, catching your eye. You smile and mouth “Thanks” and lead the boys to the bar. . The attached living room is large with a gigantic u-shaped sectional sofa, 60-inch TV, and cases and cases of books and video games. I wander over to the shelves, pulling out a book here and there. You never refuse yourself a book and have lovely hardbacks and special editions of some of my favorites.
I feel old. Everyone here is 10 years younger than me, you included. Maybe I should leave. Just get an Uber and go back to my husband of 20 years, our children, our house, and our boring bedroom. You come and stand next to me, two thick glasses in your hands, half-filled with fragrant amber liquid. Our eyes meet as I lift mine to my lips and inhale deeply. You watch as I take a sip. The whiskey is deliciously smooth with a spicy kick. I follow the sip with a deep swallow.
The edible is starting to kick in and I feel the weird sense of recklessness and paranoia that comes with it. IS everyone looking at us? Oh God, they are. They know I like him. Who cares? Go for it. I’m gong to be sick. Live a little. I should leave now “Come sit with us,” you say, taking my hand and leading me to one end of the sectional.
We sit next to each other, looking at a collection of Sandman art from your coffee table, flipping the large folio pages over both our laps. A bong gets passed around, then a joint, and I take hits of both. My whiskey glass never seems to run empty. You are an expert lock picker, you proclaim proudly and volunteer to demonstrate your skill with a ‘training’ pair of handcuffs you just happened to have around. You’re buzzed and high and can’t manage it, and we’re all laughing hysterically watching you contort your body trying to get them off. You fall down heavily next to me on the couch and flip onto my lap face down, hands ignobly locked up behind your back.
The other guys are tossing the keys around in a game of keep away. You squirm and yell at them, but you’re stuck on my lap. I watch the keys go flying back and forth, but I don’t reach up to intercept them.
“Hush!” I tell you and smack you, right above your ass. I rest my drink on your back, pretending to settle back and relax.
“Leave him,” I tell the other guys. “He makes a great table.”
You sigh in mock resignation, and everyone goes about their business, taking the keys with them.
I rub your back lightly. You take a deep breath and I feel your relax into me. You turn your head to the side and one stunning blue eye look up at me.
“That’s nice,” you say, and close your eyes. I draw patterns on you with a fingernail, like everyone did at summer camp. Could you guess the message the other person was writing?
I write your name, then mine. . I draw shapes: a circle, a spiral, a triangle, a heart. Your back muscles twitch as I move up and down your spine. When you flex, your muscles are discernible beneath your t-shirt.
All the while I’m having conversations with wandering coworkers, drinking, and making requests of the guy who’s really good at guitar. It’s surreal. And surprisingly casual. I’m married. Everyone’s knows it. But it doesn’t feel dirty, having you here draped across me. No one calls attention to us. Your eyes are closed, and I’m wondering if you’ve fallen asleep. I tilt my head back and close my eyes, stilling my hands on your back.
Someone comes by and uses the handcuff keys to free you. I can feel your warmth on my lap long after you stand up and walk away.
I’m not thinking at all anymore. People come and go on the couch and we talk and laugh. Someone puts up Mario Kart and I lose dramatically.
And then you’re sitting beside me, trying to give me advice. I joke about how in my day we used joysticks, so I’m better at that, and you wax poetic on the benefits of a real game controller. You ignore the innuendo, but I can see in your eyes that you got it.
I tune you out and watch you play and talk. I watch your fingers squeeze the controller, your mouth open as you laugh, how you grip a joint and purse your lips around it. When toy get excited and mash the controller, i watch your forearms flex I am still trying to figure out what that damn tattoo might be. When you look at me, your eyes have mischievous thoughts behind them.
I doze off on the couch, and when I awake I’m alone in the living room. I set my drink on the coffee table and look at the time – it’s 1:00 am. My husband is waiting for me at home. I find my phone and order an Uber.
I go to the garage, where the remaining crew is hanging out, smoking in camp chairs. A space heater makes the three- bay garage almost cozy.
You are on the hood of your old Ford Bronco, lying back, feet on the fender, one arm slung over your eyes. You don’t notice my entrance. I chat with the rest of the guys and say goodnight. A very drunk colleague assures me he can drive me home safely. I demure, saying that a ride is on the way. My phone beeps and let’s me know the Uber is near.
I walk over to you, place my hand on your thigh and shake gently to wake you up. “I have to go,” I say. You sit up, place your hand over mine and say, “Really? You ok? I must have fallen asleep. I’m sorry.” “No worries! Uber almost here!” I sound almost cheerful, but my throat is tight. “I’ll walk you out,” you say and hop down off the truck.
When we get to the front door, you open it and follow me through, closing it behind you. It’s a clear, cool night, and the onset of fall has turned the air crisp. I hug myself and stand at the end of the porch. My toes hang over the edge, and I rocking back nervously on my heels.
I want to turn around. I want to kiss you. I want to run my palm along the stubble on your cheek and feel how the roughness contrasts to my soft skin. I want to lick your lips. I want to encircle you in my arms and press close.
I want you to ask me to stay.
You come to stand next to me and, despite the chill, your arm is warm when you rub up against me. My phone beeps and we see the Uber’s headlights turn a corner and come down your street.
I turn to you and look up.
I barely make myself audible. “Thanks for inviting me. I had a great time.”
“Anytime,” you say and pull me in for a hug. I ‘m chest height on you, and I lay my cheek against you, feeling the softness of your t-shirt and the hardness beneath. I inhale deeply, the scent of whiskey and tobacco filling my senses.
You pull me in tighter and rest your head on mine. Before you let me go, I swear I feel you press a kiss to the top of my head. “Goodnight, Kelly,” you say, looking deeply into my eyes as you hold my hands in yours. You step back and I’m left reaching out to you as your hands fall away.
I turn and walk quickly to the car, never once looking back.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/aeffib/mf_the_crush_sexy_not_graphic_married_woman