Neighbour's Wife: Part 4

The back gate was open the following Tuesday at 7:05.

I saw it from my kitchen window—the wooden panel swung inward against the fence, a quiet invitation that needed no text. I finished the glass of water I had been holding, walked out my own back door, and crossed the narrow strip of grass that separated our yards. The gate closed behind me with a soft click. The patio door stood unlocked. I stepped into Claire’s kitchen like I had done it a dozen times already.

She was waiting in the living room in nothing but one of her husband’s white button-down shirts, half the buttons left open. The hem hit mid-thigh. Her hair was down. When she saw me she didn’t bother with hello.

“You’re late by five minutes.”

“Had to make sure the street was clear.”

“It’s always clear on Tuesdays.” She walked toward me, the shirt shifting with each step, and stopped close enough that I could see she wore nothing underneath. “I already locked the front. Gate stays open until you leave. House is ours until Thursday.”

I kissed her without further conversation. She answered it immediately, mouth open, hands already under my T-shirt. We didn’t aim for the bedroom. We never did. I backed her against the nearest wall, shoved the shirt up above her tits, and dropped to my knees long enough to put my mouth on her cunt and find her already wet. Claire’s fingers twisted in my hair while I licked her. The quiet wet sounds filled the ordinary living room. When her thighs started to tremble I stood, freed my cock, and lifted one of her legs so I could thrust into her against the wall.

She came first with a broken cry against my neck. I followed soon after, burying myself deep and spilling into her while her leg stayed locked around my hip. We stayed joined until our breathing leveled. When I pulled out, my come ran down the inside of her thigh. Claire looked at it, then at me, and gave the small satisfied smile I was already learning to expect.

“Couch next,” she said. “I want to ride you this time.”

She did. Straddling me on the same cushions where we had started the week before, the white shirt still open, her tits moving with every roll of her hips while she took my cock at her own pace. I watched her face the entire time—flushed, focused, completely uninterested in pretending this was anything accidental. When she came again she clenched hard around me and kept moving until I finished inside her a second time.

Afterward we stayed on the couch in the dim light, her bare legs tangled with mine, the open shirt sticking lightly to the sweat on her back. Outside, the neighborhood continued its ordinary Tuesday evening—distant televisions, a car passing, someone’s air conditioner cycling on. Inside, the locked front door and the open back gate held the arrangement in place.

“Same time next week,” she said against my chest. “Gate will be open. If his schedule changes I’ll text. Otherwise just come over.”

“And if I get here and the gate’s closed?”

“Then he’s home early and you stay on your side of the fence.” She lifted her head and met my eyes. “But that almost never happens on a Tuesday.”

The pattern locked in over the following weeks.

Every Tuesday the gate stood open by seven. I crossed the yard, entered through the patio, and found her waiting in whatever state of undress she had chosen—sometimes the shirt, sometimes nothing at all, once in the same leggings and tank top from the grocery afternoon with the clear instruction to tear them if I wanted. We used the living room, the kitchen, the hallway floor, the wide chair in the corner. We never went upstairs. The bedroom she shared with her husband stayed closed and untouched, a boundary she enforced without needing to explain it twice.

Some nights we only had an hour before I needed to leave and turn lights on in my own house for appearance’s sake. Other nights she kept me until nearly midnight, fucking in room after room until both of us were spent and the evidence of it marked her thighs and the various surfaces of the home her husband would return to on Thursday. She always cleaned what needed cleaning. I always left through the same back gate and closed it behind me.

One Tuesday in the second month she met me at the patio door already breathless, pulled me inside by the belt, and pushed me onto the living room floor before I fully cleared the threshold. She rode me there on the carpet with her hands braced on my chest and her eyes half-closed in concentration, coming twice before she let me finish. Afterward she stayed draped over me and said quietly, “He’s starting to talk about a longer sales route in the fall. Three weeks at a stretch instead of three days. When that happens the gate stays open until I close it.”

I ran a hand down her bare spine and felt the future of the arrangement settle into place without either of us needing to name it further.

The neighbors on the other side of the street kept their ordinary schedules. The mail arrived at the usual time. Claire’s husband continued to leave on Monday evenings or early Tuesday mornings and return late Thursday, never once finding the back gate open or the quiet evidence of what his wife and the man next door did in the rooms he paid for.

I stopped checking the window every evening.

I simply waited for Tuesday, watched for the open gate, and crossed the grass when it appeared.

The groceries had been the first excuse.

The open gate became the only one we needed.

And every time I closed it behind me on the way back to my own dark house, the residual ache of her cunt and the knowledge that another Tuesday already waited were enough to carry me through the rest of the week.