The Open Window (18+) (Tales of a Church Harem #3)

My wife made some coffee. Darryl mowed the lawn. And Marcy knew the window was open.

My wife made some coffee. Darryl mowed the lawn. I came on his wife’s face after church.

NSFW… Really. Avert your gaze if you’re under 18 or not looking for this kind of filth.
This story contains adult themes, including lawn maintenance, natural and artificial flavors, and the quiet dissolution of suburban moral order.

If you came for filth, continue. If you came for coffee, it’s ready. If you came for forgiveness, you’re too late.

I never meant to write this kind of story. I was supposed to be working on a monograph about asceticism in 13th-century mysticism, but then someone Venmo’d me $25 with the message “do the one where she gets railed in the church van.”

So here we are.

What follows is entirely fictional. Everyone is over 18, nobody gets saved.

---

Darryl was mowing the lawn when we arrived.

Same cap. Same smile. Same mower hum. He waved at us as we passed.

I waved back. I like Darryl. He’s a good guy. We helped them fix a section of their fence last fall. Swapped beers, talked weather. The usual. I wasn’t thinking about any of this until I saw Marcy at the door.

She was wearing a loose sundress. No bra. No panties. I didn’t need a second glance to know that.

There was banana bread on the counter again—still warm. The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and something unspoken.

We talked about nothing for a minute—neighbors, pets, weekend errands. I couldn’t stop looking at her, though I tried. My wife didn’t try. She just watched me watch Marcy, and smiled like she'd seen this movie before.

Then Marcy said,
“Would you help me with something upstairs?”

I hesitated. My wife didn’t.

“You should go,” she said. “She needs it.”

So I followed her.

~~~~

Her bedroom was flooded with light. The curtains were wide open. The bed was made. It all smelled like fresh laundry and fresh cut grass.

Outside, the mower passed beneath the window. Darryl’s head came into view—just for a second.

Marcy didn’t speak. She just turned, let the sundress fall from her shoulders, and stepped out of it like she’d done this before.

Her body was flushed, soft, glowing.

But her ass—Jesus Christ.

It was impossible. Round, high, smooth like sculpture. I’ve never been good with words, but I could’ve written a hymn about that ass. You could’ve set a glass of wine on it and not worry about the carpet.

She walked to the window, braced herself against the sill, and arched her back.

The mower passed again.

I stepped up behind her, pulled her cheeks apart, and slid my fingers between them. She was wet. So wet.

“Please,” she whispered.

I couldn’t say a thing. I just lined up and pushed into her—slow, deep, like I’d been pulled forward by gravity.

The curtains lifted in the breeze. Sunlight striped her back. Her breath hiccuped every time I bottomed out.

If he looked up—he’d see. Her arms locked, back arched, my cock buried in his wife. There was no hiding it.

“Don’t st… just like that!” she gasped. “Please!”

I didn’t stop.

I just held her hips and fucked her while the lawn got shorter and the sound of the mower circled again and again.

~~~

My wife’s voice floated up from the stairs.

“You good up there, honey?”

Marcy moaned—loud enough to carry.

I should’ve stopped. I thought about it. Thought about Darryl’s easy smile, his fence, his beer.

But I didn’t stop.

I just gripped Marcy’s hips tighter and kept going, her ass rippling back against me like she was the tides.

She came hard. Loud, her whole body shuddering, her head down. Her breath caught, and she nearly collapsed over the sill.

I pulled out, panting. My cock was slick, throbbing, twitching with every heartbeat.

And then she turned.

Dropped to her knees on the bedroom rug, hair messy, face flushed, eyes locked on mine. Her mouth fell open.

She didn’t need to speak.

I came—hard.

The first shot caught her cheek. The next splashed across her lips. One thick rope landed just under her nose and began to slide down toward her mouth. She didn’t blink. Just held still, letting it drip, like she needed to feel every drop.

The bedroom door creaked open behind me.

My wife stepped in, barefoot, calm as ever, holding a small ceramic pitcher.

“Oh,” she said, smiling, “I’m so glad I didn’t miss that. You’re a little low on cream, Marcy. ”

She walked over, crouched beside Marcy.

Gently, she wiped a streak of cum from her nose with her thumb, studied it for a moment, and licked it clean.

“Mmm,” she said. “I think that will do.”

She scooped the rest from Marcy’s cheeks with two fingers, and let it plop into the cream.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

“Full-fat,” she said.

Then she looked down at Marcy—still kneeling, still glowing, still slick with us.

“Well,” she said, brushing Marcy’s hair back gently, “the coffee’s ready. Let’s go watch Darryl finish the lawn.”