A house indistinguishable from the others on the street – that was my first impression: ordinary brick, ordinary curtains, an ordinary front garden. Yet the man who opened the door was greeting anything but an ordinary visitor. I had come for his wife. Weeks of online conversations, shared fantasies, and confidences that had led to this moment.

Roy was my age, his wife Barbara three years younger, both of them well into their eighth decade. He carried his years plainly: a portly frame, a white beard, and the slightly stooped posture of a man who had long since stopped worrying about his years. He ushered me into the living room, where Barbara was standing at the centre.

“Hello, Stan,” she said softly, leaning in to kiss my cheek.

She looked younger than her photos had suggested. Short grey hair framed a face lined by time but brightened by a sweet, disarming smile. Her blue eyes had a mischievous glint, and her figure – full and rounded – struck me as very pleasant.

I was smitten at once. “Hello, Barbara. You’re a beauty.”

She giggled, a sound that belied her age. “Maybe fifty years ago, Stan. Not now.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” I said, smiling. “I know what I’m looking at.”

I leaned in and brushed a gentle kiss against her lips. She lifted her hand to my cheek, her touch light as a feather, then turned to Roy.

“Let’s have some music. Something soft. And a drink for our guest.”

Roy moved quietly, dropping an LP onto an old record player. As the first notes drifted around the room, Barbara took my hands and placed them on her hips before looping her arms around my shoulders.

“Lights, Roy,” she murmured.

The ceiling lamp clicked off, leaving us in the soft glow of table lamps. Barbara began to sway her hips, her protruding belly rubbing against my tummy as she guided me into a slow dance. Her movements were unhurried and confident, as though she had rehearsed this moment in her mind long before I arrived.

Her head rested against my shoulder. I felt her breath, steady and calm.

“Red or white?” Roy called from the doorway.

“Red, you know what I like,” she answered, her voice barely above a sigh.

I stayed silent, letting him choose for me. Her fingers slipped between the buttons of my shirt, a small, deliberate gesture that carried more meaning than anything spoken aloud. Then she lifted her face, her eyes meeting mine, her lips open and her tongue sliding from side to side in a silent invitation, the quiet certainty of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.

Our lips met, and her tongue pressed just a little way, and I sucked her whole length in, glueing our mouths together. When I released the vacuum, I felt her thumbs caress the back of my neck.

The clink of glass from the kitchen snapped me back to myself. For a moment, I felt suspended, unable to move forward while Roy was still out there.

Barbara sensed it instantly. She leaned in, her breath warm against my ear. “Take my top off,” she whispered.

My hands found the hem. I lifted slowly; her arms rose gracefully, helping the fabric slide free. When it cleared her shoulders, I let it fall. The cloth drifted down, settling at our feet. I pressed a soft kiss to the bare curve of her shoulder.

Her fingers moved to my shirt, searching for the first button. She fumbled, laughed quietly, then managed it. One by one, she worked her way down. When the last button gave way, she eased the fabric aside and rested her palms against my chest, her touch exploratory, squeezing and pinching my two little teats.

I shrugged out of the sleeves, letting the shirt slip to the floor. She drew closer, her head lowering as though guided by instinct rather than thought. I held her gently, my hands finding her bra’s clasp at her back. With a soft click, her breasts’ prison broke, and then the straps slipped quietly down her arms as I pulled the cups between us until they were free to fall away.

Footsteps approached along the hall. Roy appeared at the edge of my vision, placing two glasses of wine on the table beside a lamp. I shifted toward the wine, more out of reflex than need. Barbara touched my cheek, turning my face back to hers. Her voice was steady, certain. “Later.”

Our fingers intertwined as I drew her close, the warmth of her skin radiating against mine. I followed the delicate curve of her collarbone. Then I let my palms glide downward and savoured the way her breath hitched as I cupped the soft weight of her breasts. Her eyes never wavered from mine as her hands worked to free her skirt’s clasp until it floated to the floor.