The bedsheets didn’t quite cover Grace’s pretty bottom. I couldn’t resist. I kissed those sinfully fleshed curves. “Oh, honey,” Grace murmured, twisting sleepily to face me. “You’re leaving?”

I nodded.

A wry smile parted Grace’s lips. “Wouldn’t you rather stay home and make sweet morning love? A slow, sexy, sermon on the mount?”

I frowned.

“Go. Spend your Sunday morning golfing with your buddies. I understand.”

I’m not a good golfer, but warming up on the range with a nine iron, I hit shot after shot dead solid perfect.

“What’s gotten into you?” my friend Steve asked.

“Don’t know,” I replied. “Must be a state of grace.”

It didn’t last. On the first hole I pushed my tee shot, skulled my approach, muffed a chip, and three-putted.

But on the second hole, good fortune returned. My drive striped the fairway’s middle, leaving me nine-iron distance from the green—a shot almost identical to the one I’d nailed time after time on the range. I stood over the ball, gripping the club. The butt end nudged my erection.

“Where you going?” Steve asked.

“Something’s come up.”

Driving home, I had doubts. I pictured Grace in bed, Pastor Johnson above her, his burly cock plundering her cunt. But my own erection didn’t subside.

I fitted my key carefully into the lock. I entered quietly, shed my shoes and clothes, and crept upstairs, my ears pricked for the creak of bedsprings, the sweaty slap of sex, the huff and puff of incipient orgasm.

Maybe she wasn’t fucking Johnson. Maybe she was only touching herself. Pinching her naughty nipples. Tweaking her wily clitoris.

Amid tangled bedsheets, chest flushed, eyes wide, sat Steve’s wife Wendy. I stepped towards her, straight into the whistling thwack of the fireplace poker. Grace gasped. “I thought you were...”