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A year or so ago we bought a house which happened to have a hot tub sitting on the back patio. The tub hadn't been used for some time - it was drained and winterized, and not that appealing what with the dirt that had accumulated over the years. I didn't have clue-one how to work it, and had heard horror stories about how hard it was to keep the chemicals balanced so you didn't start an algae farm or some such thing. I thought about selling it, but couldn't very well do that without being able to say for sure that it worked properly. So after staring at the thing for months, I sucked it up and learned how to run it. It cleaned up real nice, and it turned out it wasn't that big a deal to take care of. OK, so I'd proved it worked, so now we can sell it.

The patio the tub sits on isn't completely private. The next door neighbour has a clear view, although since their house sits quite a bit higher than ours, they'd have to deliberately look. At night, if everyone's lights are out, fine, you've got privacy, but if they have lots of lights on, it lights up our yard pretty good.

One of my longstanding fantasies has been to have sex outside. Not to be deliberately seen, but just to spice things up with a bit of risk. I never expected to realize that fantasy because (1) my wife and I take the marriage vow of "forsaking all others" seriously, and (2) Cecily is the most modest person this side of the Victorian era. (That's not to say she's a prude - lock the bedroom door, close the blinds, and she's everything you could ask for in a wife and a lover.) So when my friends made cracks about us skinny dipping in the hot tub it pissed me off, because I knew it wasn't EVER gonna happen. Must be why I spend so much time reading erotic stories on the Web - to live vicariously through all the people who seem to do stuff that exists, in my life, only in the realm of imagination.

One Friday night after the kids went to bed I grabbed my bathing suit and jumped into the tub. I turned the jets all the way up and let them do their thing to my back. The kids had left the lights on downstairs, and I hadn't bothered to turn them off since the neighbour's lights were all on too -- there wasn't any prospect of privacy anyway. After really getting in to the massage the jets were giving me, I opened my eyes and was surprised to see all our lights off. Then my wife came out to join me. Even wearing her very conservative one-piece bathing suit, she wanted as little chance as possible to be seen - no surprise there.

We chatted about our week and about the kids - the stuff old married people talk about. I noticed her foot floating nearby, so I started giving her a foot massage, as much as anything to give me something to do with my hands. I wasn't trying to start anything - after 20 years, I was far too realistic for that. I just tried to relax her and give her the best foot rub I could. After a while I'd rubbed all the kinks out of her feet, so I moved up to her calves. She was talking less and less, seeming to get into the moment, letting the jets wash away the cares of the week.

Well, you can only massage the same spot for so long. Once her calves were thoroughly treated, I could either go back down to her feet for round two, or I could move up. I still wasn't really trying to start anything, but I could tell by her mellow expression that she was very into the moment. So I moved higher, massaging her thighs. At first I was careful not to go too high, staying at least 3 or 4 inches from the hem of her bathing suit. She was lying back, her head resting against the edge of the tub, her mouth slightly open. One of the straps of her suit had fallen off her shoulder - it was an old suit, stretched from years of concealing her lovely bust. As the current created by the jets moved past, the water was gently tugging on the strap, revealing more and more of her left breast in the full light from next door. My own suit began to feel tight as I hardened.

It seemed reasonable to go with the flow. I moved my massaging hands up her leg a little more each time, until I was lightly brushing her crotch. Very quietly, almost too quietly to be heard, she moaned. That surprised me. I found it hard to believe that she might be getting worked up in what to her must have seemed like a public place. Or maybe, with her eyes closed, with the white noise of the jets, she had entered a private world in her mind. Who was I to argue?

Her suit had fallen lower, so that now her nipple was exposed, just above the water. Dropping any pretense of massage, I began to work directly on her crotch, knowing from years of intimacy how much pressure she likes, and where. She moaned again, louder this time. I reached up to kiss her, and gently fondled the exposed breast. My caress had to make it plain to her that she was exposed, but her only response was to rub her foot between my legs, where I was becoming uncomfortably hard.