Next Door
"When she married and moved next door, they told themselves it was over. It lasted one week. Now it's daily—while his wife is at work, while her husband is at the office. The unlocked back door."
The fence between our yards is four feet tall.
I can see over it easily. So can she.
Every morning, I drink my coffee on the back porch and watch her water the garden. Every morning, she bends in ways that are definitely intentional, wearing things that are definitely too thin.
Tessa. My stepsister. The woman next door.
The woman I can't stop fucking.
How It Started
Our parents married when I was sixteen, she was fourteen.
I wish I could say nothing happened then. That we were good. That we kept our hands to ourselves until we were adults.
We didn't.
It started with looks. Escalated to touches. Became something else entirely by the time I left for college.
"This has to stop," I told her on my last night before freshman year. We were in her bed, naked, her petite body curled against mine.
"I know."
"I mean it. We can't keep—"
"I know." She kissed me. "Find someone else. Move on. Forget about me."
I tried.
I failed.
The Marriage
She married Brad two years ago.
I married Jennifer three years ago.
For a while, it worked. Separate cities, separate lives. We saw each other at holidays, pretended to be siblings, didn't touch.
Then Brad got transferred.
To our city.
To a house.
Next door.
The First Time
It lasted one week.
Seven days of watching her through windows. Seven days of accidental meetings at the mailbox. Seven days of building pressure.
On day eight, my wife left for work. Her husband left for the office.
She texted: Back door unlocked.
I was inside her five minutes later.
The Routine
It's been eight months now.
Every weekday, 9 AM to 11 AM. The window when both our spouses are gone. Two hours of her, every day, without fail.
She's already naked when I come through her back door.
"You're late," she says.
"Two minutes."
"That's two minutes of you inside me that I missed."
She drops to her knees. Takes me in her mouth. Gets me hard in seconds.
"Bedroom," she gasps. "Now."
Tessa is tiny.
Five-one, maybe ninety-five pounds. I can pick her up with one arm, throw her around, fuck her against walls without effort.
I love it.
So does she.
"Harder—" she begs. She's on her back, legs wrapped around me, tiny body bouncing with each thrust. "Make me feel it—"
I fuck her harder. The headboard slams the wall. The wall that separates her house from mine.
"If Jennifer could hear this—" Tessa gasps.
"Don't talk about her."
"Why not? Doesn't it make you harder? Knowing you're fucking me ten feet from your marriage bed?"
It does.
I hate that it does.
I come inside her with a groan.
The Danger
We get careless.
Texts that should be deleted. Looks that last too long. Once, almost caught—Brad came home early, and I had to hide in her closet while she made excuses.
"We should stop," I say that night. We're in her bed again—Brad's working late, Jennifer's at yoga.
"You always say that."
"I mean it this time."
"No, you don't." She straddles me. Sinks down. "You never mean it. You can't live without this."
She's right.
I hate that she's right.
Eight Months
We've fucked every weekday for eight months.
That's over a hundred and sixty times. In her bed, in my bed, in her shower, in my kitchen. Against walls, on floors, in the backyard after dark when we couldn't wait.
I've memorized every inch of her body. She's memorized mine.
"I love you," she says one morning.
"Tessa—"
"Don't say it back if you don't mean it." She looks at me. "But I needed you to know."
I look at this woman. My stepsister. My neighbor. My addiction.
"I love you too."
She cries. I hold her.
We fuck again before our spouses come home.
The Fence
I'm drinking my coffee.
Watching her water the garden.
She looks up. Smiles. Mouths something I can't hear.
Then she sets down the hose. Walks to the fence. Leans over it.
"Brad's leaving early today," she says. "Gone by eight."
"Jennifer leaves at seven-thirty."
"So we have an extra hour."
She turns. Walks back to her house. Glances over her shoulder.
I'll be at her back door by 7:35.
Same as every day.
Same as always.
The Truth
We're never going to stop.
I know it now. Eight months of daily addiction has made it clear.
She's not my stepsister anymore. Not my neighbor. Not even my affair.
She's my other wife.
The one who lives ten feet away.
The one I'll spend every morning with, for as long as we can hide it.
The one who owns me completely.
"Same time tomorrow?" she asks at her back door.
"Same time always."
She kisses me. Sends me home.
To Jennifer. To my marriage. To the life that's supposed to be real.
But real is what's behind that unlocked door.
Real is Tessa.
Real is us.
Always.