Property Lines
"The divorce settlement was unusual: she gets him one weekend a month. But his ex-wife isn't leaving—she's watching from the corner, seeing everything they do, learning that giving him up doesn't mean letting go."
The divorce was her idea.
Christine—my ex-wife—fell out of love with me three years into our marriage. Not with someone else, not dramatically. Just... stopped. Looked at me one morning and said, "I don't feel it anymore."
We tried counseling. Date nights. Everything. Nothing worked.
The divorce was almost amicable. Almost.
Until Janet got involved.
Janet is my new wife.
We met during the separation, started dating after the papers were filed, married six months after Christine moved out. She's everything Christine isn't—warm, passionate, present. Also: two-sixty, built like a fertility goddess, with curves that make me forget my own name.
Christine is thin. Athletic. Cold.
Janet is soft. Overwhelming. Everything.
The divorce was finalized quickly after Janet entered the picture. But Christine insisted on one unusual clause:
One weekend a month, she gets access to our house.
"For what?" Janet asked when I told her.
"To watch us."
Janet thought I was joking.
Then Christine explained it herself, sitting in our living room like she still owned the place.
"I don't want you back," she said. "But I want to see. To understand what I was missing. What she gives you that I couldn't."
"You want to watch us have sex?"
"I want to understand why it matters so much." Christine's expression was unreadable. "Call it research. Call it closure. I don't care. This is the condition."
"And if we say no?"
"Then I contest the settlement. Drag this out for years. Make it expensive."
Janet looked at me. I looked at Janet.
"Fine," Janet said. "One weekend a month. But you sit in the corner and you don't say a word."
The first weekend
Christine arrived at 7 PM Friday.
She was dressed simply—jeans, sweater, no makeup. She set up a chair in the corner of our bedroom, poured herself a glass of wine, and waited.
"We're supposed to just... perform?" Janet asked.
"Pretend I'm not here." Christine sipped her wine. "Do what you normally do."
"I can't—"
"Then I'll sit here until you can."
Janet and I stood by the bed.
Christine watched from the corner.
The silence stretched.
Then Janet kissed me.
Once we started, we forgot she was there.
Janet has that effect on me. Her body, her mouth, her sounds—everything else disappears when we're together. She pushed me onto the bed, climbed on top of me, and started moving.
"That's it, baby." She was riding me, her massive body undulating, her breasts bouncing. "Give it to me."
"Janet—"
"I know she's watching." Janet looked over her shoulder at Christine. "Let her see. Let her see what she walked away from."
Christine watched.
Her face was expressionless, but her breathing was shallow. Her hand gripped her wine glass too tight.
"Faster," Janet demanded, grinding down. "Make me scream. Make her hear it."
I gave her faster. Grabbed her hips, pulled her down hard with every thrust. Janet screamed—genuinely, not performing—and her orgasm hit like a wave.
"Fuck!" She collapsed onto my chest. "God, I love you."
"I love you too."
"I know." She kissed me. "Now make me come again."
We went for two hours.
Every position, every room, every surface. Christine followed us silently—from bedroom to bathroom to kitchen counter—watching everything, saying nothing.
When we finally finished, I was spent. Janet was glowing.
Christine was... different.
Her face was flushed. Her hands were trembling. And when she uncrossed her legs, I saw how hard she was pressing her thighs together.
"Same time next month," she said, standing. Her voice was hoarse.
"Christine—"
She was gone before I could finish.
Month Three
The rules changed.
"I want to be closer," Christine said, standing by our bed. "Not just watching."
"How close?"
"Close enough to... feel it."
Janet and I exchanged a look.
"Define 'feel it,'" Janet said.
Christine stepped forward. Reached out. Touched Janet's hip—just resting her hand there, barely contact.
"I want to know," Christine whispered. "What it's like to be touched by someone who wants to touch you."
Janet let her stay.
Lay back on the bed while I kissed down her body, while Christine sat beside us—close enough to touch, to feel the heat, to hear every gasp.
"Can I..." Christine's voice was uncertain. "Can I touch her?"
Janet nodded.
Christine's hand found Janet's breast. Cupped it. Squeezed.
"It's so soft." Christine sounded amazed. "So warm."
"Now imagine what it's like to touch the rest of her." I looked up from between Janet's thighs. "That's what you walked away from."
Christine's eyes met mine.
Something shifted.
Month Six
Christine is part of us now.
Not romantically. Not sexually. But there. Present. Watching, touching, learning.
"I was wrong," she told me one night, while Janet slept between us. "Not about leaving. About thinking that passion didn't matter."
"What changed?"
"Watching you two." She stared at the ceiling. "Seeing what it looks like when someone is wanted. When someone is satisfied." She laughed bitterly. "I never wanted you like that. Never knew it existed."
"And now?"
"Now I know what I'm looking for." She rolled toward me. "When I find it."
Month Twelve
Janet has a request.
"I want her to join us," she says one night. "Not just watch. Not just touch. Actually participate."
"Christine?"
"I want her to know what I feel. What you give me." Janet's eyes are bright. "I want her to understand—really understand—why I have what she threw away."
"And if she says no?"
"She won't." Janet smiles. "I've seen the way she looks at you now. The way she looks at me."
Christine says yes.
That night
Three bodies on the bed.
Janet on her back, legs spread, my face buried between her thighs. Christine beside her, watching up close, her hand on Janet's breast.
"Show me," Christine whispers. "Show me what she tastes like."
I lift my head. My lips are glistening.
"You want to know?"
"Yes."
I kiss her.
She tastes Janet on my tongue. Makes a sound—surprised, hungry. Her hands find my face, hold me there, wanting more.
"Now watch," Janet says. "While he fucks me. While I take what you couldn't keep."
I fuck Janet while Christine kneels beside us.
She touches us both—my back, Janet's thighs, the places where our bodies meet. Her eyes are wide, fascinated, drinking in every detail.
"You're so deep in her," Christine breathes. "I can see it. See where you're connected."
"This is what you gave up." Janet's voice is strained. "Every night. Every morning. This could have been yours."
"I know." Christine's hand finds Janet's clit. Starts rubbing. "I know. I'm sorry."
"Then make it up to me." Janet grabs Christine's hand. Presses harder. "Make me come while he fucks me."
Janet comes with both of us working her.
My cock buried deep, Christine's fingers on her clit, both of us devoted to her pleasure. She screams—shatters—floods around me.
"Now him." Janet pushes Christine toward me. "Make him come. Earn your place."
Christine takes me in her mouth.
My ex-wife. Sucking my cock. While my new wife watches and guides her.
"Deeper." Janet's hand on Christine's head. "He likes it deep. You would have known that, if you'd paid attention."
Christine goes deeper.
I come down her throat.
Epilogue: Year Two
The arrangement continues.
One weekend a month. Christine watches. Participates. Learns.
She's dating now—someone new, someone passionate. She tells Janet about them, asks for advice, practices techniques she's learned from watching us.
"Thank you," she told Janet once.
"For what?"
"For showing me what I was missing. For making me understand."
Janet kissed her forehead. "That's what family is for."
Christine laughed. "Is that what we are?"
"Something like that." Janet pulled her close. "Something new."
I watched them—my ex-wife and my new wife, tangled together in our bed—and realized that property lines were more flexible than I'd thought.
Some things can be divided.
And some things can be shared.