While She's Gone
"His wife's away for two weeks. Her mother insists on staying to help. When she catches him in a compromising position, she doesn't look away—she takes over."
"You don't need to do this, Linda."
"Nonsense." My mother-in-law sets her suitcase by the door and surveys the living room like she's assessing a battlefield. "Two weeks alone? You'll live on takeout and forget to water the plants. Sarah would never forgive me."
Sarah—my wife—is already in the Uber to the airport. Shanghai for two weeks, some corporate emergency that couldn't wait. She'd kissed me goodbye an hour ago, promised to call every night, and then casually mentioned her mother would be staying.
"Mom wants to help out," she'd said. "Just let her. You know how she gets."
I know how she gets.
Linda Marchetti is fifty-two years old and impossible to say no to. She's where Sarah got her stubbornness, her sharp tongue, and her body—though Linda's version is fuller, rounder, softened by age in ways that I've tried very hard not to notice.
She's also been widowed for three years, lives alone in a too-big house, and jumps at any excuse to feel needed.
"Fine," I say. "But I can take care of myself."
"I'm sure you can, sweetheart." She pats my cheek. "But now you don't have to."
Day One
She cooks dinner.
Real dinner—not the frozen stuff I would have microwaved. Chicken parmesan, fresh pasta, a salad that has more than two ingredients. She hums while she works, moving around my kitchen like she owns it.
I try to help. She shoos me away.
"Sit. Drink your wine. Let me spoil you."
I sit. Drink my wine. Try not to watch her too closely.
Linda is built like an hourglass that tipped a little with time. Wide hips that sway when she walks. Heavy breasts that strain against her blouse. A soft belly that rounds out the apron she's tied at her waist. She's maybe five-five, a hundred and seventy pounds, and she carries it with a confidence her daughter never quite learned.
Sarah's always been self-conscious about her weight. Linda wears hers like armor.
"You're staring," she says without turning around.
"Just appreciating the cooking."
"Mmhmm." She plates the food, brings it to the table. Sits across from me with her own wine. "Sarah said you've been stressed. Work trouble?"
"Something like that."
"Anything you want to talk about?"
"Not really."
She nods. Doesn't push. That's the thing about Linda—she knows when to wait.
We eat in comfortable silence. She asks about the house, the neighbors, whether we've thought about kids yet. Normal mother-in-law stuff. I answer on autopilot, my mind wandering to the two weeks ahead.
Two weeks alone with my wife's mother.
What could go wrong?
Day Four
I can't sleep.
Sarah called earlier—it was morning in Shanghai, and she sounded exhausted. We talked for twenty minutes about nothing, and when we hung up, the silence felt heavier than before.
It's 1 AM. Linda went to bed hours ago, the guest room door firmly closed. The house is dark and quiet. I should try to sleep.
Instead, I'm on the couch with my laptop, headphones in, watching things I shouldn't be watching.
It's been six days since Sarah left. Six days since anyone touched me. I'm only human.
The video is nothing special—mature woman, younger guy, the usual scenario. I'm half-watching, half-lost in my own head, my hand wrapped around myself under the blanket I draped over my lap.
I don't hear her come downstairs.
"Oh my."
The voice cuts through my headphones and I freeze.
Linda is standing at the bottom of the stairs. Silk robe, bare feet, glass of water in her hand. Her eyes are fixed on the laptop screen—which I forgot to angle away—and then they drop to the obvious tent in my blanket.
"I—" My voice cracks. "This isn't—I was just—"
"I can see what you were doing." She doesn't move. Doesn't leave. "I came down for water. Didn't expect a show."
"I'm so sorry—please don't tell Sarah—"
"Tell her what? That her husband has needs?" Linda takes a sip of her water. Calm. Unhurried. "That he's been alone for almost a week and needed relief? That's not a crime, sweetheart."
"It's still—I mean, you're—"
"Your mother-in-law. Yes." She sets the water on the side table. Takes a step closer. "And old enough to know that what I just saw is perfectly natural."
My cock hasn't gotten the message that I should be mortified. It's still hard, still straining against the blanket. Linda's eyes drop to it again.
"Interesting choice," she says, nodding toward the laptop. "Older woman, younger man. Is that your thing?"
"Linda—"
"Is it?"
I should lie. Should close the laptop, excuse myself, never speak of this again.
"Yes," I hear myself say.
Something shifts in her expression. Something hungry.
"Hm." She sits on the couch. Not close, but not far. "I always wondered."
"Wondered what?"
"If that's why you married my daughter." She's looking at me differently now—not like a mother-in-law, not like family. Like a woman assessing a man. "Sarah's twenty-eight. Practically a child. But the way you look at me sometimes—when you think no one notices—I've wondered."
My throat is dry. "I don't—"
"You do." She shifts closer. "I've seen it. At Christmas, when I wear that red dress. At the beach, when I'm in my swimsuit. You try to hide it, but I'm not blind."
"This is—we can't—"
"Can't what?" She reaches out. Puts her hand on my knee, above the blanket. "Talk honestly? We're both adults, sweetheart. Sarah's ten thousand miles away. And you're sitting here in the dark, watching porn, clearly not getting what you need."
"She's your daughter."
"And I love her. But I also know her." Linda's hand slides higher. I can feel the warmth through the fabric. "She works too much. Travels too much. Probably doesn't give you the attention you deserve."
"That's not—"
"Don't lie to me." She's right next to me now. Her hand is on my thigh, inches from where I'm still rock hard. "When's the last time she touched you? Really touched you?"
I can't answer. Can't think.
"That's what I thought." Her hand moves under the blanket.
I should stop her. Should grab her wrist, tell her this is wrong, that we'll both regret it.
Her fingers wrap around my cock.
"Fuck," I breathe.
"There we go." She strokes slowly, her grip firm and confident. "That's what you need, isn't it? Someone who pays attention. Someone who takes care of you."
"Linda—"
"Shh." She leans closer. Her breath is warm on my ear. "Let me help."
She doesn't rush.
She strokes me slow and steady, watching my face, reading my reactions. When I gasp, she tightens her grip. When I moan, she speeds up. She's paying attention in a way that makes me feel seen.
"Good?" she murmurs.
"Yes—"
"I bet my daughter doesn't do this for you. She's too busy, too distracted." Her thumb swirls over the head. "But I'm not busy. I'm not distracted. I'm right here."
"We shouldn't—your daughter—"
"Isn't here." She twists her wrist, and I see stars. "I am."
She pulls back the blanket. Looks at what she's holding.
"Oh my." A slow smile. "My daughter's a lucky woman. She just doesn't know it."
Before I can respond, she dips her head.
Her mouth is warm and wet and experienced.
She takes me deep on the first stroke, no hesitation, no gagging. Just slow, deliberate suction that makes my hips lift off the couch.
"Fuck—Linda—"
She hums around me. The vibration shoots up my spine.
She blows me like she has all the time in the world. Like there's nowhere she'd rather be. Her head bobs steadily, her hand working what her mouth can't reach, and I realize that whatever video I was watching couldn't compare to this.
"I'm gonna—" I grab her hair, try to warn her. "I can't—"
She doesn't stop. If anything, she speeds up, sucks harder, and when I explode, she takes every drop. Swallows. Keeps sucking until I'm shaking, oversensitive, pushing at her shoulders.
She pulls off with a satisfied sound. Wipes her lips. Looks at me with those dark eyes.
"Feel better?"
I can't speak. Can only stare.
"Good." She stands. Picks up her water. "I'm going back to bed. We can talk about this tomorrow—or not. Your choice."
She walks up the stairs. Pauses at the top.
"For what it's worth," she says, "you taste wonderful. Sarah really doesn't know what she's missing."
She disappears into the guest room.
I sit on the couch, pants around my ankles, and wonder what the fuck just happened.
Day Five
She's making breakfast when I come downstairs.
Eggs, bacon, fresh-squeezed orange juice. She's in that silk robe again, humming to herself, acting like nothing happened.
"Good morning, sweetheart. Sleep well?"
"I—yeah. Fine."
"Sit. Eat." She puts a plate in front of me. Sits across the table with her coffee. "You look well-rested."
"Linda, about last night—"
"What about it?"
"We need to talk."
"Do we?" She sips her coffee. "You had a need. I helped. That's what I'm here for, isn't it? To help?"
"That's not—this isn't what Sarah meant."
"No. But Sarah isn't here." Linda sets down her cup. Folds her hands. "Let me ask you something, honestly. Did you enjoy it?"
"That's not the point."
"It's exactly the point." She leans forward. "Did you enjoy it?"
"...Yes."
"And was it better than taking care of yourself alone?"
"Yes."
"Then what's the problem?"
"The problem is you're my mother-in-law!"
"I'm also a woman. A woman who's been alone for three years. A woman who sees her son-in-law suffering and wants to help." She reaches across the table, takes my hand. "I'm not trying to steal you from my daughter. I'm trying to give you what she can't right now. What she won't. Is that really so terrible?"
I stare at her. At her hand on mine. At the way her robe has shifted, revealing the curve of her breasts.
"This is insane."
"Probably." She squeezes my hand. "But we have twelve more days. We can spend them being awkward, pretending last night didn't happen. Or we can spend them... differently."
"Differently how?"
She stands. Walks around the table. Stops beside my chair.
"Let me show you."
She unties her robe.
She's naked underneath.
All those curves I've spent five years pretending not to see—now right in front of me. Heavy breasts with dark nipples, already stiff. Wide hips flaring from a soft waist. A belly that rounds out, soft and womanly. Thick thighs that press together as she stands there, waiting.
"Linda—"
"Touch me." She takes my hand, places it on her breast. "Feel what you've been staring at for years."
The flesh is warm and heavy in my palm. I squeeze, instinctive, and she sighs.
"Yes. Just like that."
I stand. My other hand finds her hip, grips the softness there. She steps closer, and I feel the heat of her against me.
"We really shouldn't—"
"Stop saying that." She grabs my shirt, pulls me down for a kiss.
She tastes like coffee and sin.
I fuck my mother-in-law on the kitchen table.
She sweeps the plates aside without a thought, climbs up, spreads her legs. I'm inside her before I can think about consequences—before I can think about Sarah, about betrayal, about anything except how tight and wet and ready she is.
"Fuck—" She wraps her legs around me, pulls me deeper. "I knew you'd feel good—knew it—"
I pound into her, and she takes every stroke. She's loud—louder than Sarah—crying out with every thrust, her nails clawing at my back.
"Harder—harder—show me what you've got—"
I give her harder. The table shakes. Her breasts bounce. She screams my name and I don't care who hears.
When she comes, her whole body clenches. Her pussy grips me like a fist, milking me, demanding everything. I bury myself deep and give it to her—fill my mother-in-law while my wife is a world away.
We collapse together. Panting. Sweating.
"God," she breathes. "I should have done this years ago."
The Next Twelve Days
We don't pretend anymore.
She sleeps in my bed—the bed I share with her daughter. She cooks for me, cleans for me, fucks me like it's her full-time job.
Morning sex in the shower. Afternoon blowjobs on the couch. Late-night sessions that leave us both exhausted, tangled in sheets that smell like her perfume.
"Sarah calls tonight," I say on Day Ten. "What do I tell her?"
"Tell her you miss her." Linda is riding me, slow and deep, her breasts swaying. "Tell her I'm taking good care of you."
"She'll know something's different."
"She won't know anything." She clenches around me, and I groan. "I raised her. I know how to keep secrets."
She leans down, kisses me softly.
"This is ours," she murmurs. "Just ours. For as long as you want it."
Day Fourteen
Sarah comes home.
She hugs her mother at the door, thanks her for staying. Hugs me, kisses me, tells me how much she missed me.
"I hope he wasn't too much trouble, Mom."
"No trouble at all." Linda catches my eye. "He was a perfect gentleman."
I carry her suitcase to the car. She puts a hand on my arm before she gets in.
"Same time next month," she murmurs. "Sarah has that conference in Dubai."
"Linda—"
"Unless you don't want to."
I should say I don't. Should end this now, while I still can.
"Same time next month," I say.
She smiles. Kisses my cheek—lingering, warm.
"See you then, sweetheart."
She drives away.
Sarah waves from the porch.
I wave back, and wonder how long I can keep this secret.
And whether I even want to stop.