Jewel asked me if I found Karen sexy. Considering what my wife does to me and what she lets me do to her on a regular basis, I don’t think of other women that way. But there are many ways to be sexy, and Karen definitely nailed at least one of them, so I just told the truth: yes.

“I can see that,” Jewel said noncommittally, and that seemed to be the end of it.

My wife and I initially weren’t happy to leave our tiny apartment in the city for a cookie-cutter house in the suburbs. The job situation forced our hand, though. The start-up company I worked for needed more space to grow and real estate was much cheaper out there. Commuting from the city would have taken a big chunk out of my day. Jewel hated to give up city life but liked that the house had room for her studio, so she didn’t have to share a loft space ten blocks away. Her clients came from all over the area anyhow and mostly found her through word-of-mouth or the internet.

In a crowd, you wouldn’t pick out Jewel as the artist. Her open face lit up with her easy smile, and she had nothing pierced or tattooed. Her slim body and conventional dress would make her seem like another soccer mom. But the artworks she created with a combination of photography, digital processing, and a variety of printing techniques were beautiful, startling, and dramatic. Some of her pieces were huge, gracing corporate lobbies. Others were more intimate.

She had recently been doing unusual portraits. Starting with one or more photographs of the subject, she would extract different elements and compose them, using various image processing methods. The result was often not recognizable as the person to a random observer, although the subjects often said the complex images captured a feeling or a hidden aspect of their characters.

We settled in on the quiet cul-de-sac a short bike ride from my office. Most of the neighborhood was families with kids in school. We did find another childless couple our age a block away and became friends.

Karen and Ethan were from Scotland, having moved to the US a few years back. Jewel and I loved their accents. Any story Ethan told was funnier because of the way he spoke. Karen was the central casting model of a Scottish lassie: flowing red hair down to her full bosom, a round freckled face with brown eyes and dimpled cheeks.

The Scots did like to party, and we enjoyed their company, although Ethan tended to drink too much. I don’t think it was just a stereotype. From what Jewel heard from Karen, he was having problems at work. Whether the drinking caused the work issues or the work issues made him drink more, it seemed like a vicious circle.

One day, I came home after work to find Karen in the studio with Jewel.

“I was showing Karen some of my work,” my wife explained.

“I was wondering about getting one of those crazy portraits,” Karen said, then regretted her choice of words, blushing deep red. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that. They are just so unusual.”

“No worries,” Jewel laughed, reassuring her with a hand on her shoulder, “Some are pretty crazy, but they sell better if I don’t call them that.”

“I’d best be going,” Karen said, “Ethan will be home soon.”

“Okay, let me know if you’re interested,” Jewel walked her to the door. “I’d be happy to do it, no charge.”

As I went to the kitchen to start dinner, I saw two used teacups on the table. I said nothing, knowing Jewel would tell me about it when she was ready.

A couple weeks later I came home to find the door to the studio closed and locked. That meant she was with a client and didn’t want to be disturbed. Getting people to pose to express the right feeling can be challenging. Jewel frequently gripes about people giving “selfie-face.”

I was almost finished making dinner when the door opened and I heard Karen’s voice. I said hello, but she mumbled something about being late as she headed for the door pulling a suitcase behind her.

“I think I have what I need,” Jewel called after her. “I’ll let you know when I have something for you to look at.”

As I set the table, Jewel brought two used glasses and an empty bottle of Chardonnay from her studio. “It took a lot for Karen to relax,” she said. “But I finally got her to expose herself.” She stopped, looking at the wine glasses she was holding, lost in thought for a bit.

“You know,” she continued slowly, “I usually talk to you about my work. I value your ideas and trust you completely, trust that you won’t talk about it with anyone else.” Jewel paused, thinking, then seemed to have reached a decision.

“But you know Karen, and she may have told me things she wouldn’t have told you,” she said. “If I tell you something, you might accidentally mention it. Or it might change the way you think about her, and that wouldn’t be right.”

“I understand,” I said. And I did. “I love you, and I love your work, and I’m fascinated by it, but you’re the artist. Whatever you decide is fine with me.”

We talked about other things over dinner. We each had a glass of wine as we often did, but added to what she drank with Karen, I think it might have pushed my wife over the edge.

“I took some pictures of her naked,” Jewel said it like a confession. I knew she occasionally did that for clients, sometimes to make a shocking or dramatic point, sometimes because they wanted something beautiful or sexy. Most often, you didn’t see their private parts in the final work, or it was processed in a way not to be lewd.

“I don’t think I really needed to,” she sounded a little guilty. “I just wanted to see her body. I don’t know why, but I really wanted to see her tits. I found out—”

“Dear,” I interrupted, “I think you might want to stop before you say something you’ll regret tomorrow.”

“The carpet matches the drapes!” she ignored my plea. “Wall-to-wall!” she giggled, contrasting it with her own neatly trimmed patch.

“Let’s watch a movie,” I suggested, taking her hand and leading her to the couch. It was too early to go to bed. I knew she’d feel bad about her indiscretion in the morning, so I just wanted to limit the damage.

The movie wasn’t that good. Whether it was the wine or the early perfunctory sex scene or, in retrospect, the red-haired female lead, we lost track of the plot as my wife rubbed my crotch and I stroked the front of her blouse. Like two teenagers at a drive-in theater, we walked the bases slowly, our mouths tenderly engaged.

We progressed button by button. As I undid her blouse, she opened my shirt. We paused to stroke each square inch of skin we exposed. Somehow, she slipped a hand behind her and unhooked her bra, because it fell away from her B-cup breasts. I gently massaged them as she reached for my belt.

“Didn’t this used to be easier?” she giggled, fumbling with it. She was wearing slacks as well, so we both had obstacles to overcome.

“Let’s make this easy,” I said, disentangling from her and standing up. With a few practiced moves, my pants were below my knees. I pulled her to her feet, and she did the same.

“Ah, the warm spot,” she sighed as she sat her bare ass on the faux leather couch where she had been sitting.

We continued our slow explorations. My fingers found the boundary of her pubic patch, tracing around it. Her hand stroked my thigh, her wrist barely grazing the tip of my penis as it stood up begging for attention. Gradually, teasingly, we added fuel to the fires inside us.

Almost in sync, my hand moving up her thigh encountered damp flesh as her hand moving up mine contacted wrinkled sacks. Our fingers pressed against these anatomical features. Despite the pleasure we elicited, we sensed that yet more intense opportunities were nearby.

With two fingers, I gently parted her lips, drawing forth her nectar. Instinctively, I momentarily raised them to my mouth to suck them dry, filling my senses with her natural taste and aroma.

The rapid movement caused Jewel to twitch, and I felt her hand grab my cock. Her soft palm against the sensitive underside of my shaft slid the loose skin up and down until the swelling stretched it tighter. Her fingers encircled it and gently tugged upward, drawing it to its full extent. When she squeezed the bulbous end, my sharp involuntary grunt warned of imminent release.

My fingers became familiar with her secret geography. Her slim body couldn’t hide her prominent lower lips, and my fingertips surveyed their rugged landscape. My thumb and fingers pressed the parallel ridges together, feeling them slide against each other easily with the liquid flowing from within. My long middle finger delved into the crevice between them, widening it to a canyon, spreading it wider still to expose her hidden cavern.

The tip of my finger dared to step inside as my palm rested where the two ridges came together. Jewel shifted her hips, wanting more pressure, and I obliged, pressing more firmly against her apex as my finger drilled deeper, circling as it pushed millimeter by millimeter.

I could indirectly feel the results of my handiwork. Jewel’s hand would stop for a second when I inspired a ripple of pleasure to overtake her. I, too, would have to take a breath when her pumping pushed me too close to the edge. These mutual distractions allowed us to savor the excitement that was growing, ever growing.

If our brains had been in control, they would have known there was a swifter road easily available, but our bodies were too busy enjoying the gradual path we were on; taking the time to nuzzle necks; feeling the shiver caused by an unexpected wet tongue in my ear; interrupting with an eyelash kiss on a cheek; warming the delicate sculpture of her ear with my breath.

Meanwhile, our hands plied our most innervated areas, moving us higher and higher. We were both surprised when she pushed me over the edge. She had walked me close to the line, giving me a drop of pleasure but not letting me drink. Suddenly I was drowning in it. My chest and groin burned for a long second before the internal gears started turning, driving fluid through heated organs until it burst forth.

Although unexpected at the time, I wouldn’t call it premature. The movie had long since ended, not that we were paying attention. My left arm around her, I pulled my wife to me, our mouths mashed together as moans and words of love and lust tried to form. My right hand was stationary, but Jewel’s left hand made the most of my orgasm, milking me from the base of my shaft to the spurting head, again and again until my twitching organ had no more to give. Her cupping my balls made them tingle, and her gently palming the head made me jerk with aftershocks of ecstasy that were almost too intense.

Her hand finally settled with an easy grip on my softening dick, her gentle movement soothing as the warmth echoed throughout my body. I knew she wouldn’t begrudge my taking a few slow breaths to fully absorb the sensations she had released inside me.

It was not long before I again became aware of the purchase my hand had on her pussy, or that her pussy had on me. I gently began to move it again, feeling her respond to my stirring finger as my oscillating palm pressed her sensitive flesh back and forth.

Calmer now, I saw her need more clearly. Her hot breath on my neck was uneven. Her hips squirmed, seeking more focused contact. I added a second thick finger and began to thrust into her opening. Lifting my palm from its general massaging, my soft thumb, slick with her lubricants, sought the particular spot. It was well-covered by her swollen folds, but no less responsive to my direct stroking.

My wife’s clitoris retreated as she approached her summit, but I was locked on to her point of ignition. My thumb gently stroked it, and I felt her body tense. I pressed my fingers as deep as they could go while my thumb strummed her faster and faster.

Jewel held her breath as her body went rigid, demanding release of the delicious yearning that had every nerve tingling. There was no need for her to groan “Don’t stop!” She knew I knew it, and she knew I wouldn’t. Unlike my surprise explosion, we could both see hers approach. We knew it was within reach, so there was no reason to rush or divert from our course. I felt her turn inward as we crested the hill, her thighs coming together to trap my hand where it was. Her cunt squeezed my fingers as my thumb continued to play its solo.

I love watching my wife climax—the intensity, the primal beauty, the joy. It is especially thrilling when I can feel like I helped create it. She wanted no changes for many seconds as the main wave dissipated, and my thrumming still inspired some aftershocks. When her thighs relaxed, I moved back to resting my palm against her mound, leaving my fingers where they were. She needed no motion now, as she basked in the warmth of pleasure.

“I love you addictively,” I whispered.

“I love you intoxicatingly,” she giggled, her orgasm heightening the effect of the alcohol on her pronunciation, but I deduced what she was aiming for. It was a little ritual we had. In this case, the word she chose was particularly relevant.

My semen cooled and dripped down my body, but I was in no hurry to move. Gradually, her eyes came back to reality, and she turned to accept my loving kiss. She laughed first when her hand encountered the goo as she idly stroked my chest, but I joined her in mirth.

“What are we, teenagers?” I laughed, looking at us both sitting there with our pants around our ankles.

“Oh no!” she cried, pointing to a semen drip that had reached the couch cushion. I reached for the box of tissues on the coffee table, using a limbo move to keep from dumping my full load. I mopped it up as she blotted the wet spot where she had been sitting.

“I knew there was a good reason not to get real leather,” I said.

“I love you practically,” she said when it appeared we had cleaned up all the fluids and pulled our pants up.

“I love you ethereally,” I said, lifting her off her feet as I hugged her.

The next day, we didn’t say anything more about Karen, the memory of our couch adventure clouding its origins. I tried to put the idea of our friend posing nude out of my mind. I didn’t want to be eyeing Karen the next time I ran into her, trying to visualize what she looked like beneath her clothes.