The three of us went out that Saturday and bought a bed. It was her idea.

I chose a wicker one. The plastic ones looked cheap and I liked its oval shape and the way the individual rattan strands intertwined so ornately - and it had a lovely soft cushion that I could curl up and sleep on too.

‘Someone’s going to love this!’ The young man on the till beamed, peering over his counter top in the hope of seeing the four legged friend he’d assumed it was intended for. He must have thought we were a family - and I suppose we were, of sorts.

I thanked my husband, and her, as we left the store.

‘You’re welcome.’ She beamed, rubbing my back in the most deliciously patronising way, ‘It’s no fun if you’re squirrelled away in the guest bedroom where you can barely hear us fucking.’

Part of me wanted to smash her face in. But being so demeaned, particularly by one so young, seemed to be the driving force for my own twisted pleasure. It was the little things - like having to sit in the back of the car as we drove home, whilst she sat in the front, chattering away, with my husband’s hand sliding under her dress and squeezing her slender young thigh.

It actually felt invigorating to watch them so engaged with each other. She laughed at all his jokes (obviously) and he pretended to be genuinely interested in her plans to become a massive social media influencer, ‘With, like, my own brand of clothing and cosmetics… eventually.’

I’d always talked to him about art, photography, music and books - and he’d pretended to be equally interested in that back in the day.

When I saw Quincy coming out of HobbyWorld I nearly convulsed. He immediately did a double-take and then glanced into the front of the car as we snail-paced it passed him. I tried to smile the most normal of smiles - nothing to see here, it’s just me, with a dog basket, and my husband, oh, and a fucking slut in the front seat who you know isn’t my daughter.

He waved with his trademark, overtly camp hand waft - as if wanting to officially confirm the moment. I waved back, my stomach churning, and inwardly wondered if I should change my yoga class. But I knew I wouldn’t - where’s the masochism in that?

We returned home without further incident. Thankfully.

She and I placed my new bed at the foot of the king-size marital one that I would no longer be using. I added an old pillow and a faded picnic blanket that I found in the airing cupboard.

‘You’re one of those people who can make anything look so cosy, I can tell,’ She giggled, whilst holding court on the edge of what had once been my bed.

There were uncomfortable silences. The only thing we had in common was my husband, and he was downstairs finishing some paperwork. But we persevered. He expected it of me. And let’s be honest - so did she.

‘It was always going to be difficult for you at first,’ She observed, with that quasi faux-intellectual tone only snowflakes can somehow pull off without everyone in earshot bursting into laughter, ‘But you’ll get more comfortable with it over time.’

It was those little afterthoughts that most attracted me to her - because she didn’t seem able to simply plunge the knife into my emotional underbelly, she had to turn it too. I hated myself for craving the pain, all while drinking heartily from the source.

When I’d finished emptying my walk-in closet for her, she stood up and peered out of the window. We made more small talk, mostly about the beautiful late afternoon sunshine and how pretty the view was through the huge bedroom panoramic.

‘I love how the whole street curves around to this point here, and then it’s just fields. You’re so lucky,’ She observed.

I was about to reply when she peered back over her shoulder at me. It was like those moments you see on the red carpet - when the glamorous actress with the svelte figure turns fleetingly back to the clamouring paparazzi and the whole world gasps at her indescribable beauty.

‘Come here. Unzip me,’ She purred, and all I saw were flashbulbs.

I don’t remember walking over to her. It was more like a trance. I felt giddy. She was chattering away - something about how she would make it work for all of us, that I should try and relax into my new role, and that she had found the video I’d sent, and its message ‘adorable’.

‘Thank you,’ I somehow muttered, ‘I loved watching you fuck my husband. I know that’s strange.’

‘It certainly makes it less awkward,’ She giggled, ‘Because I’d fuck him anyway. You do know that, don’t you?’

My fingers were trembling as I clutched the minuscule zip and gently tugged it down the back of her floral La Doublej. The scent of Chypre floated deftly about her. I wondered when my husband might have bought it for her. Perhaps during his last London trip, when they first met.

‘It’s such a pretty frock, but then you’d look good in anything with your figure,’ I offered.

‘I want you to take it off,’ She whispered, her gaze never wavering from the window. ‘Take everything off.’

It was a test. I could see Mr and Mrs Nibley strolling along the pavement with their spaniel. Of all our neighbours, it had to be our most elderly and most judgemental - neither of whom had yet forgiven of us for being nudists.

‘Do you know them?’ She asked, staring down at Mr Nibley as he ambled furiously passed with a glower of scathing disdain creasing his leathery jowls.

‘Far too well, actually,’ I replied, easing the straps of her dress free and encouraging it to the floor.

‘Oh?’

‘It’s a long story, but suffice it to say they don’t approve of our nude sunbathing.’

‘Can they even see into your garden?’ She asked, narrowing her arms as I unclasped her bra and eased its straps from her shoulders.

‘No. But one of the neighbours can, and he happened to mention it to them - apparently, even hearing of our nudism was scandalous enough.’

She smirked. I assumed over the story, but it could equally have been at seeing me dropping to my knees at her feet. She turned instinctively and sat on the edge of the window sill with her long Bambi-esque legs stretching elegantly across the bedroom. I couldn’t help admiring her slender hourglass shape as the sun tossed shards of light into the room, draping her in the most exquisite silhouette.

‘I can see why my husband is so infatuated with you,’ I mumbled, tugging her black lace knickers gently over her silky thighs and down to her ankles.

Her heeled foot lifted seductively out of her knickers, spreading her gait wider as she leant back against the window. She was smiling at me - all while allowing me time to digest her incomprehensibly beautiful form.

I’d never seen such a narrow waist, nor one so perfectly in harmony with the slender curve of her hips. Her huge breasts hung from her willowy frame with a regal bounce matched only by the taught swell of her buttocks as she slouched on the wooden pane. She was an exaggeration, an implausible impossibility, and yet here she was, like a pristine doll sculpted in milk-white porcelain and finished with a dusting of soft pink.

I glanced between her legs. I tried desperately hard not to, but I couldn’t resist. Her cunt was all cotton candy hues with thick, flourishing labia protruding like petals of fleshy velvet. She laughed - knowingly, and victoriously, and I suddenly felt utterly consumed by the desire to pleasure her.

I looked up at her from between her legs. She looked down on me from her slouched pose on the window sill. I was so close I could smell the sweet honeydew nectar of her sex. If I’d dared to stick my tongue out I could have tasted her. Oh, how I wanted to taste her.

‘I feel like we’re bonding,’ She sighed, reaching out with one hand and pressing my mouth to her soft, warm pussy while the other worked the camera on her phone. ‘Show me you feel the same.’

I groaned agreeably - and was about to push my tongue between her folds when the first gush of piss splashed across my face and lurched into my unwittingly open mouth. I recoiled in shock, or at least endeavoured to - but she held my head firm to her sex with surprising strength, and softly coaxed me into drinking from her.

Click, click, click.

I could hear her words of encouragement floating around me. It was like white noise to my delirium.

‘That’s it. Guzzle it down. Let’s show the world what you really are!’

I thought of what she might do with the pictures - of whom she might show, and my humiliation intensified, and with it my arousal. I was drunk on the act of drinking her warm, salty piss - which seemed to explode from her quim in torrential spurts that had me choking as I fought to consume the rampant flow.

I drank as much as I could, partly because it felt so desperately submissive to do so, but also, truth be told, because I didn’t want her seemingly endless urine fountain staining the carpet. The rest went all over my face, in my hair, and down the front of my dress. 

By the time her vagina finally sputtered its last little drops I was utterly, completely sodden - and my knickers were no different.

‘He told me to do that to you,’ She offered, giggling like a homecoming queen on prom night, ‘It was fun wasn’t it - turns out that I really like pissing on you. Who knew?’

I fell back against their bed and gasped for breath.

I think, honestly, to be that close to a woman urinating is to be witness to a form of art. It’s much more functional with men - like a hose fulfilling a purpose, but with a woman, it’s to witness an erotic act of self-expression as one of nature’s most beautiful flowers erupts into life with a flourishing spurt.

So, I now knew I really liked her pissing on me. Who knew?

(c) Fraid Seams