The Younger Wife

Molly watched from the front door of the townhouse as her husband, Philip, got into his Jaguar XJ. She waved and blew him a kiss. Philip smiled and waved back before backing out of the drive and heading out to the airport and his flight to New York City.

Molly leaned contentedly against the door frame and enjoyed the south Florida morning. It was cool yet, but soon the heat would be building. Their small front yard was ablaze with Lantana and Pentas and two magnificent Bougainvilleas framed the front door and its small porch. The air was rich with their flowery perfume, and butterflies flickered from blossom to blossom.

Molly was an auburn-haired, thirty-year-old beauty with an outgoing attitude and a fiery independent streak. She was a copy editor for a publishing house working primarily with authors of romance novels and other fiction oriented to women's tastes. The advent of modern electronics made it advantageous to work from home so she had converted their townhouse's second bedroom into a very functional office.

Philip and Molly had been married seven years now. Philip was nineteen years older than Molly. Her family and friends had been aghast at the age difference when they married, but as Molly explained to her younger sister and select female friends, the advantage of older men was that they were patient, consummate lovers who knew how to please a woman, unlike some of the young bulls her age with whom she had slept. After all, everyone knows you drink the aged wine and not the new because the old tastes so much better and richer.

It also did not hurt that Philip was wealthy, very wealthy. Philip came from northern money and was, of course, Harvard educated. He had parlayed a family fortune into an even bigger fortune through his highly successful international electronics company. Molly was not a fortune hunter, but still, a girl should be aware of any silver linings her potential suitors might bring to the altar.

Molly came to south Florida from dirt-poor, Kentucky coal-country looking for education and opportunity where none existed back home. She found both. Philip had seen the gorgeous young woman waiting tables at a nightclub while she was finishing her graduate degree in English at the local university. In the inexplicable ways of Cupid, he had been smitten, and they were soon wed.

So in the end, Molly was a happily married young woman who was well laid and pampered while pursuing a career she enjoyed. During the late winter and spring, the couple lived in Florida in their townhouse. In the heat of the summer and in the fall up through New Years, they lived in their main and much larger house near Highlands in the North Carolina mountains. That was quite a mansion with several year-round servants and all the trappings of the truly wealthy. The south Florida townhouse was their private retreat for just them.

Philip's business often required one or two trips a month, typically lasting three to five days, sometimes more. This was not a burden for Molly as she had her work, several hobbies, and was an avid fitness enthusiast. Also, the townhouse was only two blocks from the beach, and a half mile away was also a seaside strip of upscale shops, restaurants, bars, and nightclubs with various live entertainment venues. When Philip was in town, they were frequent patrons, and when he was not, she had no qualms about visiting them stag. After all, she was an adult woman in modern times.

Molly watched her husband disappear on his way to the airport. He was a good man and a fine husband. She, in return, was a devoted and faithful wife.

Well, perhaps that is overstating it a bit. She really was indeed quite devoted to Philip, and they made a magnificent couple together. But she was also a vibrant, young, and very sexy woman with an older husband of another generation. Such a combination sometimes leads to unfortunate complications.

Three or four years ago Molly had begun to surrender to the siren's song of fleshly temptation in Philip's absence. Perhaps she had strayed a time or two over the years. No, no, that isn't quite right, either. Perhaps, it was a bit more than that. Let's just say she was a friendly woman of somewhat easy virtue with a healthy carnal appetite, and we'll let it go at that.

In times past, a husband owned his wife and her treasured physical assets outright. In the modern world, a husband's rights to his wife's physical assets are more akin to a lease rather than a deed. Consequently, when the leasee, the husband in this case, is not available to occupy said premises, it makes good business sense that the leasor, the wife in this case, should sublet her assets to be occupied by another male in the absence of the original leasee. In which case, one might think of Molly's extramarital actions as those of a prudent businesswoman maximizing the return and use of her valuable assets that are in considerable demand on the open market.

In the end, Molly was just a spoiled, young woman, occasionally fooling around for fun and excitement but without serious intent.

Philip was a cosmopolitan, highly-educated man of the world who had a brilliant knack for business. He was a hard-boiled realist and harbored no illusions. He knew men would proposition his sexy, young wife as soon as his back was turned. And his young wife would be sorely tempted by the young studs her own age; how could she not be? It is an ancient tale often spun in literature and acted out in fact.

Philip recognized he had a Ferrari for a wife. Such a treasure was of no value locked in the garage. A Ferrari sometimes has to be allowed to hurtle wildly through the open roads. If one wanted the joy of driving such a magnificent piece of physical art, one must also accept there might be speeding tickets along the way. Philip was tolerant of his young wife's potential sexual peccadilloes.

They had no overt agreement, but he was thoughtful of his actions, and she discreet. Philip kept his wife posted on his schedule and made a point not to pop home unexpectedly. And above all, he did not pry.

Molly, for the most part, limited her dalliances to times he was traveling. Such assignations were also generally limited to the time they were in south Florida. Back in North Carolina there were servants and too many friends and family to be able to be too promiscuous without causing a public scandal. But here in south Florida, they were far away from their normal social crowd, and the area was awash with vacationers and snow birds fleeing winter weather. In this anonymous mass, the pickings were plentiful and easy for a sexy, young thing like Molly.

Molly shifted her gaze down the street towards the beach. Ah, there was Andre coming along at a brisk pace right on time. He was a slim, dark haired, debonair man about her age. She waved enthusiastically and gave a happy smile. Andre waved back.

Andre asked Molly to dance at a nightclub last year, and one thing quickly led to another. He was Parisian and obviously wealthy as every year he took a month off in the spring to vacation in south Florida. He owned a large beach house several blocks from Molly's townhouse, and they periodically rendezvoused there when Philip was out of town and Andre was in. But today Andre was coming to her, anxious to renew their steamy acquaintance from last year. He had just arrived yesterday, and when he called shortly after arriving, Andre was delighted to hear of her husband's departure this morning.

A shiver of excitement ran over Molly. Well, you know what they say about French lovers. She could vouch that their reputation was well earned. Andre imbued the exotic, dark charm of a foreign lover like in the romance novels she edited. His sexy accented English just turned her to mush. Sex with her husband was wonderful; sex with Andre was the spicy, forbidden lust of the unknown and the dangerous. She loved both kinds of sex; they were simply different spheres of sexual experience that did not intersect.

As Andre stepped up on the stoop, Molly reached out and drew him inside and closed the door behind them. She embraced him and smothered him with a deep kiss, passionately thrusting her tongue into his mouth. Andre returned the passion.

Molly broke the kiss, turned and panting with anticipation drug Andre up the stairs to the master bedroom. As they entered the bedroom, Molly began stripping off his clothes while he returned the favor.

The naked couple made their way rapidly to the bed. It was an antique iron bed high enough that Molly had to make a short hop to sit upon the edge. Andre pushed her down on her back and knelt at the bedside. Andre began to delightfully kiss Molly's valuable assets as her legs hung over his shoulders, squeezing, tightening, and jerking erratically as the spasms of pleasure washed over her. Andre's hands began to knead and massage her breasts eliciting happy moans from Molly. She wrapped her fingers in Andre's dark hair and pulled him tighter into her already damp mons.

Then there was the clump of a footstep on the stairs and the fateful call, "Honey?"

With her attention diverted by Andre's ministrations between her thighs, Molly had failed to hear the arrival of her husband's car, the ding of the automatic car door lock, and the opening of the front door.

The most dreaded moment of an adulterous tryst had arrived: the unsuspecting husband had stumbled onto the scene unexpectedly.

Andre's head shot up from between Molly's legs, eyes wide with alarm. From Molly's perspective gazing down her lithe body at him, Andre looked for all the world like a startled marmot popping out of his burrow to peer at some unexpected danger. The approaching disaster of her husband's imminent arrival upon the amorous spectacle precluded any delay; otherwise Molly would have been convulsed with laughter at the sight of Andre peering about in terror while ensconced between her thighs.

Andre hissed "Your husband!" simultaneously with Molly's hissed, "My husband!"

Philip's rich voice floated up the stairwell, "Honey, the airline texted my flight was canceled. I am on a later flight now."

The adulterous couple leapt out of bed. They heard Philip's slow tread as he ascended the stairs. It was the thud of doom, approaching step-by-step.

Andre grasped Molly's arm and whispered hysterically, "Oh, my God, what are we to do?"

Andre was in a panic. Molly reflected well he might be. The cuckolded husband discovering an interloper in his wife's bed often reacts rather violently with the wrath usually directed at the interloper. Philip's muscular and athletic build had been part of his attraction to Molly. Philip had even been a moderately successful heavy-weight in the Harvard boxing club in his day. Andre was more the intellectual type, given to poetry and art rather than sport. It would not be much of a match if it came to that, despite their disparate ages.

There wasn't much choice: accept discovery and throw themselves on Philip's mercy or hide Andre.

Molly took charge of the deteriorating situation like a general on the battlefield stemming a calamitous rout.

Philip was too far up the stairs for Andre to make the dash to her second bedroom office undiscovered. Both the closet and bathroom would provide initial cover, but there was no hiding place inside should Philip happen to glance in either. The antique bed had at least a 30 inch clearance, and the quilt hung almost to the floor.

Molly pushed Andre toward the bed and hissed urgently, "Under the bed. Slide to the far side and lay still whatever happens."

Andre did not delay. He flung himself down to the floor. A low thud reverberated as Andre hit his head on the lower iron side rail. Andre grunted, stopped, and grasped his forehead.

Molly placed her foot on Andre's bare butt accelerating him forward with a push and a desperate whispered, "For God's sake, hurry!"

Andre redoubled his efforts scratching his way under the bed. The last Molly saw of Andre was his scrabbling feet frantically propelling his naked buttocks and legs under the bed.

My God, this was turning into a vaudeville farce or one of those convoluted Shakespearian comedies, she thought.

Molly snapped the quilt smooth where her thrashing had mussed the surface a minute before. Spinning from the bed she scooped up their discarded clothes and shoes that lay heaped on the bedroom floor. Molly dashed into the bathroom and stuffed everything into the dirty clothes hamper.

She sang out, "I'm in the bathroom, Dear; I was drawing a bath."

With that, Molly turned on the spigot to the soaking tub. She was a girly-girl and periodically enjoyed a sensual soak while reading a trashy novel. This at least was a plausible explanation for her nakedness.

Molly scurried back and surveyed the bedroom for any incriminating evidence that would alert her husband to the presence of a marital trespasser. There! One of Andre's shoes has escaped her collection of discarded clothes.

Molly had been a fine soccer player in high school and booted the shoe under the bed. In her desperation, she might have put too much humph into the kick, and a startled grunt floated out from under the bed.

Walking more calmly than she felt toward the bedroom door, Molly faked serenity and asked "What did you say happened to your flight? Is anything wrong, Dear?"

Philip was coming in the bedroom door; his large muscular frame encased in his sharp Brioni suit exuded an air of competency and masculinity. Oh yes, this is the man I married and for good reason, Molly reminded herself.

"Oh no, nothing wrong. The airline texted me partway to the airport that my flight was canceled and I am rebooked on a later flight. I sent you ..."

Philip stopped dead staring at the unexpected vision of his lovely, naked wife staring back at him with her lustrous hazel eyes sparkling with amusement. Perhaps that sparkle was fear or excitement rather than amusement, or perhaps it was a combination of all three.

"I, uh, didn't expect such a lovely welcome home. ... Uhm, as I was saying, I sent you a text that I was coming back home and suggested we have a cup of coffee with another of those lovely blueberry muffins you made this morning."

Among her many talents, Molly was also a skillful cook. She enjoyed preparing meals and culinary treats for Philip.

Molly struck a saucy pose, thrusting out a hip and brazenly cocking her arm on the hip. "Ah, I left my phone downstairs and didn't see the text. Well, I was going to enjoy a nice soak before I started my editing work today." She continued teasingly, "I suppose I could be persuaded to postpone that for coffee and muffins with my husband."

Molly turned and stepped back into the bathroom cutting off the spigot to the tub. She called over her shoulder, "And how long do you have, Dear?"

As Molly reached for her robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door, two muscular arms wrapped around her and lifted her effortlessly off the ground. Philip carried his struggling and laughing wife to the bed where he plumped her face down on the quilt. He held her there with one hand as he stripped out of his clothes while she made playful attempts to escape - after all, she had no desire to actually evade what was coming.

Philip laughingly said, "You little minx. Long enough for a quickie with my wife and then coffee and muffins with her."

The panicky Andre lay rigid and face down under the bed. His forehead throbbed where he had hit his head on the bed rail, and his face stung where Molly had kicked his shoe into him. He made himself lay still as a corpse.

He had seen Philip out with Molly at night several times last year. He had no desire to come face-to-face with the big man whose wife he had so thoroughly diddled last year and whose wife he had been in the process of diddling a few happy moments before. Such a confrontation would not end well for him, Andre suspected.

Andre could hear all that was said between wife and husband and observe what was happening; well, he could observe what was happening from the ankles down. He heard Molly land above him on the bed and watched her husband's clothes as they cascaded to the floor and were kicked aside. He saw Philip splay Molly's legs apart.

Andre had Molly's engine firing on all cylinders before her husband's arrival. She was warmed up and hot-to-trot, now.

The bed began heaving rhythmically accompanied by Molly's steady, happy unh-unh-unhs that Andre knew so well from last year. As the pace quickened, Andre began to fear the two-hundred year old cast iron bed frame would suffer a brittle fatigue fracture and leave him trapped beneath the box springs, mattress, and the vigorously copulating husband and wife.

The bed was now convulsing and creaking and groaning as though it was about to have a nervous breakdown. A steady slap of flesh on flesh was accompanied by Molly's frenzied cries of, "Oh yes baby, oh yes."

Finally, Philip gave a bull-like roar pushing up on his toes, and Molly's feet disappeared from Andre's view. Molly's gleeful squeals of "Oh, Oh, Oh My God," announced a successful coupling had been enjoyed by all.

The gasping couple sat on the edge of the bed catching their breath. Molly panted out, "Oh my, I am delighted that airplane got canceled."

Andre, relieved that the bed frame had held under the dynamic load of the couple's love-fest, watched the ankles walk toward the bathroom.

Molly pushed Philip toward the shower and directed, "Take a quick shower and get dressed. You have to go back out in public. I'll make fresh coffee and reheat us some muffins."

Molly grabbed her robe from the back of the bathroom door and slipped it on. She blew a kiss to her husband as he got in the shower, and then she returned to the bedroom.

Molly tiptoed to the bedside and dropped on her knees to peer underneath. She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a giggle. There was the naked Andre laying rigidly right under where her husband had just banged her lights out - the ludicrous irony of the situation tickled Molly's funny bone.

A nasty yellow-blue welt from the bedframe was forming on Andre's forehead, and his right eye was starting to blacken as a result of the blow from the shoe.

"Oh, you poor thing!" Molly exclaimed quietly. She put a finger to her lips and whispered. "Shhh! Don't move. The floors creak; he will hear you downstairs. I will come get you when the coast is clear."

Andre nodded that he understood. Molly stood, gathered Philips clothes from the floor and took them back to him in the bathroom. Then she padded downstairs. A few minutes later Philip exited the shower, got dressed, and then he too departed downstairs.

Andre remained still as a church mouse. He had no desire to confront Philip in his home lair. As he became increasingly stiff lying still in his cramped hideout, Andre could hear the pleasant lilt of Molly's voice and the richer tones of Philip's voice interspersed with light laughter as the couple enjoyed their coffee and muffins together downstairs. The congenial couple sat directly beneath where the wife's frustrated and banged-up lover hid.

Finally, Molly glanced at her watch and exclaimed, "Honey, this has been splendid, but if you are going to catch your plane, you need to hit the road."

Philip grimaced, "You are right. It has indeed been splendid, but I need to be on my way."

The couple kissed warmly at the door, and Molly watched her delightful husband drive away for the second time this morning. As Molly turned to start up the stairs, her phone on the side table by the door dinged with an incoming message.

Molly opened the message app. There were two messages from Philip: The old one about the canceled flight and his return home, and a new message that had just arrived. The new one said, "Thanks for a great morning. Don't have too much fun today without me!" and it closed with a winking face emoji.