You had always experienced a streak of shame when his presence made you wet. But today, there is no shame. And today you are drenched, and so very ready.
His name is Noah and last you saw him he was after his first year of college. He visited your home – in his perfect-fit jeans and loose-fitting t-shirt – to say goodbye to your daughter. She’s is the same age as Noah. You heard them talking in the living room while you made dinner in the kitchen, and butterflies flapped in your stomach. Muffled as it was through the wall that separated you from him, his musical laugh found your ears. It was your favorite sound. God how you loved when Noah came to visit.
It was weird. It was wrong. You were married. You had been for nearly twenty years.
Your husband hired Noah to clean the pool, and the clichéd fantasy was complete. Noah did his job wearing flip flops and board shorts only, and you would watch him through a window. Moving back and forth, back and forth, as he worked the pool vacuum, the lines of his toned torso gently guided your eyes to his groin. It pumped rhythmically with his arms and his frame, and you imagined what was under those shorts. You imagined him on you and in you. It gave you a racing heart and a warm, wet pussy.
On a number of occasions, you tore your eyes from Noah and retreated to your bedroom where you massaged the culprit of your agony until you came. Once, lying on your bed, one hand still gently caressing your nipple, the other wet and still tucked between you and your underwear, you shed a single tear, and whispered his name. “Noah.”