aag

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We started on the living room couch. Like polite people, we talked and held hands. We snuggled. We sipped our drinks.

But before ten minutes had passed, I had my panties off and was bent over the ottoman with my friend behind me. We could have stayed in that comfortable position for ages, but we had other plans. As soon as I came once, we were on our way.

We moved to the dining room, where I put one foot up on a chair and braced myself against the table. My friend fucked me from behind, digging his fingers into my hips until I came.

Then we scurried off to the kitchen. He bent me over the counter, where I propped my chin on my hands and let him do his thing until once again a small orgasm shook through me.

Next was the laundry room. I leaned back against the wall, propped up one leg on the dryer and pulled him into me. Memory fails…did we stay like that ’til I came? Or did we need to adjust positions? In any case, our time in the laundry room lasted only a few brief moments.

Why? Because we still had lots more house to cover. In the garage, I executed a standing spread-eagle against the wall. He complimented me on the neatness of my newly-cleaned garage while fucking me. I glowed with pleasure from both the fucking and the compliment.

Then on to the downstairs bathroom. That room is L-shaped, which I suppose made sense to whoever designed the house, but it never made sense to me when I had to remove the blasted toilet from one arm of the “L” for either painting or plumbing repairs. The previous times I’ve had my hands braced against that toilet and my butt up in the air have been notoriously unpleasant.

Not this time.

Then things got a little dangerous. It was high noon at the AAG Homestead, and we were about to move into a section of the house visible from the front door. If anyone had walked up the path then, they would have been shocked at the sight of two white-bottomed middle-aged folks, one with a huge erection in his hand, the other with a liter bottle of lube in her hand.

We parked ourselves on the stairs and again my friend provided me with a small but serviceable orgasm, thrusting up from two steps lower than where I was standing. It was lovely, even though I couldn’t help myself from keeping half an eye on the windows next to the front door the whole time.

We tried out each of the upstairs bedrooms and the hall bath—rooms that until that day had not seen had not seen even a hint of sexual activity. At least not any sexual activity involving me.

By this point we were moving quite a bit slower. All that up-down-up-down-in-out-back-forth was taking its toll on us. But we soldiered on to the master bedroom.

Ghosts murmur extra-loudly in that room. For that reason, we spent the most time there. Bent over the bed? Check. On the floor? Check. On hands and knees in bed? Check. Missionary in bed? Mmmm-hmmm.

Our little project nearly over, I urged my friend on to his own orgasm there in the tiny bed. He didn’t require much urging.

The bed’s wild squeaking came to a stop. Our breathing slowed. I listened carefully. The ghosts’ murmuring had quieted.

It wasn’t gone though. The exorcism will have to continue another day.