Padding down the hall, nude, she peeked through the side window. Standing on the porch was Evan. He often ran small errands for her husband when he was away, and it seemed tonight was no different.
The front door closed with a satisfying click, and for the first time in weeks, Miranda was alone. Truly alone. She lingered in the entryway for a moment, listening to the fading sound of her husband’s truck as it rolled down the street, her children’s excited voices still ringing in her ears as they chattered about campfires, tents, and marshmallows. By tonight, they would be miles away in the woods, wrapped up in sleeping bags beneath the stars. And she? She had the house. All of it.
Miranda let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and leaned her back against the door, smiling. The quiet spread around her like warm water, filling every room. No cartoons droning from the television, no half-finished homework spread across the counter, no muddy sneakers abandoned in the hallway. Just silence, rich and indulgent, and the faint tick of the kitchen clock.
She padded across the hardwood in her socks, tugging her sweater tighter around her shoulders, and glanced into the living room. The sunlight slanted through the blinds in soft bars, casting shadows on the carpet. It felt different somehow, peaceful, private. Hers. She could already feel her body relaxing, unwinding in ways it never quite managed when her family was underfoot.
It had been months since she’d had more than a stolen hour to herself. The rare stillness filled her with a giddy thrill, and she knew exactly how she wanted to spend it. A smile curved her lips as she headed for the bathroom. A hot bath, bubbles, maybe even a glass of wine… the kind of simple pleasure she never allowed herself when someone else was always knocking at the door. Tonight, she could take her time. Tonight, she could linger.
She pushed open the bathroom door and paused, savoring the thought. The mirror caught her reflection as she reached for the taps, the gurgle of rushing water already filling the tub. Steam began to curl upward, and Miranda’s smile softened. This was her night. Her rare, private indulgence, and she intended to enjoy every second of it.
The water rushed into the tub with a steady hiss, white steam already clouding the mirror above the sink. Miranda lingered in front of it, fingertips resting on the hem of her sweater. She pulled it upward slowly, savoring the feeling of the fabric sliding over her skin. The cotton bunched, tugged, then whispered free from her body, leaving her arms bare to the warm air.
She took her time with each layer, as though the act of undressing were its own pleasure. Buttons slipped loose with deliberate care, denim softened as it peeled down her thighs, and lace traced against her skin before falling away. Piece by piece, she unwrapped herself until the last barrier lay at her feet, her figure now fully reflected in the misty mirror.
For a moment, she simply looked at the slender curve of her frame, the delicate lines softened by warmth and womanhood. The small but certain beauty of a mother that she rarely allowed herself to acknowledge. A faint smile touched her lips as she drew her hands across her skin, tracing her collarbones, her stomach, the length of her thighs. The touch was feather-light, indulgent, savoring herself as though she were a secret to be discovered.
Then, a flicker of mischief sparked. She glanced at the closed door and, with a sly smirk, turned the handle. The door eased open with a quiet sigh, and the cool air of the hallway slipped in. Such a small act, yet thrilling. Something she never could have done with children running through the house.
She reached for the bottle of bath bubbles on the counter and bent to pour it into the stream of water. As she leaned forward, the thought flashed through her mind. The door was open now. She was bent over with her butt pointed at it. Anyone in the hall would see her vagina and anus. She poured slowly, watching the water froth, aware of how her posture might appear if anyone happened by.
Steam rose higher, carrying with it the sweet, soapy fragrance of the bath. Smiling to herself, Miranda lowered one foot into the water, then the other, sliding down into the heat and foam, her body vanishing beneath the rising bubbles.
Miranda sank deeper into the frothy water, letting the heat seep into her muscles. The steam curled around her face, dampening the wisps of hair that clung to her temples. She closed her eyes and allowed herself a long breath, exhaling the week away.
It had been a relentless stretch of days. Errands, deadlines, the endless rhythms of meals, laundry, schedules. She had pushed herself to get every last thing finished before her family’s trip, determined that when the house finally fell quiet, there would be nothing left to tug at her. No lists, no chores. Just freedom. Now, at last, she had it.
Her gaze drifted downward, amused by the way her breasts peeked above the surface, little islands rising out of the foam. She laughed softly to herself at the sight, brushing bubbles from her skin. Almost idly, she drew her hands across them, curious at how different her touch felt under water. The sensation was made sharper by the heat.
A sound broke her reverie. A faint pad of movement in the hallway. Miranda’s heart leapt. She sat up straighter, heat rushing to her cheeks. For a moment, she imagined the unthinkable. Someone had come back? But then, padding into view, tail raised like a plume, came the family cat.
The little creature trotted confidently into the bathroom and perched its forepaws on the edge of the tub, peering down at her with wide, unblinking eyes. Miranda pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. She leaned closer, curious to see what the cat would do. It stretched one paw forward and tapped her lightly on the nose, as if testing whether she was real.
That did it. Miranda burst into a soft giggle. The sound echoed warmly off the tiles. The cat blinked once, decided she was far less interesting than anticipated, and hopped back down with a dismissive swish of its tail before trotting out again.
Still smiling, Miranda reclined once more, letting her head sink against the porcelain rim. Time slipped away in the steam and silence. The water cooled little by little, bubbles shrinking to lace on the surface, until at last a shiver ran across her skin. She sighed, reluctant but resolved; it was time to rise.
With a reluctant sigh, Miranda reached down and pulled the stopper, watching the water spiral away in a frothy swirl. She stood, steam rising from her bare skin, and turned on the showerhead. A cascade of warm water rinsed the last of the bubbles from her shoulders as she reached for her razor.
She began at her calves, guiding the blade slowly upward, careful and unhurried. The warm spray misted against her skin while the razor left behind a trail of silk. She lingered over the slow unveiling of smoothness, enjoying not just the result but the process itself. Each stroke was a caress.
Her thighs were next, lean and sensitive, flushed from the heat. She propped one leg carefully against the rim of the tub and drew the razor upward, savoring the sensation of unveiling softness where there had been faint stubble before. She moved deliberately, as though performing a ritual just for herself.
Her underarms followed, the tender skin revealed and refreshed, the water streaming over her in a cleansing veil. By the time she turned her attention to her bikini line, her pulse had quickened not only from the care of shaving but from the awareness of what she was doing. She usually kept herself neatly trimmed, practical, and modest. Now, she let the razor smooth everything away. Exposing her pussy for anyone to see. Her husband always loved it when she shaved it.
As the final rinse coursed down her body, her hand instinctively brushed across her thighs, testing the difference. The smoothness was startling, more sensitive than she expected, and the simple glide of her palm made her cheeks flush crimson. She bit her lip, smiling at herself, embarrassed and yet thrilled by the secret indulgence.
At last, she turned off the water, the sudden quiet pressing close around her. Droplets clung to her skin as she stepped out and reached for a towel, pressing it firmly against her body. The fabric dragged across her, leaving her dry but still tingling, every pass another reminder of the bare softness she’d created.
On the hook by the door hung her silk robe, its pale fabric gleaming invitingly. She lifted it once, considered, then let it fall back into place. No, tonight she didn’t want covering. Tonight she wanted air, freedom, the unashamed daring of skin against summer. She had grown up in a nudist household. But her husband hadn't wanted one.
Grinning at the thought, she left the bathroom nude, padding barefoot down the hall. With each step, she let her hips sway more than necessary, exaggerating the roll of her body in a playful rhythm. It was a performance for no one but herself, a secret game in the privacy of her own home. She laughed under her breath at the thought. Sexy, indulgent, utterly hers.
Just as she turned toward the hallway, a sharp knock at the front door startled her. She froze, heart skipping. Who could that be now? For a wild moment, she considered rushing for the robe. But another impulse rose, hotter, bolder. She’d just spent an hour peeling away every layer of duty, inhibition, and responsibility. Why cover up now? It wasn't illegal to answer the door naked.
Padding down the hall, nude, she peeked through the side window. Standing on the porch was Evan, the neighbor’s college-aged son, a bag of groceries in his arms. He often ran small errands for her husband when he was away, and it seemed tonight was no different.
Miranda’s lips curled into a daring smile. She knew he was attracted to her. She would never act on it, well, not any more than she was about to. She giggled softly at how he had kept looking at her in her bikini during the beach trip her family had gone on last week. They had run into him already there with some of his friends. His eyes spent more than a little time fixed on her breasts. She opened the door wide.
“Evening, Evan,” she said smoothly, leaning one shoulder against the frame.
The porch light spilled over her bare form, catching the curve of her breast and the damp sheen still clinging to her thighs. His eyes went wide, locking on her before darting up to meet hers. The paper bag crinkled as he shifted nervously.
“Uh, your husband asked me to drop these off. Said you might need them for the weekend.” She reached out, deliberately brushing his hand as she took the bag.
“That was thoughtful of him. And of you.” Her voice purred, the faintest playful edge threading through. Evan swallowed hard, his face red, his gaze flicking down despite himself.
“S-sure. No problem.” He backed a step, nearly tripping over the welcome mat.
Miranda laughed softly, enjoying the flush of power warming her chest. “Drive safe, Evan.”
She closed the door slowly, letting him drink in every inch until the latch clicked shut. Her pulse thrummed in her ears as she set the groceries on the counter. She felt deliciously wicked, tingling from more than just her bath. And with that, she made her way toward the kitchen, the night outside calling to her through the sliding glass door.
Miranda set the bag of groceries on the counter, her skin still buzzing from the deliciously reckless thrill of answering the door naked. She reached for a bottle of wine, uncorking it with a soft pop. Her thoughts wandered. Miranda tilted the bottle, watching the pale stream of wine curl into her glass. She lingered on the act, the kitchen light glinting off the liquid, her mind drifting into places it so often wandered when she was alone.
She could let anyone see her. That was one of the rules her husband insisted on from the start. It made him proud, knowing others wanted what belonged to him. But only he could choose when she was touched, when she was taken, when she was shared. That was his greatest thrill. Standing there with a drink in hand, watching her spread out beneath another man while she moaned his name, knowing it was his gift to grant.
Her lips curved into a smile as she remembered the last time they’d spoken of it. She’d teased her about their youngest daughter, how she’d been conceived during one of those encounters years ago. The memory never failed to harden him.
She sipped the wine slowly, savoring both the taste and the rush of heat between her thighs. Her thoughts wandered back to Evan, the way his eyes had darted when she opened the door earlier, the way his throat had bobbed with a swallowed breath. She imagined him in her bed, her husband in the corner with that hungry grin of his. The thought made her smirk into her glass.
Yes. She would ask. When her husband returned from the camping trip, she’d tell him how Evan had looked at her, how she’d thought about being taken by him, and suggest he be the next. Her husband would love it. He always did when she brought him men to watch her fuck.
There was a soft meow. Near the corner, the cat sat expectantly by its empty food bowl, tail curled around its paws like a question mark. She laughed softly and crouched down, still glowing from the shower, her skin smelling faintly of soap and steam. “You again,” she teased, reaching for the bag of kibble. The cat purred impatiently, weaving around her legs as she poured. When the rattle of food hit the bowl, it dove in, and Miranda stroked its back, fingers sinking into the sleek fur.
As she straightened, brushing her hair back from her face, a flicker of movement caught her eye. Through the sliding glass door, just beyond the yard lights, her neighbor stood at the fence. He tilted his head as though inspecting something in the garden, his shoulders hunched as though he thought he was hidden. But his eyes, sharp and fixed, were unmistakably on her. Her lips curved into a private smile. Let him look. Each small action became a performance. Measured, graceful, as though she were playing to an unseen stage.
Glass in hand, she unlocked the sliding door and stepped out onto the back porch. The air was warm, edged with the scent of grass and the faint hum of crickets. She moved as though she hadn’t noticed him at all, her posture loose and casual, the picture of a woman simply enjoying her own evening.
She chose the reclining chair angled just right, settling into it with a sigh, stretching her legs out before her. The cool air wrapped her body, reminding her of every curve that was bared to view. She took a slow sip of wine, savoring its tart edge, and let her gaze drift upward toward the night sky. All the while, she knew. Knew he was still there at the fence, trying to hide, but drinking in every detail. And the thought filled her not with shame but with a deep, delicious thrill.
The wine slipped cool and sharp over her tongue, but it was the heat inside her body that grew warmer with every sip. She lounged deeper into the recliner, the silk of the night air caressing her bare skin. He was still there. Still watching. A playful thought tugged at her. How much was he willing to see?
Her free hand drifted lazily upward, brushing across her stomach, circling once before sliding higher to cup the swell of her breast. She sighed softly, a sound as light and unstudied as if it had escaped her without intention. Her thumb teased over the tip, the smallest touch enough to draw a ripple of sensation through her.
She let her head loll back against the chair, eyelids heavy, and gave another quiet murmur, this one sweeter, as though the simple act of touching herself brought her a hazy kind of joy. Between sips of wine, she let her fingers wander, kneading gently, rolling a peak between them until her breathing grew uneven. Still, she didn’t look at him. Not yet.
Instead, with the casual ease of someone merely adjusting her position, she drew up one knee, letting her thigh shield her for a moment. Then, slowly, deliberately, she let it fall open to the side, a subtle invitation that left her utterly revealed in the soft spill of porch light.
The night air cooled her bare pussy, sending a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the temperature. Her pulse thudded low and steady, her arousal no longer a faint hum but a rising heat. She risked a glance then, just the briefest flick of her eyes toward the fence. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t turned away. If anything, his stillness told her everything she needed to know. He was riveted. And the knowledge filled her with a sharp, thrilling ache.
Miranda’s palm lingered on her breast, kneading softly, until her own body urged her lower. Her fingers drifted over the dip of her sternum, then down the subtle curve of her belly. She watched her hand trace its way south as if it belonged to someone else, her pulse quickening the closer she came.
The wine glass dangled in her other hand, balanced carelessly on the arm of the recliner. She set it down as she let her fingertips brush over the slick, freshly shaven smoothness of her mound, marveling at how different it felt without even a trace of hair. The sensation was electric, intimate, making her blush even though no one could hear her thoughts.
She drew a slow breath and parted herself with a touch, fingers slipping delicately until she found the place she sought. A low whimper escaped her lips as she pressed there, circling lightly, teasing herself with the barest pressure.
The neighbor remained silent on the other side of the fence, but she could feel the weight of his gaze. That thought alone sent another rush of heat between her thighs. Her hips began to move. Just slightly, rolling into her own hand as she stroked herself. She slid one finger lower, testing, dipping, then pulling back up to circle her clit again, spreading her own slickness. The rhythm grew, slow at first, measured, like she was building a fire she wanted to burn for a long time.
She tipped her head back against the chair, closing her eyes, letting soft little sounds slip free. A breathless hum, a quiet gasp, a stifled squeak when her finger hit just the right angle. She knew he could hear them. She wanted him to.
A second finger joined the first, stroking her clit in tighter, quicker circles now, her thighs tensing as she pressed them apart. Her body writhed in small, hungry movements, her breath quickening into shallow bursts.
Miranda opened her eyes just enough to flick her gaze sideways again. His shape was still there, rigid and intent, the faint shift of his shoulders betraying what he was doing on the other side of the fence. The sight thrilled her to her core.
She moaned softly, higher than before, letting it tremble out into the night air. Her hips jerked into her hand as she rubbed faster, losing herself to the rhythm. Her free hand came back up to her chest, squeezing her breast hard enough to make her whimper again. Every nerve in her body was alight now, her thighs quivering, her back arched as she worked herself with urgent strokes.
Miranda’s eyes flicked toward the fence again, feigning nonchalance, but her body betrayed her. Thighs spread, chest flushed, breath ragged. The man hadn’t moved away. If anything, he leaned forward now, knuckles white on the fence post, his gaze fixed and unblinking. A rhythm unmistakable even in silhouette. Her belly clenched with excitement. He was touching himself. Because of her.
That knowledge rippled through her like a spark, lighting her nerves, making her strokes more insistent. She pressed harder against her clit, circling in quick little motions, gasping each time a jolt of pleasure shot through her pelvis. Her hips bucked into her hand, shameless now, her body openly offered to his hidden eyes.
She teased herself lower, sliding two fingers into the wet heat she’d created, curling them until her back arched off the recliner. A sharp whimper escaped her lips. She withdrew and returned to her clit, shuddering at how slippery and sensitive she’d become.
Her neighbor’s face told its own story. His jaw tensed. His brows knit together. Every so often, his head tipped back just slightly, his lips parting in a soundless groan she could almost hear. Miranda’s arousal spiked with each subtle shift. Each silent confirmation of what his hand was doing below the fence line.
Her breath caught, her thighs trembling as she rubbed herself faster, the pleasure winding tighter, winding sharp. She clutched her breast with her free hand, pinching the nipple until her hips jolted.
Then his head tipped back fully, his mouth falling open, shoulders quaking in short spasms he couldn’t disguise. The faintest grunt slipped out, carried across the still night. The sight broke her.
Miranda cried out in a high, breathless squeak, her body seizing with orgasm. Her fingers worked frantically against her clit as the climax ripped through her, wave after wave that left her gasping and writhing in the chair. She ground herself against her palm, thighs squeezing together as the spasms took her, her moans spilling into the dark like a confession.
She collapsed back into the recliner, chest heaving, sweat glistening on her skin, the empty wine glass trembling in her hand. Across the fence, his head lowered slowly, shoulders slumping in spent relief.
Miranda let out a shaky laugh, biting her lip, flushed with satisfaction. She brought the glass to her lips and drained the last drop of wine, savoring the wicked thrill of having been seen.
Miranda’s chest still rose and fell quickly, her thighs sticky and trembling. She let her hand stay cupped between her legs, savoring the tender throb of her climax, while her other hand lifted the glass to her lips. The wine was cool and sharp against her tongue, a perfect counter to the heat still coursing through her body.
Across the fence, her neighbor hadn’t moved. He was still watching. Less rigid now, his shoulders slack, his breath heavy even at a distance. Miranda reclined deeper into the chair, letting the night air lick at her damp skin. She stared out across the darkened yard, stealing glances at him as she took slow sips. The intimacy of it made her shiver all over again.
The glass was empty, she savored the last drop, already planning to refill the glass. With a mischievous smile, she pushed herself up to stand. She arched her back in a long, luxurious stretch, arms overhead, chest thrust forward, her entire body on display. She knew he was still watching, and she gave him every angle, turning the act of stretching into a performance.
Then, without a word or a glance, she gathered herself and padded inside, her bare feet whispering across the floor. In the kitchen, she poured another glass of wine, the bottle cool in her hand, the faint hum of the refrigerator filling the quiet house. She carried the glass into the living room, her hips swaying lazily. Enjoying the glide of her skin against the air.
The couch welcomed her as she sank into its cushions, curling one leg beneath her, the other draped over the armrest. She reached for the remote, switched on the TV, and let the flickering glow of a movie wash over her bare form.
For the first time in what felt like ages, she had uninterrupted time. No children bursting into the room, no husband asking for something, no obligations tugging her away. Just her, her glass of wine, and the comfort of being gloriously nude, still tingling from the night’s wicked little adventure. She smiled softly to herself, sipped her wine, and let the film play, content in her private freedom. She might need to talk to her husband about fucking the neighbor, too.