"Just admiring your obvious assets, my dear. Not to mention your unflagging passion for work." Sam was a real estate agent, and he met a lot of good-looking women in the course of his work, but not one of them compared with his wife – her red hair, her bouncing big tits, her swelling ass – or so he thought at the moment. There were, of course, times on the job when he let a deal slip by him in preference for a quick ten minutes' fuck in the empty living room of a house he was showing. There were also the times when a bargain was sealed up inside some warm hungry cunt belonging to a lady with too much money and too little cock from her old man.

Helen knew all about these impulsive trysts, in principle if not always in particulars. Sam knew she got her own jollies on the side. Neither of them objected to the other's infidelity. It only made their marriage more exciting, more vital. No two days were ever the same.

No two fucks were ever the same.

Sam was beginning to imagine what it would be like to wrap Helen's legs around his waist and fuck her with her red hair grazing the floor. Too much work, he decided, as his brain searched for new fantasies. His attention was distracted momentarily by a movement along the hedge that separated the Robbins' yard from their next-door neighbors'.

The moving object was the head of Emma Tate. Sam felt a momentary twinge of desire for the attractive brunette. She was probably taking out the garbage. Maybe he should go out and try to make some conversation.

Hell no, he decided. It's going to take more than a chat in an alley to get me into her pants. But one of these days Helen's eyes followed the direction of her husband's gaze as she turned away from her scrubbing.

"Still spinning daydreams about the fair Emma, eh, stud?" She giggled as she drained the water from the sink and rinsed her sponge under the jet-flow of tap water. "Don't worry, baby. Your day will come."