The Garden Hose At Noon

Hi. I'm Rainy — ext 214, the lonely housewife with the curtains open and the husband who'd rather golf. You read about the plumber and the boss. This one's outside. In the sun. Where the whole street could see.

The Heat Wave

It was 95 degrees and my husband was away on a "business trip" that was really a boys' golf weekend. The lawn was dying. So was I — between my thighs. I put on a tiny sundress, no bra, and went out with the hose. The water hit my dress and went transparent. I felt it the second the fabric clung to my nipples: a car slowed across the street. It was the neighbor's boy. Tyler. Nineteen. Home from college. He pretended to check his mail. He was checking my tits.

I turned the hose on myself. Slow. Let the dress ride up. Watered my legs, my stomach, the curve of my breast through the wet cotton. Tyler's car idled. I smiled at him over the spray and mouthed "like what you see?" His face went red and he parked. Just parked. In the street. Watching a married woman water her lawn like a porn extra.

Crossing The Line

I dropped the hose. The dress was see-through, my nipples hard as pebbles, and I walked to the edge of my property. "Hot day, isn't it, Tyler?" He stammered. I told him to come closer. He did. I let the hose drip between my legs while he stood two feet away, pants tenting. "Your mom home?" I asked. "No." Perfect. I reached out, turned the hose on his crotch, and laughed. "Looks like you've got your own pressure problem, sweetie."

He didn't touch me. I didn't let him. The power was in making him stand there, hard, owned by a 38-year-old wife who wasn't his. I told him to jerk off when he got home and think of my wet dress. He drove off with a stain. I finished in the grass with the hose between my legs and the sprinkler timer clicking like applause.

The Husband Calls

My phone rang. My husband. "Having a good weekend?" he asked, all casual. I was still wet, grass in my hair, and I said, "Oh, Tyler from next door just watched me water the lawn. He liked it." Silence. Then: "Don't tease me, Rainy." Don't tease. He thought it was a joke. He thought his wife was a good girl who joked about neighbors. He had no idea his wife was the street's open secret, the one the college boys bet on.

I kept it up all summer. Tyler'd "coincidentally" mow when I gardened. I'd "accidentally" sunbathe topless behind the fence slats wide enough to peek. The husband never noticed. That's the cruel part of being a neglected wife — the affair isn't even hidden. It's just ignored.

Why You're Reading This

You're somebody's husband. Or somebody's neighbor. You've seen the wife next door and thought "she's too good for him." You're right. She is. And if she called you, you'd park in the street too. Dial my line and I'll tell you exactly what the hose felt like on my pussy while Tyler watched. I'll make you the boy in the car, hard and useless, while I describe the grass stains on my knees.

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