My wife is riding me on our bed, wearing only her nightshirt over her bouncing breasts. My hands are on her hips, hurling her up and down, as I remember stroking myself two years ago as I watched the girl next door, her windows open, her lights on, her stereo blaring at three in the morning, riding her best friend's fiance in the middle of her bed, wearing only a gauzy, flimsy piece of black nothing wrapped around her bouncing breasts.

I remember remembering her one year ago, at lunch on a Tuesday when I was laid off and my wife was at work and my girlfriend came over to eat sushi and rode me on this same bed in the same position wearing only her oversize turtleneck sweater over her bouncing breasts as I watched her face and I watched her breasts and I remembered the girl next door, remembered the moment when she yanked the material from her bouncing breasts, remembered them springing free as she leaned forward into her best friend's fiance, remembered coming at that moment from the power of the image and the stroking of my hand, remembered that moment and came hard inside my girlfriend.

I remember that moment, and that moment, and I come hard and I come hard and I come hard inside my wife and I lie panting, and I lie panting, and I lie panting on my bed.