Nobody ever goes into her dining room. I think it's just there for decoration. That and making out with me.

We're pressed against the wall, next to the door, as close to being part of the wallpaper as possible, with people on the other side of the wall, family people. Our faces are very, very close. I can devour her, I can meld with her. I can be her. This could be my house in the woods.

Slowly I slide my hands up from her hips, along her ribs, under her t-shirt, up to her rock-hard, always-excited nipples.

She loves the naughtiness, is out of control with our boldness, is moving her hips ever so subtly from me to the wall and back again in a slow-motion pantomime of fucking.

I fuck with her and against her, swinging my hips back as she goes back, forward as she comes forward. We are humping, and beneath my shorts I am hard, and beneath her shorts I am sure she is wet.

Out tongues meet in midair, darting between us, playing with each other, our hips move together and against, our families move about the kitchen on the other side of the wall, preparing dinner.

"I am one with you. I am you. I am one with you. I am you." I intone to myself in my head as we hump.

She reaches her hands around behind me, grabs my ass, pulls me into her, squeezing, pinching, motivating me with pain. "I am one with you. I am you. I am one with you. I am you." I whisper as our hips slam into each other, my cock and her cunt separated only by cotton and a zipper.

She stares at me, eyes only inches apart, uncomprehending, not caring beyond the naughtiness and the boldness, not believing the clear meaning of the words, gasping into me as I lower the zipper of my pants, push aside the cotton of her shorts and remove the last barriers between us.