It's not like anybody else is home or is likely to show up unannounced, but they have chosen for some reason beknownst only to them to play this little play of self-control.

She is lying on the couch. He is seated in her husband's favorite chair on the opposite side of the room. Her top is up over her breasts. Her skirt is up around her hips. His pants are down around his knees.

They are masturbating.

Every time he enters this room and sees that couch, every time he sits on the couch, every time he sits in her husband's chair, he will remember her, naked, splayed, knees up, red, gasping, wrist rotating, fingers rubbing, head thrown back, pony tail trailing on the shag carpet.

Every time she sees her husband sitting in his chair, reading the newspaper or watching golf on the TV or otherwise ignoring her she will remember him with his pants down and his hand on his cock watching her, enthralled by her, wanting her, coming for her, spurting up in great big arcs that land in gobs on his chest for her.

She cries out as she watches the sperm land, watches his face contort, hears him grunt and curse and hiss her name, his eyes never leaving hers, the overpowering intense naughtiness of this mid-morning insanity seared into the most primitive parts of her brain with every jolt of orgasm.