The Boarder Stole My Wife: Part One
- Lisa X Lopez
- 1 day ago
- 13 min read
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Welcoming the Stranger
Carl liked to think of himself as a man of action, not the sort of limp-dicked Christian who just prayed and waited for God to fix things. He was the guy who got his hands dirty, who made a difference, or so he told himself as he sat on the couch, stiff and uncomfortable, staring at Jeremy Dalton’s file for the third time that afternoon. Nineteen years old. Dad locked up for armed robbery. Mom working herself ragged at two jobs, unable to keep her son from turning into a delinquent. The church’s youth outreach had dumped Jeremy on them for six months—a chance to learn a trade, get his electrical certification, and, supposedly, soak up some positive role models. Carl felt a surge of pride at the idea of molding a young man, but something about Jeremy’s photo—those ice-blue eyes, that arrogant smirk—made Carl’s balls crawl up into his gut.
The kitchen reeked of vanilla and butter, Laurel’s nervous baking filling the house with the kind of fake domestic warmth she usually reserved for church potlucks. Carl watched her fuss over a plate of cookies, using the good china, the one with the blue flowers she only brought out for company. She’d already changed outfits twice. First, the frumpy high-necked dress, then a cream blouse that hugged her tits in a way that made Carl’s cock twitch and his stomach sour at the same time.
He caught her in the hallway mirror, fiddling with her collar, unbuttoning it just enough to show a flash of pale skin. Her fingers lingered at her throat, smoothing the blouse over her hips, checking out her own ass in the glass. She hesitated, then did the button back up—except for the top one, leaving her collarbone and a strip of soft skin exposed, like she wanted someone to notice.
He returned his attention to the file, reciting Proverbs 22:6 under his breath. “Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.” Jeremy wasn’t exactly a child, but the principle held. Carl would be the father figure this young man desperately needed. He’d teach him discipline, responsibility, the value of hard work and—
The doorbell rang.
Carl’s heart hammered as he stood, smoothing his khakis. Laurel rushed past him, her perfume—something floral and sweet she rarely wore—trailing behind her. When had she put on perfume?
She opened the door, and Jeremy Dalton filled the frame.
The photo was a fucking lie. Jeremy was a solid six feet, maybe more, his white t-shirt painted over a chest and shoulders that looked like they’d been carved out of gym equipment. Thick tribal tattoos snaked down his arms, the ink making his biceps look even bigger. His hair was a mess in that way that took effort, and those blue eyes—Jesus, those eyes—raked over Laurel’s body with a hunger that made Carl’s teeth grind.
“Mrs. Patterson,” Jeremy said, his voice a smooth baritone. “Thanks for having me.”
“Please, call me Laurel.” Her voice had gone soft, almost girlish. “Come in, come in. We’re so glad you’re here.”
Carl stepped forward, extending his hand. “Jeremy. I’m Carl. Welcome to our home.”
Jeremy’s handshake was firm, almost aggressive in its grip. His gaze slid past Carl dismissively, returning to Laurel as she gestured toward the kitchen. “I made cookies. You must be hungry after that bus ride.”
Over the next hour, Carl watched Jeremy charm his wife with the practiced ease of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. The young man demolished half the plate of cookies, complimenting Laurel effusively. “These are amazing, Laurel. My mom never had time to bake. You’re really talented.”
Laurel blushed, actually blushed, her cheeks going pink. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just a hobby.”
“Nah, for real. These are better than anything you’d get in a restaurant.” Jeremy leaned back, arms up, making his shirt ride up and flash a strip of hard, tanned stomach and the waistband of his boxers. Carl caught Laurel’s eyes glued to that patch of skin, her lips parting just a little.
Carl saw Laurel’s eyes drop to Jeremy’s abs, lingering for a second too long before she looked away, cheeks flushed.
The afternoon dissolved into a series of small moments that accumulated into Carl’s growing discomfort. Jeremy insisted on helping Laurel with the laundry she’d been folding, despite Carl’s suggestion that he might want to rest. They stood at the dining room table together, pulling warm clothes from the basket. Carl watched from his position at the laptop in the adjacent living room, ostensibly working on a report for the office but unable to focus.
Laurel handed Jeremy one of Carl’s shirts. “Just fold it like this—”
Their hands collided over the fabric. Both laughed, a shared private joke that Carl wasn’t part of. Jeremy’s fingers lingered against Laurel’s, and she didn’t pull away immediately. When she finally did, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear, her breathing had changed. Quickened.
“Sorry,” Jeremy said, not sounding sorry at all. “Guess I’m all thumbs.”
“You’re doing fine.” Laurel’s voice had gone breathy.
Carl’s fingers froze over his keyboard. What the hell was he watching?
The light fixture incident came the next day. Carl had been meaning to replace the burnt-out bulb in the kitchen for weeks—months, if he was honest—but work always got in the way. Jeremy noticed it immediately during breakfast.
“That light out?” he asked, gesturing upward with his fork.
Laurel sighed. “Yes. I keep asking Carl to fix it, but—”
“I got it.” Jeremy stood, already pulling his chair toward the counter. “You got a bulb?”
Jeremy had the fixture open in no time, his arms flexing under the tight t-shirt as he reached up. The shirt rode up again, showing off that hard, flat stomach. Laurel stood underneath, pretending to spot him, but her eyes were glued to his body, drinking him in like she was starving. Carl felt his insides knot up.
“You’re so good with your hands, Jeremy,” she said, her voice low and breathy. “Carl never gets around to fixing these things.”
The words struck Carl like a slap. He stood abruptly from the table, his chair scraping loudly. “I’ve been busy with work, Laurel.”
She barely glanced at him. “I know, honey. I’m just saying it’s nice to have someone who can take care of these things.”
Someone. Not him. Someone else.
Jeremy clicked the fixture back into place and hopped down from the chair with easy athleticism. He flicked the switch, and light flooded the kitchen. “There you go.”
“My hero,” Laurel said, her hand sliding up Jeremy’s bicep, squeezing the muscle as she looked up at him with a smile that made Carl’s cock twitch and his stomach churn.
Carl fled to his office, closing the door harder than necessary. He sat at his desk, his pulse pounding in his ears. This was ridiculous. They were being welcoming. Hospitable. That’s what Christians did. That’s what—
But the image of Laurel’s hand on Jeremy’s arm wouldn’t leave his mind. The way she’d looked at him. The breathless quality of her voice.
By the time Carl returned from work the following evening, something had shifted. He found them in the living room—Laurel on the couch, Jeremy in Carl’s usual chair—watching a movie. When Carl entered, Jeremy didn’t move. Didn’t even acknowledge him beyond a brief nod.
Carl stood in the doorway, waiting. Jeremy’s eyes remained on the television screen.
“Hey,” Carl finally said.
“Hey.” Jeremy’s tone was flat, dismissive.
Laurel glanced up. “Oh, hi honey. How was work?”
“Fine. I was thinking we could—”
“Shh.” Jeremy raised a hand. “This is the best part.”
Carl opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Laurel was already turned back to Jeremy, her whole body angled toward him, ignoring her husband. Carl stared at the curve of her hip, the way her blouse had somehow come undone even more, her tits practically spilling out. When the fuck had that happened?
He retreated to the bedroom to change, feeling like an intruder in his own home.
Sunday brought church, and Carl’s hope that exposure to Jeremy’s peer group would redirect the young man’s attention. The congregation’s teenage girls noticed him immediately—how could they not?—and Jeremy turned on the charm. He complimented dresses, asked about hobbies, made them giggle with well-timed jokes.
But during the service, Jeremy sat between Carl and Laurel in their usual pew. Carl noticed how Jeremy’s leg pressed against Laurel’s, and how she didn’t move away. During the sermon, Jeremy leaned close to whisper something in her ear. Laurel’s face went crimson, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a laugh. Several congregation members turned to look.
Carl’s face burned with embarrassment. He placed his hand on Laurel’s knee, a possessive gesture, but she barely seemed to notice.
After the service, as they lingered in the parking lot, Jeremy hung back with Laurel while Carl spoke to the pastor. When Carl returned to collect them, Jeremy was murmuring something that made Laurel’s eyes go wide. She swatted his arm playfully, but her pupils were dilated, her lips parted.
“What’s so funny?” Carl asked, trying to keep his tone light.
“Nothing,” Laurel said quickly. Too quickly.
Jeremy just smiled, that cocky half-smirk from his intake photo now directed at Carl with unmistakable challenge.
On the drive home, Carl’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Laurel was in the passenger seat, but she’d twisted around to talk to Jeremy in the back, giggling and asking about the girls who’d been all over him at church. Jeremy barely bothered to answer, calling them kids, but his eyes stayed glued to Laurel, undressing her right there. Carl’s cock pressed hard against his khakis, humiliating and impossible to ignore.
He was getting hard.
Christ, his cock was getting hard just watching Jeremy eye-fuck his wife, watching the red flush crawl down her neck and vanish under her prim little Sunday dress.
Carl shifted uncomfortably, praying neither of them noticed. But Jeremy’s gaze flicked to Carl’s lap, and that infuriating smirk widened.
He knew.
The bastard knew, and he was enjoying it.
***
The kitchen table was enemy ground now. Carl stood in the doorway, dishcloth in hand, watching his wife and Jeremy hunched over textbooks and circuit diagrams. The light Jeremy had fixed made everything look too warm, too intimate, shadows hiding the way their bodies brushed together. Jeremy’s chair was so close to Laurel’s their shoulders touched every time he leaned in, like he owned her already.
“See, the hot wire goes here,” Jeremy explained, his voice low. “You gotta make sure the connection is tight, or things can get…dangerous.”
Laurel laughed, a sound Carl rarely heard anymore. Certainly not when they were alone together. “You make it sound so scandalous.”
“Electricity’s no joke.” Jeremy shifted, and Carl watched his hand move to the back of Laurel’s chair. Not touching her. Not quite. But close enough that the intent was clear. “One wrong move and you can get seriously burned.”
“Then I’m glad I have such a good teacher.”
Carl’s fingers tightened on the dishcloth. When had she started talking like that? That breathy, flirtatious tone that seemed to coat every word in suggestion?
Jeremy leaned in, pretending to explain something, but his breath was hot on Laurel’s neck. Carl saw her shiver, her whole body shifting, her back arching to push her tits out in that slutty red top she’d put on after church. She was opening up for him, right there at the table.
That top. Christ, that top.
Carl hadn’t even known she owned a top like that. The neckline plunged so deep her tits were practically falling out, the shadow of her cleavage impossible to miss. His wife, the one who always dressed like a nun for church, was now showing off her body for a nineteen-year-old thug.
She’d even ditched her glasses. The black frames that had been glued to her face for years were gone, replaced by contacts that made her eyes look big and fuckable. When the hell had she gotten contacts?
“Laurel,” he said, his voice coming out strangled.
She glanced over her shoulder, seeming surprised to see him there. “Oh, honey. Did you need something?”
“I thought maybe I could join you. Help with the studying.”
Jeremy’s eyes cut to him with barely concealed irritation. “We’ve got this covered, man.”
Man. Not Carl. Not Mr. Patterson. Man. Dismissive. Equal at best, superior in tone.
Carl took a step into the kitchen anyway. “I’m sure I could offer some insight. I know a bit about electrical work myself—”
“He’s really picking this up quickly, Carl.” Laurel’s hand went to Jeremy’s shoulder, her fingers resting on the hard muscle there. The gesture was automatic, casual, as if she’d done it a hundred times before. “He’s got a natural talent.”
The words hit Carl like a physical blow. Natural talent. When was the last time she’d complimented him like that? Touched him that casually, with that proprietary ease?
“I can see that,” Carl managed. “But I thought maybe we could all—”
“Aren’t you tired, honey?” Laurel’s tone had shifted, taking on an edge. Not quite annoyed, but heading there. “You’ve been working so hard. Why don’t you relax? Watch some TV. We’ll be done soon.”
We. She’d said we. Not including him. Excluding him.
Jeremy had gone back to the textbook, his hand now definitely touching Laurel’s arm as he traced a circuit path with his finger. “This part’s tricky. You gotta really concentrate.”
It was a clear dismissal. Carl stood there for another moment, feeling foolish and impotent, before retreating to the living room. But he didn’t turn on the TV. Instead, he sat on the couch in the dim light, staring at the blank screen, listening.
Their voices drifted out from the kitchen. Low. Intimate. Punctuated by Laurel’s laughter and what sounded like Jeremy’s hand slapping the table for emphasis. Then their conversation shifted.
“So you and Carl met at church?” Jeremy asked.
“Mmhm. Youth group, actually. We were both volunteers.”
“That’s sweet. Very wholesome.” Jeremy’s tone made wholesome sound like an insult. “You ever regret it? Marrying the first guy you met?”
Carl’s heart stopped. That was completely inappropriate. He should go in there. Stop this.
But he didn’t move.
“I don’t regret my marriage,” Laurel said, though her voice lacked conviction. “Carl’s a good man. Faithful. He provides.”
“Sounds like you’re describing a golden retriever, not a husband.”
Laurel’s laugh came again, louder this time. “Jeremy! That’s terrible.”
“I’m just saying. You’re a beautiful woman, Laurel. You should be with someone who makes you feel alive. Not someone who makes you feel…provided for.”
Silence. Carl’s pulse pounded in his ears. Say something, Laurel. Tell him he’s out of line. Remind him that you’re a married woman and he’s a guest in our home.
“You think I’m beautiful?” Her voice was so quiet Carl barely heard it.
“Are you kidding? You’re fucking gorgeous. Those eyes. This body.” A pause. “I noticed you changed after church. That top looks incredible on you.”
“I just…I wanted to look nice. For studying.”
“For studying.” Jeremy’s tone was rich with amusement and something darker. “Sure.”
Carl’s cock was getting hard in his khakis, throbbing as he listened to his wife get seduced at their own kitchen table. Instead of outrage, all he felt was a sick, humiliating arousal. He tried to adjust himself, but the pressure only made it worse, his dick straining against the fabric.
“Tell me something,” Jeremy continued. “Does Carl tell you you’re beautiful? Does he touch you the way a man should touch his wife?”
“Jeremy, we shouldn’t—”
“Does he make you wet, Laurel?”
Oh God. Oh Jesus Christ.
Carl’s hand went straight to his crotch, pressing down on the hard-on bulging against his zipper. This was fucked up. He should storm in there and kick Jeremy out, church program be damned. But his cock just got harder.
But he didn’t move. Instead, his hand started rubbing his cock through his pants, slow and desperate, his breath coming in short, guilty gasps.
“I…” Laurel’s voice trembled. “That’s not appropriate.”
“That’s not an answer.” Jeremy’s chair scraped. Was he standing? Moving closer to her? “Let me ask it differently. When’s the last time your husband made you cum so hard you couldn’t think straight?”
Silence. Devastating silence.
Carl squeezed his eyes shut, jerking himself faster, shame and filthy excitement churning in his gut, twisting him up until he barely recognized himself. He was getting off on this. On his wife being seduced by another man.
“That’s what I thought,” Jeremy said quietly. “You deserve better than that, Laurel. You deserve a man who knows what to do with a body like yours.”
“We should get back to studying,” Laurel whispered, but there was no conviction in it.
“Yeah. Sure. Studying.”
The sound of pages turning. The scratch of pen on paper. But the air had changed, charged with something electric that had nothing to do with the circuits they were supposedly discussing.
Carl shot to his feet, his cock making a tent in his khakis, obvious and obscene. “I’m going to bed,” he blurted, voice too loud and shaky.
Laurel appeared in the kitchen doorway. Her face was flushed, her pupils dilated. Her nipples were visibly hard beneath the thin fabric of that red top. “Already? It’s only nine.”
“I’m exhausted.” He couldn’t look at her. If he looked at her, she’d see. She’d know that he’d been listening, that he’d been touching himself like some perverted voyeur. “You two finish up. I’ll see you upstairs.”
“Okay, honey.” She disappeared back into the kitchen without argument.
Carl dragged himself upstairs, legs weak and cock still hard. In the bedroom, he stripped and pulled on the flannel pajama pants Laurel had bought him, his dick refusing to go down. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, went through the motions, all while his cock throbbed under the flannel like a dirty secret.
He climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin despite the warmth of the evening. Below, he could hear their voices continuing. Murmuring. Laughing. The cadence of their conversation had a rhythm to it now, an intimacy that made his stomach churn.
Time passed. Ten minutes. Twenty. Carl lay rigid, staring at the ceiling, listening.
Then he heard it.
A sound that might have been a gasp. Might have been a moan. Soft and feminine and unmistakably aroused.
“Jeremy,” Laurel whispered, the syllables floating up through the heating vents.
Carl’s hand moved beneath the covers, grasping his rigid cock through his pajamas. Was it happening? Were they actually—
Footsteps on the stairs. Carl froze, his hand jerking away from his erection guiltily. The footsteps passed their bedroom door, continuing down the hall to the guest room where Jeremy was staying.
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
Carl’s heart hammered. Maybe nothing had happened. Maybe it was all in his head, his own twisted fantasy projecting onto innocent interactions. Maybe—
From down the hall came the unmistakable creak of bedsprings. Once. Twice. Then settling into rhythmic motion.
Carl’s hand went back to his cock, gripping it through the flannel and stroking in time with the bedsprings down the hall. His mind filled with filthy images he couldn’t stop: Jeremy’s big, tattooed body, Laurel’s flushed face, that red top shoved up over her tits while Jeremy’s hands—
The creaking stopped.
Carl listened, desperate for more. For confirmation. For absolution or damnation, he wasn’t sure which.
But there was only silence.
He lay awake for hours, his cock eventually softening, his mind racing. Tomorrow he’d confront them. Tomorrow he’d demand answers. Tomorrow he’d reclaim his home, his marriage, his dignity.
Tomorrow.
But tonight, lying in the dark, all Carl could think about was the sound of his wife moaning another man’s name, and the way his own cock had throbbed with sick excitement at the thought of her getting fucked by someone else.
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