- The Good Stuff
- Contact Us
Written by Shosha Pearl. Shosha Pearl writes erotic fiction set in the Orthodox Jewish world. Some of her stories are mild, some are super smutty, but none of them transgress Jewish laws on sexual relationships. She has written several pieces published on Jewrotica, including The Fringes of Memory, Before the Canopy, and Sex in the sukkah: redefining the mitzvah of sleeping in the sukkah
I didn’t think he would go home. He stood at the door with his jacket hung carelessly over his arm and talked to you like he was never going to leave; like you were the only two people in the world; like it was his home, not mine.
You smiled, your head tilted a little to the left, your fingers playing with the long, loose folds of black that swayed around your light frame. I squeezed past him, turning the lock in my hands, and held the door open with my back until the summer air swirled between you.
You looked at me and smiled. “Really lovely meeting you, Matt – after everything that Ben’s told me about you,” you say to him.
I could feel his pause; his reluctance to move. I knew his eyes were taking in every aspect of you, to carry you home with him. I sensed his desire to touch you – and so did you.
“It’s been my pleasure, Dinah,” he says at last.
I walked him down the steps to the street and we stood under the shower of streetlights. He talked like it was only days since we’d last met, like he had been in my house many times before, like he hadn’t just spent all night flirting with my wife.
“I haven’t been for Shabbos dinner for months. I’d forgotten how nice it can be,” he said.
He had said the same thing at our table, two hours earlier – his soup spoon hovering over a steaming golden bowl, his smile directed at my wife.
“This is probably the best chicken soup I’ve had in years,” he said.
You took the praise as a matter of course, your chicken soup a family treasure. When you cleared empty bowls, I caught him searching for the shape of your backside between the folding fabric. His eyes followed you to the kitchen.
Over main course he spoke in lowered tones about your teaching. The delights and challenges of four year old boys seemed the most interesting subject in the world to the man who had proclaimed no interest in children.
Somehow, over roast beef and schnitzels, his eyes rested like a warm hand on your thigh, circled your breasts with invisible probing fingers. Could you feel his touch? I could not tell. You simply presented a smile which said nothing and everything at once – your cheeks rouged and lips reddened by wine and the musk of a strange man – and offered him more carrot kugel.
You scooped his chocolate mousse and berries slowly, carefully, watching for him to say ‘when’, through long dark lashes that fluttered like Shabbos candles in the evening breeze.
I watched this dance of tension between my wife and childhood friend with mounting difficulty.
“Let’s bench,” I said before tea.
You looked at me, your hand light on my arm, and nodded. After Birkat Hamazon, he joined me in the kitchen, scrutinising family pictures as I cursed the slowness of the streaming water. You took the children to bed and soon the only sounds in the house were his voice enquiring about you and the grinding of my teeth.
He sipped his tea slowly with one hand and finished the wine with his other, his handsome face showing only the slightest trace of increased colour. At ten o’clock I feigned a yawn. At 10.15 I stood. You drew yourself up beside me until he had no choice but to rise. When you brought his jacket to him, his outstretched arm brushed your side. Your face did not acknowledge the contact – and yet you did not move away.
Outside, after several goodbyes, he walked away into the distance of darkness with an atmosphere of success. I returned inside, the door closed behind me and waited for you.
Standing still, my back against the door, you passed me with head high, hips swaying, and a smile about your lips. Your eyes flashed a greeting, hands filled with the dirty glasses that you carried to the kitchen.
You passed me again, my lungs taut and strained. I watched your arse flick left and right, the smear of someone else’s gaze upon it, and followed you into the dining room.
“You’re very quiet,” you said, as you moved glasses to a tray. I nodded, watching you; close to you.
You stopped, smiled and edged towards me. “I think Matt liked me,” you said.
“Did it make you jealous to see him try to flirt with me?” You moved closer, the lightest touch of your breasts on my chest, and slid your hips towards me. I could feel your warmth. When you leaned forward, your cheek so close to mine, and whispered in my ear, “How did it make you feel?” something inside me snapped.
I grabbed your shoulders, pressed my mouth onto yours with such force that I could feel the rub of my infant stubble against your soft skin.
My lips still pressed against you, I unfastened your bra and pushed my hands beneath your blouse, so tznius against his prying eyes. Your breasts felt round, your nipples hard: I squeezed them tight between my fingers and swallowed the moan that rose from your throat.
“Take off your shoes.” My voice was low and gruff; like someone else’s. Once you had kicked them to one side, I jerked down your tights and panties – roughly, quickly – until they were strewn along the carpet.
I exhaled loudly when my fingers reached your dampness. When I drove them inside you, your moan stroked my ear. Hissing towards yours, the words “You are very wet,” sprang into the air. And then I landed my hands on each side of your body, and swiveled you away from me. I pushed you down over the Shabbos table, throwing your skirt up over your butt, and rubbed my hips against your nakedness. Knocking your knees wide open, one hand took heavy hold of the base of your neck, the other fumbled with my fly until I sprang out behind you, rigid, probing at your steaming skin, my trousers dropping to the floor.
I felt you inhale as I plunged inside your heat, your juices surrounding me, so that I could not contain the sounds that rose from within me. They were low, they were guttural. I was aflame with need for you.
Grabbing your exposed hips, I pulled myself further into you; pressing you with fingers and knuckles, and forcing myself deeper inside you, as your arms stretched out across the table, your hands searching for something to hold.
“Please,” you said. “Harder.”
So I rammed myself further, fiercer, the smell of your need driving me on. You made short, staccato sounds; high pitched and immensely female. I wanted to swallow those sounds, to feel the taste of them on my lips, the weight of them in my gut. I needed to pierce you, drive my phallus into to you to stake a claim on what is mine; to merge with you so that the world would know that what other men want is bound to me; that you are me and I am you.
And so I slammed myself inside you faster, deeper; grabbed you by the neck again and held you; you met me with each thrust, until the moment that your soprano gasps accompanied nails that reached to scratch marks along the back of my thighs, and I could no longer stay on course.
I emptied myself inside you, in a storm of expelled pleasure, howling like a madman. And then, when seconds had passed, still locked inside you – my beautiful, desirable wife – I was spent and began to feel a fool.
With lowered head, I pulled away. “I’m sorry,” I said.
You turned to me, your smile outplaying the confusion in your eyes. “Why?” you asked.
“I don’t know what came over me,” I said.
You took a moment to face me, as I fell away from inside you, until you stood before me, watching me with Lilith eyes and pursed your lips. “Oh, I do,” you said.
“I’m sorry…” I start again.
“Shhh…” you said, standing straight so that your clothes fall back around you, starting again to stack the last remnants of dinner onto a half-filled tray. “Don’t you worry, my darling, everything’s fine. You’re tired. Why don’t you lie down? I’ll be there soon.”
You kissed me goodnight, and swished those hips again as you carried the laden tray towards the kitchen, your upright stance at odds with ruffled hair.