It started, as these things often do, with a quiet evening and a glass of wine.
My wife and I found ourselves drifting back to our early days—before we were married, when we were both working at the same company and not yet ready to let anyone know we were together. Young and careful, we kept things to ourselves while navigating the strange balance of being both colleagues and something more.
One memory surfaced that neither of us had thought about in years.
It was a company weekend away—one of those slightly chaotic trips where too many people are squeezed into too little space. By the time the evening drinks had run their course, the villa felt warmer, louder, looser. When it came time to sleep, there weren’t enough beds. Mattresses were spread across the floor, bodies laid out side by side, conversations fading into the dark.
We ended up next to each other—my wife between another colleague and me. A man who, back then, had taken more interest in her than she ever encouraged—unaware that we were together.
Nothing happened. Not really.
But I remember the moment.
The room was heavy with heat and drink, and we lay facing each other, about to drift off, when I felt her shift closer to me. A moment later, a hand from behind her—hesitant, testing, where it shouldn’t have been. She tensed, her body pressing into mine. A pause. A decision. And then it was over. The hand withdrawn, the moment gone.
We never spoke of it at the time.
But years later, sitting together with that same shared glance, she smiled and admitted what I had always wondered—that for a second, just a second, the thought had crossed her mind.
Not action. Not permission. Just… possibility.
That was all it took.
Because sometimes a story doesn’t come from what happened—but from what almost did.
That memory—the closeness, the tension, the unspoken question—became the seed for my latest story:
Red Room in the Outback
If you’re one of my newsletter subscribers, I hope you enjoyed the short hotwife quickie in today’s email—a glimpse of how it all begins.
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