THE HOUSE ACROSS THE STREET

Ninety-four-year-old Arnie gripped the armrests of his wheelchair as the morning sun warmed his skin. His neighbor across the street—a broad-shouldered man with a receding hairline—emerged from the brick colonial, briefcase in hand. The man spotted Arnie and waved, his gold wedding band catching the light. 
As the sedan disappeared around the corner, Arnie's eyes locked onto the master bedroom window of the colonial where translucent curtains billowed outward. The housewife's guttural moan—raw and animal—drifted across the morning air, the familiar sound that reliably erupted the moment her husband's taillights vanished from view.
"Oh God, yes, right there!" she cried, her voice breaking into breathless pants that made Arnie's heart race. The steady creak-creak-creak of a bed frame accelerated like a metronome, punctuated by the headboard's rhythmic thudding against the wall.
Arnie's eyes had spent countless afternoons watching the middle-aged mother across the street— as she bent low to retrieve grocery bags from her trunk, her blouse gaping to reveal the deep valley between heavy breasts that strained against satin cups.
Arnie often noticed her eldest son—a lanky eighteen-year-old with the same hungry look he once wore at that age—trailing behind his gorgeous mom, eyes darting away whenever she turned, his hands awkwardly shifting to cover the telltale ridge in his basketball shorts.
Often the mother would catch Arnie watching her from across the street and flash that honey-sweet smile, making his shriveled old pecker twitch pathetically. Each time she turned away, his eyes would lock onto the hypnotic sway of her ass—two fat globes of jiggling flesh packed into yoga pants so tight they might as well have been painted on her maternal buttocks—as she lugged her groceries up the driveway.
"Oh yes, fuck me harder!" the mother's plea sliced through the morning air, each syllable punctuated by the violent creak of bedsprings. 
With daddy dearest on the way to his downtown office and the younger children herded onto the yellow school bus twenty minutes ago, that left only mother and son behind those brick walls. Arnie's tongue darted across his dry lips as the moans escalated, his imagination painting the sweat-slicked tableau of forbidden flesh just beyond that billowing curtain.
Arnie's mouth hung open as his imagination painted the scene in detail: the son sprawled on his back, that beautiful MILF's enormous, sweat-glossed tits swinging like wrecking balls, slapping wetly against the boy's flushed face as she impaled herself on his sinewy cock. 
Her yoga-sculpted ass would be flexing, thighs trembling as she bounced like a piston, her freshly-waxed pussy lips making obscene squelching noises each time they collided with the base of his throbbing teenage dick. The boy would be ramming upward, his veiny boner disappearing repeatedly into the very hole he'd emerged from 18 years earlier.
Arnie's lips curled into a lecherous grin, his eyelids fluttering shut as he savored each wet slap and animal grunt echoing from across the street, which seemed to go on and on for hours. In his mind, he became that lucky boy, feeling those massive maternal tits bouncing around his face while her dripping cunt milked his throbbing shaft dry.