by Michael K. Smith
I live in a suburban community adjacent to one of the nation's largest western cities. It's a compromise: I'd live farther out but then I'd have to leave *really* early in the morning to get to work downtown. Even so, I might consider getting farther away from the urban sprawl, but I'm divorced and I got the house; my ex moved back east and took the savings account. So I stay.
More specifically, I live between two cops and across the street from another, a fact which does *not* make me feel particularly secure. On one side is a retired suburban cop. He has serious problems with both his back and his drinking and he doesn't get out much, though his rather dumpy wife is out there fiddling with the soaker hoses in good weather.
Across the street is a retired German cop from Chicago who moved here to be near his kids. His house and yard are organized and tidy to the point of cliche and he has a cyclone fence around his front yard as well as the back. He also keeps an eye on everyone on the block, as if hoping to spot some activity he can report to the Gestapo.
On the other side of my house, the kitchen side, is where the only working cop around here lives -- or used to. He's about my age, mid-30s, and a SWAT-team member. When my cat wandered into his open garage a couple years ago, SWAT (which is what I called him behind his back) caught the beast in a burlap sack, hung the sack on my door-knocker, and attached a note to the effect that he'd shoot the damn cat the next time he saw it. No, people like this do not increase my sense of safety and well-being.
SWAT has (or had) a very attractive wife, though -- a tall, slender, leggy blonde named Carol, with a twangy voice and come-along eyes. She's kind of a fitness freak, out jogging at 7:00 a.m. when I'm climbing into my car, or pushing an old-fashioned mechanical lawn mower at a fast walk. But she knows what she's doing: There's no sag on her anywhere and when she dresses up she can shave eight or ten years off her age of thirty-five. We didn't often speak (you just have to assume a SWAT cop will be the jealous type), but she always waved cheerfully whenever she saw me.
Carol was one of the captains of the High Hats, which is the local high
school's pep squad. They wear cowboy hats and boots, and short skirts with
fringe, and they specialize in a chorus-line high-kick. Carol certainly
looks the part. She had, I believe, one year of business courses at the
junior college and then married SWAT. And they had one kid, a daughter
named Stephanie, now almost sixteen and a sophomore at the same high school.
She looks very much like her mother and, naturally, she's also a high-kicking
About ten months ago, it dawned on me that I hadn't seen SWAT's pickup in the driveway lately. The Old Kraut across the street told me Carol had thrown him out of the house, cause unknown, a week or so earlier. I looked closely the next couple of times I saw Carol working in her yard. She didn't seem noticeably broken up about the break-up and I got the usual smile and wave. Interesting fantasy material. My job requires me to work a couple Saturdays a month, which means -- since the firm is not about to shell out for overtime -- that I can take a comp day during the week. And, since I'm not a weekend sports nut and I'm not dating with any enthusiasm, I look forward to those weekdays off. I can watch daytime television in my shorts, I can take in an early matinee at the mall multiplex and have the theater almost completely to myself, I can go shopping in the middle of theday and not have to fight the crowds. No skateboarding twelve-year-olds, no teenage drivers playing Bumper Cars in the parking lots. Carol went back to work after ditching SWAT, partly because she undoubtedly needed the money, and maybe just to get out of the house. I assumed SWAT was paying child support but that doesn't go very far. I knew she was working somewhere as a receptionist, which didn't surprise me, given her lack of formal education and job experience. But she sure knew how to dress for the job and was no doubt both efficient and ornamental in her office.
I knew about her dress style because, on my first weekday off after she joined the work force, I happened to be standing at my kitchen sink, looking idly out the window. It was about 8:30 and I would never have seen her on an ordinary morning, leaving as early as I do. But that morning, as I rinsed out my coffee mug, she came marching out her front door and down the driveway to her car, which she always backed into her driveway as if prepared for a fast getaway. Her hair was done up nicely in a cloud of curls and she was wearing a very flattering business suit, the jacket draped over her arm. Tight blouse, rather thin. Her tits weren't very large but I've always preferred quality over quantity -- and her profile between neck and waist was definitely quality. Her skirt ended about halfway up her thigh.
She had plenty of muscle -- I knew that from watching her snap off tree limbs that I would have to use a saw on -- but they were long and flat and feminine, not the bulgy type. And her heels were much higher than I had ever seen her wear before. Those long, gorgeous legs, plus the heels, plus the great physical condition she kept herself in, all combined to give the impression of a coiled spring. A mesmerizing sight.
She opened the passenger side of her Corolla and put her purse and jacket on the seat. Then she paused, shielded from the street by the open car door . . . but not shielded from me. She bent her head back over her shoulder, checking out the way her clothing hung, I guess. The movement tightened the seat of her skirt and put her small, tight ass into profile. I just stood there and stared as my cock stiffened -- which was just as well since she was only about fifty feet away and probably would have noticed any movement at my kitchen window.
She glanced up and down the block, saw no one, and hiked up her tight skirt, smoothing and tugging her pantyhose up her legs. I mean, I had seen her mowing the lawn in running shorts plenty of times, but this was different: I wasn't *meant* to see this. When the skirt got up around her hips, I broke into a sweat. God, I thought, I'd love to put my hands where hers were!
She untangled her slip, or whatever she was adjusting, and carefully pulled her skirt back down into place, turning it and tugging it until it hung the way she wanted it to. Then she closed the passenger door, *click-clicked* around to the other side of the car, hopped in, revved up, and left. I was glued to the kitchen counter for another ten minutes, thinking about what I had just seen.
After that, whenever I was around the house in the morning, I tried to station myself near the kitchen window about the time I estimated Carol was due to leave. Usually, my reward was just a thirty-second parade down the driveway, but that was okay. She was always tall and straight and nice to look at. (If nothing else, the High Hats had taught her correct posture.) Sometimes she wore slacks (covering most of her high heels almost to the ground, which I consider sexy), but she mostly preferred skirts. And, every so often, she would pause to use her thumb as a shoehorn, or to wiggle her slip into place, or to adjust a bra strap. I considered keeping my old camera handy but that seemed a little *too* lecherous -- and besides, she might hear the shutter click, or see a reflection from the lens, or something.
One Friday morning last spring, when I had the day off and had taken up my usual post, she came out the front door and paused suddenly with the door still ajar. I thought I could just make out the ringing of a phone. In her hurry to answer it, she left her front door open and I eased my window up an inch or two. Her raised voice came through pretty clearly though I couldn't make out the words. Must be talking to ol' SWAT, I thought, and smiled. Threaten *my* cat, would he? A minute or so later she left again, slamming her front door and stalking down the drive with a stormy look on her face. Her skirts had gradually been getting shorter and her heels a little higher. This skirt was about eight inches above the knee and her long, purposeful strides really showed off her calves. Her tires squealed as she rocketed out of her driveway and I was glad she had no reason to be angry at *me*.
When the mailman wandered by that day, he managed to lose Carol's VISA statement in among my stuff, so I was keeping an eye out for her return late that afternoon. I watched as she pulled in and climbed wearily out of her car; she never walked as fast in the evening as she did in the morning. I had seen Stephanie hit the house about 4:00 and immediately leave again with a gang of friends in a station wagon.
I counted to fifty after Carol closed her door and sauntered over in clean levis and a clean polo shirt -- practically dress-up for a comp day. She answered her doorbell and looked at me a bit blankly. She knew perfectly well who I was but I'd never had occasion to come to her door before. Then she remembered her manners, said "Hi," and gave me her Professional Receptionist smile.
"The postman mixed up our mail and I wouldn't want to deprive you of this," I said with a smile and held up the VISA bill. It was a thick one, too.
"Gee, thanks -- just what I needed." She took the envelope and weighed it in the palm of her hand with a wry grin. She had let her nails grow and they complemented her long, tapering fingers. Okay, I thought -- that's that. I sort of nodded and turned to go but she seemed to make a spur-of-the-moment decision and pulled her door all the way open.
"Mike -- um, are you in a hurry to get someplace?"
"Noooo. . . ." There was almost a plea in her eyes.
"Would you like a-- a beer? Or something?" I'll take "or something," I thought and was careful not to look down at those legs. I shrugged and tried to put on a neutral but neighborly smile.
"Yeah, sure. I'd love a beer."
I walked into Carol's neatly-kept living room and she shut the door. I stood there wondering if I should sit down while she went to the kitchen, but as she headed that way she gestured for me to follow. She was still wearing those super-heels and her bottom shifted nicely under the short skirt. Her blazer was already off and she looked very demure in her sleeveless white blouse. Her hair was brushed back in a tight ponytail that wouldn't have looked out of place on her fifteen-year-old daughter. I was even attracted by the silky stray wisps of blonde at the back of her neck.
She handed me a Bud Draft from the refrigerator and took another for herself (never trust anyone who drinks "lite" beer). She raised an eyebrow.
"Need a glass?"
"Not really, no."
"Good." She twisted the cap off her bottle with less effort than I required and smiled again. "I like it straight from the cold bottle, myself." She had smiled at me more in the past five minutes than she had in the previous year.
As I opened my own bottle and set the cap on the counter next to hers, she took a long, ladylike swig and sighed.
"I dunno, I seem to be buying more beer than I used to, even with Jerry gone."
Jerry? Oh, yeah: SWAT. Since she had apparently asked me in to listen while she talked, I kept quiet. Anyway, I was in no position to give anyone advice about ex-spouses. Carol turned back to the living room and I followed. Once there, she sat in the middle of the sofa, which meant I would have to sit very close to her if I joined her there; I took the overstuffed chair instead, keeping my antennae out for any signal of why I was there.
"Being a single parent is a bi--, it's no fun," she amended. She slipped off one shoe and massaged the sole of her foot.
"I imagine so," I replied sympathetically. Carol knew I had no children -- I'd had a vasectomy when I was twenty-five, a firm believer in ZPG -- but I gathered a reply was expected. All I knew about raising kids camefrom TV and from the horror stories I heard parents tell at work. I watched as she took off her other shoe and sighed again. Then she caught me watching and looked a bit sheepish.
"These heels really make my feet hurt, but receptionists are supposed to 'dress to kill', so . . ."
I gave her what I hoped was an understanding leer. "Works for me," I said. "You like very nice in them."
Carol blushed slightly, which kind of surprised me. She was very much the independent, self-sufficient, blowout-changing, non-blushing type.
"I see you sometimes, watching me when I go to work in the mornings." She was carefully studying the instep she was rubbing.
Oops. Caught in the act, eh? Better come clean, I thought. "Well, the first time was just a coincidence, but I confess I watch when I have the opportunity. You're a very attractive waker-upper. Seeing you march down your driveway kind of jump-starts my respiration," I added, placing a hand dramatically over my chest.
She stared at me for just an instant and then laughed -- a wonderfully musical laugh of genuine amusement that I had never heard from her before. I liked it.
"Well, *you* don't have to wear the damn things," she said. "What women go through. . . ." Followed by a loud mock-sigh. But she continued to work on her instep. I weighed the possibilities. I was certainly attracted to my neighbor, physically anyway, and I wouldn't turn down the chance for a little horseplay should it come my way. On the other hand, she *was* my neighbor, and if I made too strong a move and she became indignant, . . . well, it could make life on this end of the block very uncomfortable and I had no plans to move anytime soon. On the *other* other hand. . . .
"Carol, . . . I hope this doesn't sound like a come-on, and you can tell me to just take a hike, but I actually *have* had some training and experience at giving foot rubs and I'd be happy to do that for you. . . ."
I had, too. My ex-wife had had weak ankles and her feet used to kill her if she had to stand for too long. She had taught me the finer points of foot and lower leg massage while we were dating and my reward was usually worth the effort I put into it.
Carol looked at me thoughtfully and evidently decided I was "safe." She shouldn't have worried so much. In those heels she was almost exactly my height and I knew she was perfectly capable of decking me if I made an unwanted move. She licked her lips, set her empty beer bottle on the side table, and stood up.
"Deal," she said. "Wait here just a minute, okay?" And she picked up her shoes and headed back toward her bedroom. I thought about it while I waited. What I had offered was a "gift" (I thought). "Deal" implied something given for something received: a contract. I'm a cautious person by nature but sometimes I think about things too much, and this was one of those times.
I heard a toilet flush somewhere in the back of the house and gulped the last of my beer. Carol came back, still in her short skirt but without her pantyhose. She sat on the sofa again, at one end this time, and patted the middle cushion. I moved over from the armchair and sat, and she turned and laid those slim, trim calves across my lap. She also watched me out of the corner of her eye. Very nice indeed, but I was supposed to massage her feet so I regretfully moved away to the far cushion.
Carol had surprisingly small feet for such a tall, leggy woman. I'm one of those men who catalogs details about a woman rather than merely enjoying the big picture. I'm not a fetishist by any means, but I have certain ideas and ideals about a woman's hands, feet, eyes, ears, whatever. My "perfect woman" would probably be an impossible anatomical jigsaw puzzle. Carol's small feet, narrow toes, and slender, almost delicate ankles got a very high score from me.
I picked up each foot, laced my fingers through the toes, and carefully popped the joints. Then I set to work separating the tight cords of muscle and running my thumbs firmly down the hamstrings. From the "oooh . . ." and "ahhh . . ." sounds Carol was making, I still had the touch. With my hand flat on the bottom of one foot, I bent it slowly forward, then back, then to each side, stretching the tendons. Then the other foot. By the time I had finished kneading the balls of her feet twenty minuteslater, Carol was so relaxed I wondered if she was going to fall right off the sofa. Her eyes were half-closed.
I gave her shin a little pat and let my hand rest there. "How was that?"
"God, you're good," she replied with a warm, lazy smile. "Can I put you on retainer?"
She didn't seem inclined to remove her feet -- in fact, she was slowly wiggling her toes -- so I stretched my arm along the back of the sofa and gazed back at her. I was a little afraid to leave my hand on her shin; I wanted so badly to stroke her calf and thigh. (Be a gentleman, I was thinking, and maybe she'll invite you back.)
Perhaps Carol was tapped into my thoughts because she drew up her knees a few inches so she could prop the soles of her feet against my thigh. The movement made her already dangerously short skirt ride up even higher; another inch and I'd know what color panties she was wearing. I tried not to look at the curve of her smooth, tanned legs, . . . or, at least, not to stare. She tucked one arm behind her head and I invested a few seconds in studying her armpit, of all places. She seemed smooth and sleek everywhere. And she was giving me another of those thoughtful, measuring looks.
"Mike, . . . why haven't you ever come over here before? Like this, I mean, just as a neighbor? We've lived next door to each other for years. . . ." I raised my eyebrows; surely she knew the answer to that one. But she had a puzzled expression that seemed genuine, so maybe she didn't.
"Well, to be honest, I never had much use for SWA--, for Jerry. And I got the impression that he would *not* have liked other men visiting his wife when he wasn't around." I tried to look apologetic. "Sorry if that's blunt, but you asked. I sure wasn't avoiding you, though."
"Really? As bad as that?" She looked annoyed. "There was another guy in the neighborhood, he looked so lonely when his wife went out of town for a month. I tried to invite him over for dinner with us, just being friendly. He got real nervous and turned me down, and it seemed like he was avoiding me after that. I never even thought about Jerry making other men skittish. Shit." She gave my leg an emphatic little push with her feet. "Mike, I'm sorry. I never thought about it like that."
"No problem," I said. "I've always made it a policy to avoid guys who routinely carry automatic weapons. Besides, I'm here now."
"Yeah," she agreed, as her toes curled against my thigh. "You are." The smile was softer this time and freighted with possible messages and meanings, if I only had a Secret Decoder Ring. I was never any good at flirting like this. Maybe I should just be honest about it.
"Carol, I'm afraid you're going to think I'm hopeless." I took a chance and stroked the top of one foot; she didn't draw it back. "I don't date very much -- never did, really -- and even then it's just social. Someone to go see a movie with -- you know." She was watching me sympathetically so I went on.
"What I mean is, I'm completely out of practice at this kind of thing. I like you, I really do. I guess I'm just not sure where the boundaries are anymore. You see my problem?" My expression must been something because she laughed a little and her eyes danced with tolerant amusement.
"You're very refreshing, you know that? All I ever hear at work is bragging and stupid pick-up lines, mostly from guys who're already married anyway. But I haven't heard anything like this since junior high. . . ."
I felt my face heat up with embarrassment. Sympathy I could use -- but not pity or condescension. I must have tensed up or something because Carol immediately sat up and swung around to sit right next to me. Her hip pressed against mine and she held my hand in both of hers.
"Hey, I'm sorry -- I wasn't making fun of you, Mike, honest." She squeezed my hand, which made me feel a lot better. Then she pulled my arm down from its perch along the back of the sofa and arranged it over her shoulder. "How's that?"
"That" was terrific. Then she leaned her head back against my chest and looked at me expectantly. I was out of practice but I wasn't dead. If I passed up her invitation she would never offer me another. I reached over and brushed her cheek, so soft and smooth, with my fingertips. And, cupping her chin in my hand, I kissed her, gently and thoroughly. It had been five years since I had kissed any woman like this -- fifteen years since any woman other than my ex-wife. Carol moved into it, pressing back with her lips, reaching up to touch my throat, sighing into my open mouth. It was a feeling I had almost completely forgotten -- the pure pleasure of kissing a pretty girl who's enthusiastically kissing you back. My pulse rate rose about twenty notches and my toes felt warm.
It was a long kiss but it finally tapered off and ended. I combed my fingers through that long hair and stared at her face from two inches away. The only thing I could say was "Wow. . . ."
The corner of her mouth quirked. "Thank you, Mike. It's nice to know I can still leave a man speechless."
"You just burned a hole in my brain, lady. I'm totally shorted out . . . and I'd like to do it again, please." I touched my nose to hers.
She laughed and held me off with a symbolic hand placed lightly against my chest. "I liked it, too. It's been too long since a guy kissed me like that. And I'm beginning to think I want to do more than just kiss you. But we're grown-ups and we need to agree first on just what's going to happen here. I don't want misunderstandings or feelings being hurt. I could get that from Jerry. . . ." She stroked my cheek and spoke softly, I suppose so it wouldn't sound so cold-blooded.
I smiled. "If we're going to negotiate terms of surrender, I think I'm entitled to counsel." She giggled this time and thumped me gently with that strong little fist. I'd never heard Carol giggle before, either -- girlish and sophisticated, cute and sexy. I liked it as much as her laugh.
"Dummy. I just want to make sure we stay friends, . . . along with anything else we may become. I'm trying to play it safe for both of us, Mike."
It wasn't a bad idea, really, setting guidelines in advance; *I* was the one who had told her I wasn't sure about the boundaries any longer. It still sounded a little strange, though. But just having a woman like Carol as a real friend, someone I could relax and watch TV with, and gossip with over coffee, was more than I could have hoped for. I guess I hadn't realized, until that moment, just how lonely I sometimes got for the company of a woman.
We leaned back against the sofa, still only a few inches apart, and I took her hand and intertwined my fingers with hers. "You make the rules," I said, "and I'll go along with whatever you decide to do, . . . as long as we can be friends."
"Well, . . . we don't have to have *rules*," she replied as she traced designs with one fingernail on the back of my hand. It gave me goosebumps all the way up to my shoulder. "Just whatever we both feel comfortable with. I'm not in love with you and you're not in love with me. This is a physical relationship, for fun, right? Like, I *really* want to kiss you again, Mike. I want to spend the evening necking and making out, like a couple of teenagers. But--" (she squeezed my hand for emphasis) "--I'm not ready to go to bed with you. Not yet. Okay?"
"Deal," I said. This time it really *was* a contract, with something to be gained on both sides. And then I got a little silly and leaned forward and licked the tip of her nose. She giggled again and ducked her head. I kissed the part in her hair, inhaling the sweet fragrance of her. There was a song in my heart, oh yes, oh yes.
When she lifted her face and held my head between her hands, I felt like I was about to be devoured, and I was looking forward to it. She came in sneaky, nibbling my lower lip and moving her tongue across my incisors. I inhaled deeply and moved my hands up and down her sides, enjoying the solid presence of her ribs. Her tits needed to be explored but there was no hurry; I wanted to torment both of us a little while longer. My mouth opened wide and she ran her tongue all around the inside. It *was* like a high school make-out session, but we weren't overexcited and fumbling -- well, not fumbling, anyway.
When she moved around to the side of my head and poked her tongue in my ear, I took the opportunity to put my arms all the way around her and zeroed in on her neck. The slight tang of that morning's perfume, mixed with a little dried salt-sweat, flavored her skin perfectly. I licked and nibbled at the base of her throat and she groaned a little and held me just as tightly. We went on like that for twenty or thirty minutes, ending up sprawled against the sofa arm, Carol lying almost on top of me. Her lipstick and mascara were smeared passionately, some of it on me. We had stuck pretty close to her program, mostly avoiding erogenous zones we couldn't back out of.
It was funny, but I was enjoying this feverish mouth-play so much I didn't even have much of an erection. It was more subtle than that. There were no emotional demands, no commitments. I had nothing to prove and she had nothing to protect. Most of our arousal seemed to be in our heads and I was content with that for this evening. Carol in my arms, a willing and adorable woman who demanded nothing from me beyond physical enjoyment, was an absolute joy. Even if we never progressed beyond this, I was happier than I had been in a very long time.
When we finally came up for air, both of us red in the face and short of breath, Carol surprised me again. She pushed herself upright from where she had been draped across my body, pulled me to a sitting position, and stood up just long enough to settle herself astride my lap, facing me. She hiked her rumpled skirt up about her hips in the process.
Since she had made no move to undo my slacks, I decided this must be the at-home version of a table dance, so I sat back and waited, running the palms of my hands up and down those marvelous bare legs. Her calves were more prettily muscled than most athletic teenagers I've seen, smooth and soft-looking on the surface but with shifting tensions beneath.
She gave me a don't-give-a-damn grin and quickly unbuttoned her blouse. My cock came out of hibernation and began to assert itself. Then the blouse was flung on the armchair and she sat back on my knees to await my reaction. Her bra was new-looking and white and lacy. Her breasts were small but full and ripe and the push-up cups seemed ready to overflow. Her collarbone and her stomach were evenly tanned and provided a striking backdrop for all that virginal lace.
I sat up so I could put my arms around her waist and buried my nose in her cleavage. She ran her fingers through my hair and pulled my head even closer. I wanted badly to discover what she was hiding and I put a fingertip on the front closure of her bra and glanced up. She licked her lips and nodded. I unhooked the garment and drew it slowly back off her shoulders, then tossed it on the chair with her blouse.
Carol had beautiful tits -- and not just "for someone her age." She'd had one child, after all. But their modest size and her program of regular exercise had kept them high and firm. The didn't jiggle when she changed position, they vibrated. The flesh was only lightly tanned and bathing suit marks were clearly visible. I took in these peripheral details slowly, savoring each one, before I allowed myself to focus on the pink, protruding nipples that seemed to be staring at me.
I cupped those luscious breasts in my hands and squeezed just a little. A tremor went through her body and she took a ragged breath. I smiled up at her and leaned forward to take one bright bud between my lips. When I moved my tongue across the tip, she sucked in between her teeth and clutched at my head again.
As my mouth explored her tits, my hands pushed her short skirt up around her hips; I wanted to caress that bouncy little bottom, even through her panties. Third surprise: My fingers found only round, smooth, slightly yielding Carol. It took a bit more manual exploration to discover that she was wearing a slender thong. The picture that put in my mind stiffened my cock even more. I knew she could feel my penis moving against the inside of her thigh, even through my slacks, because she twitched a leg muscle in response, but she otherwise chose to ignore it.
I squeezed her solid little butt and sucked strongly on those beautiful tits and Carol writhed and moaned. And when I paused for breath, she quickly hopped up again and shucked her skirt, posing for a moment in the red satin thong that was her only remaining cover. The panties were also symbolic, I understood that; as long as she wasn't quite naked, she had established her limits for this first encounter. Then she was back on my lap, pushing me against the back of the sofa and arching her spine so my face was buried in tits. Her aggressive, unabashed sexuality was as much a turn-on as her lovely body.
My hands moved up and down her thighs and over her ass again, massaging,stroking,
squeezing -- soaking up the "aliveness" of her body through my touch. She
felt wonderful. Her humming moans were proof that she was enjoying the
experience as much as I. Just as she whispered "Suck it . . . ," I caught
a hint of movement from the corner of my eye. Her right nipple and half
her breast were in my mouth and I didn't release them as I turned my head
Fifteen-year-old Stephanie stood in the kitchen doorway in cutoffs and a T-shirt, an empty plastic water glass in her hand. Her eyes were wide and startled and her mouth hung open. I looked at her blankly but continued to suck on her mother's tit. My mind had simply quit functioning.
"Jeeze, Mom. . . !" Carol's eyes snapped open and her head turned just in time to see a whirl of blonde curls disappearing back into the kitchen.
"Oh, shit -- she's back early. Must have come in through the back door." Carol sat back on my lap, hands still resting on my shoulders, and looked after her daughter uncertainly. We heard a bedroom door slam.
As Carol climbed off my lap and picked up her blouse -- I noticed she didn't bother with the bra -- I felt my cock rapidly going limp with disappointment. I sighed inwardly and said "I guess I'd better be getting out of here. . . ."
As I clambered up from the sofa, Carol put out a hand. "Mike, please don't go -- please? We have unfinished business, don't we? I just need to go have a talk with my daughter." Then she hooked her arms around my neck and kissed me again, softly this time. "I really want you to stay, okay?"
How could I turn down a request like that? I leaned against the hall doorframe and watched Carol walk purposefully down the hall to her daughter's room. The blouse covered her bottom, though not by much, and those long legs emerging from beneath her shirttail, . . . wow, indeed.
I wondered whether I shouldn't just leave quietly anyway; it could be very difficult to remain friends with Carol if her daughter hated me. I didn't try to eavesdrop but Carol must have known I'd be concerned about Stephanie because she left the bedroom door partly open; bits and pieces of conversation drifted out. The girl was upset and right on the edge of tears while her mother tried to calm her down and explain the situation reasonably.
" . . . could you *do* something like that?!"
" . . . think I'm too old for sex?"
" . . . right in our own living room!"
"How many times . . . your boyfriends . . . that same sofa?"
"But I don't do *that*! You . . . no clothes!"
" . . . lot more experienced than you, Steph. You've seen me naked before. He's a nice guy . . . makes me feel . . ." I strained to hear that last bit. She made me feel, too. The kid seemed to be winding down a little.
" . . . startled me, Mom. . . ."
"Sorry, baby . . . timing . . . back early."
" . . . really enjoy that?"
" . . . course, I enjoy it . . . wonderful warm feeling . . . too long, Steph."
"I guess. Can I watch, then?" The last in an impish tone.
"If I can watch you and Whatsisname sometime, sure -- why not?" Carol replied with an amused laugh. She was opening the bedroom door again. "I want him to stay a while longer, Steph. Please understand? He's nice and he's gentle, not like . . . -- and it isn't like we were humping on the floor, you know." I watched her smile and heard Stephanie's embarrassed giggle. It sounded just like her mother's, half an octave higher.
Like most teenagers, I think, Stephanie seemed to assume that sex and lust were invented only for the young. The notion of her mother being physically aroused to the point of inarticulate moaning probably never occurred to her. Well, she'd have to learn to think of the "old lady" in different terms.
Carol walked back up the hall with a broad smile, unbuttoning her blouse on the way. She shrugged it off and left it in a heap on the floor as she reentered the living room and passed me. And at the same moment, I saw Stephanie's door open a crack and a bright blue eye peering out. Then I went back to my neighbor, who threw her arms around my neck and kissed me hotly, perhaps by way of apology for the interruption. We moved around in a tight little circle as I slid my hands down her long, smooth back, to her slender waist, and down over that beautiful butt. Carol hung on even tighter, mashing her lips against mine. She had her back to the hall door now, and as I squeezed her ass cheeks in both hands I saw the younger blonde peek quickly around the doorway and duck back. Carol ground her crotch against me and murmured "Oh, God . . ." -- which I knew her daughter must have heard.
As I bent to nibble at Carol's neck, I saw that Stephanie's face had quietly reappeared. She was staring at us as though in a trance. Well, if she really wanted to watch -- which, I had to admit, was a turn-on all by itself -- I'd try to give her something worth watching.
"Carol," I whispered, "I know we're not actually going to *do* it, but I'd really love it if you'd *ask* me to fuck you. Since we're doing this for the fun of it, you know . . . why not let ourselves be outrageous? Say it out loud; it's so sexy when a woman talks like that." She laughed softly and whispered "Beast. . . ."
"Oh, Mike, you have to fuck me, I want you to fuck me!" she demanded breathily. She wiggled a little, enjoying saying the words as much as I enjoyed hearing them. Then she got into the swing of it. "I want to feel your cock moving in me! I want you to come in me and make me come! Please, please -- fuck me!"
"God, lady, you don't know what that does to me," I said in between nibbles.
"Yes, I think I do. . . ." She nudged my rigid cock with a hip bone and blew into my mouth. Stephanie was obviously fascinated by the whole thing -- her face was bright red, but I didn't think it was all embarrassment. I tried to visualize us from the girl's perspective: Her mother's tall, slender, smoothly sculpted body, naked except for the thong circling her waist and disappearing down the center of her ass. Slender arms wrapped possessively around the guy from next door. A throaty demand to be screwed.
I didn't know what picture of her mother Stephanie might have had before, but it wouldn't be the same after this. Then she realized I had seen her and she silently disappeared back down the hall to her room.
I was having my own problems, though. My cock was attempting to tunnel out to freedom by main force. It was beginning to be not enough, just handling Carol's body and swapping spit -- as fantastic as those activities were.
My mind was functioning at a much more primitive level, . . . preservation of the species and all that stuff. I wanted to throw myself into Carol's pussy, cock first, and I wanted it badly. We would have to advance to the next level of this new relationship -- which I was pretty sure wasn't going to happen this evening -- or I would have to stop before I injured myself. (I mean, can blue balls cause a hernia?)
I slowly, carefully broke off our ten-minute kiss and backed away a few inches, taking deep, steadying breaths as I did so. From Carol's expression, she had already guessed the reason. "I'm trying to stay inside the rules, sweetheart, but it's going to be nearly impossible if we keep going down this track." I tucked her hair behind her ears and let my fingers glide across the tops of her shoulders. "I don't want to give you any reason not to trust me. Besides, if I lost control, you'd stretch me out on the floor in two seconds!"
Carol laughed and gave me a sweet smile that I knew I'd be seeing in my dreams for weeks. "No, Mike, that's okay. I understand. Men just don't have the self-control that women have, do they?"
I raised both eyebrows and looked her slowly up and down. "Self-control"? We both grinned.
"This evening has been unbelievable -- I mean literally and every other way," I said. "I feel better than I have in a long time -- about myself, the world, everything. That's your doing." Carol looked pleased and even blushed again, a little. "I'm glad. Because I feel good, too. I guess I just needed to be held and loved, with no strings attached or anything. But I'm going to need regular attention, you know, . . . like booster shots. Think you can handle that, neighbor?"
"My pleasure -- and I mean that sincerely," I added in a Groucho-voice and she laughed again and kissed the palm of my hand. "Mike, . . . you know, we won't have to stop like this every time. Maybe not even the next time." There were promises in her eyes I knew she intended to keep. "I just had to start slow." She glanced down at her nearly naked body. "Well, *kinda* slow. . . ."
"I know; that's why I'm willing to pack it in for tonight. I'm willing
to wait until you feel comfortable about us, uh, . . ." I got shy, suddenly.
Not wanting to press my fantastic luck. Carol moved in close again and
kissed me very gently, almost a thank-you kiss, and stroked my cheek. "We're
going to be great friends," she said.
Ten or fifteen minutes later, I was making my way slowly back to my own door. It was full dark -- I'd been in Carol's house at least two hours -- and there was a cooling breeze. I could feel the sweat drying on my skin and I was sure I smelled like a locker room. Next time, I wouldn't wear shoes and socks, just the moccasins I use as house shoes. And a shirt without a tail, too. Maybe she'll come over to my place next time, I thought as I strolled across the lawn and reached the live oak that marked our common property line.
Then I jumped about three inches as Stephanie silently stepped out from behind the tree. She was barefoot, still wearing the shorts and T-shirt, and her hands were behind her back. Was she hiding a carving knife, or what? I just froze and looked at her, wondering what was about to happen.
She looked down at her feet and nudged a leaf with a dainty toe. I was a little relieved when she moved her hands around in front and clasped them nervously.
"I wanted to, uh . . ." She cleared her throat and suddenly looked half her age. "To apologize." She looked down again. "Mom was right; I didn't have any right to get upset. She and my Dad didn't get along too well for a couple years. I think she found out he was out screwing around, . . . you know, with other women. She won't tell me the details. Anyway, she's entitled to do whatever she wants. I want her to be happy again, and when you were with her, . . . well, she looked and sounded happy." She took a deep breath and looked into my face resolutely.
"Mr. Greer, . . . are you . . . are you in love with my mother?"
Jesus, what a conversation to be having in the front yard, in the dark, with a girl who wasn't quite sixteen. I wanted to handle this very carefully, but I was also getting chilly and my back was getting stiff from the unaccustomed exercise.
"Tell you what, Stephanie: Why don't you come in and sit down for a minute and we can talk, okay? And considering what we're talking about, do you think you could call me 'Mike'?"
She glanced at her house and then at mine -- I suppose automatically working out the relative safety factor, as girls her age learn to do -- and gave me a little smile. Being tolerant of the Old Guy.
When we entered my living room, she glanced around curiously. We had been neighbors since she was an infant but I couldn't recall that she had ever been in this house.
I indicated the sofa and she went and sat, tucking one foot beneath herself in an unconsciously fetching pose. I sat in one of the chairs across the coffee table from her -- a barrier between us that might help her relax. She was waiting patiently for an answer to her question and I was trying to think of the right words, so we sat there in silence for half a minute. I sighed.
"Stephanie, it depends on what you mean by 'love'. If you mean, are we going to get married and start making babies--" (she tried to suppress a smile at that image) "--then, no, we're not in love. I don't imagine you're planning to elope next week with any of the guys you're dating, are you?" I raised an eyebrow, and she colored a little and shook her head.
"No, 'course not. I probably won't get married until I finish college. Mom keeps telling me that was her big mistake -- dropping out of college to get married. But if you fall in love with someone . . ."
". . . then all bets are off. I know," I finished. "You might get married in college, if you meet the right guy. But if you aren't husband-hunting right now, why do you even bother going on dates?" She gave me a blank look.
"I don't mean going to the movies and social things like that; I mean dates where you spend the whole evening in the back seat of the car, or making out on your sofa?" I kept my voice quiet and gentle, but she really did pink up that time. "Because it's fun, right? Sex is supposed to be fun, Stephanie. At your age, you have to be careful about getting pregnant and messing up all the plans you have for your life. But even just kissing and touching each other is a terrific feeling, isn't it?"
"Yeah, . . . But I just never thought of older people doing that. I'm confused, I guess." She met my eyes again. "So you're not actually in love or anything?"
"Sweetheart, what we are, I think, is infatuated." I had finally found the word I wanted. "We discovered, this evening, your mother and I, that we each fill a need for the other. A physical and emotional need. I suppose we *are* 'in love', a little -- in the sixteen-year-old sense. Does that sound reasonable?"
She nodded and her curls shimmied. She was definitely a cutie -- just like her mother. "Yeah, I guess. If I think of Mom as . . . as just a 'girl', not as my mother, . . . then it's like watching a sex scene in a movie or something." That apparently made her think of something else and she went red around the ears again. God, she was even cuter when she blushed.
"Uh, Mike, . . . you aren't mad at me for peeking on you in the living room, are you? I mean, I couldn't believe it and I had to see for myself, but I shouldn't have, I know. . . ." She was studying her fingernails again.
"No, it doesn't bother me, Stephanie. What did you think of what you saw? What did you think of your mother, I mean?"
"Well, . . . she's attractive. . . ."
"'Attractive'?" I chuckled and shook my head. "Sweetheart, your mother is absolutely beautiful! She's gorgeous, she's sexy, she's . . ." I ran out of adjectives and grinned at the girl who was grinning at me. "She's a whole lot more than 'attractive', Stephanie, believe me."
"Well, I've never seen her naked like that -- you know, with a man. And I've *never* heard her *talk* like that! I guess it kinda got to me, a little. And watching you squeezing her butt, and she was making those sounds. . . ." She tapered off and her ears got pinker as she shot me that calculating look I had received earlier from Carol.
"Watching you and her made me . . . hot." Her voice was softer and her eyes larger. "I wanted to know what she was feeling -- you know, what your hands felt like on her bottom, doing that. *I've* never done anything like that before. I'm still . . . I mean, I've never, uh. . . ." The sound of her voice was heating me up, as well. I imagined, for a moment, my hands moving over little Stephanie's slim young body as they had Carol's. Her voice urging me on, as Carol's had. Mother and daughter were very similar, physically. . . . And I was going to make myself crazy.
"Watch any time you like, Stephanie." I tried to keep my smile from becoming a leer. "Of course, your mother and I may buy tickets for *your* next heavy date. . . ."
I expected that to break the spell: Stephanie would be embarrassed again and the conversation would change course. Instead, maintaining that same almost solemn expression, she stood up and said "I might surprise you, Mike. It might be fun to know you were watching me make out with somebody." And then: "Well, I have to get back, now; I'm supposed to be in bed."
I stood as she came around the coffee table, my mind suddenly filled with more images of this girl in the throes of passion with someone who looked a lot like me. She paused before me.
"Would you mind if I kissed you? For making my Mom so happy?" I bent forward and offered my cheek. Stephanie's cool, smooth little hands turned my face back and then her lips were on mine. Not a little peck and not a passionate teenage kiss, either, but a serious effort I wouldn't have expected from a girl her age. The slight pressure of her mouth sent reverberations bouncing all through my skull. Then she stepped away toward the door and gave me a knowing little grin.
"Guess I'll be seeing you around, then, won't I?"
It was my turn to clear my throat before I could speak, and by then
she had slipped out the door.
As I was climbing into bed an hour later, it dawned on me that tomorrow was Saturday: I might have asked Carol for a proper date. And I was immediately glad I hadn't. A formal date seemed to have overtones of courtship and we both wanted to avoid that. We wanted to keep this blossoming relationship spontaneous -- and that required careful planning. Then my bedside phone rang and I found telepathy at work again: It was Carol.
"Mike, I was wondering if you'd like to get together this weekend -- I mean, not to . . . um . . . well, to go someplace together. Just for company. If you're not already busy, I mean. God, I'm not doing this very well, am I?"
"You're doing just fine; I was trying to think of a way to ask you out without making too much of a *serious* thing of it. How did we ever forget how to do all this stuff?"
Carol laughed. "Well, the High Hats are in the District Pep Squad Finals tomorrow afternoon and Stephanie is in it. I'm going, of course, and she insisted I call and see if you'd like to go. But I don't know if you want to sit through a high school thing like that--"
Stephanie's voice abruptly came on from her extension. "Mike, I wish you'd come; it'd be a lot of fun, really. Mom's not impressed by our routine because she did all this stuff herself -- but I bet *you'd* be impressed!"
There it was -- another request I couldn't refuse. "Well, I've never been to one of these so maybe it's about time. Anyway, I'd like to go if you're sure you want me along."
"I'm sure!" Stephanie said immediately. I could hear Carol through the fingers she was holding over her mouthpiece, telling Stephanie to please get off the phone now and go to bed. Then she was back.
"Well, it's at the University Stadium and we have to leave about noon; is that okay?"
"Perfect. Just toss some gravel at my window when you're ready."
Frankly, I was prepared to be bored out of my mind in a good cause, which was to cement friendly relations with Carol and Stephanie. I surprised myself by actually having a good time. I had occasionally watched the cheerleaders practice when I was in high school, but this was entirely different. These kids did close-order drill better than the Marine Corps and the gymnastic stunts they put into their routines were astonishing.
Carol had some pull, apparently, because we had seats right down near the front and just one section from the center. Great view, especially when some sweet young thing with more energy than was good for her was being tossed through the air. I began to wonder if I was becoming fixated on young girls. Then I noticed that all the dads who had come to watch their kids compete were also watching the girls very closely. They were cute, no denying it. The High Hats were third on the program and went through their trademark chorus line routine. As one of the taller girls, Stephanie worked near the center of the line -- and she was right: I was impressed. The kid could kick at least two feet higher than her head, almost without bending her other knee.
Carol saw me shake my head in admiration and looked very pleased. "Did you look like that at her age?" I asked.
"Oh, Steph can kick higher than I ever could," she said proudly. "She started younger, though. She used to look at the pictures of me and then fall on her ass trying to high-kick." She took my hand unexpectedly and winked. "I can still do that, though; I'll have to demonstrate one of these days."
When their performance was completed, the High Hats dispersed into the stands to sit with friends and family. We had saved a seat for Stephanie and she showed up a few minutes later, hat in hand, still out of breath. She was excited and flushed and adorable. The short skirt of her costume had a stiff petticoat and it stuck up no matter how she sat, so she ignored it. It also meant that when she leaned back on her elbows with her knees apart, her crotch was on display. I glanced in that direction once or twice and she noticed -- and grinned at me.
Then, while her mother was talking to a friend a couple rows up, Stephanie said, "What do you think of my legs, Mike?" She looked at me innocently but I had a feeling her question was deliberately phrased.
"Very nice," I said cautiously. "You take after your mother."
"She said you were really good at massaging her feet last night. Could you work on this muscle right here?" And she took my hand in hers and placed it carefully on her upper thigh. Then she made the muscle twitch and I took my hand away like I had been burned -- and glanced around to make sure no one was watching this bit of byplay.
"Maybe later, Stephanie." I had to clear my throat to say that much.
"If I'm supposed to call you 'Mike', why don't you call me 'Steph'?" she suggested, swinging her knee lightly against mine.
When Carol came back, Stephanie was explaining the intricacies of the
routines to me, while managing to keep her thigh snuggled up close to mine.
Carol either didn't notice or thought nothing of it. I won't deny I enjoyed
the attention this little heartbreaker was paying me, but I was still sweating
By unspoken agreement, I went back to my own house when we returned. Carol and her daughter were frazzled from the day's competition, and besides, we didn't want to push things. I changed into some old "house shorts" and had a bite in front of the TV. The local news featured a clip from the District Pep Squad Finals and, as the Second Place finishers out of twenty competitors, the High Hats had fifteen seconds all to themselves. I was delighted when the minicam, panning down the chorus line, closed on Stephanie and the girl next to her, and she turned a dazzling smile on the camera.
Three minutes later, there was a rapid series of knocks on my door, like a large woodpecker. When I opened up, Stephanie bounced through the door on springs.
"Did you see the news?! I was on the news! I'm famous!" I didn't remember having had that kind of remorseless energy when *I* was sixteen. I congratulated her on her TV debut, acutely aware that she was barefoot and wearing shorts so brief they didn't show under her long T-shirt. She flopped, beaming, onto the sofa and put one foot up on the coffee table.
Then her smile shifted gears and she said, "You were going to massage my leg, remember? It gets awful stiff after that much work." She didn't look at all stiff to me, but I sat down next to her.
"Did you tell your mother you were coming over here?"
"Nope -- she's over visiting Grandma for a couple hours. I'm alllllll alone, . . ." she sing-songed. Oh, great, I thought. I'm alone with an underage seductress. She put my hand firmly on her thigh again, just below the hem of her T-shirt.
"I thought it was the other leg."
"They both get stiff." She leaned back and put her hands behind her head. That made her shirt ride up. No shorts. An inch above the spot where my hand was draped over her slender thigh was a narrow band of white lace, edging a pair of sky-blue cotton panties.
I sat there and stupidly studied the little mound at the fork of her legs. It drew me like a magnet and my throat went even drier than before. I glanced at her face. Stephanie was holding her breath, lips parted, eyes half-shut, waiting for me to do something, anything. "Stephanie, . . . Steph, . . . I don't think you know what you're doing, sweetheart."
"Yes, I do," she said very softly. "Mom said you were so nice to her, so gentle and everything, and it made her feel so good. . . . I want to know what it's like. I'm old enough; I know lots of girls who have already . . . you know, . . . done it with boys. I don't want to do *that* yet -- but I've never felt like Mom felt, either. Please, Mike? Show me what it's like?" Her mouth was right up next to my ear now, whispering, the Devil herself. She was so sweet, so helpless, . . . so terrifyingly available.
I coughed and sat back, absently rubbing my hands together. That was a mistake. Stephanie was immediately on my lap, her small, tight butt pressing down against my groin. She flung her arms around my neck and nailed me square on the mouth. Her little tits drilled into me through her shirt and she made a whimpering sound as she tried to push her tongue between my lips.
My caution and better judgment exploded under the assault and I pushed her tongue back with mine. I slipped one arm around her and moved up under her tee-shirt, marveling at the smoothness of her young body. My other hand stroked her thigh, which trembled at the touch like a violin string.
Then she squirmed around and got one leg on each side of my lap (I've been here before, I thought) and I found my hands moving up and down the backs of her slim, muscular thighs. She was frantically planting kisses on my neck and ear, her youthful passion setting off detonations everywhere she touched. I was beyond help.
She let go just long enough to yank her shirt over her head and then she was plastered against me again, her torso scorching my chest. I clutched at her little ass, squeezing her buttocks and separating them with my hands. Maybe it says something about my deeper nature that I didn't tear her panties off, and I didn't rip off my shorts.
But I pried her loose and fastened my mouth on her blazing nipple, and she had a fit of trembling that made her teeth chatter. When I sucked on it, drawing the hard little cone between my teeth, her entire body shook. She clutched wildly at my hair and pushed herself against me. I cupped her other small, pointed breast in my hand and stroked the nipple with my thumb. The gasping sounds she made climbed the scale, and when I pinched and tugged a bit, she went beyond the range of human hearing.
It was very easy to tell when little Stephanie had her climax because she vibrated and jittered all over me. I was astonished at her sexual intensity: It was like striking a kitchen match and finding you've lit a stick of dynamite. She gradually calmed down, face buried in my neck, making great racking sobbing-gasping noises. I held her and stroked her head and her back, and gently kissed her neck.
I stayed away from her tits and her quivering ass, now. I knew most women were very sensitive to touch immediately after an orgasm and I didn't even want to think what this sweet young thing's reaction might be if I pushed the wrong button.
Then she raised her head and gave me a melting look. "Oh, Mike, . . . Oh, God, . . ." she panted and hugged me tightly. Her face was bright red and tears were flowing down her cheeks and onto her small breasts. "That was a real orgasm?" She sniffled. "I've, you know, done it to myself sometimes, and I'm sure I came a couple times -- but it was nothing like that!" She gave me a strange look, almost a little frightened. "Is it going to be like that every time I do it with a guy?"
"If you're lucky." I had to laugh at her expression. "Steph, if you could harness the electricity in that particular orgasm, you could probably power a city on it for a year. No, it isn't like that every time. You were fortunate . . . and you're still a virgin, too."
"Yeah." She curled up on my lap as I leaned back, drawing up her knees and laying her cheek against my chest. She was a little girl again, not the nymphet tigress of a few minutes before. "Mike, why didn't you, uh . . ." she began. "You know. You could have . . ." She couldn't finish.
"Why didn't I fuck you, Steph?" She flinched. "*That's* why, sweetheart. You aren't ready for that. I shouldn't even have done what I did, we both know that. Temporary insanity, I guess. When you get wound up, you're a tidal wave of sexual energy; I drowned in it." I hugged her and stroked her shimmering curls.
"You're going to have to be very careful who you unleash that power on, Steph. You were lucky with me; I like you a lot and I like your mother, and I wouldn't do anything to hurt either of you. If I had gotten my cock into you -- and part of me really wanted to do it, believe me! -- it would have spoiled everything." I began nudging her off my lap while I could still make myself do it.
"Now, it's time for you to be getting back, sweetheart, before you mother comes home and gets worried." She stood, still a bit shaky, andpicked up her tee-shirt. When she bent from the waist, her suspended breasts looked like inverted volcanoes -- an apt description. Then she was pulling the shirt over her head and I loved watching her cute little tits jiggle and dance. I felt I should look away, but I couldn't.
Stephanie glanced up and her expression changed as she realized the effect she was still having on me. A small, sexy, mischievous smile appeared. (Does that just come naturally to all women, like in the womb or something?) Without taking her eyes from mine, she lifted her shirt and slid her right hand down the front of her panties. From the way her hand moved beneath the cotton, it seemed her middle finger had disappeared far up into her steaming little cunt. She bent her knees slightly and sucked at her lower lip as she pushed her finger farther in.
When her finger reappeared, I could smell the aroma immediately. Stephanie moved up close to me again and cupped one small hand around the back of my neck. I blindly put my hands on her hips. Her head bent to touch mine, very close and warm. She held out her glistening, dripping middle finger and touched it to my lips.
"I moved my finger all around in there, to get it real wet; I went all the way to the end. This is a taste of me, if you want it, because you're so nice to me and my mom."
I opened my mouth and gently sucked in the offering. She was right: It was a lovely taste of her, sweet and succulent, like a flower. As I ran my tongue all around her finger, gathering every atom of moisture, she stroked my cheek and sighed.
When I had it all, I stood and hugged her and she put her arms around
me and hugged back. It was strange that such a consciously erotic gesture
as she had made should make me feel more affectionate than horny. Maybe
I was just temporarily burned out by the women next door. But I kissed
little Stephanie one last time before she left, to give her back a small
taste of herself.
--- END ---
Copyright 1993 by Michael K. Smith. Copies may be made and posted elsewhere
for personal enjoyment, but all commercial rights are reserved.