Six months ago, my husband and I purchased and then moved into our dream home. Since then, I’ve been involved in a steamy, online affair with my neighbor, and we’ve gotten into swinging. It wasn’t planned; it just happened. The veil of my normal, mundane, happy life was ripped away, finally letting me see that while I was happy, I could not only be satisfied with life but also live out my sexual fantasies. Hello, my name is Lyn, short for Marilyn, and this is exactly what happened.
My husband, John, and I weren’t each other’s first, but we were each other’s first love. We met in college, graduating at the same time, although I was two years younger than him, and began dating right after graduation. Ours was a typical romance, followed by a typical wedding, with the standard renting of an apartment in the city. He found a good job in IT, traveling a lot. While I had a few jobs here and there, my mediocre Psychology degree wasn’t exactly what one would call a marketable skill, so I ended up becoming a stereotypical stay-at-home wife.
City life eventually reared its ugly head. Crime, noise, the lack of privacy, and high living costs were a constant bane in our otherwise happy existence. For years, we scrimped, scraped, and saved until we could afford the down payment on our dream home, a quaint home in the country, away from the hustle and bustle that had lost its luster long ago.
As a couple, we looked like the American dream. He was tall, athletic, and moderately handsome with black hair, dark eyes, and a tanned complexion. I was the typical, cute, girl-next-door type with long, wavy medium brown hair, bright blue eyes, and a creamy complexion that made me look innocent enough, but with just the right amount of mischief to tip the scales, ever so slightly, from cute to sexy. Body-wise, I didn’t feel slighted. At thirty years old, I still turned heads and got plenty of stares when I felt adventurous enough to wear a bikini in public.
Our American dream of a home wasn’t in the fine, physical condition that John and I were. “Fixer Upper” would be a more accurate term. The house needed work, the yard resembled the wilds more than anything else, and there were many factors, other than the price, that were less than perfect. We jokingly called it a “disaster area with a roof.”
We could afford the payments, barely. However, it was more than forty minutes further away from my husband’s office than we had hoped; the home needed major renovation. The remote location meant that it was much further away from city conveniences, such as shopping, than I liked, and, while I adored the view, there was only one neighbor, across the highway and set far back from the road, in sight. Nonetheless, we both loved the view, and the surrounding country and bought the house.
Closing costs, background credit checks, utility deposits, and property taxes ravaged our savings more brutally than Vikings attacking a citadel. By the time moving day arrived, we only had enough money to rent a rickety moving van for a single day and maybe treat ourselves to some fast-food burgers for our first-night-in-our-new-home feast. Murphy’s Law prevailed; everything that could have gone wrong went terribly askew. It was both the best and most stressful day of my life; even my wedding day went smoother. However, it was also the day we met our new neighbors, Christy and Glen.
Magnetically attractive and radiating lusty sexuality, I nearly gasped at the too-perfect sight of them. Two perfect beings with broad, welcoming smiles, and a casual, accepting air about them, were walking up our overgrown and disintegrating driveway. My first thought was that they looked photo-shopped. My second thought was to remind myself to not stare at the man whose eyes were burning into my soul like lasers.
He was strikingly handsome with grayish, hazel eyes. His hair was a sexy mass of blond tangles, and the rest of him seemed to be custom designed to entice me, as well. His fitted t-shirt enhanced his perfectly-formed muscles rather than hiding them. His worn and ragged jeans seemed somehow stylish, accenting his small waist and bulging leg muscles. A more alluring bulge was outlined, in denim, between his legs. He was incredibly desirable as if he radiated an aura of sexual pleasure. It was as if he were made especially for me to drool over. For a moment, I forgot all about my husband.
In a panic, I painfully tore my eyes away from one of the most beautiful men I’d ever seen, glancing at my husband to ensure he hadn’t caught me leering over another man. He hadn’t noticed; he was too busy staring at the gorgeous woman with her arm possessively draped around my next husband. I’d never been instantly sexually attracted before in my life; it struck me like horny lightning.
If he was beautiful and seductive, she eclipsed him. She appeared to be in her early twenties, with fiery red hair, the color of the edge of a flame; deep, medium green eyes; a pale complexion with sexy freckles; and a body that was too sexy and perfect for comfort. She was dressed in a mid-length, Boho skirt, sandals on her feet, and a frilly top, thin enough that the outlines of her perfectly-shaped breasts could be seen, her nipples darkening the fabric.
They looked like movie stars, models, or porn stars with their bodily perfection and raw sensuality. They were obviously very into each other and very sexual; that was evident at first glance.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Christy, and this is my husband, Glen. Welcome to the neighborhood, not that we have one.” Even her voice was sexy, slightly shrill and husky, very seductive. She was a glowing example of feminine perfection, making me very self-conscious of every flaw on my body.
After John and I regained the power of speech, we managed to greet our new and only neighbors, properly. The two of them were more than happy to pitch in and help us unload the moving truck. Over the hours it took, I found myself treating them both as if they were intimate friends; they were both so open, entertaining, and accepting that it felt like magic.
The psychologist in me was intrigued, as the two of them were unique, bordering on the bizarre. The woman in me couldn’t keep her eyes or mind off of that hunky morsel of man-flesh, Glen. I’d never once even thought about straying from my husband, a few inebriated masturbation fantasies aside, but he made me swoon. Even though the water wasn’t turned on yet—it was scheduled to be turned on next Monday, along with the rest of the utilities—I excused myself to the bathroom several times to catch my breath and dry my nether regions.
Unpacking became dinner, delivered by the fine restaurant a few miles down the road, even though they don’t deliver. Glen “knew” them. That was serendipitous, a nice, chef-staffed restaurant just down the road. Dinner evolved into “housewarming wine,” with Christy proclaiming that we’ll get some out of her wine cellar.
Christy was a psychoanalyst's dream...and nightmare. She was a case study in contrasts. Babbling incessantly, I knew her entire life story before we’d even hung the curtains. All through the day, I couldn’t discern if she was a vapid bimbo with flashes of brilliance or had a stunning intellect and was just playing ditsy. Even more intriguing was the fact that she, and Glen as well, were entirely self-aware. She called herself out on her idiocy, laughed at herself, and was fully aware that she presented herself in a larger-than-life, slutty fashion.
Glen, her sexy-looking and exceptionally sweet husband, was simply an enigma. Any attempts to analyze his psyche quickly disintegrated. It was entirely unfair that any man should be allowed to be that good-looking, be that sweet, witty, and charming, and make my panties damp. There was just something very different about him, and I couldn’t figure out what it was. That didn’t concern me; I was enjoying the way he made me feel. He was very flirty, I think, at least I hoped, because I flirted back, hard. However, with him, it wasn’t a come-on. I felt seen, appreciated, enjoyed, admired, and desired. No wonder Christy was be-bopping all over the place without a care in the world.
“I wish we had the money for a hotel, tonight,” I found myself saying. I was lost in the camaraderie. “I don’t think I’ve ever needed a hot shower more than I do right now.”
“Oh,” Christy giggled. “I know, right? Why don’t you come over to our place and take a shower.”
“I-I can’t. I have nothing to wear.”
“No problem,” she reached out and touched my arm. “My body isn’t anywhere near as decent as yours; I’m so jealous, but we’re about the same size. Raid my closets and pick out whatever you want.”
Closets? Plural?
“John,” I called out. “I’m going over to Christy’s to grab a quick shower and borrow some clean clothes.”
“Are you sure, hon,” he looked at me quizzically.
Glen laughed at that and patted my husband on the shoulder. I tried to not leer at his muscular arms that had so recently bulged under the weight of the box containing all my pots and pans.
“That’s lady-code,” he smirked at John. “It means that they’re going to grab some ‘girl time’ and see if they hit it off. If they do, then they’re going to gossip about us.”
“And we’ll pick out some nice wine,” Christy said, taking me by the arm and leading me across the highway.
That’s the exact moment my life began reeling out of control.
Their vibe had been gnawing at me all day. I felt compelled to figure them out. Christy was obviously in the wrong decade; she was more of a flower girl, a hippie child, a free spirit with a sexual streak a mile wide. Glen couldn’t be labeled, but he was most intriguing. He was too good to be true. She was, well, Carrot-top Barbie, an odd mix of intelligence and vapidness, sexual and slutty, but still somehow classy, exuberant in her positivism to the point of being almost annoying.
We crossed the road, as barely any traffic drives down it, and Christy led me down their winding, cobblestone driveway. When their home came into full view, my mouth dropped.
Their spacious house looked like a haunted house you’d see in the movies or a castle. The exterior was all cut stone, a tower jutting skyward just off-center. Carved stone ornamentation highlighted the entire yard, tastefully done, and off to the back, right against the woods, was a new-looking gazebo.
Of course, she lives in a fucking castle, the bitch. I thought to myself. Instead, I said, “I see you have a gazebo, so lovely.”
“Yep,” she shrugged and smiled. “It was a surprise gift for my fortieth.”
“Fortieth what?” I asked, incredulously.
“Birthday.”
“Forty?” I paused in disbelief. “As in years old?”
“Yep, I’m an old crone now.”
“You’re forty?” I paused, unable to restrain myself. “You’re fucking forty and look like that, you live in a castle, and you have a damn gazebo?”
“I know,” she mocked herself. “I told you that my life is like a fairy tale.”
“Let me guess,” I scolded. “Glen just has to be a plastic surgeon then!”
“No,” she said innocently, totally missing my meaning. “What gave you that idea? He does concrete carving.”
A thousand emotions, disbelief and envy being most prevalent, ran through me. Very slowly, I inquired, “are…you…insane?”
Christy smirked and shrugged in all her sex-kitten glory, totally nonplussed at my accusation, but agreeing with me. “Yep. I’m definitely crazy, but not ‘afraid to go to sleep’ psycho.”
She laughed at herself, and I found myself laughing along with her. Over the day I hadn’t given it much thought, but, at that moment, I realized that we had, indeed, bonded. I was sure that would all change when she discovered that I lusted after her husband. She led me inside.
The interior was simply stunning. If I thought the outside looked like a castle, the interior removed any doubt. Although a study in the various textures of stonework, the house had a spacious, warm vibe to it, ancient, historical architecture meets modern-day convenience. Gleaming appliances looked perfectly at home beside rough-hewn stone counters, and the mixture of the old and new somehow worked. Even the swords and shields on the wall looked perfectly natural next to a large-screen TV and a comfy, modern couch.
Babbling on and on, Christy gave me a mini-tour that started at the side door and ended at the wine cellar. A small room with finely-crafted wooden shelf units along the walls, the variety of wine in there made quite a nice collection. I discovered that the place used to be a run-down farmhouse, but Glen had remodeled and renovated it into the medieval castle that it now was. Then, my new friend’s phone rang.
Christy glanced at it, smiled, and answered the call. “HI, mom, you’re on speakerphone.”
A mirth-filled woman’s voice responded, “Are you busy?”
“No, mom. Our new neighbor is here, helping me pick out some wine. Say hello to Lyn.”
“Merry met, Lyn,” the woman said. “I’m Sam, the mother. I’m sure you’ve heard all about me, already. My Chrissy will give you her entire life story, in way too much detail, if you let her. Do you know why I called, sweetie?”
“To tell me to not be my ‘usual stupid bitch self and fuck things up with Glen,’ like you always do?”
“Yes, that, of course. He’s a keeper. But I read your new story; you’ve outdone yourself, Chrissy. I just wanted to let you know how proud I am of you. My own daughter, a famous author!”
“I’m not famous, and I’m not an author. I just write erotica for a website.”
“I don’t care, I’m still so proud that you’ve found your calling. I’ll leave you be. Bye sweetie; bye, Lyn.”
“Bye, mom, love you. I’ll call you tomorrow, OK?”
She hung up the phone as I stared in dismay. She was an “erotica writer?” Of course, she was! If she or her life got any more perfect, I’d absolutely need to strangle her. As I gawked at the wealth of wine before me, I asked about her erotica writing.
“Oh, it’s not a big deal like mom makes it seem,” she laughed at herself. “I write on a premier adult erotica site called Plushtales. Under the very obfuscated pen name of ‘ChristyS’.”
“S?” I asked.
“My maiden name. Until he married my slutty ass, I was just Christy Scarlet. Now, I’m Christy Scarlet-Whitehorn. I love him, but it’s so difficult to fit a long-assed name like that on your cover picture!”
She reached to a top shelf, stretching her body. Her physical perfection and wrinkle-free skin made me doubt that she was forty years old. Retrieving an ornately-carved wooden box from places unseen, she smiled broadly.
“Some herbal relaxation?”
“You mean marijuana?” She nodded. “I haven’t done that since college. John would kill me if I ended up smelling like pot.”
“Edibles then? They’re watermelon gummies made from my dad’s newest hybrid. He calls it Hate Fuck.” She plucked one out of the container, stared for a second, and grabbed another. Neither coaxing nor denying, she looked at me.
“When in Rome.” I grabbed two of them and found them to taste like gummy candy rather than THC-laced solids.
The shower was divine, although I half-expected their shower to be an old, wooden bucket. Contrary to my fears, the bathroom was a mélange of old and new styles, all perfectly fitted together to form a fusion of taste and class. Christy did, indeed, have multiple closets. Her clothing ran the gambit from sexy to slutty. There were designer dresses, all of them cut to entice; multiple tops and skirts and shorts were tailored to show off one's physical charms. I found some more conservative shorts and a t-shirt that wasn’t see-through and chose those.
”I know we just met,” I asked her, “but do you have any panties I could wear? I promise I’ll replace them.”
“Top drawer on the left,” she pointed. “Don’t bother replacing them; I never wear them. My pussy is so wet all the time that they’re useless.”
Of course, she never wore panties! It was a very good thing that she was so personable, otherwise, I’d have more than enough cause to loathe her. What she did have was, of course, sexy. Lace panties, thongs, g-strings, and cuts made to draw the eye. At least we were roughly the same size.
“Sorry, I don’t have a bra that will fit you,” she apologized. “Your breasts are so much fuller and nicer than mine. I so wish I had your body…and skin…and hair. You really put me to shame.”
“Are you deluded?”
“I prefer the term hopeful, romantic dreamer.” We laughed at that.
Arm in arm, two bottles of very expensive wine in our hands, we returned to the boys, well, one boy and Glen. The rest of the night was a blur, a gloriously warm and stoned dream. Glen and John hit off as if they were best friends. Christy and I grew on each other, and, yes, we gossiped about our men. I wished I could hate her. According to her, Glen was the kind of man every woman dreamed about. Looking at him, experiencing the way he churned up carnal desires and emotions that I’d forgotten I had, and the way he seemed to understand me, all while making things sexual and fun, without being off-putting, made me agree with her. If he so much as glanced at me or spoke to me, I’d swoon.
Finally, it hit me. Christy was actually a quite intelligent and very in-control person. However, the things she let drop throughout the night alerted me that she had a tumultuous past and playing the brain-dead, sexual slut was both her armor and what she used to gain acceptance. Now, it was evident that she did it because she enjoyed it. Glen? Still an enigma, but a sexy, hot, pussy-drenching one. They left, although we could have probably talked the night away. Somehow, both of them, with their optimism and flirty natures, gave John and me a feeling that no matter what was in store, everything would end up perfect.
Because we had no power yet, our first night in our new home was by candlelight. Hidden by the relative darkness behind our window, my husband wrapped me in his arms while we watched them head over to their castle-like home. They paused every few steps to stare into each other’s eyes, fondle and kiss each other, and laugh. When she boldly pulled off his t-shirt as they reached the end of our driveway, I moaned out loud at the sight of his body. His finely chiseled muscles rippled in the moonlight; he was a perfect specimen of manhood.
“You like that?” John said in response to moaning. I panicked. “You like the feeling of my hands on you.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m so horny right now. Take me right now. Take me while I wear another woman’s clothes.” They were kissing passionately at the end of our dilapidated driveway, hands roaming and exploring each other.
John’s hands mirrored their actions, although with him standing behind me, he couldn’t see them. I quickly justified my urges, blaming the marijuana I’d consumed and the half-bottle of wonderful wine. I knew that the main reason was Glen. Watching them make out like horny teenagers, glowing in the moonlight, I ground my ass into my husband’s crotch, feeling more aroused than I had in years. I saw his hands reach under her sexy, slutty, gypsy skirt, obviously fondling her ass.
“Pull down Christy’s shorts and fondle my butt,” I pled, moaning as he did. In my mind, it wasn’t John, but the super-sexy, wonderful Glen caressing me, digging his fingers into my flesh.
I moaned when his hands left her perfect behind and reached towards her blouse, unceremoniously ripping it open. I matched the pornographic scene by pulling my borrowed t-shirt over my breasts.
”Grab my tits, you fucker, just like…” I stopped myself before I said, “like he’s doing to her.” Instead, I finished with, “just like I love.”
He did. I moaned in desperate need as his mouth lowered itself to her visibly hard, perfect, and erect nipples, one of his hands disappearing under her skirt. I couldn’t stand it any longer. Without worrying about being too aggressive or too slutty, I kicked off my neighbor’s shorts and spread my legs, leaning forward, my hands on the window sill.
“Fuck me, John. Ram that hard cock in me and fuck me while I’m wearing Christy’s clothes.”
He hesitated. “Here? Now?”
I reached down, playing with my clit, something I’d never done in front of him, before. “What, aren’t you horny? Don’t you want my cunt,” I actually used the C-word. It felt so daring, so dirty. “Fuck my wet cunt,” I begged, “slam your hard cock in my cunt and take me.”
His hard shaft finally probed my very wet pussy from behind. I reached further back, grasping it between my legs, and guided it in. The thought that his penis, fully erect, seemed smaller than Glen’s appeared to be while flaccid crossed my mind. Instead of commenting, I moaned.
The sexy, too-perfect couple in my driveway was lost in the throes of passion, at least she was. She had her head thrown back, a look of ecstasy on her face. Her long, red hair swayed back and forth as her hips humped against his hand. By then, she had both of her hands on his broad shoulders to help her stay upright. The quivers of her body showed me, even from that distance, that she was near orgasm. They turned, slightly towards the window, affording me a view of a prominent, large swell in Glens’ jeans.
“Fuck me harder,” I commanded, surprised at the tone of my voice. “Fuck me in that sexy redhead’s clothes.”
My heat, John’s obvious lust for Christy, and the newness of having sex someplace other than in the bedroom with the lights off were too much for my husband. Before I’d finished my urging, he unloaded a massive volume of hot, sticky cum in my pussy. As if choreographed, Christy had an intense orgasm as I watched. Her body shook with spasms that made me envious; her sexy, shirtless husband had to grab her by the waist to keep her from falling. With John grunting and pounding into my “cunt,” I was amazed to see Glen pick her up and throw her over his shoulder as if she were weightless.
For a brief moment, our eyes locked. I desperately wanted to hide. Even in the moonlight, there was no mistaking that she had seen me. Instead of being embarrassed, shocked, or offended, Christy smiled at me, winked, and blew me a kiss as her underwear-model-worthy husband carried her across the highway.
“Was it good for you, too?” John’s voice interrupted my trance.
“The perfect ending to the most perfect day in our lives,” I half-lied. “I think I’ll enjoy being out in the country where nobody bothers us. We can fuck anywhere, any time we feel.”
“Wow,” he laughed with dismay. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but please keep it up.”
“I promise,” I truthfully said. I didn’t dare tell him that he’d cum too soon and that I was still really super-horny.
John stretched and yawned. “Aaah. I’m bushed, sweetheart. Want to hit the bed?”
“You go ahead, honey. I think I’ll unpack a few things and chill out before I go to sleep.
He pecked me on the cheek, gave a “love you” platitude, and lazily stomped upstairs. Ten seconds later, my phone was in my hand, Plushtales on the screen. I didn’t even need to search for my new neighbor. “ChristyS” had a story right on the front page. Selecting it, sitting on our couch, boxes beside me, bottomless, and wearing only her shirt, I didn’t even read her story and went straight to her profile.
She was quite prolific, and her online presence was exactly the same as she was in person. I spent hours reading her forum entries, looking at her photos, and stalking her profile. Although I’d known her for hours, Christy’s online antics, while giving me lots of insight into her character, led me to the same conclusions.
She was a boisterous, proud slut, owning her sexuality to the point of making me envious of her. Her pictures, albeit with the face cropped out and carefully shot to not reveal her exact location, were obviously her. Early on in her online “career”, she was simply Christy Scarlet; however, shortly after the beginning of May, she changed to Christy Scarlet-Whitehorn. Having seen her home, firsthand, and heard the story of her life from her mouth, I was shocked to discover that she brazenly laid out every minute detail of her life.
Granted, her sexuality permeated everything, just as it did in real life. She was uninhibited, delighting in her naughtiness. The things that this woman did made me blush and also inspired me. My eyes were open and my already-dissatisfied pussy was drenched. Then, I read a few of her stories, and I was shocked. Despite her ditsy-bimbo mien, Christy was quite the decent author. Her prose dripped with the same sensuality, sex-positivism, and her wit and sense of humor, often self-debasing, were enchanting.
Then, having fingered my pussy for much longer than I usually do, taking myself to the cusp of orgasm, then letting my body calm down, I found some pictures of Glen. Those eyes, that hair, and that body of his were unmistakable; the lucky bitch made me wish I had held out longer. Then, I saw a few pictures of his penis. It was huge!
I imagined what it would feel like to have it pounding into me. I fantasized about what it would be like to try and wrap my lips around its girth. My fingers were flying over my clit, pushing deeper into my cunt. I moaned, “Glen,” as I finally came, a soul-shattering, quaking orgasm that rivaled Christy’s orgasm in my driveway. Simply put, I wanted him and was more than enticed by her. I had never been attracted to another woman before in my entire life, but I was drawn to her. However, I couldn’t get Glen out of my mind.
Finally deciding to go to bed, after three soul-rending orgasms, I fantasized about Glen. From what Christy detailed in her stories, she wouldn’t mind. Now, one might think that my online affair was with her husband, but that’s not what happened.
To Be Continued…
