Amidst the flower beds one Saturday afternoon, the phone quivered in my pocket. When I saw the sender's name, my legs followed suit.

The text simply read, 7:30 .

The gardening gloves came off in a rush.

Yes, I texted back after drying sweaty, unsteady hands on my cutoffs.

I returned to the mundane task of spreading new mulch, sneaking a glance at the neighbor's immaculately manicured lawn. There was a long way to go before the yard work was finished, and even longer until the time I had just memorized.

***

The kitchen clock read 7:25pm. Freshly showered with wet hair bundled casually atop my head and toting a small bag with extra clothes, I called to Mom that I was going to use the Westons' pool for a while. I barely heard her, "That's fine; be careful and don't stay too late," before crossing over to the next yard, where I slipped off my flip flops and padded with relish across the cool luxuriant grass.

Behind the traditional saltbox-style residence sprawled a wonderland which was completely out of view from my own home. At its center shone an inviting pool, lit from below with a brilliant blue spot and reflecting the flames of a half dozen tiki torches along one side. Scattered about the deck were several chairs of different styles, all upholstered in summer pastels. A vine-covered trellis offered shade from the mid-summer sun.

I dropped the bag, wriggled out of the plain sweatshirt and shorts to reveal my skimpiest bikini. I stepped onto the springboard and dived in, shattering the surface tension of the twilight-tinted water. The momentum, amplified by a vigorous kick, propelled me nearly the full length.

Only after I stood up in the shallow end, shaking my head, water coursing over my sun-bronzed skin, did I see the source of the text that had launched a thousand butterflies. He stood under the trellis, clad in his customary weekend khakis and polo shirt. His arms, tanned from what must have been a day on the Sound, folded assertively over his chest in a way that made my knees weak.

For most of my eighteen and a half years I knew him as Mr. Weston, but since we'd begun meeting like this he'd asked me to call him by his first name.

I couldn't hide the open, uncomplicated smile. The spontaneous grin I received in return emboldened me to raise my hands to the back of my dripping neck and untie the tiny bikini top. The flimsy panels fell easily, not that they had covered much. Pulling at the bow knot in back, I ducked shoulder-deep into the water so that the top fanned out and bobbed away over the ripples. Nearly naked, I eased onto my back and floated with my arms to each side, a combination of the evening air and my confidence in his undivided attention hardening my nipples as they pierced the gently sloshing surface like proud tourmalines.

He sank into a lawn chair and began to rub a palm across his lap as he watched me slip out of my briefs, leaving them to drift after their discarded mate, and sluice through the blue-lit depths in authentic mermaid attire.

***

Mr. Weston had always intrigued me. He was about Dad’s age but I found him quite appealing. The few times our families socialized, he was always the affable good host, but his congeniality was balanced with a reserve that piqued my curiosity.

The evening when I had worn a new pair of too-high heels to one of the Westons’ summer parties and stupidly tripped while navigating the stairs, a pair of strong arms kept me from tottering to the floor.

“Careful, Fiona.” Mr. Weston’s authoritative voice was much closer than it had ever been and I realized he was the one who'd caught me and was now guiding me back to my feet. “Are you all right?”

From somewhere in the rubble of my demolished vanity, I nodded mutely.

“That was a close call,” he winked. His gaze searched my reddened face and I could smell the crisp scent of his aftershave. “Come on, let’s get you some juice.”

He guided me to the refreshment table, an arm curled protectively around my waist as if I might take another tumble, then ladled out a cup of punch I could hardly taste before he vanished into the next wave of guests.

I didn’t sleep that night. Those few minutes between the stairs and the beverage kept looping before my eyes. My curiosity had developed into a full blown crush.

***

He crouched by the pool’s edge, offering a large white cabana towel when I emerged nude from the water. I couldn’t help but see where his khaki trousers had tented, and it was all I could do not to reach toward the evidence of his excitement and perversely darken that proper, preppy cotton with eager wet hand prints.

With his arm across my towel-draped, shivering shoulders, he led me into the house, up the stairs and into the spacious modern bathroom, where he ran the hot water for me.

Our parallel dance escalated on either side of the shower's glass enclosure. He tugged his shirt up and over his head and stepped out of the khakis, letting me appreciate the results of a disciplined workout regime. It was easy for me to admire the musculature that said its owner preferred good maintenance over egotistical display.

I lathered my breasts with languid, suggestive cupping motions and let a soapy hand dive down the slippery lane over my belly until it parted and quickened my most sensitive folds, encountering a slickness that was more than a match for the shower gel in my palms. The sensation weakened my knees and they nearly buckled.

He had perched himself on the edge of the whirlpool tub, sliding a hand below his navel and into the waistband of his already bulging boxers to create a rippling, sheathed sculpture of fingers playing over a protuberance for me to ogle through the spray as I rinsed.

I felt myself moistening ever more profusely at the memory of what we had done in that tub the previous Saturday, and how we had lost ourselves in its churning currents..

We had started on opposite sides, leaning back, letting the play of the water excite us, exchanging slight smiles of disbelief at what we had shared and were about to share. I shifted enough to prop my fully-budded breasts above the foam, letting the suds veil them beguilingly. The tilt of his shoulder told me he was giving his cock a vigorous stroking. I followed his lead, finger-painting a silky breast with my free hand. The bubbling water concealed all that triggered the subtle changes in breathing and posture, closing of eyes, parting of lips.

I wondered, for the third week in a row, if this would be the time he would abandon the rules and satisfy himself inside me.

My heart skipped when he eased in my direction. "I want to show you something." He groped underwater along the tub's inner wall until he settled on a spot, then beckoned me to move in as close to it as I could.

I did, anchoring my elbows on the edge. Ohh! I felt a firm grip along the backs of my thighs that steadily separated them until I expelled a sigh of approval. He had positioned me so that a jet streamed full force over where I wanted it most, and he firmly held my hips from behind so that the well-aimed torrent could pummel my cherry blossom lips into sweet submission. My knuckles bleached white as I clenched at the tile and rode that teasing tide until it swelled and crashed and wrenched a wanton vixen's whoop from my very core that echoed loudly in the steamy room.

He latched on to a neighboring pleasure port, his knees so wide they touched mine, and it was my turn to watch him close his eyes and quiver and yearn on the edge. I was a little disappointed that he had taken great care not to brush me with his erection while he was holding me, and though I couldn't see the source of his increasing moans, I wondered if I would work up the courage to surreptitiously make my fingertips one with the pulsing water over his column.

But before I could act on that very real desire, he reared above the surface, dripping hardness and all, and blurred his fingers near the top of his glistening shaft until its inflamed tip disgorged numerous surging jets of its own. I watched with amazement at the altitude they gained, before their plummet and disappearance into the whirlpool's turbulence.

***

They had seemed so happy. Mr. and Mrs. Weston were both professionals with busy careers. Their son Adam, about a year older than I, had graduated from a reputable boarding school and, showing promising signs of his parents' work ethic, was earning his university tuition with two summer jobs.

But sometime in the past six months it was rumored that Mrs. Weston had left her husband for an attorney with a lucrative personal injury practice on the north shore.

The social gatherings stopped. The house was all but deserted most of the time as Mr. Weston stayed later than ever at work. If he dated anyone after the divorce, no one knew of it.

***

It had begun on the evening of the summer solstice, three Saturdays before.

After finishing my yard chores and showering, I was at loose ends. My friend Daryl was weekending out of town at a cousin’s place, and I wasn't in the mood for a movie or a book.

Then I remembered the Westons’ open offer to use their pool - a longstanding one we seldom took advantage of - and decided to take them up on it. Since no one would be home anyway, so much the better.

As expected, the dignified house was dark and quiet under the gathering dusk. I felt bold enough to discard my shoes and press barefoot across the plush, soothing grass. The air was sweet with the day's mowing; the landscapers had tended the property earlier in the afternoon.

The pool shone invitingly as I tossed away my coverup and waded in. I swam length after length, exuberant in my buoyant solitude.

When I ascended the steps on the shallow end, the sultry night air embraced me before I could reach for my towel.

And it whispered, No, you're not done yet.

I glanced around hesitantly, then stripped off my wet swimsuit, leaving it in a heap on the deck, and lowered myself in by the metal ladder.

The water felt different this time - sensual, without boundaries. As the ripples played over my bare boobs and lapped between my legs, I turned onto my back, opened, and trailed my fingers toward where the familiar tingle beckoned them.

This was something I had never tried before, or ever even thought of trying. Only the darkness of my bed at night knew the furtive motions and suppressed sounds of my self-pleasuring rituals, which, of late, were nearly always fueled by the wish for my lonely neighbor to rediscover a joyous part of his life deep in the curves and hollows of my willing body.

The thoughts of how he would react to the things I wanted to do to him and for him always sent my panties-off libido into overdrive and hastened the frantic climaxes that dampened many a hand towel hastily placed underneath as the deed began. Feverishly I imagined how his chest would feel under my kisses, how his hard cock would feel in my mouth or seeking the heat of my virginal opening...

If only he knew.

If only he were here to watch, I thought naughtily, feeling an extra throb of excitement beneath the forbidden - and, for me, very public - touch, shamelessly aware that the syrupy evidence of my arousal was waiting for just the perfect tongue to taste it.

I don't remember how long the erotic experiment held me in its trance... or what caused my eyes to open with a start.

But when they did, I wasn't alone anymore.

To be continued...