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The Fucking Welcome Wagon

When the neighborhood women piss me off, I set my sights on their men.
I take a long, cold sip of my lemonade (spiked with vodka), wipe the beads of sweat from my forehead, and silently curse the previous owners of my new house for letting their garden go to hell. It is a brutally hot afternoon, but I am bound and determined to rid my flowerbeds of these God-forsaken weeds. My tank top and running shorts are plastered to my skin and I just tossed my hair up in a ponytail to get it off my neck. I had no idea when I moved here that it could still be so blazing hot in October, or I might have reconsidered my location instead of changing my life on the whim of a dart. Really. I threw a dart at a map. The city it landed on is where I found a job and moved. Crazy? Maybe. But I was not in a particularly lucid frame of mind after finding my fiancée in bed with my sister. I had to get away, and tossing a dart seemed as logical as any other method of escape.

With my litigation skills, I had no trouble landing a job with a law office in this nice Southern town. I bought a big house in a beautiful neighborhood and drove the 2000 miles from Seattle with nothing but my car, my chocolate lab Dexter, and one suitcase. I left everything else, wanting nothing to remind me of my old life. This is a new start, and while I’m not exactly excited about it, I am resigned to make the best of it.

The people in this neighborhood seem friendly, smiling and waving to me as they drive by. It’s not a very big neighborhood, but it is gated and exclusive. Everyone seems to drive a luxury vehicle, and all of the clothes I’ve seen carry designer labels. Not a problem for me. My Lexus fits in just fine, and I plan to replace all of my old designer clothes with brand new designer clothes, starting this weekend when I treat myself to a marathon shopping spree. I have one nice outfit to my name right now, and I plan to bust that out tonight when I am visited by the neighborhood Welcome Wagon.

That visit was announced this morning when one of the neighbors walked over and introduced herself to me. She looked about my age, mid thirties, with a fake tan, fake nose, fake breasts, and perfectly coiffed fake blonde hair. She extended a meticulously manicured hand, with fake fingernails, which I shook with my dirt-encrusted one. Her nose wrinkled just slightly as she attempted to subtly wipe her hand clean. Then she pasted on a fake smile, and gave me the good news.

“I’m Veronica. Welcome to the neighborhood. The Welcome Wagon would like to stop by this evening and welcome you properly. Is 7:00 acceptable to you?”

I smiled back, and mustered some (fake) enthusiasm, “I’m Nikki, and I’d absolutely love a visit. I look forward to it!”

I check my watch. 5:00. How on earth is it still so hot at 5:00? Giving the weeds the evil eye, I throw in the trowel with a temporary, grudging acknowledgement of defeat and head to the shower. I peel off my sweat-soaked clothes and step into the shower, my amazing new shower with the floor to ceiling wall of jets that can soak my entire body horizontally from head to toe. The water pressure and temperature is cranked up high, and the jets pelt my tired muscles with the hottest water I can stand. I just want to stand here for hours, relaxing, letting my thoughts run down the drain. I wash my hair, massaging my fingers through my scalp and working up luxurious bubbles before rinsing it clean. My shower gel is called Seascape, and its scent reminds me of the beach. I have a fleeting image of Jason, tanned and ripped, his swim trunks sitting low on his hips, walking towards me as I lounge in the sand. Without thinking, I step closer to the shower jet wall, bending my legs just slightly to position one of the jets so that the hot water shoots between my legs. I shiver at the sensation as my body temperature rises, my nipples hardening under the assault of another pair of jets. With thoughts of Jason in my head, I reach down to touch my pussy. I slide a finger inside, moaning at the feeling as the powerful jets attack my clit, heating it up, sending little shivers of excitement through my entire body. I add a second finger and fuck myself with them, thrusting my fingers in and out while my hips press forward, forcing the jets to pound me with the hot water until I feel my orgasm tearing through my body. I grit my teeth and moan, and the tears spring unbidden to my eyes as I collapse against the shower wall. I shake my head viciously, trying to force Jason’s image from my mind. Not enough time has passed yet. I just need more time.

After the shower, I collect myself with a cup of hot tea before I carefully dry my shoulder-length brown hair, straightening it and flipping up the ends. I apply my makeup flawlessly, and dress in a designer skirt, heels and a very expensive beaded halter top. Then I eat dinner…a piece of pizza left over from the feast I provided the delivery boys that have trooped in and out of my house for the last few days. Finally, I settle on the couch with a stack of briefs to wade through, while I dread…er…anticipate the arrival of the neighborhood Welcome Wagon.

At 7:00 on the dot, the bell rings. I walk to the door, expecting a handful of smiling women. I am totally unprepared for the horde that waits on my doorstep. No less than a dozen female neighbors, some smiling, some not. Without an invitation, they troop into my living room.

“Come in,” I say, with just a touch of irritation. One of the women thrusts a basket into my hands containing fruit and a copy of the neighborhood bylaws.

A statuesque redhead, apparently the spokeswoman for the group, steps forward, clears her throat and addresses me without introduction. “This neighborhood is very exclusive. We are very particular about maintaining its appearance. You must demonstrate meticulous attention to your lawn, landscaping, and exterior of your home. You must keep all vehicles in operational condition and housed within your garage. Trash cans must be kept out of sight except on trash collection day. There will be no clutter allowed standing in your driveway, on your porches, or in your yard. All window coverings must be lined in white, and all windows in the house must be covered consistently. Other, more specific requirements are outlined in this document,” she sweeps her hand towards my basket and steps back.

A second woman steps up, tossing her jet black hair off her shoulders and clearing her throat. “We are concerned that you appear to be single. Is that the case?”

Incensed at the question, I have momentarily lost the power of speech. I nod my head.

“We thought so. You must understand this is a family community. We are all happily married women and wish to avoid any unnecessary…tension in the neighborhood that could come from a single woman parading through the streets. So we will require you to dress appropriately from now on to avoid putting yourself on display within view of our husbands. For example, gardening in a tank top with no bra could hardly be considered modest. You will refrain from such vulgar dress in the future.”

I just stare at her for a second, then I bust out laughing, a good, long, hearty laugh. No one joins in. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask.

A petite blonde speaks up from the middle of the pack. “We don’t condone that type of language in this neighborhood. We pride ourselves on our upstanding moral character and hope that you will adapt to our values, find yourself a good husband, and become a respectable member of our little society.”

Wow. Just wow. Never…ever…in my life… Have I died and entered some other dimension? It’s like Twilight Zone meets Desperate Housewives. I’m so stunned, I can’t even think straight. Then, suddenly and without warning, the bitch in me wakes up and gets pissed. A plan jumps into my head, fully formed. I quickly plaster on a (fake) smile to rival any one of theirs.

“I understand, and I completely respect your desire to maintain a peaceful and happy neighborhood. I will do everything I can to ensure that my presence here is…desirable. Can I ask a favor? I’d love to learn who and where all of you are in the neighborhood, but I have a terrible memory. Would you write your names and addresses in this notebook? And please include your husbands’ and children’s names as well…so I know who to avoid, of course.”

A collective sigh of relief goes through the crowd at my apparent willingness to conform, and they all take turns writing out their information. Then I take my cell phone and snap a picture of each one in the same order that they appear in the notebook. Shaking each hand, I escort them from my house and collapse on the couch with my notebook and cell phone, matching names, photos, and locations and committing them to memory as quickly as possible. Then I call my office and let them know I will be working from home tomorrow.

Part one of my plan involves the woman with the jet black hair who called me out and warned me for being single. She lives diagonally across the street from me, coincidentally. Her name is Jackie Johansson, her husband is Stefan, and they have no children. Easy.

The next morning I get up early, fix a cup of coffee, and settle down in front of my living room window to watch the Johansson house. At 5:30, I notice some activity, so I grab my notebook and jot down some notes. Stefan Johansson is hot. Tall and athletic, with a shaved head that screams "bad ass", he heads out the front door wearing a tank top and running shorts. He stretches by the mailbox before taking off up the street at a brisk jog. With a satisfied sigh, I snap the notebook shut and prepare for more reconnaissance, packing some drinks and a sack lunch in a little cooler, grabbing my laptop, and heading out the door.

The entrance to the neighborhood has a guard shack that is mostly for show, although it can be used as a real working place for a guard. It’s unlocked, so I slip inside with my notebook and wait. As cars begin to pass through the gate, I write down the make and model, license plate number, the description or name of the driver, and the time. I kick back in a chair and drink a diet soft drink, preparing for a long day of tracking, continuing to log the in’s and out’s of the cars in the neighborhood. In between, I am searching the web, using my legal connections to research phone records, DMV records, employment histories. I am a busy girl, and by the time I get home I have a complete profile of every family in the neighborhood; the times they leave for work, the times they come home, the husbands that sneak home in the middle of the day and who they’re meeting, the wives that do the same. I should be a private detective, as complete as my data is.

Phase Two of my plan will put this knowledge to use.

The next morning I’m up early in my running attire, watching the clock with one eye and the neighbors’ house with the other. At around 5:25, I go outside and start stretching down by the mailbox. Right on cue, Stefan Johansson steps outside in his running gear. He stops short when he sees me with my leg propped up on the side of the mailbox, stretching my hamstring. He gives me a little wave and begins his own stretches. Time to make my move.

“Good morning,” I simper, as I saunter over to him. He grins at me. Such a handsome smile. My job will be fun, at least.

“Good morning,” he says, standing up and placing his hands on his hips, feet firmly planted, checking me out. I walk right up to him and hold out my hand.

“I’m Nikki,” I say. “I just moved in.”

“I’m Stefan,” he says, “and the whole neighborhood noticed you moving in.”

“Yeah…I had a nice little visit from the Welcome Wagon.”

He winces. “I hope they didn’t intimidate you. They have a tendency to be…intense.”

“I don’t intimidate easily,” I say, winking at him. “Your wife was rather insistent though. She said that you are her property and I should make sure not to even look at you. I’m a little nervous talking to you right now.”

Stefan rolls his eyes. “She tends to be a little jealous. Possessive. Overprotective.”

“Hmmm…does she have reason to be all those things?”

“Not that she knows,” Stefan grins. “I keep my…extracurricular activities well hidden.”

“Oh! So you enjoy…extracurricular activities, do you?” I ask.

“Very much,” says Stefan, blatantly checking me out now. “What about you?”

I lean in close to him and whisper in his ear, “I majored in extracurricular activities.” I can see his cock as his erection springs up, tenting his shorts. “Would you like to run with me?”

“I’d love to,” he says.

I take off up the street at a brisk pace, Stefan running just behind me. I know he’s watching my butt, and a smile spreads across my face at the thought of what’s to come. When I reach the guard shack, I stop and turn, flashing him a grin. Without a word, I open the door and dash inside. Of course, he follows me.

“Making a pit stop?” he asks, panting.

“Mm-hmm,” I say, backing farther into the shack. He follows me, eyes locked on mine, until he backs me against the wall. He presses up close and leans his arms on the wall on either side of me. Suddenly his lips are on mine, and I wrap my arms around his neck, kissing him back. The forbidden nature of this encounter, hidden in a guard shack just down the street from his wife, makes this even hotter, and we are both breathing heavy and stripping our clothes off in a matter of minutes. His eyes light up in appreciation when he sees me in nothing but my panties, and he immediately reaches for my breasts, kneading them with his hands, tweaking the nipples with his fingers. They quickly harden under his experienced touch, and I shiver with excitement as he bends his mouth to them. He runs his tongue around the outline of my nipple, then flicks his tongue over it before taking it fully in his mouth and sucking on it. I moan with pleasure, feeling my pussy getting wet in anticipation. He is still wearing his running shorts and I want to see his cock, so I pull his shorts down and he kicks them off. He is fully erect and generously sized, causing an ache between my legs that I know he is well equipped to fill. As if he can read my thoughts, he reaches down and strokes my pussy, dipping a finger inside and withdrawing it dripping wet. He bends his knees slightly and, grasping his cock in his hand, slides the head against my opening, rubbing it in small circles and pressing it gently against me without penetrating. The heat he is generating is insane, and I immediately crave more, so I start grinding against him, stimulating my clit with his hard shaft and the head of his dick. Suddenly and without warning, he grabs my shoulders and turns me around, pushing me into the wall. I reach forward to brace myself, then spread my legs and stick my ass out. He reaches his hand between my legs and positions the tip of his cock.

“You’re so wet,” he whispers in amazement.

“It’s been a while,” I admit. “I’m very ready.”

That’s all he needs to hear, and he slides his dick into me, all the way on the first hard thrust, both of us groaning at the erotic sensations of filling and being filled by a near stranger. He pulls out, then plunges back into me with long, deep, driving thrusts, and I press my hips back to meet each one. We are both panting hard now, left over from our brisk run, the excitement of sex, and our growing impatience for release. Stefan’s strokes become more shallow and twice as fast, and he begins grunting with the conflict he is under: does he fight to control himself and try to please me or give in to this urge to shoot me full of his cum? As if in answer, he reaches his hand around me and presses his fingers against my clit, tapping it quickly in time to the pounding of his dick. This dual attention is what my body was craving, and it responds. I clench my muscles around his cock and cry out as a massive orgasm rocks me. Stefan takes that as his cue and pounds his cock all the way into me three more times before he yells “Fuck!” and cums inside me, shuddering against my back as his throbbing cock empties itself.

He pulls out and steps away from me. I turn around and rest against the wall, trying to steady my legs and calm my breathing. Things are awkward for a moment as we each acknowledge that we fucked a stranger, but by the time we’re jogging towards home, we’re already making plans to meet again. As I turn into my driveway, I can’t help the smug grin that overtakes my features. I have accomplished the first step of my master plan.

Within a month, I will have fucked the husbands, lovers and various significant others of every member of the Welcome Wagon.

One down, many more to go.

I think I’m going to like living here.

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