One evening I was pottering around in my garage, thinking of sanding an old wooden door knob, but not actually doing it. My mind was elsewhere, and every few moments I looked out through the open door across into my neighbor’s yard, hoping she might be heading towards her pool for a late dip, which she sometimes did.
I’m talking about Suzanne. She was about 35, recently divorced with shared custody of a young girl. For four days every week she was a good mother, took the child to school, dressed modestly, and although attractive, would not turn many heads.
When she swam, she wore a one piece bathing suit with thick straps over her shoulders and a skirt attached around her hips. A granny bathing suit if there ever was one.
But when her ex had her kid on those other three days - stand back! She transformed with the help of make up, clothing and body language, into a full blooded vamp. V - V - V - VOOM!
Her swim suit on those days was a two piece next-to-nothing with the smallest triangles managing somehow to cover her nipples. It could best be described as an itsy, bitsy, teenie, weenie, yellow polka-dot bikini - if you remember the song. It was a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen, her bulging bosom, wobbling dangerously, eager to escape at any moment!
And the bottom half? It was a thong. Need I say more? I’ve been a tit-man and a leg-man all my life, but Suzanne converted me to a bona fide ass-man. Hers was an architectural master piece.
I had been widowed at that time for a couple of years and I had practically given up on ever having sex again. But on those three days a week, my eyes were kept peeled and my balls tingled delightfully any time I caught a glimpse of her, dolled up for a date, or heading for her pool.
Growing dark that evening, it was getting too late for her evening swim, so I turned off the light and was just about to close the garage door and head inside, when I heard yelling coming from Suzanne’s place.
“Fuck you! Get outta here! Fuck off!”
It was Suzanne, screaming at someone. She obviously didn’t care if the whole neighborhood heard her.
“Fuck off, you little prick! Fuck off.”
She badly needed a bigger vocabulary of swear words because she repeated the same thing, over and over, at the top of her voice. I moved out of the shadows to a spot where I knew she could see me. Trying not to get too involved, I signaled her, offering to come to her aid if she needed it.
She didn’t. The young man she was cussing out was already heading off to the street. I watched as he left. He was a good looking fellow, tall, muscular and broad shouldered with a fine head of black hair and a natty plaid jacket. He climbed into a very low-to-the-ground, sporty-looking car. It was bright yellow.
“Ah,” I thought to myself, “that must be the Lamborghini she told me about, and that must be the notorious Angelo.”
I’d heard about him and his ostentatious car because I sometimes helped her with odd jobs, and Suzanne would entertain me with her dating tales of woe while I worked. She probably thought of me as the father figure she never had.
I heard the car door slam, an expensive, solid sound. The engine roared to life, and with squealing tires off it went, rapidly changing gears as the throaty noise faded into the distance.
I turned to go back and close my garage door, but heard Suzanne quietly sobbing.
“You OK, Suzanne? I called out soothingly as I walked over to the spot where we sometimes chatted across our picket fence.
She didn’t answer me, but came over to where I was, reached across the fence, put her arms around me and laid her head on my shoulder. I could feel her whole body heaving with irregular, shallow breaths, and her tears dripped onto my neck and ran down my chest.
I didn’t mind. Looking down at her, I could see that her heavy make up had run, and her face was a mess. But there was nothing wrong with her cleavage! Three days a week she was something of an exhibitionist, always wearing very low-cut tops, and tonight was no exception. As usual she was braless and while her left tit was firmly squeezed up against my chest, her right one was jiggling freely and straining against the little pearl buttons on her silky red blouse.
“My heart, Mr. B,” she began, using the name that all my neighbors knew me by. “Can you feel my heart?”
“Oh, you poor thing, you,” I replied, trying to console her.
“No, can you feel my heart beating?”
“Not exactly, but I know how upset you are. What did he do to you, that horrible boy?”
She ignored my question. “Here, feel my heart.”
She reached out, took my left hand and placed it squarely on top of her right tit. It wasn’t her heart I felt now, it was mine, missing a beat - several beats, in fact. I could have died right there, right then, and been happy about it! Oh my god, I was actually fondling Suzanne’s tit, something I never imagined could happen even in my most optimistic dreams.
It crossed my mind to tell her that her heart was on the other side, but thought better of it. My hand felt pretty good where it was; I might never get the chance again. My fingers began gingerly exploring, pretending to look for a heart beat. All I felt was a hardening of her nipple against the palm of my hand. Suzanne’s breathing began to take on a different pattern.
“Mr. B, could I tell you something?”
“Of course, Suzanne. What is it?”
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Of course, my dear. Who would I tell anyway?”
“I get very turned on when I have an argument with someone.”
“Is... ah... is that right?”
“Yes, I really wanted to fuck Angelo when I yelled at him.”
I was rather shocked at the way she was talking. We had never had this kind of conversation before. I tried to sound casual about it.
“But you told him to f--- off!”
“I know,” she admitted sadly.
“And you were standing outside the front door of your house....”
“I know! Not the best place to do it. And then he went and left before we could make up, stupid bastard! And Mr. B., can I tell you another secret?”
I nodded, finding it rather hard to talk with any kind of normality, not being used to conversing with young women while fondling their tits.
“Dirty words get me really you-know-what!”
From the tone of her voice, and the intimacy of her confessions, I thought I knew what she was getting at.
“You mean,” I swallowed and went on boldly, whispering in her ear, “your pussy gets wet when you hear those words?” I stressed the sexy words - words I never even thought of using in my everyday life.
She gasped. “Yesssss,” she hissed at me. “Check it out.”
She took my hand off her tit and moved it down to her thigh. No stockings; it was bare. She let go, leaving my hand there, and pulling my face down to hers, put her lips to my ear and enunciated each word very slowly and clearly:
“Check - it - out, Mr. - B. See - if - my - cunt - is - wet!”
Oh my god! What an invitation! My cock was pressing hard against the picket fence that stood between us, but she must have known what an effect she was having on me anyway. I began to feel my way up her thigh. Her little party skirt can only have hung six inches below her cute rounded ass, an ass that I had admired many times from a distance, specially when she got into her car some mornings to go for her yoga workout. Yoga pants! Don’t you love ’em!
I simply had to take a detour before I found out just how wet she was; I had to give her ass a squeeze. Slowly, slowly, I forced myself to go slowly, haltingly, not wanting the experience to be over too quickly.
We were both breathing deeply as my palm slid up the side of her thigh, higher and higher, not inch by inch, but deliberately, centimeter by centimeter, easing round behind her.