Disgruntled, I dragged the last boxes through the garden to my half of the house and would have loved to scream with rage. If my ex had been here now, I would have strangled him, but before that I probably would have tortured him, this carrion.
He had done this to me without need, just to annoy me, just to take revenge. For what? For the fact that I couldn't stand him anymore, him, his womanizing, his boozing and dishonesty. Yes, I wanted a divorce, but I had no proof, no photos of him and the girls who had thrown themselves at the successful crime writer's chest, what do you mean chest, dick. I had nothing but my sadness that our dream and our life plan together, born of love, had not come true.
We had bought the house together - a duplex, one half to live in, one to work in, me downstairs, him upstairs. He wrote crime novels and I romantic love stories. Each was successful in his own way, except that I didn't screw my readers - yes, men were part of my readership, too. Only he did that, but of course he denied everything and after a horrible year the judge finally divorced us, on the grounds of marital breakdown. I didn't want any money from him, just peace and the house. I even offered him to buy or rent his half, but he laughed in my face: "Sabine, this is my half, I can do what I want with it and what I certainly don't want is for you to have it. Put that out of your mind, I'd rather give it away to a Turkish family of ten!"
It didn't come to that in the end, but he did sell them. So I had to clear everything out, had to put up the fence in the garden again, although the other half had also been tended and planted by me. Of course, I waited until the end and just as I was putting the last box down on my porch, panting, the front doorbell rang.
The busy author had not found it worth his while to be present when the keys were handed over. He had simply given the new neighbors my number and told them I had the keys and would show them around.
That's why I had had that phone call the night before. A squeaky female voice answered: "Hello, Reimann here, are you the housekeeper of the writer Hoffer? We'll be there tomorrow, be ready at 10 a.m., thank you!"
I hadn't even gotten around to expressing my indignation, let alone noting that I wouldn't be here at ten o'clock.
After all, thanks to modern technology, I could call the number back, which I did by return of post. I was about to vent my anger, but to my surprise, a sonorous, very pleasant male voice suddenly answered: "Good evening, Ziebert!"
I stumbled and pressed the inner reset button: "Excuse me, this is Wieland, the divorced wife of Mr. Hoffer. I just had a call from this number, can you give me...?"
There was silence on the other end for a moment and then the voice cleared its throat. "Oh, I'm sorry, there must have been a misunderstanding, my fiancée thought...!"
"Yes, I understood, she thought I was the housekeeper. That's a mistake, I'm your new neighbor and I won't be home tomorrow at ten. You would either have to come earlier or around twelve!"
"Well, thank you very much, then we'll come at fourteen o'clock, does that suit you, Mrs. Wieland?"
"Yes, it's fine!"
"Good, then thank you very much and have a nice evening!"
"See you tomorrow!", I said and was about to hang up, when I heard him say to someone, "Great, now you have the new neighbor..., beep, beep, beep!"
He had probably continued, ".... offended," which was true. Housekeeper, pah. I wasn't even that when we were married.
But what was I actually? In the beginning, mainly a lover - we fucked every day, often several times. We were constantly on the road, sometimes in Italy, sometimes in Greece, in Sweden, in Austria, it was wonderful. We earned well, he more than I, but we were both content and could afford everything. As the years went by we became more sedentary, he started drinking, quite heavily and in the same proportion as the alcohol level rose, my libido dropped to the bottomless pit and in the end, after 12 years of marriage, we practically didn't sleep together at all. He fucked away and I with my vibrator.
Now I was 36, single again and had been unfucked for a year and a half. The last time Erik, that was my ex's name, had slept with me was even longer ago and had been a disaster. In between I had a short affair with my editor, but when his wife found out that he was cheating, it stopped very quickly. Thank God she had no idea that I was the one with whom her husband had sunk his handsome cock. If she had, I would not only have lost a great editor, but also a friend.
Well, and since then it's been a case of "off the clock" and my life has been pretty straightforward. I wrote, ate and fucked myself with my now five different dildos. The latest acquisition was one for behind. I'm experimenting with it right now.
All this was going through my head after I had hung up and the pleasant voice of this gentleman, what was his name - aja, Ziebert - was echoing in my head.
I sat down on the veranda with a glass of wine, enjoyed the peace and quiet, probably for the last time in a long time, and thought about the fact that I urgently needed to change something in my life. A man had to come along, even if it was only to satisfy my sexual needs. I was gradually fed up with artificial tails and my own fingers in pussy and butt. I finally wanted to feel a piece of hard, vibrating man meat in my pussy and a rough tongue on my clit again.
When I opened the door punctually at 2 pm the next day, I knew immediately - it had to be him. About this, and I was quite sure, his companion would not change anything, although she looked very good. Long blond hair framed a pale, somewhat angular face with big blue sleeping eyes, a somewhat pointed nose, and lips that were a little too narrow for my taste. She was slim, tall, and her somewhat skinny legs were in sandals tied tightly with straps halfway up her calves. Jeans - the kind with holes on thighs and knees - and T-shirt also looked extravagant and expensive. She was a dolly that Mr. Ziebert obviously afforded himself, and certainly not for deep conversations by the fireplace, but one hundred percent for fucking. But I knew these things, they were always in my novels - beautiful, willing, but unimaginative, interchangeable and boring. You could do anything with them, but the orgasms were fake and after the blowjob they needed a mouthwash. However, if the sponsor was out of the house, then the pool boy was allowed to the pussy and with him she then became loose. He was even allowed to fuck her in the ass, which she only allowed Daddy to do when he bought her a new car.
Why he had such a doll was unclear to me, because as he looked and literally smelled of testosterone, he could probably have any and me anyway. Short brown hair, three-day beard, bright green eyes, sensual lips and an angular chin - a face like something out of a catalog for male beauty ideals. Even the jacket could not hide the fact that he was strong and well trained. Broad shoulders, a strong, pronounced neck and the narrow waist testified to daily workouts, and the way his jeans stretched over his thighs was indication enough for me that he had to look great in swim trunks or without them altogether.
With a winning smile that gave me goose bumps on my forearms, he held out his hand to me, dry, warm, pleasantly firm, but not so macho that your fingernails flew off: "Good afternoon, Mrs. Wieland, thank you for taking the time to meet us. May I introduce Brigitte, my fiancée!"
We both knew it, that we would not become friends and when she gave me her hand like a cold fish, the goose bumps intensified, but out of disgust. With her squeaky voice she whispered a soft "hello", not looking at my face but at my tits. She was probably jealous that I had some and made no secret of it. I could still afford to take them out without a bra, and enjoyed the way the T-shirt stretched over them. He, on the other hand, didn't seem to notice them, still smiling, and asked, "May we ask you for the key? We want to look around quickly, because tomorrow comes the furniture truck and there we want to go through again, where what should go!"
I had already put it on the little table next to the door ready to hand over and handed it over with a heavy heart. He kind of got that and asked, "You worked there, your husband and you, right?"
I nodded, "Yes, but through the divorce...! Well, that's the way it is. In principle, my half is enough for me now, too. So, here's to being a good neighbor!"
"Oh, come along for a jump," he asked, "maybe you can advise us!"
If his Brigitte hadn't given him a nasty look, along the lines of, "Leave the old woman here," I probably would have refused, but that way I was pleased and agreed.
