Terry and Les live across the street. She’s a 48-year-old housewife. He’s a 50-year-old regional manager for a wholesale grocery firm.
My name is Jack. I’m 60 and retired from a business I sold several years ago. My wife, Ann, owns a 9-5, Monday-thru-Friday school supply outfit.
During the eight years Terry and Les have lived across the street, we’ve become fairly good friends with them. We occasionally get together for cards or dinner and a movie.
Since Terry and I are home during the day, we have for years talked face to face or by phone at least once a day. She’s a looker. Slightly on the plump side, but sexy as all get out, especially in the tight shorts and snug T-shirts she wears when the weather’s warm.
About a year ago, I was talking to her as she planted some tulip bulbs. When she stood, with her legs apart and arms akimbo, I kiddingly put one of my legs between hers.
“Watch it, Jack,” she snarled.
“Couldn’t help myself, Terry,” I told her with a big grin. “Just wanted to do something I’ve fantasized about, and get between your legs.”
She smacked my arm and said, “I ought to belt you a good one, Herkimer. I would too, if I wasn’t so pissed at Les lately for not wanting to get between my legs often enough to suit me. I have a sneaking suspicion that he’s having an affair with some bimbo at work.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.
The following Sunday morning, I happened to see Terry sashaying down her driveway to get the paper from the delivery box out front. She was barefoot and wearing a shorty robe. As usual, I immediately thought how much I’d like to eat her. Of course, I often thought about screwing her, but the idea of burying my face in her snatch was my prime desire. After she had the paper, I watched her ass wiggle provocatively as she headed back to the house. When a section of the paper fell out and she leaned over to pick it up, the robe rode up almost enough to display her ass. I wished I were on my knees behind her, so I could lick that desirable twat.
The next afternoon, I was mowing our front lawn when she waved as she walked down her drive, headed for her mailbox. I stopped my mower and went across the street.
“Hi. You’re looking beautiful as usual.”
“Hi there, you sweet talker. Flattery will get you anything.”
“Don’t I wish. Listen, lady, you can’t do what you did yesterday.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“You pranced down your driveway barefooted and in a short robe. I damn near creamed in my jeans.”
“Ja-a-a-ck!” “I was hoping the robe would blow open so I could see if you had anything on underneath it. Did you?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Actually, I’d rather see.”
“You’re awful.”
“Nope, just horny.”
“OK, you’re horny.”
“You made my mouth water.”
“What? Why?”
“Oral sex.”
“You’re also a pervert.”
“You don’t like oral sex?”
“Well, sure, but I don’t discuss it with anyone.”
