[These stand-alone stories are more enjoyable when read in order]
Let's start with a confession. There is no Upper Cockton, but our little hamlet in Berkshire has an equally ridiculous `Carry On' name, so I thought it best to be discrete. I've changed people's names, but the personalities and situations are real.
Geography is important to understand what happens. Upper Cockton in an enclave of forty houses arranged on a single oval road. There is one way in and out of our lovely oasis. Mine is the first (and by definition the last) house any visitor encounters. The houses on the inside of the oval are smaller cottages with back-to-back gardens. The houses on the outside are large detached homes, with room for swimming pools and tennis courts. A nice mix of properties and people.
Unfortunately, our attractive, well-to-do neighbourhood suffered a spate of professional burglaries. It was very distressing, especially for our older neighbours. Clive and Barbara, our most well-to-do residents, invited everyone to a meeting in a big marquee they put up in their garden for summer entertaining. Sadly, our gathering was to hear from the crime prevention officer and comfort each other after our losses. The burglars cased our properties using the ruse of fake parcel deliveries from an on-line shopping company. Yes, that one. We are so used to their employees walking up a path to leave a package by the back door we saw nothing suspicious.
After the police left us with platitudes and no plan of action, other than spending a fortune on alarms and video door bells, we floundered before someone said, "Tom was in the Royal Engineers, he must have some practical suggestions to improve our security without turning Upper Cockton into a police state."
All eyes were on me, so I said we don't want to live in Camp Bastion but we can do something. Over the next couple of weeks, I inspected our perimeter defences and suggested repairs. I put up a huge bird feeder in my front garden with an obvious CCTV camera on top of the pole. Anyone coming or going by car would know they were being monitored. But prevention is better than cure, so I also suggested all parcels could come to my house where I would store them for collection later in the day. No delivery van needed to tour our road again. I got two choruses of `For he's a jolly good fellow.'
I insisted I did not want paying for my kindness. My goodwill has been repaid many times. I haven't bought a bottle of wine in ages and my freezer is stacked with delicious home-made dinners and cakes. Plus, I've enjoyed the unexpected extras that literally fell into my lap.
So, enough preamble, let's get into some examples of what this has done for my sex life.
Susan
Susan is 41 and lives with husband Colin and their two daughters in what was her mother's cottage. Since Covid, her customer service job became home based, and she's tied to a headset and computer while Colin escapes to the office. Susan is lonely and depressed. She misses the banter and camaraderie of the office. It is so easy for her to stop by the fridge on every break, to comfort herself with food that upsets her when she looks in the mirror. She has put on a stone since being home based.
When she came by to collect her latest parcel, I had my nose in the engine of a Triumph TR6 I was restoring. I saw her reflection in the windscreen and wondered why she didn't say something. Then I realised she was staring at my arse in my overalls, which had shrunk in the wash. I swayed unconsciously, and Susan bit her lip. It was amusing being a sex object. I didn't know what women complained about. It was time to catch her out.
"Penny for your thoughts, Susan. You've had enough time to compose them." I turned, and she blushed.
"I don't know what you mean, Tom. I just got here." Her cheeks reddened. Susan had auburn hair, green eyes, and creamy skin. All plus points in my book. She was a size 14 pear shape that so many English woman just accept in middle age and French woman fight to their dying breath.
"That's ok, I forgive you Susan. It's nice to be admired."
She sighed. "I wouldn't know, Tom. It's been a long time since I've been admired. Not that I can expect it. Trapped in the house all day in a track suit with bed hair." She touched her headscarf.
We talked for a while and agreed she would escape the house and fridge on her lunch break twice a week to share a cup of coffee with me while I was working. It was an off-the-cuff suggestion, but she looked so grateful I was touched. Susan almost skipped away with her parcel. I watched her leave. She had the curious waddle of someone not used to their weight. She turned and caught me watching and put the box behind her to stop me from staring at her arse.
Over the next few weeks, the changes were gradual. The headscarf was gone and her newly washed hair shone in the sun. A touch of lipstick and eyeshadow appeared. Her waddle was less pronounced now she skirted the fridge more frequently. One day she turned up in a pair of Capri trousers and a nice overshirt. Her nails and lips were red.
"I'm surprised you've still got time to see me before you rush off to your fancy man. You've only got half an hour remember?"
Susan looked embarrassed. "Is it too much Tom? I don't want to start tongues wagging. It's just this has been good for my self-esteem."
"I shouldn't tease you. You've done nothing to reproach yourself for, Susan. You look lovely. Besides, we are in my front garden. It's not as if I've taken you upstairs and thrown you on my bed."
Susan's neck flushed, and her chest heaved. Her nipples were poking her shirt. I responded to her desire. The outline of my hard on was clear in my shrunk overalls as I moved towards her. We were in plain sight of any twitching curtains and anyone driving by. Fear and excitement flashed across her face.
"Please don't touch me, Tom. My pussy is doing somersaults. I could not stop you if you stripped and fucked me over the bonnet of your car."
"You've imagined that haven't you Susan? You face down, me with overalls around my ankles fucking you. Knowing we could be caught by anyone who looked."
"Oh God, Tom! You're making me cum. I'm standing on your drive talking to you and you're giving me the best orgasm I've had in years."
"Do it Susan. Cum for me."
Susan swooned. I sat her gently in the picnic chair she used when she visited for coffee. I got her a glass of water while she composed herself. She stood to leave as I returned.
"Tom, I'm sorry. I've let my imagination get out of hand. I wanted a new man to appreciate me and you did. Can you forgive me?"
"Susan, we are friends and neighbours. I would hate to do anything that embarrassed you. If it's any consolation, I've had that fantasy too, and we were bloody good. But I don't think you really want a new man. You want the old man to notice how much you've changed."
"I don't care who's watching Tom." Susan hugged me and kissed my cheek. "I want Colin to want me again. He comes home late most nights. I think he's having an affair with someone at work. "
"I'm sorry Susan. You need to make time for each other. Not that I'm qualified to give advice. Twenty years away in the Army, then my wife decided she'd be happier spending the rest of her life without me, too."
"That's awful Tom. I hope the next woman knows how lucky she is. I'll tell her."
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