A Massage From The Single DILF Next Door

Transcript

Oh, you're fucked. Another shift's come up, and of course you need to take it. Not because you want to, but because everyone else is sick, or on vacation, or dead, or just not responding to anyone's texts in this time zone.

You take it because you're the one person who said they would if an emergency came up. Because that's what you say when you're a responsible adult. That's what your mother taught you, anyway.

But here's the problem. You have two fussy children who need dinner, a home that looks like it's been carpet-bombed by toys and the stained and fraying limbs of your couch, and no time to hire a sitter. Frankly, you have no time for anything these days, but that's not a new problem.

That problem's so old you've stopped calling it a problem. You don't have time, and that's just how it is. So what are you going to do? After you've shuffled your way through the front door, with the younger one clinging to you like a nervous koala and the older one sing-screaming about the trash truck she saw today, after you've thrown a few cushions back on the couch and sat them down in front of the television, you know, you know that you're not using the TV as a babysitter, it's just a distraction for now to get them stationary for a minute, half a minute, while you sort out your options.

You don't have family that can be here on short notice, and no friends you'd trust with your children. No single friends, anyway. Some of them you wouldn't trust in their own homes.

And then a thought occurs to you, and you tell the little ones that mommy has to step outside for just a moment. You keep the door wide open in case something catastrophic happens. You can hear them, that's the important thing.

Thankfully, my door is just a few feet away. It's only after you've knocked that your stomach drops away and you realize there is a good chance I might not be home. And wouldn't that be just your luck? For a second.

And only a second. You wonder if it would be possible to board the kids at a local kennel. Just a second.

It's just a second that you consider it. And obviously, they don't do that. So it doesn't matter.

No one knows that you even had that thought. So no, you're not a bad mother. It doesn't exist, that thought.

No one's putting your kids in a kennel, obviously. And they probably wouldn't eat whatever the vets brought them anyway. It's a non-issue.

And you really need me to be home so you can stop thinking about this. And you really need me to be home and say yes, and not be busy, and not be out. And you will do anything if I just open the door.

For every heartbeat that elapses, time dilates, forcing your mind to contemplate all the things you do and don't know about me. You don't know what my social life is like. You don't know if I'm on a date, or working late, or just out being a man in the world.

You know I'm a single parent, like you, that my daughter is a few years older than your oldest, and on the days she stays with me, our children love playing at the park together. I've opened up my apartment to you on many occasions. And when my daughter bakes cookies, your little ones beg to lick the spoon.

It was pure chance that the one person you feel comfortable talking to in this complex was also the one who moved in next door. Sometimes it feels so good to just have another parent nearby that you've shared more in our conversations than you've intended. But amidst the love and laughter, there is a loneliness in this never-ending parenthood that seldom recedes.

A few minutes of conversation, when we're both retrieving our mail or struggling with our kids in the parking garage, have meant more to you in these last few months than you can ever say. And now you're second-guessing yourself. Maybe today is one of my custody days.

Maybe right now I'm cooking popcorn and setting my girl up for her 1000th viewing of Frozen. Maybe you shouldn't be knocking at my door, throwing a wrench into my already complicated life. But then I do finally open the door.

Towel around my waist, water beating off my bare chest. My scowl evaporates when I see it's you. From the way you were pounding on the door, I was sure you were old man Weaver telling me my pipes are too loud again.

I really can't do anything about the volume of my water pipes, though he didn't seem to appreciate my promise to piss more quietly. It takes me a second to recognize that you're not in a joking mode. Are you okay, I ask.

Are the kids okay? You tell yourself to stop shaking. You tell yourself you don't look crazy.

You apologize for pulling me out of the shower, but you don't have anyone else. You ask me if there's any way, any way at all I can watch the kids for a few hours, feed them something slightly more nutritious than dog food, put them to bed, and stay up till you get back home. I smile at you and resist the urge to put my hands on your arms or your face and ask you calmly to just breathe.

Instead I nod and say, yes, I'd love to. You try not to break down crying on the spot. Instead you thank me and say you'll make it up to me any way you can, that you owe me one.

I tell you not to worry about it, and that'll be over in a minute. When you step back inside your apartment to get ready yourself, the kids ping pong between the TV, each other, and asking you why you're putting on makeup again, changing your clothes. You hate that you have to leave them, and the part of you that is relieved you won't have to answer the next thousand questions.

That binary ambivalence every parent knows, utter frustration and undying affection for these beautiful monster angels you gave birth to. You're trying to explain that you need to work again just for a few hours when my heavy footfalls interrupt, and then you're left kneeling on the carpet while the kids scramble through the mess of toys and games and cushions to wrap their little arms around my legs. They let out an almost tribal scream, half feral.

They ask if my daughter is with me, and just like that, you're off the hook. You dash back into your bathroom to finish putting on your face, listening to me swinging the children in the air and telling them that I'm here to pinch hit for their mother. They don't know what pinch hit means, but I'm here, and that seems to be all right with them.

And you. The next few minutes pass in a blur. You give me numbers and names for emergencies, tips on their favorite foods, notes on their bedtime routine, and I tell you I've got it.

I can handle it. And you know I can, because I've been there. And just before you leave, just as you're sliding your jacket back over your shoulders, I reach out and touch your hand, softly, and give your fingers a squeeze.

It's going to be okay, I tell you. You can still feel my hand on yours through the car ride, and as you're getting down to work, and just as your mind begins to wander for your nerves to get the better of you, your phone vibrates with a new photo. It's the kids eating dinner, one in the high chair and one at the table, faces beaming and a bit of mush decorating both their cheeks.

Half an hour later, there's another photo of the kids chasing each other across the living room. Later, little hands picking out what books they want to read, and the last photo is of their nightlight. In bed, on time, and with full bellies to boot.

That means the little one will probably sleep through the night, and you breathe a sigh of relief. As your shift is winding down, we begin to text. The two were great.

No tantrums, no tummy troubles. They even helped clean up the place, a little bit. I did the rest, using my detective skills to put toys and cushions where they seemed to belong.

And I cooked you dinner. If you're hungry. I had some things left over at my place, and I'm pretty sure I remember what you like.

I know on nights like this, it's usually easier to just pick something up on the way home, but you know, I can throw it in some Tupperware for lunch tomorrow. Just say the word. You let me know when you're 15 minutes from home.

I tell you to take your time. I'm just sitting here on the couch, reading the novel you left on the countertop, and I'm still there, reading, when you quietly step through the door. We meet in the kitchen, and you feel almost like a stranger in your own home.

The place is clean. I vacuumed? I wiped down the countertops? Dishes are washed and drying in the rack? The kids' coats and lunch bags are set out on the counter.

Your own shoes are in neat rows by the door. And the scent of the meal waiting for you is like a warm hug hello. You start to thank me, and I just shake my head.

I was happy to do it, and I'm honored that you trusted me with the kids. I hope it wasn't too presumptuous, but when you texted me before to say you were coming home, I ran a bath. I know how much that means at the end of a long day.

It was piping hot when I checked it a few minutes ago, so it should be just right. Right now. You tell me that sounds good.

Really good. Because you have so many knots in your body, you feel like a crooked old tree. I tell you, you don't look crooked, or old, to me, but if you do have knots, we can do something about that.

And you stand there, looking up at me, and press your lips together. You say, you've probably taken enough advantage of me for one night. I tell you, you'll probably know when you've taken too much advantage of me in one night.

Yes, you counter, but you just asked me to be a babysitter, not a personal masseuse. That's true. I agree.

My office hours are closed, but I do make house calls for serious cases. Yours does seem to be a serious case, since you're, you know, turning into a tree. Neither one of us is naive.

We're adults of a certain age, in a quiet home, up past curfew. But just the word massage sends a warm wave rolling through your body. The temptation to accept my offer is even greater than the promise of a meal, or a bath.

Is that a twinkle I see in your eye, I ask. I keep my voice low, lest I wake any tiny ears. Do you really not mind, you ask? Take off your shoes, I say.

You let me lead you to the couch, and there I sit you down, draw up your legs, and slide your heel into the palm of my big hand. Calloused thumbs roll around the ball of your foot, and you bite your lip to keep from making an indecent sound. My thumbs work diligently at the spaces between your toes, my palms gliding over your arches, and treading delicately over and around your ankles.

You close your eyes and sink back into the couch, and this time, if your noises are indecent, you don't care. You can't even hear yourself, really. It's the buzzing between your ears gradually growing softer, as my fingers push blessedly harder.

You're a little surprised when you feel my hands at your hips. It's a gentle tap to get you to open your eyes and see the directions I'm giving you. With my index finger, I indicate for you to spin around.

I do, and then my fingers sink into your shoulders. My fingertips knead the tough spaces along your spine. Knots in your back are brushed and then attacked along the striations of weary muscles and stiff tendons.

This time, when you moan, I shush you, a reminder to keep quiet. I'm sure you have something clever to say to that, being shushed in your own home, but I see the words bubble and then dissolve behind your lips as I dig my palms into your lower back. You just shoot me a look to say you'll get me back later, for the shush, and I nod in silence.

Of course you'll get me back. How rude of me. Now lean into this thumb.

That's a good girl. Your nerves are sparking like the wheel of a lighter, and you're trying not to show it. It has been a long time since you've had a man's hands on your skin.

You think that every time my fingers slide over your collar and press gently into the nape of your neck. You don't mean to lean back, you don't think, but when you do, my hands glide naturally over your shoulder and across one arm. I'm no longer needing the muscles of your back, but the soft spaces between your bicep and elbow.

Instinctively, you curl yourself under my chin, finding a comfortable place in my lap as both my hands work their way from your elbow to your forearm, and then your wrist and the delicate muscles in the palm of your hand. You tell yourself you're not nuzzling against my chest, you're just adjusting. You tell yourself that giving me your other hand a massage to lace with my fingers isn't an invitation for more intimate touching, and that you're not kissing my sweater.

You're just using my body to mask the soft moans that bubble up from your throat. I tilt your face away from my chest and run my lips over yours. It's not a kiss yet, it's just contact.

And even this somehow feels natural, part of the massage. It is skin on skin, something you're realizing you've needed and missed. One of my hands leaves yours to run softly over your cheek.

The fingers sink into your hair, and when my tongue does finally touch yours, the kiss is long and slow and sensuous. What happens next, how your body folds into mine, is just as slow, just as quiet. When my hand rolls over your thigh and belt, under your shirt, and cups your bra beneath, there is none of the frantic, sticky fumbling of your younger, manic years.

We're both aware that we need to be quiet, but more than that, this touching is not born of lust alone, it is holding one another, the way we've wanted to, the way we've been denied and denied ourselves. As my fingers deftly move beneath your bra, and my teeth softly nibble at your lip, you feel me taking my time, savoring the shape and weight of you, the texture of your nipple, the way it hardens to my gentle, playful touch. You smell so good, I whisper in your ear, my mouth meets yours, I breathe you in and kiss your lips, I breathe you in and squeeze you, pull you into me, and as your body molds to mine, you feel my cock straining through my jeans.

I press my lips to your ear and say, I've wanted to eat your pussy for dinner since I moved next door. And yes, you're tired, you're so tired, but your body trembles with a silent scream, craving my touch like an addict craves her opiate. You kiss me harder, a moan trapped in your throat, and you throw your arms around my shoulders, letting me wrap you up and pull you tighter, tighter against me.

Yes, you're tired, you're so tired, but you need this inside you, this thick, throbbing thing you feel between my legs, this teasing, tempting tongue parting your open lips. Yes, you're tired, but now my hand is cupping your crotch like I own it, and you don't even need to tell me, tonight, I do. Your sex throbs, your throat tingles, your feet slide away, your stomach drops, and you're suddenly in the air.

I've lifted you up, my arms hooked under your knees and wrapped around your torso. I've lifted you to your happy surprise without any effort at all. I carry you away from the couch and its comfortable but much too loud cushions and bring you quietly but quickly into the bedroom.

When I lay you down on your bed, you can't help the way you move, writhing like a cat on its back, claws ready but belly exposed, threatening and inviting. I shush you again, and I don't know if you're going to hit me or bite me or both, so I put my hand on you, there, again, right there, at the epicenter of the great heat inside you and smile when your eyes roll back. My fingers zip you open, I peel your pants.