Helping the Horny Neighbor

Transcript

It's not going to happen. The thought begins as a whisper in the back of your mind. Sweat has collected in the hot creases of your skin, beneath your arms, under your breasts, and where your thighs meet your trembling mound.

The underside of your chin and the back of your neck feel wet too, but you're trying to ignore all of that, trying, failing. It's not going to happen. You're lying on your bed, your legs spread, knees hitched up and your bare feet planted on your comforter.

No pants, no panties. A light cotton shirt sticks to your belly and plays havoc with your bare nipples. Your bra is draped over the side of the bed, hanging where you tossed it an hour ago or maybe two hours ago, you're not sure.

The laptop is open and your earbuds are buried deep in your ringing ears, ringing with the rush of blood. Your heart beats harder, your teeth bite deeper into your bottom lip. It's not going to happen.

The thought sinks its iron claws into the soft matter of your brain, but you don't stop, though your hand is going numb and the joints of your fingers ache. You're touching yourself. The sun is out and you're touching yourself, masturbating as the sunbeams taunt you through the slits of your closed Venetian blinds.

You didn't intend to drag this out. You didn't think it would take so long to just fucking come. All you want to do is just fucking come.

And you can't. It's not going to happen. This has been building for days.

What started as a vague yearning weeks ago finally reached its apogee this morning. You tried to distract yourself with chores, yet being out in public just made it worse. You felt feverish as you pushed your grocery cart down the aisles.

You could not pass a couple, no matter their ages, without wondering about the last time they fucked. You fantasized about what the checkout clerk would do if you told him to meet you in the back of your car, a disgusting, intrusive thought, and it was the same for the man who said hello to you in the parking lot. You're not usually like this.

Maybe it's the weather. Maybe it's the weird psychosexual stuff in that true crime podcast you've been listening to seeping into your brain. Maybe it's just been too long since someone touched you like that.

Maybe it's all these things, or none of these things at all, just some random hormones telling you now, right now, would be the best time to mate. All you know is that your fingers are not enough. The biological craving to be filled is overwhelming.

The emptiness inside of you is painful, like someone has stolen the thick cock that once stretched your aching walls. Now it's gone, and your center has collapsed. You tried exercising.

You tried reorganizing your place. Tried calling friends to make plans, and your body betrayed you at every turn. Your breasts feel heavier, your skin warmer and more sensitive.

It's torture how you ache inside. Finally, you just said, fuck it. You locked your door, you pulled down your pants, and you crawled onto your bed with every intention of doing this quickly and quietly.

That was how it started. But you didn't have the patience for the erotica you normally enjoy. It wasn't enough.

So you searched for an audio, a voice, the sounds of a man, maybe a woman, who could get you off. And it wasn't enough. As the minutes snowballed into an hour, you found yourself searching for porn you could stomach, and porn you hated, and porn that filled your belly with shame and tightened your nipples into angry diamonds.

Your thighs got tingly, your ass got warm, but it still wasn't enough. And now it's not going to happen, and you've wasted so much time. You've thought about it too much, warred against it for so long.

Your body is punishing you. Your clitoris is on fire, but it's your pussy that won't let you climax. You need a penis, fat and stiff, ready and able to go the distance to just fuck you senseless.

But there's no one you can call. No one to save you. You're so frustrated that angry tears have begun to well under your red-rimmed eyes.

You reach for the laptop, ready to slam it shut, the pressure building in your chest to let out a naked scream of anger when suddenly there's a knock at your door. You freeze in terror. Your eyes flip to the doorknob to make sure it's still locked, which of course it isn't.

Scrambling, you jump off the bed, but you've forgotten to remove your earbuds. The laptop follows you in a hideous vaudeville performance, the wires tangling on your thighs and coming loose from the port. The laptop hits the floor, just as you do, still playing porn, and now loud enough to startle birds and any neighbor within a five-unit radius.

You curse when you hear me knock again, and this time I call your name. Instantly, you recognize my voice, and you know exactly why I'm here. You shout through the door, ask me to wait as you untangle yourself from the wire and slam the laptop shut.

The porn continues to play for a merciless second or two before abruptly cutting off mid-moan. After another breathless spate of seconds, you've pulled a dirty pair of yoga shorts from your hamper and pulled them on. And then you're answering the door, out of breath.

Your tears of frustration wiped away, now become tears of almost blinding shame. Hi, I say quietly. I raise the Amazon box in my right hand and offer you a friendly smile.

They did it again. I live across the complex and my address is the same as yours, only the numbers are reversed. From the moment you moved in, your mail has come to me and mine to yours with sporadic frequency.

More often, your packages come my way, and rather than leave them at your door, I prefer to hand them to you myself. I am one of the few men you know by name in our neighborhood. We're friendly, but not friends.

I am many years older than you, with a wife and a sweet young son who tells you you're pretty when we see each other in the parking lot. I'm tall, with silver hair and olive skin. In my mid-forties, if you had to guess.

When there's something about my smile that makes you think I'm a principal, or professor, or work in public service, I always seem a little too put together to be true. Not fake, necessarily, but polished, practiced at social interactions, good with my hands maybe, or just confident. At the moment, your inner thighs still slick with regret, your nipples making angry indents in your shirt.

You have no patience for my polish. Are you okay? I ask.

No. Not okay. But you feel naked and weak, and you have nothing you want to say to me.

What happened there? I ask, gesturing to where the laptop reposes on the floor. An accident, you say.

Broken? I ask. You don't know.

Would you like me to check it? I ask. I'm pretty handy with that stuff.

I stride into the apartment and pick up the laptop with my free hand. Your heart skips a beat. Your cheeks flush, and you feel fresh sweat in the small of your back.

You reach out to me, hands open in an almost childlike gesture, as if to say, please, please give me back my dignity. But I do not give it back. I tilt my head and sniff the humid air.

Oh, yes, I know, and you can read that clearly on my face. Embarrassment roots you to the floor, and you can only watch as I slide both the laptop and your package onto your bed. You hold your breath as I stride past you, keeping it locked tight within your chest, waiting for me to leave and praying you never, ever see my face again.

But I don't. Go. I softly shut the door and not-so-softly lock it.

Your vision blurs as I slowly turn around. You know, it's a myth that sharks can smell blood from miles away, I say, or that they go crazy when they smell it, but something like that happens to certain men, I think. Married men, in particular, unfortunately, when they get that scent of arousal in the air from a desperate woman.

I am very close to you now, and you unconsciously step back, back, back until your buttocks brush the edge of your bed, and I follow, follow, follow. Do you know how hard it is to see a girl like you go past my window every day, and know I'm only allowed to speak to you in polite, platonic tones? That I can't flirt with you, that I'll never touch you the way I want to, and my only solace is that somewhere out there, there's a man that is teasing you, that is tasting you, that is fucking you until you scream.

I'm jealous of that man, I can admit that, but at least I have the satisfaction of knowing a beauty like you is being appreciated, a sweet, sexy woman deserves to be spoiled with cock. But that isn't the case, is it? Because you're in here, all alone, and you're not getting the one thing I know you need.

You open your mouth to protest, and I slip my hand between your legs. Tell me to keep it in my pants and you'll never see me again, I whisper, but you need to tell me now, otherwise I won't be able to stop myself. My hand is big and strong, and it embraces your aching vulva.

Your breath catches in your throat and your eyes roll back. It feels like every nerve leading to your sex is lit up like the Las Vegas strip, and you want to tell me to stop, don't touch you there, how dare I, how could I, but your body betrays you, body and mind, which seems to be melting down your spine and oozing down your thighs. Last chance, princess, I whisper.

I rip the yoga shorts down your buttocks and dig my nails into the trembling flesh. If you didn't need this so bad, I might be able to resist you, I say, as I peel the shorts further down your legs. So I hope you know, this is all your fault.

When your shorts hit your ankles, I slide my fingers through the wet mess of your naked pussy. Oh, this is very serious. Moist fingers glide beneath your chin and force you to look me in the eye.

I only have one question, are you going to be a good girl and let daddy take care of this? You don't answer, neither yes nor no. So what happens now can be whatever you want to call it, mercy, assault, lust, criminal, or the fulfillment of your most secret prayer.

Your hair flies into your face as I spin you around and your breasts flatten against the mattress as I bend you over. I guess I'll just take it then. And then your nails are digging into your comforter as you feel my tongue go to your labia like a dog lapping up a stolen feast.

For a moment your guilty conscience wonders if I eat out my wife with such unrepentant hunger, but what does it matter? Right now my lips are sucking on your sex and the sound of me slurping up your juices is louder and more obscene than the porn that once screamed inside this room. My nails carve trails down your plump ass as I open you wider and then lick upwards including your asshole in my gluttonous feast.

You whimper, this is a violation. No man has ever had such unrestricted access to your body, eaten you this fiercely because you are indeed being consumed. You have no doubt that were I able I'd gobble you up like a fairytale beast, instead I must be contented with licking your insides until you're up on your toes and screaming for my cock.

I will not let that scream go unanswered. When my lips leave yours you moan with longing. The seconds that pass without my mouth on your needy pussy are eternal agonies one and all, but then you hear it, my trousers hitting your floor and you feel it, my naked penis on the crack of your ass.

Do you want daddy's cock inside you? I growl. You claw at your comforter again, wiggle in place, moan like a whore and cry sweet tears of yearning.

I slap your trembling ass and roll my length along your tailbone. Beg for it, I order you. Tell daddy that nothing else will do.

You beg for it. You even reach for it, flailing helplessly behind you. You cannot see it, though, because my fingers are in your hair, pulling at your scalp but keeping you bent over, restrained, pressed into your mattress.

Tell daddy who this pussy belongs to, I command. Me. You say it's me, that you're mine, all mine, and that all you want is this cock to fill you up.

In this moment that is your only purpose, to be fucked, to contain the fat erection that even now is teasing your dripping cunt. I roll the head up and down your aching lips, my growl so deep I no longer sound human. Fuck me, daddy.

You beg me. Your head snaps back as I tighten my grip on your scalp. Our neighbors can hear you cry out as my head splits your aching lips.

I'm straining, straining to open your neglected pussy, and you feel me grunt with joyful surprise as I discover just how tight you really are. For a moment your cry is silenced, no sound but the liquid squelch of me feeding my unprotected cock into your sex, and when you realize I'm still pushing, that your walls are still stretching, and that my shaft is only partway inside, you finally inhale. You shiver with a frantic, wild fear that you might black out before my first proper thrust.

That is how badly you want this. Your head swims, your knees shake, and still I push, still you stretch, still your body tenses and pushes, pulsates and yields. When I bottom out and you feel my balls brush the backs of your wet thighs, your moan fills the room like a lupine howl.

That's my good girl, I growl. There is nothing quick or quiet about this act. That was what you intended when you first crawled onto your bed to touch yourself, but now you're bent over, bent to my will, and you are already screaming out loud.

My thrusts are forceful, but controlled. It isn't the crazed pounding you've been watching on your computer between actors paid to fuck. This is the firm, luscious fucking of a man who's wanted you for a long, long time and who has the discipline to savor the moment.

Of course, once you beg me to fuck you harder, the tempo accelerates. The slap of my thighs against your buttocks almost drowns out your primal groans, almost, but you have needed this for too long. Your howls begin from the pulsing heat between your legs and it spreads through your body like a shockwave.

Your breasts roll against your mattress, your hair tickles your ears, sweat drips from your jiggling buttocks, and splatters against my thick, curling pubic hair, and I grunt like a. ..