Boy Next Door

Chapter Two-2

Of course, Playboy is far too stupid to feature someone as wonderfully unique as she is. They prefer big fake cookie-cutter breasts, boring as hell. You see one and you’ve seen them all. That’s just as well though. Mrs. Andrews is my own private treasure shared with no one, not even her too-stupid-too-live husband. Oh, how my heart ached at the thought of all I would do in his shoes! I would cherish and pamper and worship her like a goddess every minute of every day. And every night I would make the most eager yet tenderly respectful love to her until the sun came up. Then I’d bring her breakfast in bed and take my own spiritual sustenance by slavishly eating that incredible p***y for her until she gave me just the faintest of approving smiles…

With a start I checked my watch. s**t, I’d been up there ten extra minutes already. I had to get out of the tree before she left the bathroom, or our maid finished in my parent’s suite.

Hurriedly I climbed down and returned to my bedroom. And there I’ve been ever since, watching and re-watching the video I made of her last night. Slow motion, even frame by frame I stare at those unbelievable breasts jiggling as she pleasures herself. I want to jerk off so bad, but I’m saving it for tonight, in case she has another, even more incredible session planned.

Suddenly from my bedroom window I see Mrs. Andrews’ car pull into their driveway. She parks and get outs carrying a shopping bag. Looking slim and pretty and irresistible even in the loose, concealing, drab kind of garb she always wears, she gets out of the car and heads into the house. There’s an unwonted jauntiness in her step, making me wonder again about the recent changes in her. She’s always had an air of retreat, even of hopeless defeat about her that is as puzzling as the way her husband refuses to touch her. In any case I’m happy for her, and not just because this new attitude has so greatly improved the view around here. For both her sake and my own I hope she continues to break out of the repression that’s always ruled her.

With that thought I at last close my newest and most incredible video file. I engage the encryption system on my computer so that no one can access or even be aware of my trove. Then I change into some old shorts and a t-shirt. There’s a pick-up football game planned for about half an hour from now, a kind of informal summer practice session arranged by me and the other captains. This fall will be our last chance to win the division, and I can’t let even the sublime Mrs. Andrews distract me from that.

Claire

As soon as I get home I want to try on my sexy new underwear. Instead I force myself to wait until tonight, when I can model it in front of that big reflective window – and the one in whose opinion I’m really interested.

Soon I’ll have a chance to interrogate young Brian, and find out if he really thinks I’m attractive or if he’s merely a pervert who gets off on spying on unsuspecting people. I also need to know if he’s been spreading tales about me – like the fact that Jim and I don’t sleep together or even engage in the slightest display of affection when we’re alone. The fact that I’m an incorrigible masturbator would also be damaging if it got around this ridiculously uptight community. To that end I spend my time familiarizing myself with my other purchase.

First I plug the camera into a wall outlet. Then while it charges up at least enough for me to make sure it works I read the instruction manual. Everything seems straightforward enough. I prepare an early dinner of French fries and tilapia filets – no meat on Fridays is another secret habit I’ve picked up in defiance of my parents. Baptists as a rule don’t believe in rituals that aren’t specifically Biblical, and furthermore have a reflexive antipathy toward anything Catholic. I stick with fish on Fridays both to thumb my nose at my community and just because it’s healthy. Anyway, after eating I take the camera and record walking through the house and then a darkened closet. After that I use the included USB cable to upload the footage to my computer.

We actually own three of these. There is a big desktop unit in the den for family business and Jim and I each have laptops for personal use. There are also three TVs in the house: one in each of our bedrooms and the big one downstairs. All three have HDMI cables that can be hooked to a computer so the TV screen can serve as another monitor. This eliminates the need for a DVD player. You just connect your laptop to the TV and you can play the disk in your drive or any video file for that matter right up on the big screen. After hooking up like this I drag and drop the video player, maximize it and double-click on the file I’ve just made.

The image springs to life in crystal-clear high definition: beautiful. Home movies have sure come a hell of a long way from the old days. Even when the camera moves into the darkened closet I can still make out the stuff piled on shelves and identify various coats and jackets. Excellent: as long as it isn’t pitch black in Brian’s tree house I should get all I need. I shut everything down and plug the camera back into the wall outlet. The manual says it will charge faster this way than over the USB cable. After that I look for some way to occupy myself until eleven o’clock or so.

First I settle on the couch with a cup of coffee and a sexy novel. The k****e is another great invention for secret heretics like me. You can keep and read whatever books you like without worrying that some judgmental jerk will see the title on your shelf or in your hands. Unfortunately whenever the main characters are flirting or romancing and finally getting it on I keep seeing me and Brian in their places. At last I give up and switch on the TV again.

We get every channel our cable company provides except the foreign language ones. I try watching the news, but every commercial is from a big drug company, and is as insufferably annoying as the first hundred times I was subjected to it. Every one of them exhorts you to ‘tell your doctor’ about their products. Excuse me, but shouldn’t your doctor tell you what you need? Begging him or her for a certain drug just makes him a dealer in a white coat. And every product advertised has a long list of hideous side effects that sound worse than the nonexistent problem they purport to cure. Do you have heartburn? Don’t eat spicy food! Dry eye syndrome, restless leg syndrome, what the hell are these? Good thing they’re investing so heavily in developing and marketing such miracle cures for such dreaded afflictions! And don’t get me started on the boner pills. As soon as the umpteenth Cialis commercial comes on I can’t take it anymore. Can’t get it up for your wife? Maybe you should have married someone you were attracted to, asshole.

This hits painfully close to home for me, and so right away I give up on seeing some insightful journalism (good luck) between all the commercials and thumb the ‘video source’ button until I come back to the computer screen. I pick a movie out of my collection that I haven’t seen in a while and settle in. This is The Green Mile with Tom Hanks, and for a while the story keeps me riveted even though I’ve already seen it a dozen times. But finally my mind wanders yet again to Brian.

God I can’t wait to lose my virginity! For a time I fantasize about what that will be like.

I should probably wait until he’s finished high school. But that will give me some time to build the suspense beautifully – not to mention punish him extravagantly. At last I give in completely to my baser nature. With only half an eye on the TV I spend the rest of the evening fantasizing about all the incredibly exciting ways I could make him pay for his naughty spying on me. I lay meticulous plans for the kind of relationship we will have once he’s firmly under my thumb. Then at last eleven o’clock arrives. It’s time to begin putting the very first of my devious schemes into effect.

I retrieve the camera and slip upstairs into the guest bedroom again. As luck would have it the moon is nearly full this weekend, and our suburban street still has the old fashioned white streetlights. There will be no problem at all getting this first bit of evidence.

Right on time Brian slips out the back of his house through a silently sliding glass door that opens on the patio. His light blue pajamas make him easily visible. As always he pauses to check our windows but doesn’t see me lurking in the dark. Grinning to myself, I record his every move, from emerging to looking over here to picking his way carefully through the patio furniture to finally scurrying furtively across the lawn and up into his tree house.

That’s good enough for now. I upload the data to my laptop and stow the camera. Then I go about my nightly business as usual.

Damn, just getting this first bit of goods on Brian has made me hornier than hell! I so want to model my new underwear and masturbate for him! It will be much better to put this off for another two nights however, so it will have the greatest effect at the most crucial time. Exercising all my will I simply wash up and go to bed as usual, again tormenting Brian (and myself as well) by giving him only the briefest glimpse of me undressing and settling in.

Forty-eight hours, my naughty young soon-to-be boy-toy: then we’ll both get a show to treasure forever!

Claire

Somehow I make it. My new underwear stays tucked in my middle drawer with the candles, lighter and vibrator. Thirty-two hours of maddening delay later, Jim taps on my bedroom door from the bathroom, opens it and pokes his head in.

“The shower’s free, Claire.”

Making my voice deliberately wan, I barely poke my own head out of the covers.

“That’s okay, Jim. I don’t think I’m going to make it to church today. I feel like crap. I think I’ve got a bug coming on.”

“Are you sure it’s not that pizza you had last night? I saw the leftovers in the fridge – pepperoni, sausage, onions and hot peppers. I think you got all that crap just to keep me from eating the rest of it.”

“I wouldn’t do that. But you may be right. Either way, I’m not going to risk getting the runs while I’m sitting in a pew. Just do me a favor and stick with the bug story when you make excuses for me, okay?”

“No problem. I hope you feel better.”

“Thanks.”

Jim starts to retreat, and I call out as an afterthought.

‘Oh, and don’t forget to ask the Garveys about this weekend, okay? Tell them to send Brian over about noon on Saturday if he’s free.”

“You got it.”

Jim disappears back into the bathroom and shuts the door. When I hear him plod downstairs a quarter of an hour later, I cast back the covers and slide quietly out of bed. Rather than bathe yet I just pull a brush through my hair and slip into jeans, sneakers, and a plain green shirt. I ease out of my bedroom, past the guest bedroom and slip into the studio at the front corner of the house. This is where I keep my sewing machine, knitting things, a collection of jigsaw puzzles, and an easel and paints: hobbies to keep the good Christian housewife occupied when she’s not performing her daily drudgery.

Actually this stuff sees little use; I’d much rather curl up with a good book or surf the internet. One must keep up appearances however. Now I ease into a chair at the table where a half-assembled puzzle sits gathering dust and take up watch over the street. Soon enough the front door slams, Jim comes out in his suit and tie, gets into his sporty little car and purrs off to church. Five minutes later the Garvey family does likewise: Hope, Jacob, and hunky, young Brian. I give them a few minutes to quit the area and then hurry back to my bedroom.