Thy Neighbor's Wife

Chapter One-1

Chapter One

I saw her first as the sum of her beautiful parts, with a look of s****l expectation written in the lines of her grimaced features. She was at that moment of crisis where amazement collides with physical desire and need sweeps through the body with a purging release.

I dissected her individual parts only after that first stunned glimpse of her. She was in her third-floor window, as I was in mine; although she stood directly before the window glass and I hid in the shadows to avoid being seen. I was so glad that modesty didn’t dictate her choice of locations for this erotic moment.

Her lovely features revealed beauty in every aspect. Her hair was short, a tender reddish brown color, perfectly combed, skimming the edges of her round and innocent face. Her lips were painted red that day, colored as dark as blood. I imagined them that way perpetually, never pale, but painted perfectly, except, perhaps, when smudged from use, as in kissing someone she knew well. Her lips would linger, teasing the arousal from a man’s loins with little effort.

Her skin was young, tawny and smooth as butter. I imagined its fragrance, the scent of something delicate, like lilacs or roses or a blooming peony. For just an instant, I saw her smile, something clever and beguiling, with a hint of sweetness to catch the unsuspecting man off guard, a man who might mistake her sweetness for real, thinking she was naïve. Her eyes were wide and round, hazel or blue, perhaps, though it was hard to tell from a distance of twenty feet.

I knew from those first minutes of adoration that I wanted to have her, to caress her, softly stroke her belly, run my hand between her sweaty thighs where I’d find her wet. Some weeks later, I soon would learn, my feelings for her would change. She’d dig so deeply into my soul that she’d send a frenzy of dark emotions through the tattered shreds of my psyche. I’d want to tear away her t**s, slap her face so hard that it bore the imprint of my hand, spank her bottom crimson, throttle her, maul her, maim her, love her hard enough to make her lies disappear. My emotions would fly through me like a flock of birds, wild, savage, wings fanning the flames of my discontent and anticipation.

Yes, weeks later, I’d have a different experience of that woman. But as I met her that lonesome night, touched her anonymously through an unclear portal, what more could I anticipate from her in that secret meeting than a creature of virginal innocence? Her expression was almost angelic, while her eroticism seemed to radiate with every subtle move she made. She stood before that window and I, unbeknownst to her, was there with her in spirit, my eyes from just twenty feet away where I sat perched as if in wait.

She never knew I was there watching the expressions of lust, wonder, satisfaction and pain play across her face, revealing far more than she wished to show a stranger. I watched how her hand moved down between her thighs as she licked her ruby lips and closed her eyes, dreamily. Oh! I longed to know what she was thinking at that moment. I imagined that her s****l need had made her hot; that a layer of perspiration made her skin glossy, though this was only speculation. Answering that physical heat, she pulled her dress up over her hips. Then in one sweeping gesture, it seemed to fly like a dove over her torso and head. She let it go and the white dress sailed to the floor, leaving her in panties and nothing else.

More smooth, perfect skin greeted my eye, along with her breasts, an ample bounty and n*****s, round like pink quarters against the tawny surface of flesh.

Her hips undulated; her thighs rubbed hotly together. I drank in every move, every nuance. Belly shining in the glow of an overhead light, her fingers snaked down her flat tummy and under the waistband of her panties, into the secret of her s*x – wet perhaps, with a fragrance so abundant I could almost catch the scent from where I sat watching, even at this distance, even with the windows closed, as if her essence were potent enough to breech the barriers between us. Ah! For just one whiff, one sample taste of that loveliness. She caressed the private spaces of her body that I could not see, until her belly shook and her body tensed and she had to catch herself against the window glass, lest she lose her balance. Her mouth opened to scream, perhaps to moan or make some silent cry—nothing I could hear.

Then I could see her inhale deeply, the light dimmed, and I watched as she turned around with one hand still touching the window. Only then did I see a shadow moving across the room behind her. Was someone other than me watching her performance?

I didn’t see the woman again for several weeks, although I regularly looked for her in the third story window, or on the porch below, or in the kitchen that faced the side of my house. Sadly, she eluded me. I saw the man of house, Harry Gale, coming and going regularly. His schedule varied from day to day, but he was often gone for long hours, returning late at night, sometimes in the early morning.

Harry Gale was at least twenty years my senior, which made me envy him having a wife as young as the woman in the third floor window. I assumed she was his wife, not a lover or a friend, although I had no first-hand knowledge of that fact. The couple had moved in next door just six months before, after the house stood empty for nearly two years.

The neighborhood is a product of early 20th century upward mobility, a place where the wealthy fathers of the community built large substantial homes for their growing families. The streets are boulevards with medians of green grass. Towering maple and oak trees shade the broad sidewalks. Most of these city lots are rather narrow for the large homes that take up most of the available land. There’s just enough space between them for driveways and small strips of lawn. Many homes like Harry Gale’s and mine stand like huge monoliths, three stories high in ornate Victorian or classic Georgian styles of architecture. They appear to outweigh the surrounding landscape, while at the same time, they are so closely integrated with the neighboring houses that to remove even one would destroy the tightly woven fabric that gives the area its formidable and brooding charm. While making note of these ponderous monuments to worldly success, I also found the neighborhood erotically lush. Thick hedges, verdant lawns and great beds of mature perennials give the area the abundant lavishness of a finely manicured city park.

It was general knowledge that Harry Gale was a wealthy man, the owner of several manufacturing patents that would continue to bring him income for the rest of his life. He belonged in this neighborhood, being the kind of man who dressed in suits morning till night, his tie tight to his throat, his stride purposeful regardless of the hour. He still had a full head of hair, gray of course, and a virile and productive spirit. I’d seen him more than once greeting guests, standing proudly on the broad portico of his house shaking hands robustly. He cajoled, he smiled, he put his arm affectionately around the shoulders of men, while at the same time, he bowed to women, wearing a look admiring of their femininity. Only once had I see his wife, the girl from my third floor exploits, standing by him. But their familiarity made their relationship obvious. If she wasn’t his wife, then she certainly was his lover.

I am less a natural denizen for this austere neighborhood than Harry Gale and the others that live around us. I’m a single man with a rugged earthy look, a man more comfortable in jeans and boots than suits and Italian loafers. Occasionally, I dress up wearing a sweater and slacks, but rarely take the time. Men like me normally live in the woods like a hermit, or on some remote ranch. You might even find us in some modern city loft apartment that’s been carved out of an industrial building and transformed into a bachelor’s retreat. I could have any of those living arrangements since I have plenty of money to do most anything I want. For a time, I considered living on a houseboat in Sausalito, but I was sick of the West Coast and ready to return to the Midwest where I was raised.

I actually stumbled on the neighborhood when I was looking for one of those trendy loft apartments. Seeing the For Sale sign on a weathered mansion that looked much like my childhood home and had sadly become the eyesore on the block, I took pity on the beautiful old house and decided right then to buy the place. In my spare time, I would restore the home, a task that sounded like a perfect hobby for a man who has plenty of time on his hands and little else to do but read. I wouldn’t mind puttering in its overgrown gardens, something I could do with my hands that would get me away from the computer where I worked. The exercise and fresh air would do me good. Unfortunately, I hated living with the house torn apart for the remodeling and had little aptitude for home repair. I ended up vacationing for two months in Greece and Italy while my architect and decorators did the work. When I returned home, everything was perfectly restored. All twelve rooms were tastefully furnished and ready for their new occupant. It actually seemed silly for one man to live in a house so large, but my affection for the place remained. It seemed cozy and real, with only a few rough spots around the edges—like a back porch roof that leaked—and the landscaping still needed some attention. That I remained willing to do.

I loved the quiet life the house and neighborhood allowed me. But it did seem odd that I rarely used the elegant study the designer had taken such pains to decorate in paneling, dark woods and soft leather. Instead, I turned the unfinished third floor of the house into my office. I suppose it was the unfinished, unrefined nature of the space that attracted me. Perhaps because it made me feel poor and hungry, as I was when I first started work and needed that atmosphere to get my juices flowing. Or maybe I just liked being perched high up, like a holy man, rather than the financial guru I had become.

I successfully traded stocks with the acuity of a genius. I doubled, even tripled the value of the portfolios I managed. While in business school I’d given the stock market a whirl in my spare time and found it was an easy business for me—I had a knack, an intuitive knack for knowing when to buy and when to sell. I can’t quantify my expertise; it’s gut level knowingness, hunches that turn into fact. I think everyone should have a knack for something.

It was my good fortune to have found my talent early in my adult life. By the time I was thirty-two I’d made my first million. I don’t count the millions now; in fact, the money is useful but superfluous. The thrill is all in the game, the win. It’s a high; my addiction. I tell myself I should broaden the scope of my shallow life, find a woman to enjoy these riches with me. But I think of myself as a bore no woman would find attractive once she got beyond the glitter.

I’d had women hanging on me at the parties I used to attend when I was newly rich, but I gave up parties some time ago. Now, at a forty-one I’ve become dangerously anti-social. A loner, a social pariah, so Melanie says. Melanie is the latest femme to try getting under my skin. I met her at a party my stockbroker friend Darren hosted. She is lovely, sleek, glossy, confident, glib, in perfect fashion. I think she likes me because I let her shine; I don’t get in the way of her success. At the same time, being a wealthy, decent looking bachelor makes me the perfect escort for an upwardly mobile woman like Melanie. I’m the trophy date, brooding and witty enough to remain mysterious. Although I swear, there is nothing mysterious beneath my smile or inside this façade. There might be a dirty secret in the fixation for my neighbor’s wife. But that’s bordering on demented, not mysterious at all. I’m sure the vivacious Melanie would rather not know.

Unfortunately, for all of Melanie’s wonderful attributes, she’s terrible in bed. We don’t click at all. I’ve tried the whole routine, the flowers, the romantic dinners, the moonlit walks. When we’ve made it as far as the bedroom, which hasn’t been often, I’ve paid dutiful attention to the small tingle of excitement she reports, caressed her tenderly, removed her clothes like a gentleman and admired the loveliness of her perfect figure. I’ve sucked on her crotch for what seems like hours, attempting to nurture her scant arousal into a full-blown climax. For my efforts, I get some limp response that, along with a sighing smile on her face, she says is satisfying. I honestly think she’s telling the truth; she’s never had s*x any better, a horrifying fact. For me, her kisses are ineffectual; they hardly make my p***s nod from its sleepy rest. If I do get a hard-on it’s because I’m thinking of some porno movie—or more often now, my neighbor’s wife. The f*****g is rudimentary, the climaxes as perfunctory as hers seems to be.

For some women s*x isn’t important; apparently Melanie is one of those women. She seems perfectly happy to date me, to refer to me as her boyfriend, to plan weekend getaways, and dinner parties, which I’m obliged to attend. I suppose what we have is all Melanie needs. It may work for her, but lackluster s*x is not all I want from a woman, not by a long shot. I suppose that I’ve let the relationship go on because I haven’t taken the time to find something else. Something else would be in the form of a nymph as sexy as my neighbor’s wife. There’s a woman for whom I could have a perpetual hard-on.

To my dismay, after that serendipitous episode in the window, Harry Gale’s wife remained elusive. A few days later, I saw her admit a carpenter through the front door, a pretty thought provoking scene. I’d seen Harry leave a half hour earlier, although when I spotted the black truck pull into their drive, I thought little of it, until I glimpsed the woman answering the door in her short nightgown. She grinned as if she knew him well, then took his hand and pulled him inside the way she might pull a potential lover into her boudoir. I swear she’d be getting f****d within the hour.

It was nearly two hours before the carpenter left, which was plenty of time for a s****l tryst. As he climbed in his truck to leave, I noticed that he hadn’t worn his tool belt—obviously not much work getting done. But he did sport the smile of a satisfied man as he waved goodbye to Mrs. Gale.

It was several weeks before I saw the woman again; I’d nearly given up on my sexy neighbor. I even wondered if she was still living there. Then there was the night of their party. Cars came and went for hours and I was terribly curious about the men who entered and left the house—I don’t recall seeing a single woman, which made me wonder what kind of party this actually was. Since I saw nothing of Harry’s wife on that festive occasion, my suspicions were fueled mostly by my lurid imagination. For a time, I listened to the sounds of laughter and music from my open attic window. But then the sounds diminished, and the cold draft from the window forced me to close it. With no more significant stimulation, I settled in with my computer screen and all the facts and figures I needed to keep me busy for a night. When my eyes got heavy, it was nearly midnight. I powered down and sat in the peaceful darkness looking out at a large glowing moon, which had just risen overhead. Then, suddenly, a light went on in Harry Gale’s third story window, and my attention was quickly diverted there.

The woman was there again, this time leaning into the window, her arms in front of her, her fists at her throat. Her brow was furrowed and her eyes filled with sorrow. An instant later, her face transformed, flushed with sudden angst. Her features contorted, she was wincing in pain and her body jerked fitfully at regularly intervals. In response to what? Her expression had been so evocative that I needed an answer. I could barely see in the window with the light dim and the glass now clouded with her breath. Frustrated, I finally pulled my telescope from hiding and peered through the lens—

Damn! That was it! Amazing!

She was being lashed by some unseen man—I admit it could have been a woman whipping her, though that thought didn’t even cross my mind at the time. What I did surmise was that some instrument of torture reached out to her from the darkness behind her and struck with a hefty jolt each time it hit.

In reply, she seemed to gasp and I recorded the instant in a similar way. My body tightened, my emotions soared, although the nature of my emotions was indecipherable. Was this joy? Fear? Revulsion? Arousal?

As her distress increased, her face formed a terribly scowl. I wanted to jump the distance and rescue her from the horror. But then something too incredible to understand took place. Her face transformed again, taking on the same look I’d seen weeks ago when I caught her m**********g at that very window. What a terrifyingly wonderful creature she was! My body swelled now with unambiguous excitement. My c**k seemed to harden in an instant—although I imagine it had been growing erect unnoticed by me until that moment when the s****l thrill erupted on her face. A rush of need ripped through my crotch, and I hastily teased my p***s from my pants and began to whack off as the painful joy gathered steam. My hard-on simultaneously erupted on the rough wood floor at my feet as the woman’s punishment finally ended.

I wanted her. I didn’t care if she was another man’s wife. I wanted her with an ache so deeply stirring that I didn’t care how stupid the silly idea truly was. I didn’t know her name; I wasn’t even sure she was Harry’s wife. Maybe she was some slut, some toy he’d picked up off the street. But who she was didn’t matter to me, wife, slut, gold-digger, sexy toy, in a few short minutes from afar, she filled me with more satisfaction than a hundred nights with Melanie ever could.

I didn’t stop to think about that beating until much later as the party guests were leaving. Then I wondered about what despicable person would have caused her such anguish. Why was she being beaten? Was this punishment? Or was it s*x? And who did the deed? Harry? One of his guests? Were there others watching? I had the strangest notion that she was part of the evening’s entertainment, something far beyond the incident in her attic. Good Lord, the avenues of possibility that single thought led to were astounding.