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I decided to take a chance and write a story from a woman’s point of view. I would appreciate some constructive criticism from you seasoned gals. This is turning out to be a much longer story than I started to write, and there will be a few more parts to it with other characters. Let me know what you think, dear reader.
I was returning home from a busy day shopping for a new wardrobe, in celebration of my divorce from my jerk of a husband, when I drove past the moving van next door. “Next door,” in my area, means several hundred feet away. My house is typical of the area, being four thousand square feet on a five acre lot.
No one in the area has, or needs, a “privacy fence,” because of the distance and the trees between houses. On nice days, I could sunbathe in the nude. While I am getting some sun, I often masturbate. Fingers only; sex toys really leave me flat. Call me old fashioned, but a good hard cock and an expert tongue is all I really need between my legs. It had been almost four years since I had any sex with a man. For the last year or so, I was having some tension relieving sex with Peggy.
Peggy’s a neighbor, a divorcee like me, and we attend the same church and belong to the same political club. She’s short, slender, very good looking, has a aura of sexiness that borders on being lewd. She has a cute overbite that somehow suggests the word, “fellatio.” She likes laughing and gossip and is fun to be with. Most of all, she likes sex with men or women. With men, she likes ’em younger by at least fifteen years; she’s thirty-nine and is not looking for another husband.
She’s always doing something with her hair; currently it was cut short, as a man’s hair, but styled in a feminine way and it was colored (this time) a dark metallic red. No many women could get away with that at her age, but Peggy carried it off nicely. Her nineteen-year-old daughter, now in a local college, was a lot like her.
I never realized women could rub their pussies together and get off like that, until Peggy showed me how it’s done. The problem with that is Peggy doesn’t have a cock. I like what a man has between his legs. I like looking at a hard cock, and tasting and feeling it. But nowadays I was horny enough to spend a few hours a week with Peggy, just for contact with a warm body and a few orgasms. Sometimes we just snuggled or talked at the kitchen table over coffee and doughnuts. It was a discrete and cozy arrangement. The internet term for our relationship is “friend with benefits.”
I was anxious to meet my new neighbors, but there was probably chaos at their house as they were settling in, so I decided to wait a day or two before I made a courtesy call. Meanwhile, I tried on my new clothes.
I wear pantyhose or nothing at all, ordinarily; nylon stockings and garter belt for special occasions. I had some plain bras for daily wear, and had transparent bras that hooked in front, with matching panties, also for special occasions. The panties I usually wear, if I wear any at all, are plain cotton, but I have an assortment of the silky kind too; some crotchless.
Unfortunately, with my philandering ex-husband, there had been almost no “special occasions.” The few times we did dress up to go out, turned out to be not-so-special, anyway. I realized, during one of these times, that I didn’t love him, or even like him, anymore. It was too often I smelled another woman’s perfume on him, and told myself it was just my imagination. And I patiently “understood” when he was “delayed” and would be late. Then, one day, everything clicked together, and I saw him for what he was.
I really couldn’t hold a grudge against him. He was big-hearted man, not even very good looking. He didn’t chase women; they chased him. I chased him, too–and wound up with him. He was like one of those people who could stand under tree, and have birds come to them and sit on their shoulders and perch on their fingers. In his case, instead of birds flocking to him, it was women. I never could figure out what it was about him that drew the women. And he never turned anyone down. I took my wedding vows seriously and turned down all offers.
I went to a lawyer and, to make a long story short, I was now a forty-year-old divorcee with money, living alone in a big house. Trying on expensive, new outfits.
I bought stylish, rather that fashionable, clothes. Something to catch a man’s eye and make me look like the respectable, full-grown woman I believed I was. I’m tall (almost six feet), have a good figure and great legs. Standing before a full length mirror, I thought I looked just as good naked as I did wearing clothes. My breasts still had more perkiness than sag, and though they are not very big, they are very pretty, with pink nipples. But I have a plain, homely face, I think; handsome, rather than pretty. Peggy told me if I wore black lingerie and put on a stern face, I could pass for a whip wielding dominatrix.
I had bought new clothes for any occasion, from no-nonsense business suits, through cocktail and party dresses, everyday cotton print dresses for around the house and tight casino siteleri fitting jeans that showed off my long legs and round behind very nicely. I had a couple of oversize men’s shirts, that I wear at home in lieu of a housecoat. My shoe collection ranged from flat sandals to four inch stiletto heels. I also have hiking boots and snakebite-proof pants for the outdoors.
It was almost midnight before I finished admiring the first of my new clothes; the others were being altered and would be ready to pick up in a day or so. I asked Peggy over to show her my new things, but she had a hot date with one of her young studs. Peggy likes cock as much as I, and she’s aggressive–one might say ruthless–about going out and getting it.
I slept till nine in the morning, three hours past my usual wakeup time. I had cigarettes and coffee for breakfast, and while I was looking through the newspaper, I remembered I had a hair appointment. I took a fast shower, dressed in a pair of tight jeans (with pantyhose), one of my new transparent bras, and a simple white blouse. I wore the sandals with the three inch heels.
The cute gay guy, Don, who does my hair, once talked me into getting it set in the “sexy look” that was supposed to be very popular. When he finished, I thought it made me look like I had spent the weekend in a cheap motel with two sailors. Or maybe like one of those bitter women who sit around sipping herbal tea, complaining to each other that all men are pigs. Anyway, I didn’t like it and had it redone to my original free-hanging style.
I made it to the hair appointment on time and with a few minutes to spare. All I needed was a cut. My hair is glossy brunette, straight and parted on the left; it hangs straight down, and, I think, it looks really good. I usually put it in braids when I go to work outdoors. A little cutting to keep the ends neat was all it needed.
This time, Don tried to talk me into getting my pubic hair shaved. I had seen pictures of shaved pussies and decided that wasn’t my style. Don, in his sales pitch, said he used an old fashioned straight razor to guarantee a perfectly smooth and close shave. He said he checked for closeness by running his tongue over the shaved area. It was a titillating thought, but I told him, “No.”
After the haircut, I went to the stores that were doing alterations on some of the clothes I purchased. None of the things I ordered were quite finished.
As I walked through the mall, I was pleased with the looks I got from men. There is a small cocktail lounge which is dark and quiet and you could order a sandwich and eat it right at the bar. I had a club sandwich and a glass of beer.
During my repast, a man tried to strike up a conversation, and I gave him the cold shoulder. Inside, I was excited. Men approach me from time to time. I could have had all the sex I wanted, but I wasn’t going to be a sleaze, like my ex-husband. I wanted a man. Sex was on my list of things to do. Just not quite yet; the time wasn’t right. The guy hitting on me in the cocktail lounge lifted my spirits, and I was tempted to answer his pick-up line with a welcoming smile. I wasn’t doing badly for a middle age broad–if forty is middle age these days.
I nosed around in the shops, looking at purses and jewelry, but nothing caught my interest. There was a gun store at the mall where I had bought a .22 rifle the week before; I picked up a couple of boxes of ammunition for my .45 caliber revolver, went to my car, and drove for home.
When I got close to home, I remembered my new neighbors, and decided to stop by and introduce myself.
The doorbell was answered by a good-looking, strapping young man, wearing a sweaty and grimy T-shirt and faded blue jeans. He seemed shy, but that didn’t stop him from looking me over from head to nylon covered toe.
I smiled and introduced myself.
“Dad,” he hollered over his shoulder, “There’s a lady here.”
A tall, ruggedly handsome man appeared a moment later, seeming somewhat annoyed. He gave me a careful, appraising look, with intelligent eyes, and then smiled.
“I’m Ellen Parks, your neighbor next door,” I said, pointing in the direction of my house.
He invited me in, saying it was “break time,” anyway. He said his name was Jim, and his son was Jim Jr., also known as JJ. We went through the foyer and into the large living room. The furniture was more or less in place and there was a stack of wide, thin boxes–like pizza boxes but larger–resting near the fireplace. I guessed they contained pictures that would soon hang on the walls. The room had a freshly painted smell.
There were large sofas facing each other across a large and heavy-looking coffee table. Jim and I sat on opposite ends of one of one the sofas and JJ sat in one end of the facing sofa, facing me.
“We’re not quite ready for company, but I can offer you a beer,” said Jim.
I accepted, and Jim sent JJ to bring a round of beer.
“Nice looking boy,” I told Jim.
He chuckled and said, “Don’t call him a boy to his face, Ellen. He just turned eighteen and he’s sensitive about slot oyna it. He shaves now, even though he hasn’t spouted whiskers.”
JJ returned with two beers and a soft drink on a tray. He was obviously on his best manners. I took a closer look at his face as I accepted a can of beer from the tray. He was a younger version of his father. I would have guessed he was younger than eighteen with his innocent blue eyes, smooth cheeks and red, sensual lips. But then, the older I get, the younger everybody else looks. “Thank you, JJ,” I said.
He nodded and said, “I hope the can’s okay, Miss Ellen; we haven’t unpacked any glasses or that kinda stuff yet.”
“I never use a glass anyway, JJ, but thank you for the thought.”
And then we settled into getting-acquainted talk. I told them I was just divorced and that I was a painter. “Landscapes, is what I do. I look at it as sort of a hobby, and it brings in some money.”
“Can you make a living at that?” asked Jim. “I thought artists had to die before their paintings brought a decent price.”
I grinned and said, “I do all right with my system. What I do is go out in the field and when I come across a view that catches my eye, I set up a canvas and paint it. Then I take it home and paint twenty copies of it, all “originals.” Sort of like an assembly line.”
Jim frowned in puzzlement. “How do you manage that, Ellen?
“She’s got twenty easels, Dad. Right Miss Ellen?”
I nodded and saw comprehension on Jim’s face. And then he chuckled. “That sounds almost dishonest, Ellen. I’d never have thought of doing something like that. I’d like to see your ‘factory.’ “
“Anytime. I’m right next door. Only a hundred yards or so.” That got a small laugh.
Father and son took me on a tour of their new home. It had a similar floor plan to mine, but in a mirror image. The beds were made in the bedrooms and I saw they had their computers all hooked up.
The library was very interesting. Two walls were lined with bookshelves, and nearly filled with books. The other two walls were covered by gun cabinets and two guns were already in place. There was a familiar scent of gun oil in the air.
Four wide, thin, wooden crates, with rope handles, were stacked in the center of the room, with another stack of four off to the side. The top, open crate, had space for six rifles, arranged side by side, fitted into it. Two vacant spaces obviously held the two rifles already in one of the cabinets.
“I hope guns don’t make you nervous,” said Jim.
“Not at all. I grew up with guns. Daddy was a gun nut and he showed me all about safe handling and marksmanship. I have a .45 in my purse for self defense.”
“Well,” said Jim, looking at me with renewed interest, “you’re a very interesting woman, Ellen. I think we’re going to like our new neighbor, don’t you, JJ.”
“I think she’s hot,” the boy blurted, and immediately flushed with embarrassment.
“Get out of here and do something useful,” Jim growled in mock anger to his son. The boy hurried from the room with relief on his face.
Jim said, ruefully shaking his head, “The hormones are boiling at his age. He’s too horny for his own good. Don’t hold it against him. What he needs is to get lai…a girlfriend.”
“I grew up with two older brothers, Jim. It would be worrisome if his hormones weren’t ‘boiling.’ “
“I guess you’re right. Where were we?”
“I presume we were at the end of the tour of your house, having saved the most interesting room for last,” I said, moving my arm in a sweep of the room. I took a couple of steps toward one of the walls of books, scanning the shelves. “You don’t strike me as a bookish man, Jim.”
“I’m a writer. Novels, based on military history. How do I strike you, Ellen?”
I was scanning the titles on his books, and said, “As a military man, and judging from the book titles, it looks like I was right–or pretty close.”
“I was a Marine,” he said, simply.
I met Jim’s eyes and said, “You also strike me as a man who could use a home cooked meal.”
“You’re right on that count, too. Was that an invitation?”
“Absolutely. I’m a good cook, and I like my cooking to be appreciated. What are you hungry for?”
I could almost hear the wheels turning as he thought for a few moments.
“Something I haven’t had in a long time, but I really love.”
“Meat loaf. gravy, mashed potatoes,” he said. He was my kind of man.
Jim walked me to my SUV. I was startled at first, when he put his arm around my waist, but I moved closer and we bumped hips as we walked. This guy didn’t waste any time I thought. But that was okay with me; I liked him. Standing at the car, I offered my cheek and he gave it a peck. His eyes locked onto mine, a searching look. After a moment, I lowered my eyes, shyly, and nodded. I could see no point in wasting time either. Jim stepped back and I got into my car.
I had to go to the market for a few things and when I got home, I showered, put on an old cotton dress, and started cooking. I even baked two loaves of bread.
I had the bread canlı casino siteleri out of the oven and cooling; the meat loaf would be ready in twenty minutes. The doorbell rang and I went to it, wiping sweat off my brow along the way. Jim and JJ were in fresh clothes and they looked like they were fresh from the shower.
I led them through the foyer to the living room and Jim said, “Man, it smells good in here. Are you baking bread?”
“Nothing special, just plain white bread.” I said.
“I love home made bread,” Jim said.
“Well, we have about twenty minutes–say half an hour–until everything is ready. Drinks? I have everything.”
Jim and I had scotch and water, JJ had a Sprite.
Over dinner, I learned from JJ, that I was slightly famous. “I googled your name, Miss Ellen, and found a bunch of websites with you in them–even a fan club.”
“You’re kidding!” I said, wide eyed and open mouthed.
JJ seemed delighted with himself and his discovery and he made me promise to google my name and see for myself.
After that topic wore out, Jim started another. He said he was a Marine captain when he resigned his commission to take up writing. He had three best sellers out of eight novels. All his books were in print and selling. When he told me the name under which he wrote, I told him I recognized it, but I had to confess I hadn’t read any of his books.
I was wondering about his wife when he told me about her.
“Janet was a pilot when we were married, had her own airplane and all. She just loved to fly, didn’t she, JJ?”
JJ nodded, with a nostalgic smile.
“She had one of those planes with two wings, a biplane. That thing was older than the both of us put together..It had a front seat and a back seat and we went for rides to nowhere, just for the view and the aerobics. She tried to teach me to fly, but I could never catch on. JJ could fly it, though, and I mean solo. How come you didn’t want to get your license, JJ?”
JJ shrugged as he mopped gravy from his plate with my homemade bread.
Jim smiled fondly at something he saw in memory for a few moments, and then went on with his story.
“Two years ago I got a call. Janet had crashed; she didn’t survive. They called it pilot error, because nobody knew exactly what happened.”
“I’m so sorry, Jim,” I said.
“No need to be. She died doing what she loved. It was tough on us for a while, but we got over it. Life goes on, as they say.”
“Dad was drunk for a whole month,” JJ said, staring at his father with pride.
This time, Jim shrugged and gave me a crooked grin.
“And now,” he said, “to change the subject, how about showing us your picture ‘factory.’ “
We went down the long, gravel path and into the large metal shed–I didn’t call it a studio–in which I do my copying. I turned on the lights and Jim and son looked around. There was a large worktable on which I kept my paint and other supplies. Twenty easels, as JJ had figured out, stood in two rows, each with a partially completed canvass on it; the original, “original” painting was on an easel at one end of the worktable. The smell of linseed oil and mineral spirits was heavy in the air, and I turned on the ventilation system.
I warned Jim and JJ that the paint might still be a little wet, so they moved gingerly among the paintings, looking closely at one, and then at another, seeking differences. They couldn’t find any, but I could have pointed to a hundred. JJ said he thought I was pretty good, and Jim asked me how long it took to “do all of these.” It was nice to have men around.
“I have done some in two days, working around the clock, but usually I can grind ’em out in a week. Believe it or not, it’s really hard work.”
“That’s the paint, Miss Ellen?” asked JJ pointing at the quart size cans.
“Yeah,” said Jim. “I thought artists used paint in those little tubes.”
“I have about two hundred and twenty feet of canvas to cover here, guys.” I said. “A gallon of paint can cover two, three hundred feet, depending. Get the picture?” We all laughed at the pun.
I was enjoying having the father and son for dinner. Except for the obvious age difference, they could have been twins. And they were real men, instead of the pussy willow types there seemed to be more and more of lately. Jim walked with a confident, military bearing, almost a cocky swagger; a man to be reckoned with; JJ walked just like his father.
Men. I was having a tingle of horniness just being around these two. I wondered how–or if–I could separate the father from the son. It seemed a sure thing when I left their house earlier. Rolling around in bed with Jim had, to put it mildly, great, animal appeal to me. I was gonna make it happen, one way or another. Humping my pussy on Peggy’s thigh was nice, but Peggy was not a man.
The area behind my house is partly a really cool deck, partly a manicured lawn, and partly my private shooting range. My two very male guests took a great interest in the shooting range. I like punching holes in paper targets with real bullets. It’s a good way to relieve tension. I was pretty good with the two pistols I had; the human silhouette targets I practiced with, had “vital” areas marked on them; most of the time I could get five or six shots in them at thirty feet, firing rapidly.
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