Neigbourly Love
The garden hose coiled around her ankle like a snake as she kicked off her flip-flops, the sudden rebellion against the suburban afternoon silence louder than she’d intended. Her parents’ sedan had barely turned the corner when the first button of her sundress popped open—not from haste, but from the deliberate, almost scientific curiosity of someone who’d spent too many nights staring at her ceiling, wondering why her body refused to cooperate with the manuals she’d stolen glances at in the library’s health section.
Through the slats of the fence, she could see Mr. Holloway’s silhouette paused mid-step, his pruning shears glinting in the sun like a conductor’s baton. He didn’t pretend to look away when she uncapped the bottle of lube, its viscous sheen catching the light as she coated the silicone length with methodical strokes. The dildo had arrived in unmarked packaging that morning, slipped under her windshield wiper with a Post-it note in block letters: *PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT.* Now, as she eased onto the patio chaise, she pressed the cool tip against herself with a sigh—part relief, part theatrical flourish for her audience of one.
The buzzing cicadas synced with the slow drag of the toy as she worked it deeper, her thighs trembling not from effort but from the delicious absurdity of the scene: a former honor student sprawled on plastic-weave furniture, her sundress rucked up around her waist while her sixty-year-old neighbor critiqued her wrist angle through the gaps in the cedar panels. "Less stabbing, more swirling," came his gruff correction, followed by the wet sound of him spitting into his geraniums. She obeyed, rotating her hips in slow figure-eights, the stretch igniting sparks behind her eyelids that had nothing to do with the noonday sun.
His shadow stretched long across her thighs when he finally stepped around the fence—not through it, never through it—his gardening gloves still damp with hose water. She kept the rhythm steady as he loomed beside the chaise, his calloused thumb swiping through the mess she’d made on the silicone. "See how it’s drying out?" He tsked, smearing her own slickness back over the shaft with the same care he used to polish his prize-winning roses. "Your body’s not a library book, sweetheart. You can’t just check out the good parts."
Then his hands were under her knees, lifting them wide as a map unfurling, and his mouth—Christ, his mouth—was hotter than the pavement under her discarded flip-flops. He didn’t bury his face in her like some starving thing; he cataloged her. Each swipe of his tongue was a lesson: the flat press below her clit that made her toes curl into the plastic weave, the wicked flick just north that had her hips stuttering off the cushion. When she gasped, he hummed approval against her skin, the vibration ricocheting up her spine like a struck tuning fork.
His gardening gloves lay discarded by the hose, fingers still curled as if around phantom shears, and she wondered absurdly if this was how he deadheaded flowers—with the same ruthless precision. The thought evaporated when he sucked her clit into his mouth, his thumb circling the stretched rim of her hole where the dildo had been. The dual sensation split her vision into static, her back arching so sharply she heard the chaise creak in protest. "You’re holding your breath," he chided against her folds, his exhale cooling the spit-slick skin. "Bodies don’t come when they’re braced for impact."
She forced her lungs to expand, the scent of her arousal and his rosemary soap mingling in the thick air. His tongue swirled counterclockwise now, a calculated deviation from the pattern he’d drilled into her, and she felt the shift like a gear clicking into place. The orgasm built not as a cresting wave but as the slow tilt of a glass—overflow inevitable, the spill languid and honey-thick. "That’s it," he murmured into her thigh, his praise roughened by beard burn. "Let me see it happen."
Her hips rolled of their own accord, chasing the sweet ache of his stubble against her oversensitive skin. The chaise groaned beneath her as she came, not with the sharp cry she’d expected, but with a shuddering sigh that left her lips parted like a question. He didn’t pull away to watch; she felt his smile against her inner thigh instead, the crinkle of crow’s feet pressed to damp flesh. "Beautiful," he said, and the word landed with the weight of a verdict, something proved.
Her fingers tangled in his hair—not to guide, but to feel the coarseness of silver strands between her knuckles. "Please," she breathed, and the syllable cracked open on the second syllable. Not the practiced please of porn scripts, but the raw, clumsy sound of someone who’d just discovered the shape of her own hunger. His chuckle vibrated through her, warm and low like the hum of a lawnmower three houses down. "You’ll take what I give you," he corrected, nipping the tendon of her thigh. The sting bloomed bright, a counterpoint to the throbbing between her legs.
The confession tumbled out unbidden: "I don’t have—" She gestured vaguely toward her bedroom window, where the unopened box of condoms still sat in her freshman year dorm desk. He licked a stripe up her seam, pausing just below her clit to exhale a laugh that smelled of mint and garden soil. "Won’t need ’em," he murmured, thumbing her slickness wider. "Not today." The blunt head of his cock dragged through her folds, the heat of him a brand against skin already oversensitized. Precum smeared in glistening streaks, mixing with her arousal in a way that made her stomach clench—not with fear, but with the visceral understanding of how easily he could breach her.
He entered her the way he pruned his hydrangeas: one deliberate inch at a time, pausing to let the stretch settle before advancing further. Her gasp was swallowed by the distant roar of a lawn sprinkler kicking on next door, the syncopated hiss syncing with his measured thrusts. She’d expected pain—had braced for it—but the fullness unfolded like origami in reverse, each careful crease of his hips revealing new capacity. "Breathe through your teeth," he instructed, his palm flat on her shuddering belly. The command had an odd practicality, like he was teaching her to parallel park rather than take a cock thicker than her wrist.
Her nails scraped the plastic chaise as he bottomed out, the sudden press of his pelvis against hers sending a tremor through her ribcage. The stretch bordered on obscene, her body gaping around him in a way that should’ve felt invasive but instead sparked a perverse pride—like she’d swallowed the sun and could still form words. "Jesus fuck," she wheezed, her thighs clamping reflexively around his hips. He stilled instantly, the veins along his shaft pulsing against her inner walls. "Not yet," he chided, swiping a thumb through the sweat beading above her lip. "You’ll tear."
When he withdrew, the drag was glacial—each ridge of him mapping territory her dildo couldn’t hope to replicate. The loss punched a whimper from her throat, but he merely adjusted his grip under her knees, spreading her wider. "Watch," he ordered, nodding down to where their bodies met. She obeyed, mesmerized by the glisten of her own arousal coating him, the way her entrance fluttered like a ransacked drawer. His next thrust came slower, deeper, the head of his cock kissing some internal switch that lit her nerves like a fuse. "There," he confirmed, his voice gone graveled with approval. "That’s your spot. Remember the shape of it."
His fingers dug into her hips now, no longer guiding but branding, as if he needed her to carry the imprint of his grip into next week’s showers. The rhythm shifted—not faster, but more deliberate, each withdrawal leaving her hollow before he filled her again with the same inexorable precision. She could feel him holding back, the tendons in his neck standing rigid as suspension cables. "You’ll tell me," he gritted out, his breath hot against her collarbone, "when you’re ready to take it all." The implication curled through her, thick as the scent of upturned earth clinging to his forearms.
He pulled out completely then, the sudden absence a shock that had her back arching off the chaise, her thighs clamping around nothing. His cock glistened in the sunlight, her arousal streaked along the shaft like sap on bark. With one hand, he gripped himself at the base, thumb swiping over the flushed head in a slow circle that made her mouth water. The other hand slid between her legs, two fingers sinking into her with obscene ease. "Feel that?" he murmured, crooking them just so. "That’s where you’ll keep me." Her nod was frantic, her hips chasing the pressure—but he withdrew again, leaving her clenching around air.
Through the slats of the fence, she could see Mr. Holloway’s silhouette paused mid-step, his pruning shears glinting in the sun like a conductor’s baton. He didn’t pretend to look away when she uncapped the bottle of lube, its viscous sheen catching the light as she coated the silicone length with methodical strokes. The dildo had arrived in unmarked packaging that morning, slipped under her windshield wiper with a Post-it note in block letters: *PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT.* Now, as she eased onto the patio chaise, she pressed the cool tip against herself with a sigh—part relief, part theatrical flourish for her audience of one.
The buzzing cicadas synced with the slow drag of the toy as she worked it deeper, her thighs trembling not from effort but from the delicious absurdity of the scene: a former honor student sprawled on plastic-weave furniture, her sundress rucked up around her waist while her sixty-year-old neighbor critiqued her wrist angle through the gaps in the cedar panels. "Less stabbing, more swirling," came his gruff correction, followed by the wet sound of him spitting into his geraniums. She obeyed, rotating her hips in slow figure-eights, the stretch igniting sparks behind her eyelids that had nothing to do with the noonday sun.
His shadow stretched long across her thighs when he finally stepped around the fence—not through it, never through it—his gardening gloves still damp with hose water. She kept the rhythm steady as he loomed beside the chaise, his calloused thumb swiping through the mess she’d made on the silicone. "See how it’s drying out?" He tsked, smearing her own slickness back over the shaft with the same care he used to polish his prize-winning roses. "Your body’s not a library book, sweetheart. You can’t just check out the good parts."
Then his hands were under her knees, lifting them wide as a map unfurling, and his mouth—Christ, his mouth—was hotter than the pavement under her discarded flip-flops. He didn’t bury his face in her like some starving thing; he cataloged her. Each swipe of his tongue was a lesson: the flat press below her clit that made her toes curl into the plastic weave, the wicked flick just north that had her hips stuttering off the cushion. When she gasped, he hummed approval against her skin, the vibration ricocheting up her spine like a struck tuning fork.
His gardening gloves lay discarded by the hose, fingers still curled as if around phantom shears, and she wondered absurdly if this was how he deadheaded flowers—with the same ruthless precision. The thought evaporated when he sucked her clit into his mouth, his thumb circling the stretched rim of her hole where the dildo had been. The dual sensation split her vision into static, her back arching so sharply she heard the chaise creak in protest. "You’re holding your breath," he chided against her folds, his exhale cooling the spit-slick skin. "Bodies don’t come when they’re braced for impact."
She forced her lungs to expand, the scent of her arousal and his rosemary soap mingling in the thick air. His tongue swirled counterclockwise now, a calculated deviation from the pattern he’d drilled into her, and she felt the shift like a gear clicking into place. The orgasm built not as a cresting wave but as the slow tilt of a glass—overflow inevitable, the spill languid and honey-thick. "That’s it," he murmured into her thigh, his praise roughened by beard burn. "Let me see it happen."
Her hips rolled of their own accord, chasing the sweet ache of his stubble against her oversensitive skin. The chaise groaned beneath her as she came, not with the sharp cry she’d expected, but with a shuddering sigh that left her lips parted like a question. He didn’t pull away to watch; she felt his smile against her inner thigh instead, the crinkle of crow’s feet pressed to damp flesh. "Beautiful," he said, and the word landed with the weight of a verdict, something proved.
Her fingers tangled in his hair—not to guide, but to feel the coarseness of silver strands between her knuckles. "Please," she breathed, and the syllable cracked open on the second syllable. Not the practiced please of porn scripts, but the raw, clumsy sound of someone who’d just discovered the shape of her own hunger. His chuckle vibrated through her, warm and low like the hum of a lawnmower three houses down. "You’ll take what I give you," he corrected, nipping the tendon of her thigh. The sting bloomed bright, a counterpoint to the throbbing between her legs.
The confession tumbled out unbidden: "I don’t have—" She gestured vaguely toward her bedroom window, where the unopened box of condoms still sat in her freshman year dorm desk. He licked a stripe up her seam, pausing just below her clit to exhale a laugh that smelled of mint and garden soil. "Won’t need ’em," he murmured, thumbing her slickness wider. "Not today." The blunt head of his cock dragged through her folds, the heat of him a brand against skin already oversensitized. Precum smeared in glistening streaks, mixing with her arousal in a way that made her stomach clench—not with fear, but with the visceral understanding of how easily he could breach her.
He entered her the way he pruned his hydrangeas: one deliberate inch at a time, pausing to let the stretch settle before advancing further. Her gasp was swallowed by the distant roar of a lawn sprinkler kicking on next door, the syncopated hiss syncing with his measured thrusts. She’d expected pain—had braced for it—but the fullness unfolded like origami in reverse, each careful crease of his hips revealing new capacity. "Breathe through your teeth," he instructed, his palm flat on her shuddering belly. The command had an odd practicality, like he was teaching her to parallel park rather than take a cock thicker than her wrist.
Her nails scraped the plastic chaise as he bottomed out, the sudden press of his pelvis against hers sending a tremor through her ribcage. The stretch bordered on obscene, her body gaping around him in a way that should’ve felt invasive but instead sparked a perverse pride—like she’d swallowed the sun and could still form words. "Jesus fuck," she wheezed, her thighs clamping reflexively around his hips. He stilled instantly, the veins along his shaft pulsing against her inner walls. "Not yet," he chided, swiping a thumb through the sweat beading above her lip. "You’ll tear."
When he withdrew, the drag was glacial—each ridge of him mapping territory her dildo couldn’t hope to replicate. The loss punched a whimper from her throat, but he merely adjusted his grip under her knees, spreading her wider. "Watch," he ordered, nodding down to where their bodies met. She obeyed, mesmerized by the glisten of her own arousal coating him, the way her entrance fluttered like a ransacked drawer. His next thrust came slower, deeper, the head of his cock kissing some internal switch that lit her nerves like a fuse. "There," he confirmed, his voice gone graveled with approval. "That’s your spot. Remember the shape of it."
His fingers dug into her hips now, no longer guiding but branding, as if he needed her to carry the imprint of his grip into next week’s showers. The rhythm shifted—not faster, but more deliberate, each withdrawal leaving her hollow before he filled her again with the same inexorable precision. She could feel him holding back, the tendons in his neck standing rigid as suspension cables. "You’ll tell me," he gritted out, his breath hot against her collarbone, "when you’re ready to take it all." The implication curled through her, thick as the scent of upturned earth clinging to his forearms.
He pulled out completely then, the sudden absence a shock that had her back arching off the chaise, her thighs clamping around nothing. His cock glistened in the sunlight, her arousal streaked along the shaft like sap on bark. With one hand, he gripped himself at the base, thumb swiping over the flushed head in a slow circle that made her mouth water. The other hand slid between her legs, two fingers sinking into her with obscene ease. "Feel that?" he murmured, crooking them just so. "That’s where you’ll keep me." Her nod was frantic, her hips chasing the pressure—but he withdrew again, leaving her clenching around air.
29日前
