The Invisible Neighbor
"I'm going to bake her a banana cake, that's what I'm going to do! You have to open your door when a neighbor brings a cake!"
Greg put down his coffee cup and looked wearily at his wife, the adorable and sexy love of his life. Madelyn had seen the couple next door the day they moved in, but since then she'd only seen the husband leave and return. She hadn't seen the man's wife a single time in two weeks, not even to go out and get the mail, and she was utterly obsessed by it. Greg, on the other hand, came from the "good fences make good neighbors" school of thought. "It's none of our business, dear, if the neighbors are standoffish. Maybe she's agoraphobic. Maybe she's got something contagious."
Madelyn stomped her foot on the kitchen floor. "Greg, it's like the woman disappeared into the house – like the house ate her or something. I've gone over there every day this week, and nobody answers the door." She lowered her voice dramatically. "Maybe she can't answer the door, huh? Anyway, don't the police say if you see something, say something?"
It was too early in the morning, and his coffee hadn't kicked in yet, so Greg gave up trying to explain why Maddie had it backwards. Instead, he got up and gave his wife a thorough good-morning-and-off-to-work kiss, groaning when she squeezed his ass and pulled his crotch against hers, her nipples tangible points through her Saints jersey.
"Ooooh, that's a nice one - don't use all your energy on those contract negotiations, sweetie. Be a good boy and when you get home I'll fix something for you MUCH hotter than a cake!"
Greg left for the office, not without misgivings.
Contract negotiations and distributor complaints kept Greg's mind off his wife for the morning. He sent out for a small pizza, and prepared for another day of eating at his desk. In the middle of the pepperoni, two soft hands slid around the sides of his face from behind to cover his eyes. "Eating at work is bad for your digestion, Greg. You need to find something different to get your mind off things."
The voice and perfume identified the hands as Eleanor, his colleague and chief competitor – and delicious side piece. Greg leaned back in his chair, and pushed his feet well forward and out, giving Eleanor a good look at the bulge in his pants. "I've got something different, Eleanor, but my day's been too busy to deal with it, you know what I mean?"
The redhead chuckled, and spun Greg's chair around. "Nobody's day should be that busy." Unbuckling Greg's belt, she opened his slacks and brought his cock into the open. "Mmmmm... let me deal with this!" Wet lips descended, and Greg writhed in his chair at the pleasure. Their arrangement – neither one would claim the word "affair" – had been going six months, and they were always like liquid heat together.
Eleanor worked one hand under and behind Greg's balls, then lifted her head to free his glistening erection. "I wish I could do more for you today, sweetie, but I've got a 2pm webcam conference." She slid one finger into Greg's ass and swallowed his cock whole, tongue rippling maddening along the thick vein. Greg could only croak incoherently as the orgasm hit, blurring his vision while Eleanor milked him thoroughly into her throat.
"I hope that clears your head," she giggled, then leaned against Greg to plant a hot cum-tinged kiss on his mouth. "Bye!" Eleanor wiggled her ass on the way out of Greg's office, closing the door and leaving him with a twitching soft cock and a cooling pepperoni pizza. Somehow he managed to get himself put together and figure out which of the papers on his desk he'd been working on.
Friday afternoon traffic was hell. Greg blasted his horn at the green light slow starters, not that it helped. He was just going to be late for dinner. He speed-dialed Madelyn to let her know, but she didn't answer. Growling, he tossed his phone on the passenger seat. Eventually he got out of the maddening traffic, pulled into their suburban community, and rolled the car into their driveway. Leaving his briefcase behind, he went to open the front door and called out, "Maddie, I’m home!"
No answer came. Greg closed his eyes, leaned against the doorframe, and let out an aggravated sigh. "Okay, Madelyn, I've had a long day and I'm not in the mood for hide and seek." He waited, but there still wasn't any audible response. Okay, it was Friday so maybe she was playing Sultan's girl in the master bedroom and waiting for him. He trudged upstairs and opened the bedroom door. No sign of Madelyn. Greg proceeded to check out the entire upstairs, then all of the downstairs. His wife wasn't anywhere. He pulled his phone out and called her on that – the call just rolled over to voicemail.
Then Greg slapped himself in the face – of course, Madelyn must have gone to the grocery store to get something for dinner. She was always forgetting to go shopping until the last minute. But just to be sure, he went to check the garage.
Madelyn's car was inside the garage.
Greg went back into the house, confused and worried. He poured himself a drink and looked around. There – Madelyn's purse was in the kitchen, but her phone wasn’t in it. So she must have gone out, but where? His nose twitched, what was that smell... bananas?
He slammed his glass down. Fuck. Bananas. Madelyn had said she was going to bake a banana cake and take it next door. So that's where she was, annoying the neighbors and forgetting to cook dinner. Damnitall, it was time for him to put his foot down about this nonsense. Visibly angry, he marched out the front door and headed to the neighbor's house, and rang the doorbell. He waited, then started knocking hard on the door.
Eventually, with his hand pulled back ready to punch the door, the door opened and a grey-haired woman looked at him, her eyes flaring in fright. As she moved to close the door, Greg shoved his foot in the gap and stammered out, "Wait! I can explain!" Red-faced, he unclenched his fist and lowered his arm. "I just need to talk to my wife."
The woman looked at him, baffled. "I'm sorry – your wife? I'm the only wife here, and you are...?"
Greg leaned toward the door, his anger coming back. "I'm Greg Thornton, your next door neighbor. And my wife Madelyn is over here, and it's time for her to fix dinner. So just go fetch her and we'll be done with this."
"Mister Thornton, I can see that you're very upset with your wife, but I'm telling you there's nobody here that shouldn't be." She looked at Greg, her expression changing from fright and confusion to sympathy. "But look, if it will calm you down, I'll show you the house and you can see for yourself." Barely mollified, Greg stepped into the house.
The house was dull. And that was being generous. Greg could tell from the floor plan as they walked that this house was basically the same as the one he and Madelyn lived in. But the wallpaper, the appliances, the carpet, the furniture – everything seemed to have been purchased with an eye toward the minimum needed to live. It was depressing. So when Dorothy – she'd finally introduced herself – offered him some herbal tea, he was glad of the sign of life.
They chatted in the kitchen, Greg on his best behavior, embarrassed about the scene he'd made at the front door. Dorothy topped up his tea several times, and Greg suddenly remembered something he'd meant to ask. "Say, Dorothy, when you were taking me around the house – we passed a door in the back where you didn't go. I don't want to sound obsessed, but can we look in there as well?"
Dorothy finished her tea. "If you insist. That's my studio. It's really – quite private." Her voice was very smooth, reluctant but firm, and Greg felt briefly ashamed of his request. He started to take it back, but thoughts of Madelyn reminded him to be thorough. "I really must ask, Dorothy."
So they got up from the kitchen and headed toward the rear of the house, Dorothy chatting along the way. "You must understand, when I'm in my studio, the rest of the house, the rest of the world, it really doesn't exist for me. I usually have headphones on unless I'm working with a live model. If your wife had come to the front door, I wouldn't even have heard the bell ring." She unlocked the door and let Greg in, then closed and locked the door.
There was some kind of thick heavy incense in the air, but after a bit Greg no longer noticed it. If the rest of the house had seemed bland to the point of a desert, Dorothy's studio was visually overwhelming. There were paintings – life studies of regular-looking people, many of them nudes but not glossy magazine-type poses. Dorothy's hands on his shoulders led him through the tour, the next area holding simple photographs of bucolic farm scenes – goats eating, pigs rubbing together in mud, sheep being sheared down to their pink skin, cows being milked.
Greg had quit talking as Dorothy guided him into the next section, a contrast between portraits of military officers with female faces, and catwalk poses where the female bodies were topped by male faces. There was something disturbingly erotic about all of this, especially considering the innocuous older woman who had created them.
As they turned a corner, he came face to face with a full-size full-color poster of a bodybuilder, skin oiled and glistening, biceps bulging, body in the second half of a clean and jerk. The first jarring aspect was the man's groin, where delicate lacy panties were pushed out of the way by an erection so thick he could practically smell it. The other facet was the look on the man's face – an absolute raw need so consuming that Greg could hardly bear to be near it – but couldn't back away, either.
Dorothy's voice cooed into his ear. "You like this? That's one of my live models, a bookkeeper, would you believe?" Her fingers danced up and down Greg's arms and slid around to start unbuttoning his shirt, while he gaped open-mouthed unresisting. "You've got the makings of a good model, Greg, a good model. I've been looking for someone to help me finish my new sculpture. Would you like to see it? Oh, silly question, I meant to say – you do want to see it, don't you Greg.
Greg, now naked and erect, just mumbled and nodded, as Dorothy guided him to a different door and opened it. She turned a switch, and the single lightbulb on the ceiling shone on what looked like a plaster-of-Paris chair in the middle of the room, an open-mouthed man's head mounted on the top edge, and human arms in a semblance of a business suit serving as the chair arms.
A pink lifelike cock jutted up from the center of the seat.
A harsh noise chirped in the small room, shattering Greg's fog and teasing him with its familiarity. Dorothy found the forgotten cell phone in Greg's pocket, and read the text to him while stroking his back soothingly. "It says, I was out on the nature trail and lost track of time and my phone battery died – where are you and what's up?"
Her fingers played at Greg's ass, separating his cheeks, teasing inward in a tight spiral, making his cock bob and ooze. She turned him around and guided his ass downward. "Come, dear boy, you really must meet my husband before your wife gets here. Don't worry, I'll see that she calms down with some tea before she joins you." Greg groaned as he felt the cock pulse inside his ass, his own cock rising to full erection as Dorothy stroked it teasingly, wet lips instructing Greg "You can't cum yet, so sad...".
Dorothy took a large camera from a shelf and started taking pictures. She paused only to tap out a simple – and truthful - text on Greg's phone. "I met the neighbors, and they're nothing like you thought they were. Please come."
/ END /