Hi! My name is Melanie James. I'm thirty eight years old. My husband, Dr. Alvin James M.D., is fifty five, We have been married for eighteen years now. This my first marriage, his second. We live with our sixteen year old daughter, Samantha, in a comfortable two story colonial house on the edge of a small Ohio Town. From his first marriage, Alvin also has a twenty five year old daughter, Dotty, who is married to a local Realtor and lives nearby.
My husband earns a good living as the head of the pathology department at a local hospital. I am a full time housewife. Although I have one child, and I'm in my late thirties, I am still a very attractive woman. I watch my weight, try to eat right, and work out regularly at a local gym. I am tall with a good figure, and a damn sexy set of tits and legs, even if I do say so myself.
To all appearances Alvin and I are happily married. I suppose that is generally true although our sex life has been something of a failure. Our sex problems are more my fault than Alvin's. As you will learn from this story, my sexual needs are somewhat extreme. I am turned on only by a strong man with a big penis who demands that I submit to him in sexual servitude. Unfortunately, my dear sweet husband is neither temperamentally nor physically equipped to fill that role. Still, except for my somewhat unique sexual quirks, Alvin and I are otherwise compatible, and our marriage has been pleasant and loving even if not passionate.
Our home is the next to the last house at the end of a dead end street. Behind all the houses on our side of that street is a wall of giant trees and heavy brush that marks the boundary of a state nature park. My neighbor to the north is a two story ultra modern design built just last year at the very end of our cul de sac. From the street, the house very private. The front and side walls have only a few windows, and those are small and up high. On the back side, however, the walls both upstairs and downstairs are single sheets of glass from ceiling to floor. These huge picture windows frame the panorama of the park forest and a lovely back yard patio and heated swimming pool. Of course the opposite is also true, and the view from outside looking in is just as open.
On two sides, however, the my neighbor's patio is shielded from prying eyes by the wild woods of the state park. On my side an eight foot high hedge along the property line insures privacy at street level. I suppose the architect thought a tall hedge like that would be enough, but he apparently failed to consider that my home sits farther back on its lot than the house he was designing. As a result the windows of my sewing room on the north west corner of my second story not only look out across my neighbor's swimming pool and patio, they also peer almost directly into the second floor master bedroom. I can see and hear everything that goes on in the pool and patio. I can't hear conversation from inside the bedroom of course, but if the drapes are left open, I have a front row view of whatever goes on there.
The first people to live in this new home were sensitive about their privacy. They didn't use the pool much, and always wore bathing suits when they did. Curtains and drapes were pretty much always kept closed across the glass fishbowl of that rear wall. Staying buttoned up like that closed off the view of the back yard and park that the architect had in mind, but it did protect them from Peeping Toms. I think the architect would have done the same if he had lived there.
We now have an new neighbor living there, however, one Peter J. Carr. Mr. Carr is handsome man, forty to forty five years old with a full head of very dark hair just beginning to gray a little, a nicely trimmed mustache (also with just a touch of gray), and icy blue eyes. This fall he will begin his first full year as the football coach and history teacher at the local high school, where he is already at work with one class a day during summer school.
How he can afford such an expensive home on a teachers salary is a mystery. The rumor is that his wife died leaving him a fortune and now he coaches and teaches just for the fun of it. That may all be just gossip, but Mr. Carr is apparently unmarried and he does live like a man of means. All that is certain about him, however, is that at six foot two, athletically trim and hard muscled, he is devilishly attractive, charming, and (I am told) a marvelous dancer. He is certainly has the attention of every unmarried woman in town between eighteen and eighty (and more than a few of those who are married).
I too feel his charm whenever I talk to him, not to mention the germ of a dirty thought or two. I am unusually susceptible to strong dominating men because of the way I was raised and a traumatic sexual experience as a teen. I will tell you more about that as my story goes on, but for now it is sufficient to say that in the presence of a powerful self assured male like Mr. Carr I am strung as tight as a violin string. Tortured by my sexual demons, and always self conscious about my weakness, I try to stay far away from men like Mr. Carr who may tempt me to do something I might regret.
A good looking stud right next door, however, is pretty hard to avoid. In Mr. Carr's case this seemed especially true. Chance meetings when he needed to borrow a cup of sugar, a shovel, or whatever, seemed to come up with suspicious regularity.
I am on a razor's edge every time I must talk to him. To be such a weakling before a total stranger is simply ridiculous, but I can't help it. Its just the way I am. From the first day I could feel this man's deep cold blue eyes peering right into my soul. It shook me to think he was somehow reading all my horny thoughts, and the longer we talked, the more panicky and flustered I became. Most embarrassing of all, even as we stood there just talking I could feel myself growing damp between my legs. It was pretty awful. I could see Peter's nostrils flaring as if he was trying to catch my scent. I seems crazy, but I'm quite sure the man could smell me going into heat.
Much the same thing happened every time our paths crossed. He seemed to be innocuously, but persistently, testing my erotic response, searching for the slut in me. He would hold our handshake a little too long. He would brush up against me when there was really no reason to do so. If I was in shorts, he would find a way for his hand to rub up against my bare thigh..., all apparently by accident, and quite innocently you understand. Once he came up behind me and put his face and nose right into my hair. I could hear him sniffing deeply, obviously enjoying the sent he found there. There is nothing more erotic to a woman than for a marauding male to examine her close up with his nose. When he told me how sweet and female I smelled, my knees buckled, and it was all I could do to keep myself from gushing all over him.
One day he asked me directly if I could see into his bedroom from my upstairs windows. It wasn't necessary for him to ask that. He knew that I could. Why didn't he just shut his curtains and let things go at that? Then he told me, quite unnecessarily, that he sleeps in the nude, and often goes around his house that way. If all that wasn't enough, he grinned at me and told me not to look when he was swimming in his pool. He said that he almost always swam "bare butt".
