Solitaire

The man sat alone at his computer. He browsed the usual sites that held his particular interests, the kinds of sites he couldn't access at work. He wasn't looking for anything particular, just something to spark his imagination. He wanted to write, but his muses had all deserted him and he felt used up and dry.

A car door outside closed. Footsteps on the stairs echoed. The little dog in the apartment above him began to yap and run back and forth across the floor. The door opened and closed, and after a moment it opened again. The little dog's claws were noisy on the stairs. The woman stepped lightly.

He raised himself from his chair and walked to the window to peer out. She was already crossing the parking lot to the park across the way, the little dog dragging her. She wore a white tank top over a sports bra and long black spandex pants. She'd been to the gym again. Her back was to him; she was in prime physical condition. Her body was long and lithe and she moved like a reed in the wind. Her blonde-brown hair was French-braided behind her head.

After a few minutes in the park, she turned to start back with the little dog. Her eyes were downcast as she approached the parking lot, but he could make out her features well enough. She was freckled with narrow, arching eyebrows. Her lips were full and pouty and her face slender as it tapered down to her chin. Her eyes lifted as she started across the parking lot: the color of water. She wasn't wearing makeup. She looked thirty-five but he knew she must be forty-something.

He stood back from the window and returned to his chair. He looked up at the ceiling and waited. Their apartments had the same floor plan. Like him she kept her computer in the small alcove between the dining room and kitchen because there was a cable access there. Otherwise it was a waste of space.

The water began to run upstairs and he knew she was bathing. Her evening showers were much quicker than her morning ones. The little dog yapped because it didn't like it when she took showers.

He used to live in that apartment. Back then a woman named Delia had lived in the apartment where he was now. He'd started dating Delia because she came on to him so strongly. She wasn't young and she wasn't pretty, but she was horny as hell. And then he found out why.

One day Delia had him sit in her little alcove while she went upstairs to his apartment. She'd stood right above him and panted and moaned and groaned, like someone having an orgasm...and he'd heard every bit of it. It wasn't difficult to figure out why the sound carried that way. An air conditioning duct that ran by the intake vent in Delia's apartment acted as a megaphone for the noise just above it. Evidently someone hadn't done a great job with the insulation either, and the carpet and padding and plywood between the two floors was thin and cheap. But the person in the apartment above didn't get the reciprocal benefit, because there was no vent in the floor to allow the noise to escape. It was strictly a one way deal.

That's why Delia had been so into him. She'd spent weeks and weeks listening to him at his computer as he'd jacked off. She was crazy about him.

Eventually the affair petered out and Delia moved away. When she did, he made sure he got the downstairs apartment before it was rented out to someone else. Part of his reasoning was that he didn't want anyone listening to him. But he couldn't deny he had a voyeuristic streak. Over the next couple of years, various people came and went upstairs. Only now and again would he hear something interesting from above, but it was nothing to make up for the inconvenience of having moved. Then

she

moved in.

He knew right away she was going to give him what he wanted. The second night she was there, as soon as her cable was connected, it started. The first few nights she was soft, like she was afraid someone was listening. (Little did she know.) But as the weeks progressed, she became more and more vocal.

Of course, he had no idea what she was looking at. For all he knew it could be chicks. He didn't much care. What he waited for was that moment when she would start. Then he would sit back in his chair and stroke himself and listen. God, it was so hot.

He watched a few minutes of a video while he waited for her. The actress was young and hot, but he knew everything going on was contrived and fake; even if it wasn't fake, she was just a slut. The woman upstairs wasn't a slut. She didn't even date...just like him. He had his reasons; too many fucking freaky weirdo bitches who had brought nothing but drama into his life. He seemed to attract that kind. Plus he was just naturally horny all the time, so when a woman came on to him, he just couldn't resist. These days he resisted, because he was tired.

The floor upstairs creaked. She was sitting down. Sometimes it could take her an hour to get going. But he was patient. Just knowing she was up there, doing it, feeling it, like him, made him horny as hell. He surfed a few sights, the bulge in his sweats getting firmer as the minutes ticked by. The little dog started yapping at nothing and she impatiently told it to stop.

"Brownie, stop! Lay down!" she would say, and the little dog would be quiet for thirty minutes or so.

A low moan escaped from the vent over his head. "Oh yeah," she said, not loud, but not in a whisper either. "Oh God, that is so hot."

His dick twitched and he lowered the waistband on his sweats to accommodate himself. He was already semi-erect and he hadn't even started.

"Oh, oh," she gasped.

He closed his eyes and started stroking.

"Oh yeah. Fuck. Yeah, do that. Oh... yeah," came the voice from the air vent.

And on it went. He stroked his shaft, imagining what she looked like. She'd come out of her shower wrapped in a towel and sat down and started. She was totally naked. Her long legs were slender and firm after all those workouts. Her natural breasts lay softly on her freckled chest, two pink nipples sitting in pinkish-brown areolas. She used a footstool to prop her bare feet on, her legs spread apart. Maybe she even had one foot up on her desk. Maybe her legs were spread apart on the arms of her desk chair. Yeah, he liked that one the best.

Her left hand was lying against her trimmed pussy. Her fingers were covered in glistening juice. She used her right hand to move her computer mouse, but when she could she used it to pinch and roll her nipples.

Her face glowed. She'd worked hard all day, taking shit from people and being nice. She'd worked out at the gym, and she was careful about everything she ate. Now was her reward. She chose her own little slice of heaven, indulging in slow, tantalizing self-pleasuring.

Her eyelids grew heavy and her mouth slack. Her entire vulva was in a state of ecstasy. No drug could be this sweet. Her hips lifted against her hand as moment by moment, movement by movement, she brought herself higher and higher, up the cresting wave, above the clouds, where everything was pink and soft and smelled like peaches in summer—

"Oh! Oh! Oh God! Uhhhnnnnnnnn!"

He pulled on his dick and gasped and shot the load into the sock he'd hastily whipped off his foot. Upstairs her breathing was labored and she kept sighing, "Oh God, oh God." She moaned and sighed and moaned some more. "Oh, that was sooooo good," she said to herself. "So good." And she groaned deep in her throat like a horny bitch who had gotten what she wanted.

It was over for another night. He was sleepy now. He thought about having a snack before he went to bed, but he felt satisfied. He powered off his computer and stood up and stretched. Upstairs, footsteps sounded on the floor as she went into her bedroom.

The next day he watched as she walked down the parking lot in the direction of their street. He had no idea where she was going but he didn't see any harm in finding out. He grabbed his wallet and keys and went out the door. She was probably fifty yards ahead of him, already on the road.

She walked fast, her head down, until she got to the intersection. The evening traffic on the cross street was heavy and she had to wait for the light to turn. She was across the street before he had a chance to catch up, and then he had to wait. He squinted in the late afternoon sunlight to see where she was going. She turned into a strip mall of connected stores. She passed the Whole Foods and went into the Barnes and Noble. So, she was going to the bookstore.

He wasn't far behind. He stepped into the bookstore and tried to look inconspicuous as he walked up the center aisle. He saw her and passed her on purpose. No need in her possibly recognizing him. He waited a moment and turned back and stepped into the row of books behind her. He craned his head to see what she was looking at. Sexuality. A smile crept across his lips. Yes. It would be. He picked up a book and opened it and turned with his back to her, just in case she looked up self-consciously, because she was embarrassed where she was. As he turned to put the book back on the shelf, he glimpsed her doing that very thing. She looked through a number of books, acting as though she were a clinician in search of professional material. Finally she picked up a book and headed for the register.

He was more curious about what she had chosen than where she was going. The book she had pulled out had left a little gap and he looked to see what the other books around it were about.

The Bisexual Man

, the title read.

Well, he couldn't help her there. He shrugged and walked over to the magazine section. A woman in a low-cut top and too much lipstick smiled at him as though she could eat him for dinner. He thought about it for a minute; crap, she'd probably give him head for a Starbucks. But he didn't need that complication in his life. He put down the magazine and walked next door and bought a red-eye drip for himself and started back home, swirling his keys on his key chain as he walked.

His daughter called and he sat on the porch and smoked a cigarette as she described her day. But he really wanted to get inside. The woman upstairs hadn't gone to the gym tonight. He wondered what she was going to do with all that free time.

Very quickly he found out. The moment he sat down at his computer, her evening performance ensued at a leisurely pace. She really took her time, as though deliberately drawing it out for his benefit. He wondered if she was still wearing what she'd had on in the bookstore or if she'd changed. He imagined her in something sheer and black, with her nipples showing through the fabric.

He tried to read a story on the internet but the groans from upstairs were so intense, all he could do was listen. He kicked off his shoes and sat back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. Then he stood up and took off his jeans. His cock was rock hard. He pushed down his boxers and started stroking, wishing he knew what she was looking at on the computer. Maybe it was juicy lesbian crap. Maybe she was one of those fitness-loving bisexual types who got off on other women in the gym shower. Fuck, he wanted to get between her thighs right now.

He came just as she did, and he let his voice shout out, not caring if she heard him. Let her hear, dammit. Let her know what she was doing to him.

He saw her the next day at the mailboxes. She was tossing junk mail into a trash can before gathering up the stuff she wanted. She looked at him with kind, clear blue eyes and smiled. The smile was as innocent and benign as a little lamb. Then she got into her Accord and drove in the direction of her apartment.

He looked down at the trash can with a hinged lid. One of the pieces of junk mail had fallen out. It was addressed to Sarah Cowles. He didn't know her last name was pronounced "coals"; he thought it was "cow-less". Her first name was Sarah.

Over the next few days he started to write again. She had become his muse. In his stories he made her a bit younger; but then, he made himself younger too. They met on a tropical island and immediately began to have hot, nasty sex. In his story Sarah was bisexual and liked to include some of her girlfriends in the action. That was fine with him. Sarah also had a hot daughter who was, of course, eighteen years old. Sarah was more than happy to watch him fuck her daughter like crazy while Sarah played with her girlfriends. He posted his stories online and really enjoyed the feedback he got, especially from the ladies. He liked to read the stories, too. He loved reading about women masturbating in public places when they thought no one was looking. It turned him on to no end, how they could get away with it when men couldn't. Fuck, he loved women.

On Saturday he heard a thump outside his door. He looked out the peephole and saw her picking up groceries. Her bags had ripped on the stairs and now stuff was rolling all over the place. She couldn't pick it all up in her arms. He opened his door and stepped out and started helping her. She looked utterly bewildered and embarrassed. He refused to stop and kept helping her, and followed her up the stairs to her apartment.

She was red in the face and flustered. The little dog yapped and yapped at him and acted as though it was going to bite him. She quickly set down the groceries in her arms and scooped up the little dog, shushing it as she carried it into her bedroom. He walked to her kitchen and put the groceries on the counter. She came out of her bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Everything was clean and tidy but she kept murmuring about what a mess it was.

Then she put out her hand. "Hi, I'm Sarah, by the way."

"John," he returned, shaking her hand and thinking she was prettier up close. She had on some lip gloss and just a touch of mascara and her skin was amazing. Except for the tiny crows' feet when she smiled she looked thirty-something. He knew she was older than that because she had a grown son who came over now and then with his wife and baby.

"Thanks so much for helping me out," she said in a clear, airy voice. "I knew the bags were overfilled but I didn't want to make two trips to the car."

"Actually I used to live in this apartment," he said, because he wanted to keep the conversation going.

"Really! That's interesting."

He wished she would invite him for coffee but she didn't. "Well, I better go," he said.

She walked behind him as he crossed the living room. The book she'd bought the week before was lying on an arm chair and he glanced at it, then deliberately stopped and picked it up, and gave her a puzzled look.

Her face turned red again. "It's for research," she said, laughing as she said it. "I was doing some writing and needed a frame of reference."

"I write too," he said quickly. "We should trade off sometime. I always need help with my editing."

She bit her lip. "They're...kind of personal stories. I don't know if you'd really feel comfortable reading them."

He shrugged and set the book back down. "Well, the offer stands if you change your mind."

She showed him to the door and thanked him again. Downstairs, he went back onto the erotica site where he posted his work and did an author search. Scrolling through the forty-something year old females in his state, he hit upon Brownies_Mom. His heart gave a little leap as he remembered her dog's name. Maybe it was the same person. Maybe not. But it wouldn't hurt to look.

He opened Brownies_Mom's profile. Her information was sketchy but she was single and owned a dog. He clicked the submissions tab. She had only one. It was entitled

The Neighbor

.

He began to read, and in his mind he could hear her soft, airy voice speaking to him.

"You come home after me everyday, walking from your pickup truck, your head down as you cross the parking lot. I can't see your eyes but I know they're baby blue and surrounded by thick dark lashes. Your course white hair is cut short and it makes your tanned face appear to glow. You swing your keys in a circle as you walk to your apartment, unaware that I'm watching you.

"You open your patio door and I hear you sitting down. You smoke a cigarette, maybe two. You talk on your cell phone to your mom or daughter, but usually you just sit and smoke.

"Now and then I see you in Starbucks, alone, getting a red-eye drip, and you drink it black while you read the paper. You don't see me as I shrink away into the wood in the corner. I watch your lips curl around the edge of the cup and sip ever so carefully so as not to burn your tongue. You laugh when you read the comics page and your eyes crinkle in the corners. I grow warm in my chair watching you.

"And then one day it happens. You decide to go to the pool, the first time I've seen you there. It's crowded and you find a lounge chair in the corner, still in the sun but away from all the bleating children. You lay down your towel and settle in, your sunglasses over your eyes. The woman next to you stirs and you look and recognize me. I stand up from where I've been laying on my stomach and adjust my chair. Your eyes roam over my body clad in a modest yet sexy two-piece before I sit down again.

"I burn easily in the sun and have to keep applying sunscreen. You watch as I try to get all the little places, and then you volunteer to help me out. I gladly pass you the bottle; it's been a long time since I've had a man's hands on my body.

"You start at the top, just at the nape of my neck, and work your way down. Your hands are big and rough and I don't mention that you're giving me a subtle massage while you're doing it. I close my eyes and lean into the pressing of your hands. It feels so good. You keep applying more sunscreen, which means more rubbing, and I start to get the idea that you're doing it on purpose. This delights me and I smile at you. I don't want you to stop.

"You ask me to turn around so you can do my legs and I do. You start at my toes and work your way up, rubbing the white lotion into my flesh with both of your hands. Your fingers can encircle my ankles, you observe, and behind your dark sunglasses I know your eyes are smoldering. As you begin your assent up my calves, I can sense your growing impatience. Furtively you glance around. We're behind an oval of crepe myrtles, in our own little world. I lean back on my elbows and watch your hands sweep over my knees to my thighs. You move closer to me, your hard mouth telling me that this is no tease.

"You don't know it, but I have every intention of taking you home. I open my knees to you and you press the flesh of my thighs, flesh made hard from hours on the treadmill. You look down at where the line of my bikini begins above my thighs. Your thumbs lift, and ever so lightly you let them fall and sweep over my clitoris. My breath catches, and even though I try not to move, my body betrays me and lifts up to you.

"Your lips part. You want to know if this is a tease. I lean forward and turn my head to kiss you on the mouth, my lips sucking on yours. You take off your sunglasses and grasp the back of my head and kiss me, your tongue penetrating my mouth and claiming me.

"We part, and your eyes question me what will happen next. Silently I stand up, trying not to let you see how my legs tremble. I begin to fold my towel, watching you as I do so. Your hand lifts to my thigh and you kiss my hot flesh. I set down my towel on my chair and retrieve my keys, my bottled water, my flip-flops, my sunglasses, and my hat, and make a little pile on my towel. I wait for you to stand. You do, and very deliberately I fold your towel. You take the towel and help me with my things. Together we walk up the stone path among the oak trees.

"Instead of going to your door, you continue up the stairs with me. I open my door and pick up the dog and put him in the spare bedroom so he won't bother you. I slip off my flip-flops and leave them by the door. You leave your sandals there as well. I walk across the living room with my bundle and lay it on the dining table. You set down your towel and the rest next to mine. The bedroom door is open and you peer inside. You see my brass bed, covered in maroon and white. You look back down at me.