Ideal Suburbia

This is a series of stories that are a sort of sequel to two text-adventure games. Each installment is a complete story on its own, but for a full understanding, the reader may want to start with Chapter 1.

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The closing on my new house went swiftly and easily. And I found myself standing alone in my kitchen on my first day off from work as a for-real homeowner. There was a lot to be done. I did not have the stereotypical move-in nightmare of a hundred mis-labeled boxes. My problem was that all my worldly possessions barely filled three suitcases and a trunk.

I had managed to buy a luxurious king-sized bed with a firm, high-tech mattress. No sexy tale about that purchase, alas. I bought it from a marginally competent salesman named Larry who did at least manage to get it delivered on the right day. I had been very smug about managing to not have to sleep on the floor my first night in the house... until I realized I didn't have any sheets and had to go out to Walmart at eleven at night to buy some.

While I was there I bought a set of plates, tumblers, and silverware which looked pathetic all by themselves in my numerous empty cabinets and drawers. Also, apparently a homeowner needs a special tray to organize his silverware, or the drawer will look and sound like an accident in a scrap yard every time he opens and close it. Who knew? Add one knife, fork, and spoon tray to the shopping list....

The fridge was at least not the hapless bachelor image, filled with nothing but beer, cheese-whiz, ketchup, and a single bottle of wine. Not at all. Mine also had three frozen pizzas, some vermouth, and a bag each of carrots and apples.

I had a total of three pieces of artwork for the walls: Two framed photos; one of the Golden Gate Bridge, and the other of the New York skyline, and a portrait of me in acrylic paint. It was a really good painting. In it, I am sitting in a chair by a tall, old-fashioned window, shirtless and wearing jeans with the button undone and zipper slightly open. It was painted when I was eighteen by my high school art teacher. She was the first adult woman I ever had sex with, and good lord was she bangin' hot. I'll never part with that picture because, in addition to the fact that she made me look like a greek god, I have only to look at it to bring back a host of delicious memories.

I had virtually no other furniture to furnish the house with. The great room felt like a barn to me, with not a thing to sit on, nor store or display things in. Not that I had much to store or display. The gorgeous hardwood floors had no rugs on them and this made the whole room echo. The previous owners had left some pretty nice outdoor furniture by the pool, and for the moment that was my dining area.

There was a lot to do, and I had yet to wrap my mind around a plan.

Fuck it, I'd go for a swim.

I had just put on my board shorts when the door bell rang. Wondering who it was, I threw on a camp shirt, leaving it un-buttoned as I went to the entrance. To my surprise, a woman in her late thirties, dressed in casual slacks and a green t-shirt was just ringing the bell for a second time as I answered the door.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, startled. "Hello, uh, I'm Samantha. I live the next street over, and... Are you our new neighbor?"

I agreed, introduced myself, and pulled the door wide to invite her in. "It's pretty barren right now. I was living in corporate housing before and I barely have a bed to sleep on."

"It's a lovely house though," she replied as she entered, looking around. "Not many homes in this development have this open a floor plan," she added, turning around to take in all the... emptiness. The turning around and looking gave me a chance to give her a good look in turn and I liked what I saw.

Samantha was easily in her late thirties, with short brown hair cut in an easy to maintain style. Her figure was girl-next-door (or middle-aged woman-next-door) nice. Slender and natural, with no eye-poppingly outstanding features, but not a damn thing wrong anywhere either. There were the shadows of coming wrinkles here and there and I was sad to see that there looked like more impending frown lines than smile crinkles. She was in the kind of very good shape that comes from an early commitment to fighting age. This was a woman who ate right, exercised, and spent more time and money on skin care than cosmetics.

She turned to me and I said ruefully, "Yeah, I've got a lot of time and expense ahead of me to furnish this place."

She smiled a very nice smile. "Oh, I don't know. There is a lot to be said for starting out from scratch." She looked around, "Is your wife at home?" When I declared myself as yet unmarried, she looked at me in surprise. "Really? It's unusual to see a single man of any age, let alone a young one, buy a house. I don't think there is another single man living in this whole area."

"Nope. I am a black swan, I guess. Why did you ask," I inquired innocently enough.

She squirmed momentarily, as if I had accused her of pursuing some shenanigans, which I was pretty sure she wasn't, though a man always hopes. "Oh! Uh, I was just asking because I used to do some interior design. Still have my license, actually. I thought we might compare notes."

"Well, any note comparing will have to be with this troglodyte male," I said, stepping further into the house. "Want to take the nickel tour? I was literally feeling grumpy about not knowing where to begin with all this when you rang the doorbell. I'll take any inspiration I can get."

"You look like you were about to go swimming, not grumping."

I looked down at my bare feet and wiggled my toes. "I didn't buy a house with a pool to do my grumping while sitting on the furnitureless floor," I laughed.

As I showed her around, I checked her out further. First things first, yep, there were engagement and wedding rings on the left hand. That didn't always mean much, but it did mean that if this little tour around my house with an attractive woman led to anything more than a discussion of rugs and furniture, it wouldn't be me that started it. It did not mean I wasn't going to enjoy checking her out. The fabric of her dressy green tee was just thin enough and tight enough for me to make out the basic outlines of her bra. It's design was apparently bland and utilitarian, which was bad for my fantasies, but the contents were slightly above average in size and nicely contoured, which was good.

We walked slowly through the house. I was in no hurry, and it seemed that neither was she. She really did have some good suggestions here and there, though I thought to myself that there was no way I was going to bother to paint perfectly good white walls, and especially not paint them a color like taupe. She also was a wealth of knowledge about the neighborhood, and I learned a lot of good stuff, like the grocery store with the best liquor and wine selection, which pizza places delivered, and the longer route to the highway into the city which nevertheless always had little to no traffic during rush hour.

She also talked quite a bit about her twelve year-old son Justin. My main takeaway from that discussion was that while I had already been aware that soccer was mind-numbingly boring, it was also apparently massively time-consuming. She never actually complained directly about all the time she had to spend being Soccer Uber, instead just mentioning it while bragging about her boy's athletic ability and drive. She was going through the third iteration of this when we finished in the great room and wandered into the next room.

"At least I have some furniture in this room," I said breezily, avoiding the subject of my bringing a married woman into my bedroom.

"Yes," she replied. "It is amazing how much that makes things sound less hollow. And you have some artwork on the walls as well. Is that you?" she exclaimed, her eyes alighting on the portrait of me. I admitted it lightly. She stepped closer to it almost involuntarily and gave it a much longer look than strictly necessary. "Very nice..." she mused, "er, uh, a very nice painting."

There was definitely some potential here, I mused. It would be a long-term project, but it had just bubbled a lot closer to the surface. I took a calculated risk. "What about your husband?" I asked. "Doesn't he take care of these chores too?"

"Oh," she said softly, with a dismissive wave of her hand, "he travels so much for business. And even when he is home, he is always so busy."

"I see. But still," I mused supportively.

"No," she replied with a catch in her throat, like she was talking to herself for a moment. "No, he's very busy, and he's Just. Not. There. Ever." She whirled and looked at me with dim pain and bright frustration in her eyes. I reached out to put my hand reassuringly on her shoulder and started to mouth some sympathetic platitudes.

But at my touch, she collapsed against me, sobbing! "He's almost never there for Justin," she gasped, "and he absolutely never there for me!" I gave her a slight hug, feeling the repressed sobs shivering in her body. She buried her face in my shoulder and went on. "And there are other women, too. Lots of them."

"What?" I asked loudly. It should have been obvious that she was at least neglected, but I was still honestly surprised. Samantha was a genuinely attractive woman.

"Oh, yes," she said, getting a little less weepy and more angry. "He has a mistress right here in town. But he cheats on me AND her all the time when he goes out of town. God know how many bimbos he's had."

"You've seen the signs?" I asked.

"I've seen the evidence," she hissed. "Lot's of evidence." Suddenly, she seemed to notice that we were sort of holding each other. She started to slip back, but then she wailed and pressed herself against me, her anger and grief swirling together. "He barely even puts any effort into hiding it. It's like the bastard thinks I won't notice. And with all his fucking around, we haven't had sex in three damn years!"

She looked into my eyes, and suddenly she kissed me. Hard. I responded for a moment, then hesitated, partly because she really caught me off guard, partly because strategically, it was the right thing to do, and mostly because it was The Right Thing to Do. She sensed my hesitation and broke off and pulled free of my embrace and turned away. "I'm sorry!" she said brokenly. "I didn't mean to presume to unload my problems on you, you're..."

I stepped after and turned her around firmly, looking into her eyes. "Listen, Samantha," I said earnestly, "you are a beautiful woman. I WANT to kiss you. I'll be totally honest, you have me pretty worked up, and I want to do a whole lot mere with, for, and to you than just kiss." She didn't look away from me. She didn't look taken aback. She leaned toward me. I was getting seriously hard.

"But," I said firmly, holding a finger, "I don't do pity sex. It is almost never any good, and it's frankly demeaning to the woman being pitied. If you want consolation, I'll hug you and sympathize all you want." Her face fell a little. "And," I went on, "I don't want to be your revenge, either. It's dangerous, and it's pretty lame as revenge goes. You can and should do better. If you are looking for revenge, let's go buy me a dining table and we can sit down at it and plot." Her lips curled a little bit at that in what might be a smile, but I was mostly glad that neither thing I said had seemed to satisfy her.

I reached out and caressed her soft jawline. "All that said, I may have just met you, but I really want to fuck you. I want it badly." I said matter of factly, looking straight at her. Her eyes widened, but before she could respond, I went on. "I want to fuck you comprehensively, and I want to do it right now. Look, we are two attractive people. I'm a young man, with a young man's sexual energy. At this point in your life, you are at the peak of your sexual powers. Not only that, but all that desire and power in you has been going unfulfilled for years?!? I want that. If you want to fuck me, just for your own pleasure, not for any other reason, then here I am... horny as hell."

Samantha looked at me for moment, then smiled a genuine, and hungry, smile. She reached out and hooked a finger in the waistband of my board shorts and pulled me toward her. She reached up and pulled my head down so she could kiss me deeply, with a surprisingly immediate and assertive amount of tongue. She tugged at the drawstring of the swim trunks, loosening them and slid her hand down inside to stroke my rigid cock gently. Her finger tips slid up and down my shaft, then twirling around it, only occasionally caressing my ultra-sensitive head.

My hands rose to clasp her breasts, kneading at them hungrily for a moment. But their clothed state frustrated me, and I tugged at her shirt, pulling it up and over her heard, before tossing it aside. That broke our kiss and pulled her hand from my shorts, but she dove back against my lips the moment the shirt was clear. I fumbled behind her back, only to discover that the bra hooked in front. I slid my hands across her tasty mounds and swiftly unhooked the bra. She slid it off her shoulders to the floor and then plunged both hands down inside my shorts. I bent to knead and suckle at her breasts. Yes, time had managed to put its mark on them, but they were of modest size to begin with, and thus relatively resistant to its ravages.

She swiftly grew tired of reaching into my trunks, and pulled them off me and to the ground. I slid my hands to her ass and pulled her against me, trapping my throbbing member against her bare belly. My finger tips told me that unlike her bra, her trousers did open in the back, and I quickly did just that, sliding both her pants and her plain, utilitarian panties off her in one eager motion. I pressed her back against the bed and onto it, seating her on the edge. I kissed her once more, then then pulled back a bit and waggled my eyebrows. I sank to my knees before her and spread her legs. Her breathing became shallow and quick as I leaned down and began to kiss, nibble, and lick my way up her inner thigh. At the top, I circled around her sex to torment her lower belly and more of her thighs.

"Oh come on!" Samantha gasped at last, when she could take no more of my torment. "I believe we were discussing my incredible sexual frustration. Eat me, for god's sake!"

I relented and began to comply. My kiss flicked across her nether lips. She was already sopping wet, and my tongue worked its way into her nest. I tasted her juices, and they were a little odd. Nothing bad, thank god, just different. There was an edge to her flavor, almost electrical in nature. I lashed at her clit and she writhed on the edge of the bed. Her fingers wove themselves through my hair spasmodically, and I actually winced a little once or twice as she outright pulled. But it was never enough to deter me, and as I expected, her long-pent up orgasm came quickly. She slammed back on the bed, ass lifting upward, hips writhing, and her moans turned into a shriek of joy before she collapsed bonelessly, lying on my bed with her legs splayed out and dangling off the edge.

I kissed my way back up her torso, discretely wiping her copious juices off my face on her belly as I went. I slid onto the bed beside her and her hand crept back to my cock as we shared a breathless kiss.

Her tongue explored my mouth as her hand began to stroke me gently but swiftly. I involuntarily thrust my hips toward her in response. She broke our kiss and fought to regain her breath, stroking me all the while. When she could breathe again easily, Samantha looked my in the eye and begged me, "Please come in my mouth."

She rolled to her belly and spun around on the bed to confront my eager cock. I hid my laughter that she thought a guy needed anything beyond permission, much less a request. She fondled me delicately with her fingers as she looked me over from close up. Then she began to lick my shaft and head up and down, up and down, and around. She showered kisses on the head repeatedly, each one wetter and deeper than the last, until my dick stopped leaving her lips and she sucked me in and out of her mouth until she was taking so much of me that she found herself choking a bit.

Samantha shifted on the bed, changing the angle of her mouth and throat to my cock, and I realized that she did so to allow her to take even more of me down her throat. She may not have had sex for three years, and probably precious little for a while before that, but at some point in her life some lucky guy or guys had been on the receiving end of a LOT of practice. Her husband was an idiot. I dropped my head back to the firm surface of my bed and let out a happy groan as I fondled a conveniently located breast.

She lifted her head, pulling my dick completely out of her mouth to once again regain her breath. While she did so, she kept pumping the saliva-soaked shaft in her hand. After what had to be only a breath or two, but what felt like eternity to me and my eager member, she bent once more. Now she dispensed with attempts at deep throat and just concentrated on swift strokes with her hand and rapid licks and sucks that almost immediately brought matters to a head. I groaned a warning, but I think she had already sensed my imminent eruption, as she had clamped her lips around my dick and bobbed swiftly but shallowly. My groan changed to a gasp of joy and I shuddered as my perception shrank to a pinpoint atop my legs and I filled her mouth in a single, mighty, stuttering surge of cum. I felt her suck as she swallowed and she jerked me for a bit longer, milking me for every drop. Swallowing again, she then released me and tormented my post-orgasmic cock with her tongue, getting every last drop.

"Water?" I asked her in a raspy voice as we lay on the bed, panting.

"Please," she replied, thirst of all kinds evident in her voice. I slid off the bed and looked for my shorts, but she reached out and snatched them away. "Nuh-uh!" she admonished me. "I want to watch your cute ass going, and that meaty cock waving at me when you return!" With that, she scooted up to lean upon the headboard of my bed, lying there, languidly waiting, her eyes just below my waist as I left to go to the kitchen.

I took a bit longer than necessary getting the water, as I doubted she intended to give me much time to recover. I possess what I've been told is pretty amazing stamina and repeatability, but even I have limits. I puttered around, emptying ice trays into the bucket (I needed to upgrade to a fridge with in-door ice and water, stat), and filling two glasses.

As I re-entered my bedroom to see her still lounging on the bed, my cock could at least twitch appreciatively at her cat-like reclining form on my bed. She drank her water greedily and we both took a minute or two to rehydrate. When I had replenished at least a decent amount of the fluids I had lost to sweat and other secretions, I set down the glass. She was just doing so as well, when I rolled over atop her. I buried my face at the base of her throat, licking and nibbling. She flung her arms around me, tilting her head back to give me more access to her throat. She wrapped her arms around me and soon they had slid down my back and grasped my butt cheeks, squeezing just short of painfully hard.

We made out like this for a while, until my erection made its triumphant return, pressing now hard against her smooth, naked hip. I arched upward to lower my lips to an erect nipple and suckled at it. Now on my hands and knees, it was simple to shift over to where I knelt between her legs. Lowering myself to brush my cock across her abdomen I looked into her eyes.

"Here comes that exhausting, energizing, pent-up sexual energy-releasing fuck I promised you," I said to her quietly. I twisted so that the head of my member slid up and down along her moist, eager slit. I probed gently, but never letting my cock do more than slightly part her lips. Her hand returned to clenching my buttocks. I could take my own teasing no more. Without warning, and in one smooth, powerful thrust, I was completely inside her. I paused to savor her delighted, slightly over-whelmed gasp, before withdrawing almost all the way and sliding back in to the hilt again.