The Girl Next Door

It was a sleepy little burg in northern Indiana. The summers were hot and humid, almost oppressive. The winters were cruel and harsh, the snows fell covering streets and houses, turning the town into frozen tundra. The corn, field after field of corn, it grew taller than a man, stray grains fell to the ground, took root, the corn surrounded the little town like sentinels, their stalks grew tall and skyward, standing guard.

The boy had lived in this little town all of his life, he was born, he suffered through adolescence, he became a man, in this little town. He lived in a quiet neighborhood, lived in the house he grew up. After his mother died, he inherited the family home and its contents. He lived in the tiny white sided home, with its highly polished creaking wood floors, the labyrinth of a basement, the old wall paper peeling from the plaster walls, the smell of decay and old age hanging heavily in the air.

He worked at the local grocery store; he had worked there since he was a teen. He stocked shelves, applied price tags to can after can, item after item. In school, he was known as an underachiever, he had no friends, and he kept to himself. In adulthood, he was known by the same labels. He was a tall, thin man, with mouse brown hair and thick rimmed pop bottle glasses. He had a weak chin, long, thin, cold fingers like those of a mortician's. He was the kind of man that the townspeople would walk past, ignoring, barely aware of his existence. After work, he would return to his home, he never went out, never had a date, his life was a routine of work and home, alone.

A young girl, maybe a couple of years his junior, moved into the house next door. She had moved here from Chicago and had opened a small antique store. She quickened him and aroused feelings in him that lay dormant. She was small in stature; long blonde hair framed a cherub like face and angelic eyes. She was a spark of life in this little town; she was a spark of life in him. She had a boyfriend, tall, muscular, athletic; he had moved here with her from Chicago and worked beside her in the antique store. The man hated the boyfriend, he felt certain that if the boyfriend were gone, he could get the girl to love him.

The months passed, the harvest came and went, and the antique store struggled to remain open, but was failing. Their relationship was failing, the love that the man had for the girl was growing. In this little town, no one thought much about sleeping with the windows open on a cool autumn night. The man stood beneath her bedroom window, crouched discreetly out of the view of passers by. He could hear them as they crawled into bed; he heard the rustle of sheets, her sighs of passion as the boyfriend made his advances. He heard her moan in pleasure, encouraging the boyfriend on. He heard her breaths coming out in short pants.

The sounds of their lovemaking aroused him, he felt his penis engorge with blood, felt it tingle as he became more aroused. He unzipped his jeans, lowering them around his hips and began to fondle his cock. Faster and faster he jerked, in his mind he imagined that it was her jerking his cock, sucking it, he imagined that he was sliding it into her feeling her wetness on his shaft, these imaginings spurred him on.

From the window, he could hear her cries of passion. He could hear the groaning of the mattress beneath them, the straining of the headboard as the boyfriend grasped it for support. He could hear the boyfriend as he whispered to her, "You want more?" He could hear her as she cried out "Yes, Yes". His heart was pounding as he stroked himself harder and harder, he could feel the beads of moisture ooze out of the head of this prick, he was about to come. He slowed his stroking and tried to hold back, he wanted to wait until she came so they could climax together.

From the bedroom window he could hear her as she moaned "Yeah, Yeah" she had to be close now. The bed squeaked faster and faster, he began to quicken his strokes. He heard her as she cried out "Oh, God!" in orgasm. He released himself, spraying his come in his hand, down the front of his jeans, and onto the ground. She was so good. They belonged together he mussed; he had to get rid of the boyfriend.

She and the boyfriend lie together in bed, arm in arm. She traced little circles on his chest; he stretched out, enjoying her finger strokes. From the window, they heard a rustle of leaves, "Did you hear that?" she asked tensing. He sighed, rising from the bed he went to the window to have a look, there wasn't anything out there. He hated this town, hated this boring place. He wanted to go back to the city, he had been trying to talk her into it for months now, but she wouldn't hear of it. She was happy here. He felt stifled and confined. "There's nothing there, it was probably a stray dog." He said as he slid back into bed.

The man's visits to the bedroom window became more frequent, he listened to her as she slept, listened as she made love to the boyfriend. He wanted her more and more, he had to have her. He was dismayed, sinking into a depression when the chill of winter caused her to close the house up tight. There would be no more romantic interludes under the window, at least till spring. He dreamt of her often, in his fantasies, she was his, he stroked her long blonde hair, fondled her breasts, squeezed her ass, his heart sang as she repeated the words to him "I love you." In his fantasies, he was the best lover, attractive, rich, well hung, and able to satisfy her every time. She was adoring and accommodated his every whim. She made his favorite meal every night, folded his laundry just right, touched him just the way he liked, she never disappointed him in this fantasy world. In this fantasy world, there was just her and him.

He watched her, he knew when she got out of bed, knew when she went to work, knew when she would arrive home. The winter storms raged on, the antique shop was barely able to stay afloat, there would be days at a time where there would be no customers at all. Her relationship with the boyfriend was on the rocks, he could hear them fighting, his heart leapt for joy the day he saw the boyfriend packing out his possessions, and backing down the drive. Now they had a chance, he thought to himself, now they had a chance to really be together.

She continued to go to work every day, even though there were no customers. The grocery store was at its busiest, the winter snows made the roads slick and dangerous, no one would travel to a larger town just to save a nickel on a loaf of bread. She too was forced to shop at the little store, she didn't ever buy much, but he watched, he paid attention to everything she put into her cart; these were her favorite things, now they were his too.

A winter storm was on its way from Canada, this storm was going to be a particularly bad one. The entire town was at the grocery store stocking up. It seemed that whenever there was a storm warning such as this, people bought milk and bread. The man couldn't figure out exactly what people did with just milk and bread, it had always puzzled him. He helped the masses of little old ladies clad in grey wool coats, scarves and boots navigate their carts over the ice packed parking lots, loading their massive Lincolns and Cadillacs with the tiny bags of milk and bread. The old women didn't tip very well, usually sliding him a quarter or two.

She came to the store, unlike the others, she didn't stock up on milk or bread. She bought her favorite brand of coffee, his favorite too. She picked out a couple of frozen dinners, the very ones he would have selected. She grabbed a box of Ding-Dongs from the shelf, he loved Ding-Dongs. She picked up some tampons and pads, he wasn't sure, but he was certain those must be the very best ones in the store, she would only use the best. She selected a couple of women's magazines, he would have to read these, and they had to be really good if she were buying them. She made her way through the checkout and was pushing her cart out of the store.

He wrestled the cart out of her hands, "Here let me get that for you." He said smiling. She nodded indifferently, she recognized this guy, and she tried to remember where she had seen him. Carefully, the couple picked their way through the parking lot and to her car. She popped the trunk and motioned for him to put the groceries in. "You know, you should really put some plastic up over your windows" he said gesturing to her. She shot him a puzzled look. "I'm your neighbor, Jack" he said extending his hand. Yes of course, she remembered now, he was the guy next door. Quickly she shook his hand and exaggerated a shiver, she wanted to go home. He took the hint, closing her trunk for her, and turned to walk inside. "Thanks Jack" she said to him waving.

She had shook his hand, she remembered his name, he was certain that these were signs that she was interested in him. After his shift, he hurried home with his own groceries, the exact items that she had bought, minus the tampons. As the coffee percolated, he skimmed through the women's magazines; they were of the highest caliber. He read about tips on how to keep his sinks gleaming, how to tone his thighs and butt, how to have shiny hair, and how to change a tire. He sipped the coffee, munched on a Ding-Dong, watching the lights from next door as they peeked out from among the cracks in her curtains. That night as the snows began to fall, he made love to her, and his fantasy was much more real this time. "Oh Jack, you're the best" she cried out in the heat of passion. He was her master, she his captive.

At long last, the snows melted, the thaw of spring came with the first robins. She began to open her blinds and her windows. He listened as she showered first thing every morning; he thought it was cute, how she sang as she bathed. He listened to the whirr of the blow dryer, listened to her hum as she applied her makeup. He watched, sinking low, just barely peeking in the window as she walked through the house, naked. Her hips were narrow, her breasts perfect, her bush wild and untamed, and her long blonde hair swaying across her back as she walked. She never knew she was being watched, she went to her bedroom and put on her outfit for the day, always perfect.

One day, after she left for work, he got up the courage to pay her a visit. The bedroom window was out of view from passers by, she always left it open to welcome the fresh air and springtime breezes. The screen easily slid out of the window frame, he lifted himself up and slipped inside. He inhaled deeply of the scent of the house, he could smell her perfume. He was careful to put everything back in its place as he inspected her house. First the bedroom, then the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom, the laundry room, he riffled through her dirty clothes hamper, inhaling deeply the scent from her dirty underwear. This aroused him, he had never smelled a woman before, he had never been with a woman before, and he grew hard as he smelled the silky undergarment. Gingerly, he slid it into his pocket. He looked through photo albums; she had always been beautiful and perfect, even as a child. He browsed through her mail, picked through her trash, when he could take it no more, his arousal full force, his curiosity satisfied, he exited the way he had come in, through the bedroom window, carefully replacing the screen.

He returned to his home, fondling the underwear in his pocket. He locked the door and lowered his blinds. He lay on his bed, taking out the underwear. He inhaled deeply of her scent; his prick was fully erect now and throbbing. He lowered his jeans and began to jerk on his penis; he wrapped the silky garment around his cock sending his senses reeling. She was there telling him how much she wanted him, how she wanted his huge cock inside of her. As he stroked faster and faster, he could hear her telling him how good he was, he could hear her begging for mercy as he plunged deeper and deeper inside of her. With a flash of electric like sensation, he had come, the underwear now saturated. He had consummated their relationship. She had to understand how much he loved her. He had to make her see how much she loved him.

The visits became more frequent, he would look through her closets, lay in her bed, he was always careful. Sometimes he would swipe a small trinket from her house, a picture, an item of clothing, it didn't matter. He decided to spend the night with her. He hid in the depths of her basement, listening to her footsteps making the floorboards creak. The living room, on went the TV. He could hear the bantering of the game show host as it traveled through the air ducts to the basement. Up to the bathroom, he heard the whoosh of a toilet flush, back to the living room and onto the couch. Off went the TV, he was close now. He traced her footsteps to the bedroom, heard the creak of the bed as she climbed in. He waited for her to fall asleep, he had watched her enough times, he knew about how long it would take. He was patient, he waited.

When a sufficient amount of time had passed, he crept up the basement stairs, easing the door open. He tiptoed across the kitchen and into the living room. He could hear her breathing now; he could smell her, so close. She stirred in her sleep; he stood perfectly still, not making a sound. Her light snoring resumed, so did his steps. He entered her bedroom, examining her lying on the bed. She had no covers on and the fan gently ruffled her nightgown, highlighting her breasts, the curve of her tummy, and her hips. He could feel himself beginning to get aroused. He stood mere inches from her now. He reached out gently touching her hair which was splayed out on the pillow. He was careful not to wake her. He stood watching her for hours, until the first grey light of dawn began to peek over the horizon. He knew she would be waking soon. He slipped the camera out of his jacket pocket and quickly snapped a picture; he hoped it would turn out since he didn't use a flash. He wanted to commemorate their first night together, the first of many.

Often he hid in her basement; he listened to her phone conversations. He listened as she showered, ate her supper, he read her mail, he knew her well. He loved her, yet she didn't know how much she loved him. He was becoming impatient; he had to make her see. He made love to her often; his fantasies were now quite elaborate, seeming all the more real. Of course they were mere fantasies, but a plan was beginning to form in his mind. He would have to take her by force; it would be the only way. After she saw what he went through to get her, she would see she would appreciate that any man could show such interest in her; she would know how much he loved her. She would learn to love him, in time. He set about to make his purchases, careful not to buy things locally, he drove for hours to various towns and cities to collect what he would need to make her his.

One night, he waited for her, but she didn't come home at her usual time. She was very late; he began to worry and to fret about her. Where was she? Had she gotten into an accident? He was about to leave and go looking for her when he heard the key turn in the lock. He heard her giggle; he heard a man's voice. He heard two sets of footsteps, heard the echoing of moans of passion, heard her cry out in lust, and heard him groan. She was cheating on him! His mind was racing. That fucking whore he thought to himself. How could she do that to me! He would teach that little slut what it meant to love. He would hurt her the way she was hurting him. He waited in the basement, waited patiently, controlling his rage.

She bade her guest goodnight walking him to the door, locking it behind her. She hummed as she slipped back underneath the covers; she had no idea that she was in danger. She had a wonderful time with this man, he was good in bed, and she was in the warmth of afterglow, blissful and content. As she drifted off to sleep, she thought she heard footsteps walking across the kitchen floor. Sometimes at night she heard them, she thought it was her mind playing tricks on her. She noticed that small items were missing and she thought she had accidentally misplaced them. She jokingly blamed these strange occurrences on a ghost. How could she fall into harm in this little town? She had never felt safer in her life.

His heart pounded, his hands trembled. He would have to act quickly, he knew about the phone by her bed and had taken care of that, cutting the main line into the house. He knew about the ball bat she kept under her bed, he had taken care of that too, moving it well out of her reach. He set the rope on the floor and moved closer to her. He placed his hand over her mouth and nose, she awoke with a start. Her eyes were wide and full of fear, she groped for the ball bat, she struggled beneath his hands, and she struggled for her breath. She was getting dizzy, almost to the point of unconsciousness. She felt herself drifting away. She stopped struggling, she felt him lift his hand away from her mouth, she felt the ropes as they bit into the fragile skin of her wrists and ankles, and she felt the pull as they were tied to the bed frame. She tried to scream, he quickly slipped a gag into her mouth. He closed the windows in the house, lowering the blinds; he went from room to room.

His beauty was now his captive, he watched her as she struggled, the more she moved the tighter the ropes became. He waited for her to wear down. He turned on the lights in the bedroom and began to snap pictures of his love. He watched the Polaroid film as it rolled out of the base of the camera, careful not to touch them he watched as they developed. Even in terror, she was perfect.

He repositioned her in the bed, taking time to straighten her hair, moving it away from her face. She rocked her head against him; he slapped her trying to get her to hold still. She had a look of disbelief on her face, he had seemed so nice, so neighborly, so mild, yet he was here, he had done this to her. Why? She asked herself. What had she done to deserve this? Her heart raced in fear, her hands and feet became numb under the pressure from the ropes. Her face throbbed from where he had slapped her. The tears rolled down her cheeks. She stopped struggling.

He ripped away her nightgown, inspecting her nudity, snapping more Polaroids, stopping to refill the film. She lay on the bed in submission, she closed her eyes, she tried to pretend this wasn't happening to her; she tried to place herself in a meadow full of spring flowers and cool breezes. She could feel his hands on her, leaving a trail of crawling flesh and goose bumps in their wake. He stroked her thighs, traced his way up her belly, and traced the outline of her breasts. He could feel her heart pounding against his fingers, he became hard in arousal.

He lowered his face to smell her crotch, he could smell the musky scent of sex on her, he could smell the scent of the other man on her. He rose from the bed and went into the bathroom, he reached into a cabinet taking out a douche, and he assembled it and warmed it according to package directions. He didn't want sloppy seconds; he wanted her to be pure and fresh for him, as he was for her. He untied one of her hands, placing the douche in it; he motioned for her to douche herself. She obeyed, sliding the douche into her vagina and squeezing out its contents. She could feel the warm water as it soaked into the bedding underneath her, she could feel it as it ran down her thighs. He stood over her watching, he wanted her, just seeing her touching herself sent him reeling in desire.

When she was finished he grabbed the bottle out of her hand and returned her wrist to its confines. She was a dirty whore and had to be cleaned. His mother had warned him about dirty whores like her, mother was always right. He looked at her with such contempt; she began to wonder if she was going to live out the night. He had to already have been in the house, he must have heard her having sex, she tried to imagine what was going on in his head, and she shuddered at the thoughts.