Don't as Don't Get

Prologue

My name is Steve Reynolds and I'm not a very nice man.

I never have been, really. I was never one of the good guys, even as a kid. I've always been a gambler, always pushing my luck, even when that luck came at someone else's expense.

If you don't ask, you don't get

. My dad taught me that, at a very early age.

Son, you make your own luck in life

. Another favourite of his.

Nice guys finish last.

Full of clichés, was my old man. But in my younger days those clichés served me well.

Especially when it came to girls.

Sure, I got verbally abused. Laughed at. Belittled. Slapped a few times. Even punched once or twice when the object of my attention turned out to be already taken. But I'd always keep on gambling, against the odds, until eventually the stars would align and I'd get lucky with a pretty young thing who was way out of my league but drunk enough or desperate enough or just plain curious enough to go home with the guy whose brash confidence seemed massively disproportionate to his decidedly average looks.

Years ago, that's how I ended up with my beautiful wife. Persistence and blind luck landed me what should have been my biggest win ever. She was truly stunning, and truly lovely with it. Kind, compassionate, caring. All the things I wasn't.

There was a problem, of course. Gamblers are addicts, and we're the worst kind of selfish. It's such a rush, getting to play the odds and win. Better than any drug I've taken, and fuck knows I've done most of them. Maybe not better than the sex itself - at least, not if you're doing it with the right person - but surely a close second. And just like drugs, or sex, the euphoric hit that accompanies each win is tragically short-lived. Even if it's a fucking gargantuan, massive win beyond all expectations, pretty soon it'll be time to go looking for the next one.

I think my wife thought she could change that. Maybe I believed she could, too. She apparently loved me enough to try. I loved her too, but clearly not enough in the end. So now she's my ex-wife, and I've got two teenage daughters who I never see, who've grown to hate me nearly as much as I hate myself.

Which leaves me here: forty years old, hairline receding, paunch expanding, living on my own in a shitty council house in a shitty Essex town, claiming what I can off the state whilst working cash-in-hand on whatever shitty jobs I can pick up each week. All because I'm still gambling. Still pushing my luck. Still chasing pretty young things, like the tragic old creep I now am. Still unwilling to settle for women of my own age, unable to find sagginess, wrinkles, greying hair and neuroses attractive.

Yeah, like I said. I'm not a nice man.

Of course, now I'm older, the odds have got longer when it comes to acquiring suitably appealing female company. Much longer. Sometimes I have to settle for young, and not worry too much about pretty. But still, I've found that if you're really prepared to push your luck, and you don't mind throwing some hard cash into the mix, it's surprising just how far you can go. Sometimes - just sometimes - if your morals are loose enough and you're not bound by the shackles of needing to be a good person and you're willing to

really

take advantage of a situation and to hell with the consequences... well, then you might just end up way beyond the realms of the

likely

, the

plausible

, the

believable

... and end up smack bang in the middle of what all you nice guys could only ever believe to be a fantasy.

Which, I suppose, brings us neatly to the events which I am about to recount here. I'm not proud of what I did. It doesn't make me look good. In fact, it makes me look pretty vile. But can I bring myself to regret it? Any of it? Of course, not.

Like I said. I'm not a very nice man at all. As you're about to find out.

Part 1

On the day in question - a lovely sunny Saturday, in late June - I was in an unusually positive state of mind. It could very easily have been different, but such is the life of a gambler. As usual, I'd ended up in the bookies the previous afternoon, losing most of my week's earnings. But then I'd dropped my last fiver on a triple acca, and all three horses had somehow come through for me. That meant I'd left with a nice fat roll of twenties in my pocket which totalled a cool two grand.

Two fucking grand. That had given me the shivers, just feeling it in my hand. Two grand bought some serious quality time with some proper top-notch hookers. But that just wasn't my style. Where's the thrill in paying for a guaranteed result? Where's the anticipation? The chase? The challenge? Much more fun to patrol the pubs and clubs in town, searching for a suitably attractive young inebriate who could be persuaded to accompany me home. It would be a long shot. It always was, these days. But I knew from experience that throwing a chunk of my winnings into the mix might just shorten those odds a lot. With two grand in my pocket, I was pretty sure I'd be getting lucky that night.

So, I'd showered and shaved, and was going to head out to the barbers before they shut. I hadn't been for a while and my thinning hair was approaching full-creepster length. It wasn't a good look, and I knew I'd be needing all the help I could get later on when I was trying my luck. Trusting in fortune and the cash in your pocket was one thing. Looking like you still lived with your parents at forty was another.

That left me getting dressed in my bedroom, thinking of what the night might bring, idly looking out through the blinds at my small, unkempt garden below. The window was cracked open and I could hear the sounds of youthful frivolity from outside. Female frivolity, by the sound of it.

I smiled. That would be Lauren Carter, the girl next door. Well, one of them, anyway. Her mother, Amy, had churned out five kids already, with another one on the way. At eighteen, Lauren was the eldest. As far as I knew, each of her siblings had a different father. The family had moved in a few months before, having been 're-housed' by the council. Rumours were that they'd been evicted from their previous place and got dumped on our estate because no-one else would rent to them. Based on the endless comings-and-goings, the parties and the constant noise at all hours of day and night, I suspected the rumours were true.

I peered through a gap in the blinds, craning my neck slightly to get a better view.

Two bikini-clad teens - Lauren and a friend - were playing some kind of cheapskate version of volleyball, batting an inflatable beach ball back and forth over a washing line. Unusually, Lauren's younger siblings weren't out there screaming and swearing and throwing things around. But then I'd seen her mother stuffing them all into a seven-seater minicab earlier that morning. Off to Pontins for the weekend, she'd said. Needed a break. Oh, and by the way, Lauren's having a pool party this evening so there might be some noise.

Right. Like every other fucking Saturday night, then.

I finished buttoning my shirt and focused all of my attention on the girls playing outside. The 'pool' was a crappy inflatable thing that was slowly being filled by a hose. The party clearly hadn't started yet, so I figured the girls were just bored and passing the time until the others arrived. I recognised the friend. She'd been around a few times and I knew her name was Shannon. Not because I was a proper stalker or anything, but simply because I'd heard Lauren yelling it at the top of her voice enough times.

My smile broadened as I watched. Neither girl could be called naturally beautiful, but in keeping with the local Essex tradition they made the best of what they had with copious amounts of make-up and artificially-induced tan. And whilst their bodies weren't glossy-magazine material, their curves were mostly in the right places.

Lauren was the larger of the two, in every aspect. I guessed she was around five-six in height. I didn't need to guess that she carried rather more weight on her than her smaller friend. Happily, a fair amount of that weight was on her chest, in the form of tits that were already captivating my attention as she threw the ball around. In my eyes, they were plenty enough to distract from her not-exactly-beach-ready tummy. I guess I've always been a sucker for a nice rack. Her hair, highlighted in a variety of blonde shades, was tied back in a loose plait. It was as fake as her tan, but it looked good on her. Hell, she looked good all round in the sun's late-afternoon glow; almost pretty, in fact, with her false lashes and heavy eyeliner managing to emphasise her femininity rather nicely. Not that I was looking at her face. Her bikini might have been surprisingly modest in its cut, but it was still showing off more than enough to hold my attention.

Shannon was shorter and skinnier, and had her back to me at that point. I spent a moment admiring her small, tight, firm-looking arse which I considered to at least partially make up for her having very little up top for her bright red bikini to restrain. Her hair was darker than Lauren's, cut with a tight fringe and just streaked with blonde highlights. She also had more visible ink on her, with a cheap-looking dragon tattoo spiralling all the way down her back and several other unidentifiable patterns on the backs of her legs. She laughed at something Lauren said, went and grabbed her phone, then posed for a selfie with the ball. Nobody'd ever call her pretty, with her sharp-looking features and perpetual scowl, but she clearly had some skill with her makeup brushes and scrubbed up well in a Cleopatra type of way. Still looked better from behind, though.

I chuckled to myself, as I cast my critical judgement on these two teenagers, like I was God's gift myself. Like I wouldn't fuck either one of them in a heartbeat, given half a chance. I smiled, posing a fantasy choice: Lauren or Shannon? Shannon or Lauren? The correct answer was, of course, both. But I figured if I absolutely had to choose, it would be Lauren every time.

It wasn't the first time I'd perved on her from a distance; far from it. Hell, she was eighteen, she lived next door and even when she wasn't sunbathing in a bikini, she had a liking for clothing that left very little to the imagination. I'd driven past her earlier in the week, tottering down the road in her heels, wearing a skimpy crop-top and a skirt so short I could actually see the curve of her buttocks peeking out from underneath.

Classy, she wasn't. Not that I gave a shit about that. I also didn't care that, as a person, she really wasn't very pleasant. It didn't matter that most of the interactions I'd observed her having with other people had been vulgar, aggressive and confrontational. Or that she'd been particularly rude to me when I'd called round early in their tenure next door, to ask for the music to be turned down. Or that, as far as I could tell, she seemed to spend most of her life either glued to her phone or shouting at someone, sometimes both at the same time. None of that mattered in the slightest. At least, not from where I was standing at that moment.

She was a teenage girl with a cracking pair of tits, in a bikini. I wasn't looking at her fucking

personality,

that was for sure.

I watched Lauren's chest bounce delightfully as she threw the ball up in the air. I swallowed hard, feeling movement in my pants. I was such a fucking pervert, standing there in my darkened bedroom spying on two young girls. But sometimes you just have to accept what you are. In truth, my rampant libido had always been a problem - I was always looking, fantasising, imagining, and occasionally getting to act out those fantasies when I got lucky enough. It simply never stopped. That probably had something to do with why my wife had taken the girls and moved to the other end of the country. It wasn't just the gambling.

I noted that Lauren's energetic movement had caused her bikini bottoms to slip down a little. They looked a little on the big side, despite her not being short of curves to hold them up. I watched, enraptured, as she unconsciously tugged them up a little, then smoothed the material over her buttocks as she waited for her friend to 'serve' the ball.

I unzipped my fly and manoeuvred my hardening cock out of my pants. Might as well get warmed up a little for the night ahead. Once you've accepted you're a pervert, it's actually quite liberating.

I stroked my length gently, encouraging the blood flow. I'm not gigantic in that department, but nobody's ever pointed at it and laughed, either. Maybe a little larger than average. Whatever, it still does the job. And, as it happens, genetics have blessed me with a party trick that never fails to introduce some alternative surprise and delight into bedroom proceedings. The surprise tends to be hers - whoever she is - whilst the delight is usually all mine. But I'll come to that later.

I started wanking properly, peering through the blinds as Shannon bounced up and down like a tennis player, waiting for Lauren to hit the slow-moving ball over the net. I had a perfect view of the smaller girl's rear, moving alluringly under the red material. She was lighter on her feet than Lauren and her bikini was a better fit, which sadly meant it had no trouble staying in position. That didn't stop my fantasy. I imagined what those tight, sunbed-tanned cheeks would look like if that slinky red material

did

slip down; picturing their supple smoothness in my mind; imagining their firmness in my hands; my fingers gently questing further and further until I found the tight, sweet hole I so desired...

I felt my cock harden even more, and clasped my fingers tighter as I masturbated slowly, each squeeze rewarded with a shiver of pleasure. In my mind, Shannon's red bikini bottoms were off now, torn away and discarded. My fingers had done their work, and now my cock was thrusting hard into that deliciously tight crack, right up inside Shannon's rear hole as she squealed and writhed beneath me whilst Lauren looked on, fingers working between her legs as she obediently waited for her turn.

I was breathing harder now. I bet Shannon took it up the arse all the time. I bet they both did. Dirty little slags. I gazed at them again, leaping and bouncing in the garden, just the slightest shimmer of movement beneath Shannon's skimpy bikini top. My brain somehow managed to superimpose stunningly vivid imaginations of me pushing her face down onto my bed, naked now, those tiny tits forced down hard onto the sheets, holding her down as I rammed my whole length right into her tight little anus again, and again, and again...

Shit! I realised my cock was starting to jerk involuntarily and I forced myself to let go, before the pressure mounting in my balls could spill over into orgasm right then. I was just quick enough. The tingles faded, leaving just a solitary drop of clear liquid oozing out. That was close. Too close. Warming up was one thing, but I wanted to make sure I was still fully charged for later on.

I shut my eyes and thought ugly thoughts until I started to soften again.

Looking outside, I was surprised to see that somehow the inflatable ball had ended up over the fence and in my garden. The two girls finished what had apparently been an argument about who was going to fetch it back, then Lauren - evidently the losing party - shoved a sunlounger against the fence so she could scramble over.

I watched the movement of her arse as she clambered up onto the fence with her back to me, struggling to hold on as she balanced precariously on the top. Our street is on a hill, and each house and garden is at a different level, stepping up or down. My garden was maybe a couple of feet lower, with a crumbling brick retaining wall underneath the fence. Clearly, she didn't fancy the leap down. Instead, she reached down tentatively with one leg, perhaps too dim to work out that she was never going to touch the ground that way. Right then, I didn't care about her intellect. All I could focus on was the stretching of the blue material over her curvy, soft-looking butt.

Subconsciously, I took hold of my cock again, before I realised what I was doing and forced myself to stop once more.

Finally working out that she needed both legs on my side of the fence to be able to drop down, Lauren swivelled around and scrabbled down awkwardly into my garden. Once on the scrappy grass, she bent down, apparently picking a splinter out of her foot, inadvertently giving me a fabulous view down her bikini top. Her tits hung pendulous, suspended by the thin blue material, jiggling as she balanced on one leg. My brain fed me another vivid fantasy image; of those tits suspended above my chest, as she ground herself onto me, gasping in ecstasy...

I blinked, and the vision disappeared. Back in reality, Lauren finished with the splinter and trotted over to where the ball had landed. She didn't seem remotely concerned to be trespassing on my property - she didn't even bother looking up at the house. I wasn't concerned. I was still entranced by the movement of her nearly-naked body. I took in the sight of her tramp-stamp tattoo at the base of her spine - the only visible ink I could make out, and a lot less off-putting than Shannon's. She batted the ball back over the fence, giving me another wonderful glimpse of her chest in motion.

That was when she realised she couldn't get back over to the other side.

She started looking around my garden for something to stand on, but there was nothing for her to find in the dilapidated yard. After a couple more attempts to jump and pull herself up the fence, she gave up, realising that her arms lacked the necessary strength to haul up the eight-foot height.

She was trapped. In

my

garden.

Something about that notion sent the blood rushing back to my dick. But it also gave me an idea. With some difficulty, I forced my hardening cock back in my pants and carefully zipped myself back up. It wasn't easy, but I knew it would be worth it, because I now had a good reason to see Lauren up-close in that bikini. I headed down the stairs with some difficulty, willing my cock to soften. There'd be time enough for that later. If I could just get some proper, in-focus, close-up memories of her body, that would give me some proper gold-standard wank-bank material to come back to time after time.

Heading through the kitchen, I unlocked the back door and hurried out into the sunshine, hoping I'd detumesced sufficiently not to be carrying an obvious bulge.

"Can I help you?" I called, as I walked down the steps from the weed-strewn patio onto the unkempt lawn.

Lauren looked up, surprised at my sudden appearance.

"Just so you know," I continued. "If you're planning to burgle my shed, I wouldn't bother. There's nothing in there."

"I ain't burgling your stupid shed, dickhead. I was just getting my ball back, innit."

I shrugged, wondering if she actually knew how to be pleasant to anyone.

"No need to be rude. And you could have just rung the bell. I'd have tossed it back over for you."

She sneered. "Yeah, I bet you're good at

tossing

."

I was rendered momentarily speechless. Not by her insult, which was actually crudely amusing, but by the fact that I had approached closely enough to properly see the shape of her tits. They really were worth looking at. Not so enormous as to be comical, but more than enough for a handful. And so firm-looking! The bikini top didn't seem to be wired for support - in fact, it looked to be a size too large for her just like the bottoms - which meant the gravity-defying shape I was admiring had to be more natural than artificially lifted. I desperately sought out the shape of her nipples under the material, but clearly they were soft enough not to be visible at all. No matter. I was still entranced.