A Delightful Neighbourhood

[This third chapter is far less erotic in nature than the ones before or the ones to follow. If you are here for a quick fap, you'll be disappointed and I suggest you go directly to Ch. 4. If you are interested in the story, please stay on. But you have been warned.....]

In the coming weeks and months, the curtains on the first floor window staid closed, and the relationship to our neighbours became slightly frosty. I kicked myself for having ruined the best private porn channel that ever existed, and to have exposed myself to a very likely criminal prosecution.

The encounters on the street became outright painful, to the point that the best wife of them all said:

"Look, I know you don't like them much, but you could at least greet them on the street. They are neighbours, and they really are not that bad." If only she had known. She was obviously right, I decided to at least do that, and God bless her for her blind faith in me.

And then, one day, there stood a moving van in front of their house. I saw John hectically storming in and out and thought I'd ask the obvious question:

"Are you moving?" Doh, elegantly phrased, what a genius question, I thought. He turned around, for the first time since months he looked at me without venom and said:

"I am moving out." And then he made two gestures that said it all: the "time out" gesture from ball games, where the two hands form a T. Oh shit, they were splitting up. And then the other gesture, the rising right hand is slapped from above with the left hand several times rapidly, the universal gesture for running away, making off. So he had called it quits and was moving out. I looked at him dumbstruck.

Ok, there had been some shouting lately, he had often been out and about with his motorcycle friends and had come back very late, but this? I was flabbergasted. He nodded courtly and continued his work. It was not much he took. A weight bench, two sofas, some chairs, a dining table, some clothes, the van was not full by far when he hastily drove away.

Despite all that had happened, I felt sorry for Fiona. Laugh about me, but she was a good-looking woman and the "damsel-in distress" instinct gained the upper hand over my libido. Or maybe it was just my instinct for self-preservation.

She was alone in her house with her two Malinois dogs, one old and one current service dog, without a sofa or a dining room, and no company. Her shutters were most of the time closed, there was hardly ever a light in the evenings and yes, there was her work.

She did now mostly night shifts and often, when I came home from walking the dog around 6 am, I saw her sitting in her van, looking at her mobile phone and reading text messages. And it was not just a couple of minutes, a quick check, no, she often sat there for half an hour and more, we had the distinct feeling she did not want to go into her empty house. When she then got out, there was no bounce in her step. It was painful to see the change in her.

When I mentioned this to my wife, she said:

"She must feel very lonely. Can't we do anything for her?" My mind was reeling. I already imagined that my wife would invite her over for dinner or a drink on he terrace, and my lapse would come to light. So, just to hinder that anything worse happened, I suggested:

"Why don't we put a little note in front of her door, something encouraging?" The whole family found this a good idea, and it was decided to add a roll of Chocolate Prince biscuits, the ones with two round cookies and chocolate in the middle, perfect when you have the blues and get the munchies...

The best wife of them all took it upon herself to write the note. She wrote:

"Dear Fiona, we are really sorry for what happened. If there is anything we can do, please do not hesitate to ask. We are always there for you. The........ family, your neighbours from across the street."

From her point of view and the one of the children, this was a nice and supportive note, and there were the cookies. Knowing what I had done, the note could also be understood very differently:

"Man out of the house, sorry for the blackmail, if you nonetheless need a shag please do come over." I hoped she would not understand it that way, otherwise she would immediately use her bodycam recording and take me to the cleaners, that was certain.

The message was laid down in front of her door, and the morning after, the envelope and cookies had gone. I had a couple of bad weeks as whenever the doorbell rang, I thought it would be the police to take me to a hearing. But nothing happened and we all went back to our Covid-calmed quiet lifestyle.

I still missed the fabulous shows they had put on, but I had gone back to reading Literotica stories in the morning without Fiona and John's visual inspiration. In any case, the dark quiet house across the street showed no signs of life whatsoever.

In the meantime, summer had come and what a scorcher of a summer it was. Up to 40°C, over 100° Fahrenheit, that was something absolutely unheard off at ours. And not just a day, oh no!, it had begun in March and we were now in July. Sun, sun, and nothing but sun. We thanked God that we had had a pool installed in our garden a year ago and used it daily. I even swam starkers, because different to our house, where everything is visible to all neighbours, the bottom half of our garden was protected by thickets and large trees from any spying eye except from our house.

My wife and the children had gone to her parents abroad for a three week holiday as they did often in summer, I had staid at home because I did not have enough holidays left and someone had to look after our dog that was not welocme at her parents.

One morning when I got home again from the dawn walk with the dog I saw her sitting in her car once more, reading something on her phone. I pretended not seeing her and passed her car. All of a sudden, I heard the car door open and she said:

"Hey, wait a minute." I stopped and wearily turned around. Shit, I would finally get what I deserved. I hated to feel so powerless, but I knew that what I had done would catch up with me at some point in time. I turned around.

She looked tired, a little rumpled, but filled her uniform nicely. But despite her athletic build, she looked small, forlorn, and most of all, she looked very alone.

"Yes?" I saw how conflicting feelings were fighting in her, a thousand different emotions flitted over her face. She took a deep breath, as if jumping over her own shadow, started to speak, stopped again, before she took a second attempt and said:

"That note and the cookies were a nice gesture." I was a little dumbfound, and only stuttered:

"You are welcome." She looked at me for a few seconds, then asked:

"Who's idea was it?" I hesitated before replying:

"Mine... it was my idea."

"The cookies also?"

"The cookies were the kids' idea." She nodded to that.

"Hmmm, and you really meant what you wrote? I mean in a NICE way?" Oh shit, she had understood both meanings you could read into the message. I felt how the heat rose in my head and I blushed furiously. I nervously looked at her bodycam. "Don't worry, I switched it off," she reassured me, her voice sounded tired, "so, did you mean what you wrote?" and burst out of me:

"Look, Fiona, I am really, really sorry. I behaved like a right asshole, I know, I should not ... well, I suppose apologizing does not change anything, but yeah, I apologize. I was carried away from seeing you two.... " I cringed, seeing her face twitch when I mentioned him, "... and if that had anything to do with you and John splitting up, I am even more sorry ...." She looked at me hesitantly. " I really meant the message in a friendly way, we all meant it that way. So if there is anything .... " She looked at me for a long time, seemed to consider, visibly had to take her courage in her hands and then said:

"John's leaving had nothing to do with it," again she paused, hesitating, I encouraged her by nodding, " .... but there is something you could do...." I saw a chance to redeem myself, to have my stupid mistake at least partially erased, and so I hastily quenched any uncouth thought and said:

"Yeah? What? Tell me..."

"It is really hot and stuffy in my house, I want to use your pool." My mouth must have been gaping, so surprised was I by her request. "Don't look like that, your wife needs never know what happened or that I come over, she is anyway gone with the kids." So, I was not the only one watching the neighbourhood, clever her. "When are they back?"

"In two weeks on Sunday."

"Ok, I'll come over to use your pool every day until then." I could not believe my luck. This babe would come to my pool, hang around in a swimsuit and flaunt her stuff. In my mind, I already saw her athletic body in tiny wicked weasel bikinis, I imagined a dental floss bikini bottom disappearing between her round ass cheeks .... "You will stay in your house and will not come into the garden," my dream scene collapsed, and it crumbled even more when she said ".... if you go through your garden door, and if it is only one step, I'll bring the BodyCam recording to the police. Understood?"

Oh shit, cold water on my fire..... so it boiled down to me not having a pool and garden for two weeks in exchange for an amnesty. On the other hand, I still could secretly gawk at her from the house while she was lounging at the poolside. She must have read my thoughts: "What you do in the house is up to you, I don't care, as long as I don't see you and you don't come out. But no friends to come over for the show and no filming, clear enough?" she said sternly. Oooh, "Police Fiona" speaking to me...... I nodded. Ok, so gawking and all that was allowed, but only me and no recording. I could live with that. Thinking of it, who needs a pool when you have a good show? "Your dog can come out, you know I love dogs, but not you, under no excuse whatsoever, otherwise you know what happens ...." She gave me the tiniest of smiles. "Deal?" I nodded:

"Deal". Without any further word, she turned around and went to her house. I could not believe my luck.

I was working at my desk when around 11 am, I suppose after a couple of hours of sleep, her front door opened. And out she came with a large woven basket, a towel, a sun hat and glasses. She wore a pair of ... well, what was that, grey -ish track suit bottoms? Too large winter yoga pants? And with that an old t-shirt with paint smears and a pair of boating shoes. She was lightyears away from the prim and proper bundle of energy we had known for years. She walked across the street and for the first time she looked what she must have felt like for a while now: tired, exhausted, deflated, defeated.

Up to now, she always had been a feisty cheeky muscle bundle, spouting with energy and mischief, her strong limbs and muscled torso exuding health and an insatiable hunger for life and for sex of all variants, but particularly the dirty, physical, sweaty kind; now she was a bent, weighed down, seemingly middle-aged woman, looking stout and grey, lifeless and compact, with a big ass, massive thighs and a hunched back.

She crossed the street, around the house and I watched from the back room how she went to the deck chairs near the pool. She set down her bag, draped her towel over a deckchair and collapsed on it, fully dressed. I waited a couple of minutes but she did not move, fully clothed in the midday blaze, probably fast asleep. I felt pity with her, wanted to bring her a drink, or something to nibble or cheer her up, but she had been adamant where my place was: in the house. I resignedly went back to my office and concentrated on work.

When I checked back on her two hours later, it must have been at least 37° (98°F) and she was still in full sun. She seemed still to be asleep. But at least, she had taken off her sweat pants, shoes and t-shirt and wore a one-piece bathing suit. Nothing fancy to write home about, a sort of a drab greyish-blue colour and it covered all her assets more than sufficiently, there seemed nothing worth ogling on her as she lay there. She would probably get slightly sunburned, even though she had a little bit of a tan.

I let the dog out and he slowly approached her. Yes, she had moved her arm a little, maybe made some noise to attract him, but he only sniffled her shortly and then came back to the house.

I checked on her a couple more times, no major change: she lay on her side, her back, on her front on the deck chair. It one moment, I could see that her exposed skin had a little sheen and concluded that she must have applied some sun protection. In the middle of the afternoon, I had quickly left the house and had placed a bottle of wine on her doorstep, maybe that would cheer her up a bit or would at least help her to get through the evening. And then she was gone, she had probably gone over to her house. No light came on, the house staid dark, and I imagined her sitting on her terrace in the dark, alone, sipping the wine, getting drunk, then falling into her bed and being overwhelmed by sleep like a candle that is blown out.

The next day was essentially more of the same, she came over in the morning, lay down on one of the deck chairs, and let the sun beat down on her. The dog went a little closer this time, she spoke to him, seemed to woo him. I had no idea with what, but that is why she was a dog handler and not me. He ended up lying down next to her deck chair, her hand on his sun-warmed pelt, she seemed to take comfort from his presence. I went several times to the window to check on them, nothing changed for the whole morning. The dog seemed the feel that she needed his presence and staid with her through the worst of the midday heat, something he usually never did. But he seemed to have accepted his moral support role and provided the sort of company she needed.

Early in the afternoon, she got up and sat in the water of the pool at the shallow end, I just saw her head bobbing on the surface while the dog came to the backdoor and requested to be let in.

Around five, I saw her again on the deck chair and took it as a good sign that she was reading a book. But when she moved, her movements remained slow and heavy. Not the sun-dazed, sleepy kind of slow, but the exhausted, lack of energy slow.

Again that night, no lights came on in her house, and I hoped she was ok.

The following day started out like the two days before: a frumpy Fiona came over, collapsed on the deck chair and went to sleep. When I let the dog out, however, she sat up, petted him and seemed to give him several small treats. When she lay down again, he contently lay next to her, and I saw her hand on his pelt occasionally stroke him slowly.

The first real sign that things were looking up was when at around 11.15, she went swimming. She did not slowly walk down the steps. She jumped in at the deep end and then swam for about ten minutes, a not to energetic breast stroke at first followed by a slow front crawl.

She went swimming two more times in the afternoon and I could see that she was playing with the dog, teasing him gently and throwing a ball that he brought back (he never does that with me!).

By pure luck, I was in the kitchen when she left that evening. She had a more colourful t-shirt today, not the messy paint-smeared one, and she had not put her frumpy tracksuit bottoms back on to go across the street.

She clearly needed a few more days to get her effervescence back, but she was clearly on the way back. She no longer looked like a bent old woman with too stout legs, but again like an athletic woman, even though a very tired one.

That evening, I thought a saw the reflections of light from her terrace and I was no longer worried for her.