The neighbors across the street, Mark and Angela, were a childless couple with a dog and two cats, bird feeders in the yard, raccoons living under the shed. Their house was at the corner of a wooded park where, sad to say in this day and age, some homeless men had a little area where they would hang out and drink. It was the ruin of an old mill back in the woods and down the hillside a little, about a hundred fifty years since it was last used, nothing but a couple of stone walls and a flat area overlooking a swamp. Now covered with empty bottles and hamburger wrappers. Smelled like pee.
Mark and Angela were more neighbors than friends. I lived across from them and we interacted, for instance I helped them find their dog when he'd run off, and they called me once when they thought somebody was getting ready to break into my car. Things like that, we never talked about politics or personal things, except when it was something visible, like when Mark was on crutches for a week, or my mailbox got run over.
The timing was random but once or twice a week we would cross paths walking our dogs and catch up on gossip and news. Their dog Mashy liked my Bullet, and the dogs would play while we exchanged news. This particular week Angela told me that they would be going to the UK. Mark had a conference in London, and she was going to go on her own to Wales to see the sights.
It turned out they were a little concerned about the homeless guys sleeping in their back yard or breaking into the house. She gave me a key and asked if I would please try to spend a little time in their house each day, trying to make it look occupied and shooing off any trespassers. She said they were boarding Mashy in a kennel for the week and had a girl coming in the morning and night to feed their two cats. So between the two of us, the place would look occupied. She said the girl's name was Becky. Apparently she was a niece, or a friend of a niece, or something. Angela said the house has good wifi and they'd leave me the passcode, so if I wanted to bring a laptop or tablet I could hang out and keep the place safe.
This sounded great to me. Listen, lean in here, I'll tell you a secret. I like empty houses. There's something about them. I don't mean houses that are for sale or have just been built, I mean I have a thing for being in somebody's house while they're away. There is something intimate about being in their space, sitting on their furniture, looking through their cabinets. The opportunity has only come up a few times in my adult life, but ... I can tell you, right? ... I like to jerk off in an empty house. I would probably rather fuck in an empty house but, uh, well you need a second person for that, you know? So I don't really care, I just think it's a little erotic in a private way to be in somebody's empty house. It's harmless, it feels a little mischievous, it makes me horny, and nobody knows.
Come on, I'm not the only one. I can't be.
Angela said they'd be gone for a week, Thursday to Wednesday night. I am not actually exactly working these days, I'm on unemployment and I have enough to live on, so I have days to myself. I like to work on my art and I spend a little time on the computer, but mostly I like to read. It's not a lonely life, but it is pretty quiet. Bumping into the neighbors occasionally is nice but I could live my life without people.
Thursday evening they called me to ask me to stop over and meet the cat lady. I had seen a blue-haired girl ride up on a bike and figured that was her; I put on some shoes and went across the street to say hi. They introduced me to her as a neighbor who would be watching the place from "over there," pointing to my place, told her to come see me if she needed anything or there was a problem, and they informed me that Becky would be stopping by early and late to feed their paranoid, human-hating cats. Becky was cute up close but I've been around long enough not to be impressed with cute. We shook hands and the usual pleasantries and I moseyed back to my place.
A little later I saw Mark and Angela drive off with suitcases. Thirty minutes later the girl left by the side door; I saw her emerge from behind a hedge and bike away. For the record, she is not a "girl," she is a young woman, home for summer at college. Twenty years old, when do they stop being girls? Anyway she looked like a regular modern chick, blue hair, rock-n-roll tank top, jeans, boots.
Friday morning Becky bicycled up to the house before seven; she left her bike on the side near the trash cans and stayed about an hour; I didn't see her leave but the bike disappeared. I did my morning stuff and took my tablet across the street to the empty house a little before noon. Mark and Angela had left the wifi passcode on the countertop and I got signed in easily, everything looked good. Nobody sleeping in the yard. The house had a different smell from mine, kind of like spices, or maybe it was detergent or soap of some sort. I think my house probably smells like dirty clothes, more than anything. I turned on a couple of lights and turned some others off, poked around, and roamed upstairs. There was a room like a study with big windows facing the woods, big bathroom with a nice shower, also facing the woods. The bedroom door was not closed, so I wandered in there. Well of course I would have gone in there even if the door was closed.
Two dressers, it wasn't hard to figure out which one was whose. Of course I dug through Angela's drawers; the top one was jammed full of lingerie. All nice and fresh-smelling, kind of disorganized and wadded up in there. In the back of that drawer was a pretty good-sized dildo with good strong batteries. I put it back but took out one nightie, a little pink thing. I mean come on, anybody would be looking through this stuff, wouldn't they? Don't try to tell me you wouldn't have. I held this little thing up and imagined Angela in it. It was quite short and nearly see-through. The nightie was so tiny I could stuff it in my pocket, and I did, and I went down to the living room to read. I saw litter boxes at the end of a hallway but no sign of any cat, which was fine with me.
I was reading a science fiction novel, pretty standard for me, using the Kindle app on my tablet, but after an hour or so though I started thinking about Literotica. Went to the Literotica app, scrolled to the new stories. My interests change like the wind, but lately I had been reading stories -- this is almost an actual genre -- where a young English man has an affair with a "large-bosomed" older woman. There is always a lot of description of her stockings and underwear, usually either the boy or the woman ends up getting spanked, and the older woman turns out to be a sexual tornado, full of freaky ideas. Of course they break for tea and behave properly in public, in their little village. Often in these stories there is a kind of sexual underground community of bosomy old ladies with shared appreciation for naive young men, and the hero of the story gets passed around... you get the idea.
It was after noon, very quiet in that house, so I went ahead and got out of my clothes. This is part of the deal, isn't it, being naked in a strange house, with my dick in my hand, reading dirty stories. It's pure freedom, if you don't know you don't know and I can't explain it. I took the little nightie out of my pocket and smoothed it out, then wrapped it around my hand and stroked my erection with the filmy material. Come on, you'd do that, I know it. Don't lie to me.
I took my time. What I do is read one good story and if it's good I'll go back to the author's profile and scroll through their titles until I find another one that appeals to me, one after the other, which is a strategy that works pretty well for me. If the author is good I read another, and another, or I'll see who the author has favorited and check their writing or the author's other favorite stories. I read stories while teasing myself with that soft sexy fabric.
The trick is to draw it out, to make it last, so when I finally reached that point where I had to blast, the effect was explosive and overwhelming, and I sat there on the couch moaning and pumping my hips against my hands, filling that dainty piece of lingerie with sticky semen.
When I was done, I sat for a few minutes waiting for my eyes to un-cross, then I took the nightie to the kitchen sink and rinsed it out. I wasn't sure where it could dry, since the cat lady would be in the house later that night, so I wrung it out and brought it back to the couch with me -- I was still naked -- while I went back to science fiction; later when I dressed I put it in my pocket and then let it dry on my own counter when I got home. The bicycle appeared across the street a little after dark, again it was there for about an hour before it disappeared again; I never did actually see the blue-haired chick, coming or going. By morning the nightie was good as new. The blue-haired chick rode up and spent about an hour feeding the cats, just after dawn.
Saturday is like any other day to me. I got up, had some breakfast, showered, did a couple of chores. and headed over to house-sit about eleven. I brought a cup of coffee and my tablet, and the nightie folded up neatly in my pocket.
First thing when I got to the house I went back upstairs and went through the lingerie again. I found a satiny light-blue thing, I mean it was really strange to imagine Angela in this -- I was gaining a whole new appreciation for my neighbor. She's not only a generic suburban wallflower, I learned, at least not all the time. Yesterday's nightie was clean and dry, I put it back and the drawer totally did not look like any pervs had been digging through it. I brought the light-blue one downstairs.
I started reading science fiction but, come on. I wasn't there for that. After about fifteen minutes I stripped off my clothes and signed into Literotica. Today I was in the mood for some good hot lesbian stories. I found one great one about two lonely housewives whose friendship evolved into a regular pussy-munching orgy every afternoon. I stayed hard jerking off with that smooth satin, edging myself to the end of the story, and then back to the author's page, scanned for a new title, and started a second one, a brand new story called The Coffee Klatch. I was lying back with my head resting on the arm of the couch, my clothes strewn on the carpet in front of it. This second story was even better than the first, it got into some very detailed descriptions of some hot cunnilingus, and I was on the verge of blowing my load when I heard a voice.
"I will never understand that."
I dropped the tablet on my stomach, though oddly my hand remained wrapped around my hard-on, as if it had a mind of its own. I turned my head to see Becky, the cat-sitter, standing in the doorway.
"Never understand what?" I asked her.
"Guys jacking off," she said. "It's so messy."
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm changing the cat litter, just like I'm supposed to be doing," she said. "But the better question is, what the fuck are you doing here? And what is that in your hand?"
"Oh this? It's just something I found upstairs," I said, holding up the blue satin nightie.
"It looks pretty," Becky said. "And I guess you're planning to coat it with jizz."
"Uh, well," I said. "I guess not."
"Is that Angela's?"
"Pretty sure," I said.
"Uh huh, well my guess is that it's not Mark's."
