Matts Awakening Ch 01

All characters are consenting adults, and over the age of eighteen.

Matt was rummaging in the garage, searching for his football boots when heard a shout from somewhere close by. He paused. Was it coming from the house? It couldn't be. His mother, Francine, off for a conference wouldn't be back until late in the evening. A dog barked somewhere in the distance and the faint wailing of a siren faded off. It was quiet. Matt shrugged and continued his search. Dust wafted in the air like mist and his nose itched and tickled with the promise of a loud sneeze.

The garage was big enough to contain two cars, but only his mother's Mercedes was parked in it, leaving ample space for boxes containing stuff Matt and his mother had stopped using but couldn't find time to throw or give away. Francine had, on many occasions, asked Matt to clean the garage: cobwebs had given the place a spooky, abandoned feel and much of the floor was covered with twigs blown in by breeze, and greasy tire marks.

Matt had always promised he would find time to do it. Looking at the mess now, he reckoned he wouldn't be so troubled looking for his boots which he had dumped in here days ago if only he had cleaned the place up. Maybe he'd get a hosepipe and his friend Jamie to help with the task.

"Fuck." The sound startled him, and he walked out of the garage. He was sure the voice was from next door--their neighbor Patricia. Only a thin wire fence separated Matt's house from Patricia's.

Matt walked down the length of the fence. The sounds coming from Patricia's house were strange. There was huffing, and the sharp grunting, the kind tennis players made when serving. Was someone hurt? Matt wondered.

𝘍𝘶𝘤𝘬. He could still hear the word in his head. Matt disliked profanity which was why he didn't hang out a lot with the boys in his class whose mouths were as dirty as a sailor's (as his mother once said). But this particular word and the way it was said--drawn out and tinged with something akin to hunger and desperation--set off bells ringing in his head.

"I could have had my fucking nails done."

Matt stopped in his tracks. That was Patricia's voice, no doubt. He pressed his face against the fence and angled his head. The sun reflected sharply against Patricia's window, but squinting, Matt saw shapes in the bedroom. What he saw shocked and astounded him at the same time, so much so that he stifled a gasp, crouched and replayed the images he had seen in his head.

What he saw was this: Patricia, his middle-aged neighbor, on her knees on a high bed, naked, except for black stockings which traveled the length of her thick thighs and behind her was a small bald man, driving himself futilely behind her.

Matt considered walking away. It was obvious they were having sex and he had no right to spy on them even though they had left the window open.

But curiosity took hold of him and he stood up and stared open-mouthed at the proceedings. The man was Patricia's husband--a quiet, reclusive man who was much, much older than his wife.

Matt rarely saw him, in fact he had only seen him once when Patricia had first moved here and they both came over to introduce themselves. The husband had nodded and smiled sheepishly through his glass of wine, never saying more than a few words, while Patricia sighed and gushed at everything--Francine's choice of furniture, her manicure, her car, the quiet neighborhood.

Matt never imagined he would ever see them naked, or even having sex. Matt regarded sex as something much older adults did, a personal, intimate encounter between lovebirds. He had watched porn a few times, but there was something garish about it.

Once he had downloaded a video from a site and the objective of commercialization was glaring and obvious from the way the porn actress bucked, bounced and shouted on the actor's dick. The bright lights, camera angle and her unusually large breasts and lips didn't help matters. It had the opposite effect on Matt's raging boner.

Patricia's husband looked like he was having a heart attack. His body was stiff, his face was flushed red and he had to stand on the tip of his toes to fuck his wife from behind.

Patricia on the other hand, didn't seem invested in the proceedings. Her husband was obviously using all his strength to drive into her but her frame barely budged. She shook her head, short, dark hair whipping around, and said, "Are you too old to use your fucking hips?"

Matt was stunned by this shocking unpleasantness. Stunned and aroused. The front of his trousers bulged with his erection. And when he squinted harder at Patricia's body, his dick threatened to tear through his shorts.

Patricia had ample, pendulous tits, with the nipples slightly grazing the bed sheets. The upper part of her body looked thin; her arms especially could almost be called scrawny. But waist down, her body flared, like diverging lines and into delicious proportions. Her waist was thick; her husband struggled to get a grip on them, and her ass was the biggest Matt had ever seen.

Matt watched, transfixed, a voyeur feasting on the swell of her ass.

Matt couldn't imagine what he would do to an ass like that. Perhaps he'd freeze, thunderstruck. Then go on his knees and worship them with his tongue like there would be no tomorrow.

But Patricia's husband seemed to pay no heed to that thick swell of flesh. He was so invested in his grunting and trying weakly to fuck Patricia from behind while she rained venom on him.

Was this the couple's fetish, Matt wondered, or was Patricia's husband just a weakling in bed.

"Oh, Jesus," the man repeated over and over. And it seemed like some new energy had flown into his legs. Matt watched the man furrow his brows, lower his head deep as if deep in concentration and continue to push himself into his wife's behind. A slow 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘱 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘱 followed his actions, the rhythmic sound of flesh meeting flesh.

"I'm... I'm gonna cum," he said. He grunted, moaned and his head swiveled backwards.

Patricia got off the bed, tits bouncing on her chest. "Yeah, that's it." She sat on the edge of the bed, hips pooled around her, dark hair plastered to her face. "A two minute man as always. Get yourself off; you're not cumming inside me."

Her husband jerked his dick. Matt couldn't see it from this distance. It had to be really small. The man swayed on his feet and gasped, his face turned a beetroot red. He aimed his crotch at the bed and after a long half second, sighed.

Patricia did not look at him. Matt drank in her thick thighs, her tits jiggling with every motion. The couple were talking and he could here their voices, faintly.

Patricia shook her head. "You've soiled the sheets."

The man swayed on his feet then seemed to recover himself. "Where do you keep the toilet paper?"

"I'll wash the sheets. Go have a nap or something."

The man nodded meekly, like a child. Then he shuffled into his shorts and went out. Patricia shook her head and stood up. She had removed the stockings and Matt saw her legs and bare ass in all their glory. She was thickly stacked and had a perfect figure-eight. Her ass, shiny with sweat, jiggled with every step.

She knelt under the bed and a moment later brought out a short, white object like an unusually large thermometer. Matt suspected it was a vibrator. She gathered the bed sheet and threw it on the floor, then lay on her back and spread her thighs wide. She put the vibrator between her legs and closed her eyes.

Matt rubbed the sweat from his eyes and in doing so rubbed his dusty sleeves against his nose. A powerful sneeze overtook him.

He saw Patricia's eyes fly open and her head whip towards his direction. He dropped to a crawl and slithered off, heart pounding. When he was out of sight, he closed the garage door, ran into the house and straight to his bathroom. He peeled off his shirt and shorts. The bulbous head of his dick was an angry red and copiously dripping precum. He silently hoped he was fast enough and Patricia hadn't seen him.

He sat on the toilet, spit into his hand and began to jerk his cock. Patricia's body flashed through his head. He imagined he was the one fucking her from behind. He imagined her ass bouncing and jiggling in his hands, her tits flopping left and right.

And strangely enough, he imagined she was talking to him the way she had talked to her husband. Goading and taunting him.

Matt felt a familiar stirring in his balls and a moment later he exploded all over his thighs and hand. For what felt like hours, he saw stars beneath his closed eyes. He had never had an intense orgasm like this. He sat for a few moments, exhausted, as if he had just run a marathon.

Matt, for the first time in his relatively short adult life, felt a new dimension of pleasure take root in his head. He wanted to get laid. The garishness and detached pleasure of porn from a screen wasn't going to cut it, and neither was masturbation. He wanted a physical presence. And strangely enough, he had made up his mind about his choice: he didn't want the likes of the toothpick-thin girls at school, he wanted someone like Patricia.

Hell, he wanted Patricia, but that was impossible. A fantasy he would continue to entertain at best. And that seemed to even heighten his arousal.

Matt's dick was curled up on his groin, the head just jotting above his abdomen, his balls pooling on the closed toilet seat. His dick began to stir and he was thinking of rubbing another one out when he heard his phone ring. He wearily got out of the bathroom, his dick hanging limply between his legs, and checked his phone on his table.

The call was from Jamie. There were also seven text messages from him. The five-a-side football match with the guys from Arlington had already started. Matt groaned and typed up a quick reply with some generic excuse.