=========== Chapter 1: Moving In
The house in the middle of the block had stood uninhabited for a few years, ever since its previous owners had passed away. Having no children, and nobody to inherit it, the house had gone on the market. Now, towards the beginning of the school year, Wilma Johnson was showing the house off to a young woman, who seemed to be in her early 30s. All the housewives on the whole block came out of their houses to see her. She was definitely attractive, and apparently single. A bit astray from the typical families who inhabited this suburban neighborhood, but in any event she seemed like a calm, tranquil person. The sale was made, and the wives on the block awaited the permanent arrival of their newest neighbor.
Yet the summer passed into fall, and fall waned into winter, without any activity in the house. Then, just as the last snows were thawing out, an enormous moving truck, larger than any anybody had ever seen, pulled up to the house and started unloading things. The moving crew seemed normal enough, but there were two things that stood out as grossly errant, more to the housewives than anyone else. One, the owner of the house was not present; come and go in and out as the movers did, the woman who had purchased the house never showed herself. The second was one of the movers. He was a black man, gauged to be in the mid-20s. What struck the neighbors as odd, however, was that while the other movers were dressed in a standard, company uniform, this lone black man was continually changing clothes. First he was wearing a t-shirt and jeans, then a military fitness uniform, then as day melted into night and the temperature cooled, military fatigues. After finishing their job, the moving men, including the oddly-dressed one, locked up the house, mounted up in their truck and left.
Another week passed before a black convertible was spotted parked in front of the house. At first it was seen sparingly during the day, for no more than an hour at a time, but by the time schools were letting out for summer vacation, the car was always there, only gone at night. Convening as they always did, the housewives tried to piece together what gossip they could. The only things they knew were that it was a woman, and she worked either at night or from home. If she worked at night, they "reasoned" she could only be doing one thing so soon after arriving in town: stripping in the city. Yet as much as some of them wanted to jump to conclusions, one member of the group adamantly refused.
"We should at least introduce ourselves first," Susan McCarty suggested.
Alice Tillman pounced on her. "Then you go by yourself, right now, and introduce yourself."
"Huh? Why me?"
"It was your idea. Plus, she's likely to be less defensive approached one-on-one."
Susan scowled. She hadn't anticipated things turning out so. She agreed begrudgingly and went over to the house. She rang the doorbell and heard a man's voice echoing through the house. Hmm, she has company, she thought, I'll just come back later, and turned to walk away when the door opened behind her. "Can I help you?" She turned back around, and who did she see but the moving man from the summer before, dressed in only a pair of workout shorts! She stared blankly for a moment before being jarred back to reality by him clearing his throat and repeating his question, this time with a definitive command tone to it. She squeaked, "I'm looking for the lady of the house, is she in?" The man scanned her for a moment, before cracking a dry smile. "Come in," he said, with that same authoritative tone of voice. She entered the house, closing the door behind her.
She looked around the house; it was set up beautifully, but not like a single woman would. There was definitely a man's touch at work here, but before she could investigate any further, his voice broke into her consciousness. "My name is Marcus, what's yours?"
"Uh, Susan. Susan McCarty."
"Nice to meet you, Susan. So, what exactly do you need?"
"Well, this house has been owned for a year now, and I had yet to see the owner... is she around?"
"No, and she won't be for some time. She's in the military, serving over in Iraq. She bought this house for when she gets out next year."
"I see. So you're house-sitting for her in the meantime?"
Marcus let out a wicked laugh. "I knew we were going to get around to that. See, I'm part owner of this house. The woman who bought it? My wife."
Susan was sure she hadn't heard right. White women marrying African-American men? Unheard of, especially in Suburbia. There wasn't a non-white soul on the entire block. And now there was a black man living not only in her town, but three doors down from her? "I'm sorry, did you say, wife?"
"As a matter of fact I did. I can tell you've probably never seen a black man in person your entire life, much less had sex with one." Marcus motioned to his chiseled physique. "And today just might be your lucky day. Let's face it, I've been in this neighborhood long enough to know what goes on, and who it goes on with. Your husband, for example, spends two nights a week in the city 'working.' Or at least that's what he tells you, I gather?" Susan was devastated. Although he exasperated himself trying to hide it from her, Susan knew that her husband, like every other husband on the block, kept a mistress in the city. She collapsed to the ground at hearing this from a complete stranger. Marcus put a shirt on and helped her up. "Let's take a walk shall we?"
The two left the house and headed for the far corner of the block. He pointed out every house on the block, who lived there, and who committed what indiscretions. For instance, Mr. Andrew Harrison directly across the street would purposely start arguments with his wife, Charlotte, to justify storming out of the house and not returning until the following morning. Where was he? In the city, in some other woman's apartment. Two doors down from them lived the Johnsons; the wife, Wilma, had sold them the house. Her husband, Michael, got his in before work with his secretary. The next house over was inhabited by the Robertsons, Bill and Heather. Their situation was by far the worst of all; Heather went to bed most nights knowing that Bill was in bed with another woman. "Why are they still together, you ask?" Marcus mused. "She's too afraid of what might happen if she were to leave him. She's never worked a day in her life, she couldn't sustain herself, and she'd more than likely lose custody of her two kids. So, she plays the happy housewife as best she can, keeping the house clean and food on the table." They arrived at the corner and turned around, with Marcus commenting on the houses on his side of the street until they returned to his place. "You'd be surprised how I manage to know so much, and maybe one day, if you act right, I'll show you. Later." He went inside, leaving Susan on the front porch bewildered.
The next couple of days went by fairly normally, with Randall, Susan's husband, staying at home and sleeping with her. But as much as Susan tried to get him to make love to her, he refused. Monday night he called from the office to say he would be working late. Susan began to get angry, but then she looked outside and saw Marcus's car in the driveway. Suddenly her tone changed, as she sweetly wished her hubby good night. She put the kids to bed soon after and then went into her own room. She gave herself a long look in the mirror, questioning the morality of her decision, then rationalizing that if her husband could have an affair, so could she. But dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants, she hardly looked capable of even attracting another man, let alone sleeping with him. She put on a spaghetti strap tank and bikini set Randall had bought her for a beach trip the summer before. She loosely wrapped a silk skirt around her waist before ever so quietly tiptoeing out the door and down the street.
Marcus was in the basement when a green light mounted on the wall lit up. Who could be at the door at this hour, he pondered as he climbed the stairs. He was more than a little surprised to see Mrs. McCarty, and rather uncharacteristically dressed at that. "Mrs. McCarty, come on in... what business brings you by this late at night?"
"Oh, I'm not here on business. And please, call me Susan," she replied, putting an almost seductive tone in her voice that she hadn't used in a long time.
"Well then, Susan, can I offer you a drink?"
"What do you have?"
"Well, I do have a little something I came up with the recipe for while I was stationed in Italy. Do you like vodka?"
Oh no, Susan thought. Vodka lit her on fire; that was why she stopped drinking it. "I love vodka," she replied enthusiastically.
"Good, just a moment. Make yourself comfortable in the meantime." As Marcus turned towards the kitchen, she decided she would do just that. As she sat on the couch, she untied the strings on the sides of her bikini bottom, leaving it to fall if she should just happen to stand up. Eventually Marcus returned with two glasses filled with a pinkish-red concoction. "I call it Crimson Thunder," he said. "It's half vodka, half strawberry juice. Enjoy." He sat on the couch next to her and handed her the slightly less full of the two glasses.
"Bottoms up." Susan took a sip of her drink, letting it sit on her tongue for a few moments. God, it was good. She slowly drained the glass, savoring its taste as the concoction flowed smoothly across her teeth. She finished her drink and looked next to her at Marcus, who had barely touched his! More importantly, as soon as the last drop hit her stomach, Susan felt as if a rusted switch had been closed inside her. Her mind suddenly felt vibrant and alive, and she felt her pussy juices flow freer than they had in years. She didn't know if it was just the alcohol, the shirtless, hard-bodied man who was radiating pheromones like a bulb gives off light, the knowledge that she just didn't belong there, or perhaps all three. Her bikini was thoroughly soaked, and she could feel her cunt lips were open, in preparation for a satisfying cock to pass between them.
On the other hand, Marcus was a little thrown off. He knew she wanted sex the moment he saw her at the door, but judging by her current state, not even the sex machine that he was (according to his wife, anyway) would he be able to satisfy Susan. He excused himself, offering to prepare her another drink, which she sultrily accepted. He poured her a glass of straight juice, however. He could tell she wasn't intoxicated yet, and he planned to keep her that way. He returned to the living room, but before he could make it to the couch, Susan stood up and moved to meet him in the doorway. As she stood her bikini hit the floor, as she had expected; the wet splat it made came as a surprise however. Undaunted, she merely slipped off her sandals and took the glass from Marcus' hand. After downing its contents in three rapid gulps she guided him to the couch, where she straddled him and kissed him passionately. Marcus slipped his arms under her legs and grasped her by the shoulders. After a few moments of heated kissing, Marcus picked Susan up and effortlessly carried her upstairs! Normally he might ask a woman before doing something like that, but he could tell by the scent of Susan's aroused sex that she wasn't in the mood for answering any questions.
Once they got upstairs, Susan found herself pinned against a door, and took an arm from around Marcus' neck long enough to push it open. Marcus laid Susan down on the bed, then wasted no time taking his shorts off, letting free the biggest pecker Susan had ever laid eyes on! She cowered in terror: "My goodness, how big is that thing?"
"Last time I measured it at nine inches."
Susan was dumbstruck. Her husband Randall was the only man she had ever been with, and to say that he was six inches in length was probably being generous; not that she could remember, being as how she hadn't felt it for so long. She nervously reached out for it, half afraid, half anxious. Marcus couldn't help but grin as he brushed her hand away. "Let me," he offered gently as he untied the scarf around her waist, exposing her smoothly shaven cunt. "I didn't take you for a woman who shaved."
"Well, yes I do, for hygienic reasons."
