Going out the door of my apartment, a two bedroom place in The Waterstone, a complex of burgundy brick buildings with white shutters amidst rolling lawns, behemoth pine trees and meandering sidewalks of serpentine rock, I wore my jogging togs: blue cotton shorts, a University of Washington tee shirt and gray trainers.
As I closed the green door behind me the green door of the apartment next door opened at the same moment and a buxom, blue eyed blond smiled at me. I felt her eyes taking me in, licking me like a child assaults a Blow Pop sucker.
"Hello new neighbor, believe it or not but my name is Harmony, Harmony Hill. How about a cup of coffee." We shook hands and I told her my name was Dwight Porter.
Barefoot, she wore a short wrapper the color of cream soda. Loosely wrapped, the garment barely covered her bottom and I had no trouble viewing most of her splendid breasts.
Of course I accepted her invitation and entered the apartment in her wake. Cardboard boxes of various sizes and shapes, most of them sealed with shiny strips of masking tape filled the apartment. The day before I had seen a U-Haul truck backed into a parking slot in front of the building and I wondered who my new neighbor might be. Now I knew.
She motioned for me to navigate around the towers of boxes, sit down in the glider rocker in the living room near the sofa and coffee table and asked me how I liked my coffee.
"Black, no crème, no sugar," I said.
"You got it," she said.
Maybe in Hollywood or on the French Rivera such a woman moved in next door but this sort of thing did not happen in a small town nestled on the shore of Puget Sound in Washington State. Her creamy skin, prominent cheek bones ala Bo Derek, cobalt blue eyes, straight golden hair trussed in a ponytail and perfect body made me think a goddess had tumbled from Mount Olympus, her fall broken by all the cardboard boxes. Stunningly beautiful, she conveyed with the most subtle of movements, indirect glances, moist lips dabbed at constantly by her tongue that she meant our getting acquainted session to be of the most intimate nature. The way she crossed the room carrying two mugs of coffee as though trekking gingerly across a trampoline, the high arches of her pretty feet, the press of her toes on the beige carpet turned me on as much as her long bare legs and swaying hips did. Her near nakedness, the choreography of movements designed to entice and arouse me, the silkiness of her voice all came together in such a concentration of lust and lasciviousness I felt compelled to rip the silk from her body, fling her on the sofa and jab my cock deep into her pussy while my mouth found hers. Then to suck each rose colored nipple in turn like sucking frosting off a spatula. Never in my short life had I experienced such in your face sexuality. She was a bitch in heat and I was a dog in the same frame of mind wanting to hump the hell out of her. Aligned with her salacious actions Harmony radiated a delicious sensuality that smacked me in the face like the whack of a slap across the face.
After handing me a cup of coffee in a white bistro mug with Le Café Shop printed in black letters on its side, she settled on a sofa upholstered in a pale blue fabric and accented by several lozenge-shaped white pillows. Her slim, shapely legs formed an inviting inverted v and the smooth heels of her bare feet rested on the surface of a coffee table with a square of smudged glass at its enter that needed some Windex and elbow grease. Her azure painted toenails sparkled like the enamel on a freshly polished automobile.
I tried to focus on our conversation, shifted around in my chair trying to camouflage my erection by positioning my coffee cup in front of the tent formed in the front of my shorts.
Recently divorced, Harmony told me she was the mother of a 21 year old son, now a ground pounding Marine Second Lieutenant in Iraq and a 23 year old daughter the same age as me. My God, what her daughter must look like, what sexuality and beauty must reside in the progeny of this spectacular woman, I wondered. Harmony worked in a grocery as a checker on Route 303, liked Gregory Peck movies, slow dancing and sunbathing in the nude. Unless she became a mother at ten, I estimated her as twice my age, but she did not look much older then her reputed daughter. Had she discovered an elixir to ward off aging or did the fountain of youth actually exist and she knew its exact location? She looked so good; of such perfection I began to doubt she was real. Was she merely a confection of fantasy, the build up to a climax of a wet dream I was having as I slept soundly in my bed. Maybe during my tour in Iraq when that shot from the AK-47 whizzed by my head it actually hit and killed me and as a reward for giving my life for my country Harmony Hill was my reward. Looking at her fetching legs, slim ankles and petite feet, the cleavage, the tits gloriously exposed, reveling in her musky scent, captivated by her smoky sensuality, I considered Harmony Hill a much better deal then the 79 virgins allotted to a suicidal bomber.
I, Dwight Porter, a decent looking-in my own estimation- twenty-three-year old failed college student, a former solder, a combat veteran and a bartender at a place called The Sweet Spot had never felt so inundated by lust. Lust so viscous I felt like I could reach out and touch it.
