I decided to take a chance and write a story from a woman's point of view. I would appreciate some constructive criticism from you seasoned gals. This is turning out to be a much longer story than I started to write, and there will be a few more parts to it with other characters. Let me know what you think, dear reader.
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I was returning home from a busy day shopping for a new wardrobe, in celebration of my divorce from my jerk of a husband, when I drove past the moving van next door. "Next door," in my area, means several hundred feet away. My house is typical of the area, being four thousand square feet on a five acre lot.
No one in the area has, or needs, a "privacy fence," because of the distance and the trees between houses. On nice days, I could sunbathe in the nude. While I am getting some sun, I often masturbate. Fingers only; sex toys really leave me flat. Call me old fashioned, but a good hard cock and an expert tongue is all I really need between my legs. It had been almost four years since I had any sex with a man. For the last year or so, I was having some tension relieving sex with Peggy.
Peggy's a neighbor, a divorcee like me, and we attend the same church and belong to the same political club. She's short, slender, very good looking, has a aura of sexiness that borders on being lewd. She has a cute overbite that somehow suggests the word, "fellatio." She likes laughing and gossip and is fun to be with. Most of all, she likes sex with men or women. With men, she likes 'em younger by at least fifteen years; she's thirty-nine and is not looking for another husband.
She's always doing something with her hair; currently it was cut short, as a man's hair, but styled in a feminine way and it was colored (this time) a dark metallic red. No many women could get away with that at her age, but Peggy carried it off nicely. Her nineteen-year-old daughter, now in a local college, was a lot like her.
I never realized women could rub their pussies together and get off like that, until Peggy showed me how it's done. The problem with that is Peggy doesn't have a cock. I like what a man has between his legs. I like looking at a hard cock, and tasting and feeling it. But nowadays I was horny enough to spend a few hours a week with Peggy, just for contact with a warm body and a few orgasms. Sometimes we just snuggled or talked at the kitchen table over coffee and doughnuts. It was a discrete and cozy arrangement. The internet term for our relationship is "friend with benefits."
I was anxious to meet my new neighbors, but there was probably chaos at their house as they were settling in, so I decided to wait a day or two before I made a courtesy call. Meanwhile, I tried on my new clothes.
I wear pantyhose or nothing at all, ordinarily; nylon stockings and garter belt for special occasions. I had some plain bras for daily wear, and had transparent bras that hooked in front, with matching panties, also for special occasions. The panties I usually wear, if I wear any at all, are plain cotton, but I have an assortment of the silky kind too; some crotchless.
Unfortunately, with my philandering ex-husband, there had been almost no "special occasions." The few times we did dress up to go out, turned out to be not-so-special, anyway. I realized, during one of these times, that I didn't love him, or even like him, anymore. It was too often I smelled another woman's perfume on him, and told myself it was just my imagination. And I patiently "understood" when he was "delayed" and would be late. Then, one day, everything clicked together, and I saw him for what he was.
I really couldn't hold a grudge against him. He was big-hearted man, not even very good looking. He didn't chase women; they chased him. I chased him, too--and wound up with him. He was like one of those people who could stand under tree, and have birds come to them and sit on their shoulders and perch on their fingers. In his case, instead of birds flocking to him, it was women. I never could figure out what it was about him that drew the women. And he never turned anyone down. I took my wedding vows seriously and turned down all offers.
I went to a lawyer and, to make a long story short, I was now a forty-year-old divorcee with money, living alone in a big house. Trying on expensive, new outfits.
I bought stylish, rather that fashionable, clothes. Something to catch a man's eye and make me look like the respectable, full-grown woman I believed I was. I'm tall (almost six feet), have a good figure and great legs. Standing before a full length mirror, I thought I looked just as good naked as I did wearing clothes. My breasts still had more perkiness than sag, and though they are not very big, they are very pretty, with pink nipples. But I have a plain, homely face, I think; handsome, rather than pretty. Peggy told me if I wore black lingerie and put on a stern face, I could pass for a whip wielding dominatrix.
I had bought new clothes for any occasion, from no-nonsense business suits, through cocktail and party dresses, everyday cotton print dresses for around the house and tight fitting jeans that showed off my long legs and round behind very nicely. I had a couple of oversize men's shirts, that I wear at home in lieu of a housecoat. My shoe collection ranged from flat sandals to four inch stiletto heels. I also have hiking boots and snakebite-proof pants for the outdoors.
It was almost midnight before I finished admiring the first of my new clothes; the others were being altered and would be ready to pick up in a day or so. I asked Peggy over to show her my new things, but she had a hot date with one of her young studs. Peggy likes cock as much as I, and she's aggressive--one might say ruthless--about going out and getting it.
I slept till nine in the morning, three hours past my usual wakeup time. I had cigarettes and coffee for breakfast, and while I was looking through the newspaper, I remembered I had a hair appointment. I took a fast shower, dressed in a pair of tight jeans (with pantyhose), one of my new transparent bras, and a simple white blouse. I wore the sandals with the three inch heels.
The cute gay guy, Don, who does my hair, once talked me into getting it set in the "sexy look" that was supposed to be very popular. When he finished, I thought it made me look like I had spent the weekend in a cheap motel with two sailors. Or maybe like one of those bitter women who sit around sipping herbal tea, complaining to each other that all men are pigs. Anyway, I didn't like it and had it redone to my original free-hanging style.
I made it to the hair appointment on time and with a few minutes to spare. All I needed was a cut. My hair is glossy brunette, straight and parted on the left; it hangs straight down, and, I think, it looks really good. I usually put it in braids when I go to work outdoors. A little cutting to keep the ends neat was all it needed.
This time, Don tried to talk me into getting my pubic hair shaved. I had seen pictures of shaved pussies and decided that wasn't my style. Don, in his sales pitch, said he used an old fashioned straight razor to guarantee a perfectly smooth and close shave. He said he checked for closeness by running his tongue over the shaved area. It was a titillating thought, but I told him, "No."
After the haircut, I went to the stores that were doing alterations on some of the clothes I purchased. None of the things I ordered were quite finished.
As I walked through the mall, I was pleased with the looks I got from men. There is a small cocktail lounge which is dark and quiet and you could order a sandwich and eat it right at the bar. I had a club sandwich and a glass of beer.
During my repast, a man tried to strike up a conversation, and I gave him the cold shoulder. Inside, I was excited. Men approach me from time to time. I could have had all the sex I wanted, but I wasn't going to be a sleaze, like my ex-husband. I wanted a man. Sex was on my list of things to do. Just not quite yet; the time wasn't right. The guy hitting on me in the cocktail lounge lifted my spirits, and I was tempted to answer his pick-up line with a welcoming smile. I wasn't doing badly for a middle age broad--if forty is middle age these days.
I nosed around in the shops, looking at purses and jewelry, but nothing caught my interest. There was a gun store at the mall where I had bought a .22 rifle the week before; I picked up a couple of boxes of ammunition for my .45 caliber revolver, went to my car, and drove for home.
When I got close to home, I remembered my new neighbors, and decided to stop by and introduce myself.
The doorbell was answered by a good-looking, strapping young man, wearing a sweaty and grimy T-shirt and faded blue jeans. He seemed shy, but that didn't stop him from looking me over from head to nylon covered toe.
I smiled and introduced myself.
"Dad," he hollered over his shoulder, "There's a lady here."
A tall, ruggedly handsome man appeared a moment later, seeming somewhat annoyed. He gave me a careful, appraising look, with intelligent eyes, and then smiled.
"I'm Ellen Parks, your neighbor next door," I said, pointing in the direction of my house.
He invited me in, saying it was "break time," anyway. He said his name was Jim, and his son was Jim Jr., also known as JJ. We went through the foyer and into the large living room. The furniture was more or less in place and there was a stack of wide, thin boxes--like pizza boxes but larger--resting near the fireplace. I guessed they contained pictures that would soon hang on the walls. The room had a freshly painted smell.
There were large sofas facing each other across a large and heavy-looking coffee table. Jim and I sat on opposite ends of one of one the sofas and JJ sat in one end of the facing sofa, facing me.
"We're not quite ready for company, but I can offer you a beer," said Jim.
I accepted, and Jim sent JJ to bring a round of beer.
