In the Neighbourhood

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Chapter 30: Taking it Off

Stan hadn’t climbed a tree in many years—he couldn’t remember when the last time had been, but he had been a lot lighter and more flexible then. Swinging his leg up to the branch he needed to get to had taken a couple of tries, and hoisting the rest of his body up there needed some effort, too.

Still, what he had lost in flexibility he made up for, now, in strength and size. It was lucky that the tree he needed to climb wasn’t too tall, and had lots of branches available. The next step was to get up on the little section of roof.

There were no lights on in the bathroom, though he could see lights through the door, probably in the bedroom. He had time for a breather. He straddled the branch he was on and caught his breath for a bit.

What he really needed was a drink—not that he hadn’t already had a good deal to drink, even though it was only ten o’clock. He should have thought to bring that flask with him, the one he got at Tom’s wedding. He could be up here for a while, after all. Next time.

There was a gap, a little less than two feet wide, between the branch and the roof. He gave it some thought, then lay his body against the branch and reached a foot out and braced it on the roof. Not too far, just have to get his centre of mass over to the roof and he’d be fine. The main thing was to get there without making a sound.

There was a moment, just a half-second where he was suspended between the branch and the edge of the roof, staring down into the shadows of the garden and bushes ten or twelve feet below, when he panicked. The blood seemed to drain from his limbs and into his stomach, leaving him chilled and weak and covered in a cold, slick sweat. But he mustered his strength and made it over, almost silently lowering himself to the hard grit of the asphalt shingles. He lay there, panting and dizzy, hoping that the trip down would be easier.

With his luck, he wouldn’t see anything anyway. Keith would come in and take a shit and it would be show over. He told himself again that this was a crazy idea, and again he pushed the thought out of his head without letting it fully solidify.

Above him, the light came on, beaming through the window like a bright morning sun.

Stan eased himself closer to the wall, hearing and feeling each tiny pebble shifting between himself and the roof. But he took his time; attracting attention would be fatal.

He gripped the sill, and lifted one eye to the lower corner of the window, up, up, and finally just level with the bottom edge of the glass.

It was Lisa.

She was taking off her shirt.

Lisa faced the mirror, and Stan could see perfectly from this angle—the curved arch of her back facing him, and in the mirror, her white bra squeezing and caressing her breasts. She leaned over the sink, peering into her eyelids, but Stan only watched the deep, soft cleavage that this displayed to him, jiggling and shaking as she did whatever she was doing with her eyes.

She straightened up, and using some instinct he didn’t know he had, Stan lowered himself out of sight. He waited, waited, staring up at the light shining out of the window, wanting desperately to know what he was missing but not daring to risk a look.

There was a subtle flicker, a shift in the light—she was moving around the room. He slowly raised himself up again to see.

She was at the bath, still in her bra and pants, leaning over the running water, testing its warmth. Her breasts strained to be released from the top of her bra, a beautiful round fold of flesh barely held back by the thin layer of lace.

Lisa straightened up and Stan tensed, ready to drop back out of sight if she so much as moved a hair in his direction. But no, she merely straightened up, slipped one arm out from under her bra strap, then the other, then—

Stan’s breath caught in his throat, almost choking him—

She hooked her thumbs under the straps and yanked them down and her huge, bountiful breasts tumbled out, white skin and pale nipples. But before he could even appreciate them, appreciate the entire majestic sight, her arms were in the way, pulling the bra around so that the clasps were in front so that she could unhook them.

Stan got another achingly perfect view as she bent slightly to remove her pants, then the peach-coloured cotton panties beneath. He was ready, though, and dropped down again as he began to turn.

She would put the clothes somewhere, a hamper or something, but she had already turned the shower on. He watched the light above him flicker and dance as she moved around the room.

The problem—not problem, per se, but the limitation—with this window scheme was that he would never be able to see her head-on, face-to-face. Any time she turned his way, or even threatened to look his way, he would have to get out of sight. Someone else had already been caught peeking, and he couldn’t risk having her see him, no matter how beautiful the sight of her was.

And he longed—longed—to see her stand nude in front him, to see her mound of curly dark hair nestled sweetly between her thighs, between the wide, smooth curve of her hips.

The light was bright and still, now, and he raised his eye to the window again. Yes, she was gone now, out of sight behind the shower curtain. He strained to see the far side of the window. Although there was a gap between the curtain and the shower wall, he couldn’t quite see her.

Then he looked around and saw the mirror. From the right angle, he might have a better view of that gap. He shifted back to the other side of the window, just in time to see her lathering, running her slippery, soapy hands over, under, around those tits, those gloriously saggy, bulging tits. Then her stomach, wide circles that started and ended under her jiggling, quivering masses.

She bent over to soap her legs, and—just to check—Stan looked for the latch inside the window. Was it locked? Probably—there had been a prowler up at this window, so no doubt they kept an eye on things like that.

But she’d love it; Stan knew she would. If he slid the window open and showed her how desirable she was, how hot and hard she made him.

She knew she was a dirty, horny slut. She loved it, revelled in it. She’d made that tape, the one where it was her just masturbating, orgasm after furious, moaning orgasm. Maybe Keith didn’t know what she needed. Maybe she wanted another man, a strong, passionate man, to give her what she needed.

Stan could just lift the window, slip into the room, quietly lock the door—no, leave it open. He’d drop his clothes, step into the shower behind her, wrap his arms around her, kiss her neck, press his swollen cock against the warm, slick flesh of her ass.

She would moan, knowing what was to come—wanting it, needing it. She’d raise a leg, rest it on the edge of the bathtub. “Now,” she’d breathe, just audible over the water’s rush. “I want you now.”

But he would delay at first, run the head of his cock back and forth across her lips, let her feel his heat, his strength, until she begged him. “Please,” she’d whisper, squeezing one of his hands against her breast, ensuring her nipple was tightly clamped between his knuckles. Her other hand would reach for him, grasp him, pull him closer, then let go to run her greedy fingers across her clit, yearning, aching for him.

And then, as he fucked her, she would pull the curtain back—Keith would have been watching them the whole time, would now see Stan buried deep inside her, would hear her gurgling moans of pleasure. And Keith would be nude, too, his cock swelling in his hand, and Lisa would wave him over, ready to swallow him while Stan—

There was a sudden, subtle change, the faint tone of the shower disappearing, and Stan still had the presence of mind to drop out of sight again. A few seconds, just a few seconds, and he’d take another peep—

“Stan,” someone hissed below him.

His erection melted away, and he lay perfectly still, pressed against the wall of the house.

“Stan, is that you?”

He rolled slightly, silently, just to check—oh, thank god, it was Darrell, not Keith.

“What the—get down from there!”

If it had been Keith, this would have been awkward. The only difficulty here was to get off the roof without Lisa seeing him. The tree was out of the question—he’d have to stand up and risk being seen through the window. No, better to hang-drop off the roof.

He carefully shifted to one end of the roof. His legs, annoyingly, kept making more noise than they were supposed to. He looked over the edge; there was Darrell, scowling, his arms crossed. There was the ground, far down, much further down than it should be.

“Come on,” Darrell stage-whispered. “Before someone sees you.”

“Someone else, you mean,” Stan whispered back, his voice maybe a little louder than a whisper, but not so much that anyone could hear.


“Never mind,” Stan said to himself. He needed to concentrate to make sure his legs would start moving the way they were told. He swung them out over the edge, and to his relief, they obeyed. It took surprisingly little effort to slide off the roof as far as his waist. Then he’d rest on his elbows, then ease himself down on his arms, and—

The night sky shone down on him, through the trees and past the roof of Keith’s house. It revolved slowly left and right for a short time before fixing itself at last. There was a dull ringing sensation somewhere behind him, or maybe at the back of his hand.

Then Darrell was standing over him, still scowling but also looking a little concerned. “C’mon,” he said. “Someone might have heard.” He waited. “Did you hurt yourself?”

He’d fallen, clearly, but how far or how quickly was hard to tell. His arms stung a little, now that he thought about it, but he couldn’t see why, here in the shadow of Keith’s house. He propped himself up on one arm. “I’m okay.”

“Come on. Let’s go in my backyard.”

Darrell took his arm and hoisted Stan to his feet. Darrell was surprisingly strong. Stan tested his legs—no problems, there. He could walk just fine. He followed Darrell through the gate.

“What were you thinking?” Darrell exploded, not bothering to whisper any more. “You know Keith is getting paranoid. I warned you. Why would you go up there again?”

“Not again. I never did that before.” Talking was a chore; Stan wished Darrell would just let him go. He could really use some sleep.

“Enough. Don’t bullshit me.”

Stan shrugged. What did he care, whether Darrell believed him or not?

“I mean—” Darrell stopped. “Have you been drinking?”

“Not that—” Stan started to deny it automatically, then realized Darrell had given him an opening. “Well, yeah,” he sighed. “Kind of a lot.”

Darrell frowned. “I sort of wondered when you took that tumble off the roof.”

“I’m fine, I just—” Stan briefly thought about how best to convince Darrell he was drunk, but remembered he didn’t care about that and gave up. “Whatever.”

“Well, whether you were there last week or not, you know that someone was spying on Lisa.” Darrell started droning on in his dad voice—no wonder his kids were such idiots, if they were forced to listen to pointless lecturing like this. Who expected kids to sit still and be lectured? Everything was a half-hour sitcom to them, a five-minute music video. You might as well write out a lecture like this and expect them to read it.

The really aggravating thing was that this was all Darrell’s fault anyway. If he hadn’t pointed out the little section of roof, Stan never would have noticed it. Once he knew about it, though, he was bound to check it out sometime, wasn’t he?

“I was only checking it out because you were talking about it,” Stan cut in, when Darrell finally, mercifully stopped to draw breath. “I wouldn’t have even thought about it if it weren’t for you.”

“Whoa, there, don’t go blaming me—”

“I’m not blaming you. But once you told me about it, I couldn’t get it out of my head, and then I got a few drinks in me, and I thought—”

“Enough.” Darrell held up a hand dramatically, like he was emperor or something. Emperor of the neighbourhood, all of a sudden. “You know things are—we’ve got a special thing going on this street, right? We can’t risk it like this.”

“I know.” Stan tried looking ashamed. Whatever would shut Darrell up the quickest.

“We can’t abuse each other’s trust like this.”

“I know.”

“So go home. And don’t try this again. I don’t want to tell Keith about any of this, but I will if I have to.”

Stan stumbled back to his front door, and was undressed and in bed before he looked at the clock. It wasn’t even quarter past ten yet. He felt tired, though, and his arms still stung—he’d forgotten to check them out when he got home. Well, no matter. He fell asleep thinking of Lisa’s wet, soapy breast against his cheek, and Keith barging into the room, that look on his face—was it anger, or lust? Now Stan wasn’t sure.

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