In the Neighbourhood

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Chapter 36: Come On

Keith hadn’t found a good way to sort the tapes he received from the others, and those he had made himself with Lisa; it never seemed worth the effort until he was looking for something he couldn’t find.

A few nights ago, he and Lisa had both been in the mood, so he’d searched through the tapes and put them in, one by one, to see what was on them. Darrell here, Stan there, and Lisa hadn’t seemed interested in any of it.

Finally he put in one of their own tapes—completely by accident, he didn’t really like seeing his flabby ass, jiggling around, much as he liked Lisa’s jiggling parts. But the moment it was on, Lisa dove onto him, working his cock with long, languorous strokes.

She had never deep-throated him, but she tried, and the sight of her gasping for breath and then assaulting his swollen shaft again proved too much—he came, without warning, in her mouth, holding her head still between his hands as he thrust his throbbing, pulsating member deeper, shooting one jet after another until he lost all sensation, floated on a cloud of blissful release.

And Lisa didn’t even seem to mind, just took it all, her eyes flicking from his to the TV and back. Once he’d finished, she leaned back and stared at the TV, only looking at Keith when she licked her fingers before plunging them again into her pussy, the lips stretched wide around her furiously moving hand.

Finally she came, just as Keith was beginning to rise up from his own orgasmic stupor. He held her shoulders down and mounted her, and only a few strokes of his cock had her screaming and coming again, almost collapsing from the intensity of the orgasm, and not feeling her hands clawing at his back until he fell down on her, her sweaty breasts against his own damp chest, their shared climax gluing them together in wet, hot, loving bliss.

She whispered to him—her voice spent—that she was going up to shower, but that she wanted him there soon. When she was in bed, Keith wiped himself down and splashed some warm water on his groin, and joined her, loving the feeling of her clinging to him in her sleep, thinking of the pleasure they’d shared, that only they two could or would ever share.

But that had been a while ago, and Lisa was out for the day, and a half hour of the weed eater’s vibrations had left Keith with an untamable erection and a free afternoon. Time, he decided, to sort out those tapes.

For starters, there were his own, his and Lisa’s. They had quite a few of them, some that had been lent out and returned, others that hadn’t seemed worth sharing—early ones, mostly, and the one where Lisa told her to fuck him up the ass and he’d tried and failed because—well, maybe he hadn’t tried hard enough, or maybe he was too big for that, or maybe he needed more of that jelly stuff, or—whatever. The thing was, Lisa came off sounding just bitchy, and after he’d tried to put it in her ass she’d been all careful about him touching her anywhere else, and—really, neither of them ended looking good by the end of it.

But he kept that one—the way she gripped the headboard and looked over her shoulder and said, “Don’t you want to—yeah, come on, fuck my ass”—that had almost sent him over the edge at the time, and whenever he watched it again, the raw power of her voice, the plain need to be violated—he came again and again, every time he saw it, in fact.

So that tape sat to the left of the pile of their tapes, and those sat to the right side of the TV. The rest were Zsolt, Darrell, and Stan’s.

He went to the kitchen and found a pencil, grabbed a can of beer from the fridge while he was up. If he marked one mark for Stan, two for Zsolt, and three for Darrell, that would be helpful. When he sent the tapes on, he could wipe off the pencil marks with his thumb, but even if he didn’t, who cared? They wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else.

But he needed a second mark, for those tapes that he—or Lisa, of course—really liked. The ones worth keeping around. In fact, if he started to mark those tapes, then he could send around the other, less interesting ones. There were eight or ten tapes here, after all. It was time to put some back into circulation.

First up—Zsolt and Elena. He rewound to the start, and immediately recognized the scene. Zsolt fucking Elena from behind, and she started to shout something, Serbian or whatever, while he grimaced and banged her, only more relentlessly. That was a keeper. Two lines for Zsolt, and a star—no, too hard to make the symbol in the small space. A circle, then. Two lines for Zsolt, and a circle beside them for yes, this is hot.

Keith watched the tape for a while, even stuck his hand down his shorts to feel his hardening cock, grasping the skin and pulling it down to—

No, no, he had a job to do. Next tape.

That was Darrell and Sherrie, on their bed. Keith watched for a while, watched Sherrie pretend—badly—that she was at all interested in Darrell’s puffing and moaning. One bar, no circle. Next tape.

More Darrell and Sherrie. The Jacuzzi in their ensuite. Sherrie’s tits did swing back and forth nicely, it was true. Keith let it play a little longer, watched Sherrie screw up her face in response to Darrell’s thrusts. He stopped the tape short—he knew how it would end, Darrell grunting, Sherrie, taken by surprise, looking back—it was just embarrassing for everyone. One bar, no circle. Sorry, Darrell. Next tape.

This was Stan. Keith sort of liked Marie—the look of her, really, since he barely knew her in person. It was probably because she was pretty skinny; Keith had been with Lisa, who was on the curvy side, for years, and he had never had sex with anyone as slim as Marie.

It was more than that, though; obviously, Stan was a pig, and was doing everything he did—the careful positioning, the ordering Marie around—for his own pleasure first, then for the viewer, and last of all for Marie.

What was even more intriguing about Marie was how she went along with all of it, gamely, even eagerly. Stan would throw her on the bed casually, like a pillow or something, and Marie would turn over in mid-bounce to open her legs and invite him in. Stan would stop fucking her for a minute, winded, and Marie would jump down and swallow his cock, as if just to keep herself busy. Keith felt like he would be able to really free himself, really enjoy sex with Marie, with a woman like Marie.

So he settled back to watch. All Stan’s videos started the same: Marie on the bed, Stan coming towards her after turning the camera on. Zsolt said that Stan had some kind of high-end video editing rig, so it was a mystery why he didn’t do something with it. Keith and Lisa had figured out a bunch of ways to do things differently on their tapes; Stan’s hundreds of dollars’ worth of equipment didn’t make up for his lack of imagination.

So Marie sat on the edge of the bed, running her hands along the underside of her breasts as Stan approached. He was still limp, so she grabbed hold with one hand and continued tracing the shape of her little while breast with the other. Unlike Stan, Keith was already primed for action, and he slipped himself out of his shorts so he could watch properly.

Yes—this was the tape he was hoping for. Marie looked up at Stan and smiled at him, tenderly, lovingly, while she tried to get his cock to stiffen. Her free hand slid down her body—she had an almost completely flat stomach, remarkable—and she closed her eyes to enjoy it. Keith was enjoying it, too, loving the small buzz of pleasure every time he pulled the head of his cock free of the foreskin. What he would do to put his own cock in Marie’s hand instead of Stan’s.

Marie leaned back on her elbows, letting Stan’s member dangle there, at best half-hard. Her face no longer visible on the screen, she was still inviting, her pale skin glowing like a beacon.

But Stan—the guy was a moron, is the only way to put it. With Marie all but gone from the screen, Keith was left watching Stan, frowning like an idiot at his hand as he tried to straighten himself out. If could happen to anyone, Keith reasoned judiciously—but then, to keep the tape, much less pass it around to others? What an idiot.

Worse, he more or less gave up—and turned to Marie to give it a go. Worth a try, Keith supposed, but it wasn’t likely to end well. And sure enough, he knelt between Marie’s knees for an age, fiddling and fussing, leaving almost nothing at all for the viewer to appreciate.

Keith’s own hand slowed voluntarily, then stopped; his penis gradually deflated as the lingering pleasures of Marie’s sexuality faded away, replaced by Stan’s narrow ass cheeks and unending frustration. No circle on this tape, that’s for sure.

What was Marie like in bed, for real? Not on tape—that was just a pale imitation, surely, of the animal desire she hinted at in Stan’s little scenes. Surely she let her real, wild side out when they were alone, when Stan wasn’t taking advantage of her compliant nature to show off—whatever it was he thought he was showing off.

Imagine being with her—no, it didn’t even need to go that far. Just imagine watching her as she circled her prey, then moved in, the ultimate goal—the only goal—being a hard cock inside her. Imagine her working her hips, her hands resting on her thighs as she circled—circled—

—the idea, helped along by Stan finally starting to fuck her, had Keith’s cock straightening, strengthening, engorging—

—imagine watching, from the window maybe, while Marie screamed with pain and pleasure at the huge, hot cock filling her pussy, spraying her with jet after jet of scorching—

—from the window maybe—

—the action on the screen was finally getting somewhere, with Marie moaning and Stan grunting himself into her. But Keith was suddenly cold, sweaty, loose, as though a plug inside of him had been pulled and everything, everything was draining away—

—from the window—

—it had been Stan.

He finally remembered to let go of the flaccid bit of gristle in his hand; he tucked it away in his shorts. On the screen, Stan and Marie were disentangling from each other, and Marie was sinking slowly down to the mattress, her wrist between her thighs, finishing herself off. It was attractive-it would have been insanely hot, under normal circumstances—but Keith couldn’t even bear to watch. Stan, mercifully, was doing something off-camera, taking no notice of his wife.

Keith stopped the tape and marked it. He went through the rest of the tapes quickly, piling them into four stacks. Darrell, two; Zsolt, three; Stan, three; Keith and Lisa, six.

How many had they made together, in total? He’d bought three five-packs of blank tapes, two of which hadn’t been used. They also had a couple of blank tapes when they started, and they had used some tapes that had previously contained some old episodes of Dallas.

So, seventeen or eighteen tapes, give or take. Three of them sat there in front of him, one he’d never given out to anyone, the others had appeared recently at his back step. They were used tapes, old ones, so he’d probably given them to Darrell and he’d returned them.

The rest, who knew? Most of them he’d given to Darrell, a handful to Zsolt, only one or two to Stan. But they all passed them around, or at least they were supposed to, according to Darrell.

It was a safe bet that Stan had most of the tapes Keith had sent around. But how could he prove it? Did anyone ever go and ask for their tapes back?

That just showed how stupid the whole system was. It wasn’t even a system, just a bunch of people leaving tapes at back doors.

Something needed to be done.

First, he’d ask Darrell and Zsolt for his tapes back. Neither of them would see anything wrong with him asking. And if they wanted to know why—as if you had to give a reason for asking for your own sex tapes back!—he’d say Lisa wanted them or something.

Then he’d know how many of his tapes Stan had. That would be ammunition. He could go and say, give me my ten, twelve, fifteen tapes back.

Stay away from my wife, he’d say.

And then he would punch Stan in the fucking face.

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