© Copyright 2003 by frog, all rights reserved, except those described below. Permission is granted to download, archive, and repost provided that the contents are not altered, including the disclaimers, copyrights and limitations on use and provided that no fee is charged for access. This story is erotic fiction intended for adult entertainment. The author does not necessarily condone or endorse the behavior described in this story. All persons and events in this story are completely fictitious and ANY similarity to persons living or dead or to actual events is purely coincidental.
John Watson, popular young college professor, groaned as an errant ribbon of cum arched over the safety net of toilet tissue in his lap and landed directly on the mouth of a big-breasted Penthouse magazine model whose picture had been the focus of his fantasy. More and more of late, John found himself stroking his own cock in attempt to satiate his horniness. His almost perpetual state of arousal was taking a toll on his mental health.
It started with the daily parade of lithe young maidens wearing very short skirts and very tight tops in his college classroom. During the hot, sultry September remnants of summer, his classes always included at least two or three glimpses of delicate panties in a variety of colors and textures accompanied by vast expanses of fit, tanned thighs and devilish smiles. Perky young breasts, firm and taut, also seemed to appear everywhere he looked. From his podium view, at least one or two sets of erect nipples were on proud display at any given moment. After teaching a couple of classes, John could barely think of anything other than the urge to rush home and either jack off or screw his wife's ears off.
Unfortunately, John's lovely wife, Julie, was very pregnant. He loved Julie dearly, but with each passing day, sex became more and more uncomfortable and inconvenient for the both of them. Matters were made worse by the fact that two beautiful, sexy women lived just across his back driveway in an adjacent duplex. And, in the other half of his own duplex resided the somewhat less beautiful, but far more voluptuous wife of an assistant football coach at the college.
That very afternoon John had been forced to enjoy the not-so-faint sounds of the coach's wife screaming with lust. She was just inches away on the other side of the thin wall that separated the two duplex apartments. Her moans and cries were accompanied by the sound of the muscular coach pounding his wife into their bed's headboard which, in turn, ricocheted off the wall in a pulsating rhythm. It had taken John only one Forum story from his well-worn Penthouse and a small dab of KY jelly to coax streams of hot cum out of his now withering cock. A feeling of frustration hovered over him even as he wiped the stray jism off of his faithful old magazine.
Jacking off simply is not as rewarding as the "real" thing, John thought. Not exactly a Nobel Prize winning discovery.
In the Watson's upscale neighborhood, four garages of two large duplexes backed up to a common driveway. The broad strip of concrete functioned as a playground for young children and an unofficial commons area for the adults. Across the drive from John lived a young airline pilot, Ray Cooper; his wife, Joy; their three less-than-school-aged kids; and an Austrian foreign exchange student named Irma who served as live-in nanny for the children.
On the other side of John's place resided Coach Angus Murray, who everyone called Max for no apparent reason, and his plain, but well endowed wife, Mary. Max was one of those rugged, square jawed, muscular jocks who God had blessed with a six-pack abdomen, bright orange-red hair, a broad gleaming smile, likely a big dick, and, conversely, a rather small brain. He had no hope of becoming a rocket scientist (he probably could not spell either "rocket" or "scientist") and, when the conversation strayed too far from football, Max quickly ran out of things to say. His wife, Mary, massive mammaries and all, rarely spoke at all to John or anyone else for that matter. In moments of orgasmic ecstasy, however, she obviously was very outspoken-a screamer, if you will.
John had just gotten himself zipped up, the soiled tissue flushed, and his vintage "dirty" magazine stashed, when he heard a car drive up next door. From his upstairs bedroom window overlooking the driveway, he peeped out just in time to see statuesque Joy Cooper immerge from her family van followed closely and boisterously by her children, two boys and one girl, all hyperactive.
Joy was a tall, willowy businesswoman who always looked elegant and professional, even when she jogged early every morning. Her scanty jogging attire revealed a lot more than did her business suits. John had fallen into a pattern of working at his bedroom desk early each morning just so he could watch Joy begin her daily routine while wearing one of those enticing outfits. She practiced a stretching and bending ritual before each run. John knew and appreciated all the parts of her system, especially those that pulled the soft fabric of her running shorts tight against her very shapely ass.
Joy's long, trim legs seemed to reach down forever before touching the ground. John loved the way the lean muscles in her legs became more defined and blushed red at the end of her exercise. On the hottest days she shed her usual tee shirt and ran wearing only jogging bra and shorts. Those days were John's favorites because he was rewarded with the additional thrill of firm nipples protruding against soft fabric after exposure to the morning air. Observing Joy in the morning was magical for John.
Watching Joy in the afternoon wasn't bad either. John silently observed her now as she shouted instructions to her children. An instant after exiting the van, they were running in three distinctly different directions. Joy began to unload sacks of groceries out of the back of the van. John smiled as one wayward plastic bag slipped well under her back seat forcing Joy to lean far over to retrieve it. In doing so, her skirt rose to dizzying heights on the backs of her legs, the darker part of her pantyhose came into clear view, and John was sure that he caught a glimpse of that marvelous juncture of ass and thighs. To John's delight Joy struggled for a long moment, but still the bag remained out of reach.
Just as she was about to make another attempt, Irma, the young Austrian nanny, hopped out of the passenger side of the van, motioned Joy back, and lithely climbed into the back of the vehicle.
Irma and Joy were opposites in so many ways. Joy was dark, olive, and brunette; Irma was light, pink, and blond. Joy was tall, lanky, and athletic; Irma was petite and delicate. Joy was a mature, elegant woman with a family; Irma was a lively college girl in the midst of a grand adventure in a foreign country. Both women made John's cock quiver at a simple glance.
As Irma climbed in after the elusive grocery bag, John watched closely. At first, her very short denim skirt hampered the assault. She glanced quickly about, convinced herself that no one was looking, and then hiked her skirt high. That treated John to a dazzling, though maddeningly brief, look at Irma's tiny green panties. Even this soon after masturbating, Joy and Irma rekindled the urge within him and made his cock hard once again.
"Jesus Christ, I am horny," shouted John aloud.
His exclamation surprised even him. He quickly pulled the drapery closed for fear that somehow his neighbors had heard him. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the window frame.
Just then, John's wife, Julie, arrived home from an extended shopping trip. She burst through the back door, rushed up to their bedroom, and tossed an armload of packages in assorted sizes on the bed.
"God, it is hot out," she moaned while standing in the middle of the room rippling the neckline of her blouse in and out.
John looked longingly at his lovely wife of four years. Even wearing a sweaty frown, she had a beautiful face. John had always found her stunning, even though her distended belly now was her most prominent feature. At this very moment, however, all John could think about were his chances of talking Julie into giving him a much-desired blowjob sometime. He looked at her luscious, full lips and, in his imagination, he could almost feel them softly closing around his turgid cock.
"I am completely and totally exhausted," sighed Julie. "Until this baby comes I simply cannot shop on a hot day like this one without almost killing myself. I'm going to take a quick shower and go to bed. There is leftover chicken for you in the fridge, honey. I already ate with Marjorie. I just had to... couldn't wait. Sorry. I was starving. And, afterwards I had this intense desire for a banana split... oh, god... it was soooo good... I can't believe I ate the entire thing. I even licked the bowl. Now I feel terrible. I love you, honey."
With that, the bathroom door closed and John's hopes for a blowjob, or any other job for that matter, vanished.
Not that he had high hopes anyway. Julie was what John described, to himself only of course, as a rather conventional lover... passionate, responsive, fully orgasmic, but not adventurous. She would have died before she allowed herself to moan loudly while being slammed against the bedroom wall in the way that Mary Murray had done just moments ago. That sort of thing in movies or real life elicited only rolled eyes and signs of disgust from Julie.
.... There is more of this story ...