The document presented here was found by someone who asked to remain anonymous. I never met him (or her). I received it just the way it is in my mail one morning. I suspect the sender was a woman because there was a handwritten note enclosed, asking me to publish the story, even incomplete.
The nature of the lack of an ending indicates the writer had more to say. It did leave the other shoe undropped. As it is, the story is compelling to read. If there are pages missing they don't detract from the ones I have.
I stood in the flickering glare of the flames and kept my garden hose aimed at the side of our house. The firemen had been working and I could feel that the level of heat had dropped considerably.
By the time the Fire Department declared the blaze extinguished, I'd long since turned off the hose and backed away to cool down. We'd find out later that the fire had started because of some old faulty aluminum wiring in the basement. But that night we just stood and watched.
My wife had grabbed her spare robe and draped it around Samantha's shoulders. She's our neighbor, who that night, had become homeless. Of course she had insurance, but for the time being she had lost everything. She's also my wife's best friend. We met her the first week she moved in next door.
I was planning down a warped door when she entered my field of vision. I was working in the garage and had the door open for the ventilation. I glanced up and reached to strip off my safety goggles to get a better look. She appeared to be somewhere in her late twenties or early thirties. I'm a terrible judge of people's ages, especially since I have gotten older. I was fifty three then.
Her dark brown hair was cut short and her eyes were a pale blue. Samantha smiled and I put the plane down and walked to where she stood just outside the wide doorway. "Hi," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Samantha DeCourt. I just moved in next door."
"Well, welcome to the neighborhood," I said, taking the offered hand. "Bill Moore. Come on in and meet my wife, Sandy." I turned toward the back of the garage and she followed me into the kitchen. Sandy was nowhere in sight, so I called out to her. "Honey? We have company!" I wanted to warn her, in case she was 'indecently clad'.
I didn't hear any answer, so I offered Samantha something to drink. A few minutes later she sat in one of the living room chairs while I went in search of Sandy. She was in our room at the end of the hall. She hadn't heard me because she had her eyes closed and a pair of earphones on (listening to her oldies mix CD).
She jumped when I tapped her shoulder. "What?" She always gets pissed off when I startle her. In that case, however, there had been no alternative.
"Our new neighbor is sitting in the living room. Her name's Samantha. Come meet her." Sandy is younger than I am. We would learn that she was closer to Samantha's age than mine, in fact. She could still be described as fairly slender, but in the last few years she's stopped worrying so much about her figure. I convinced her that a few extra pounds aren't the end of the world. In fact, I had told her, I'd prefer a little bit more meat on her bones. The best thing about her putting on a little more weight is the way her ass looks when she walks. Her cheeks have gotten rounded and they slide up and down against each other very prettily. After all the introductions were made, I excused myself and went back to my chore.
Anyway, since that day Sandy and Sam had been friends. They go most places together on weekends when they're both free. Sometimes they include me, if they're going to a movie or out to lunch. I go along once in a while — if the movie isn't a chick flick. Most times I stay out of their friendship because they seem to forget I'm there a lot.
Then, that spring night three years later, we stood together in shock as Sam's home burned to the ground. Well of course she stayed with us. Of course there were a few awkward moments when we first began living together. Normally when it was just Sandy and me in the house it wasn't unusual for me to lounge around naked. I find nudism sensual and natural. When Sam moved in, those days were over for a while. Instead I might wear shorts and a tee shirt.
For their part, the girls mostly wore robes when they got undressed for the evening if they weren't going straight to bed. But while Sam waited to hear from the insurance company and tended to all the details of the disaster, the weather was warming up. By the middle of May — two weeks after the fire — Sandy's thick terry cloth spare robe was too warm for Sam. So far she had only replaced the necessary items of clothing she'd lost, and a robe wasn't on top of the list. For that matter, Sandy started wearing her panties under a long nightshirt that fell about mid-thigh. After the first night Sam saw that, she went shopping and came out in a similar outfit, except that her nightshirt was a few inches shorter.
Anyway, one morning I emerged from the bedroom and ran into Sam — almost literally -- just out of the shower, her hair damp and wrapped in a towel. She had a towel wrapped under her arms, too, and tucked into the overlap under one arm. I could smell the soap and shampoo aromas as we passed. One night, she came to our bedroom to talk to Sandy (who was reading in bed) about something when I was in the shower. I don't close the bathroom door when I shower so I nearly flashed Sam the full Monty when I got out (I wondered at the time why Sandy hadn't closed the door or at least warned me). Fortunately, Sam's voice was the first one I heard when I turned the water off so I gave the door a shove. It didn't close but it gave me room to get out of the shower.
I dried off and wrapped the towel around my waist. When I came out, I would have sworn Sam's eyes went to my groin for a second before she looked up. "Okay, I'll get out of here," she said, standing from where she'd been sitting on my side of the bed.
"Don't rush off on my account," I told her. "Just look the other way while I climb into bed."
"No, we were done anyway." Was there an edge in Sandy's voice? I wasn't sure. To Sam, she said, "Okay, we can go to the cleaners on the way to the garage sales tomorrow."
They hugged each other good night and Sam left. I spread the towel over the back of a chair and slipped under the sheets next to Sandy. I tried to snuggle up to her but she was stiff. "Okay," I said with a sigh. I took my hands off her and slid back. "What did I do now?"
"Oh, please! Are you having little fantasies about Sam?"
"What? What the fuck are you talking about?" Okay. Right here, let me admit that I HAD been having some 'little fantasies' about our roomie. I'll also go on record that sex between Sandy and I had started getting better after I did. It wasn't that I was pretending I was fucking Sam instead of Sandy. My favorite one was that all three of us were in bed together. So, if I did sometimes imagine I was fucking Sam, Sandy was sitting (or lying) there enjoying the show — or participating in some fashion.
"Well, you flashed us when you got out of the shower." She was sitting against the headboard with her arms crossed under her breasts. Body language told me I was in trouble, but I thought I could defuse the situation.
"When I heard her voice I shoved the door almost closed."
"Why didn't you just close it?"
"There was a towel — yours — on the floor and moving it would have exposed me anyway. You couldn't see me anyway."
Sandy held the pretense for a couple of seconds longer. Then she dissolved in peals of laughter. I stood there puzzled. Once she recovered enough, she explained. "Well, maybe you couldn't see us and we couldn't look straight at you, but..." She tipped her head and raised a brow. She wanted me to figure it out. My head turned to the bathroom doorway.
Then it hit me. "The mirror! The fucking mirror!" My face felt suddenly hot. I slid under the sheet. "Oh well, I'm sure I'm not the first naked man she's seen." In a way, I was glad it had happened. Then Sandy's next words made me really glad it had happened.
"Sam said to tell you, 'Nice ass.' I agreed with her of course." Sandy rolled against me, her hand slipping down to caress my dick as we kissed. "Actually, what I told her was, 'If you like his ass, just wait until he turns around.' But you had the towel in the way so she didn't get to see this." She squeezed my newly erect cock as she said the last. Our conversation seemed too good to be true. I suddenly began to think my fantasy might come true. But I knew I had to be circumspect about it.
"Oh really? Did you want her to see it?" My hands were finding their way around Sandy's curvy body and I was moving into a position that would give me access to the first things I wanted to lick: her tits and nipples.
"Well... you know... we talk. Since her divorce she's only been to bed with three guys." Sam had been divorced for a year then.
"There have been only three guys in... what is it, four years?"
Sandy laughed. "Four years, seven months, and sixteen days, according to her. The last guy was over a year ago."
"Wow! She must spend a fortune on batteries," I joked. Sandy giggled. After that we didn't talk because we got a little busy. About an hour later I spooned against her round butt, my gooey cock slipping into her sweaty ass crack, and I filled my hands with her tits. I kissed the back of her neck. "So, you didn't answer my question a while ago. Did you want her to see my dick?"
.... There is more of this story ...