Chapter 2

I stood there, listening to the soft buzzing of the vibrator I knew was stuck up in Mrs. Stanton’s pussy. I had a boner but there was nothing I could do about it. I arranged it in my pants so it was up and down and pulled my shirt out of my waistband to let it hang down and cover things.

I was pretty frazzled. I was three months from turning nineteen and a new neighbor, a woman I barely knew and had only interacted with twice, really, had calmly told me she used a vibrator to reduce her tension and then asked me to guard the door for her while she did it! I was pretty sure this didn’t happen to other guys like me, but then again, I had no idea what was “normal” for high school graduates who happened to know smoking hot married women.

Maybe ten minutes later Mrs. Stanton opened the door. She was flushed, but smiling.

“You’re a darling,” she said. “Remind me to do something nice for you. Shall we go?”

We went back into the throng separately, her ahead of me, and I decided to stay a little longer. I wanted to be able to see her some more. I know, creepy and pathetic. I mingled for a while. The next time I saw her she was in the kitchen talking to Mrs. Larson. The sight of these beautiful ladies together made my already hard dick hurt as it pushed up against my jeans. I saw Mrs. Larson look at me while she said something to Mrs. Stanton and then Mrs. Stanton turned to look at me, too. I got this funny feeling they were talking about us, so I approached them.

“Hi again, Ladies,” I said, formally. I had been required to use formal address with adults ever since I could remember. My dad insisted this would present the image of a capable, honest man, which would be useful to me some day.

“Oh hello Bob.” Mrs Stanton said.

“Speak of the devil; we were just talking about you,” said Mrs. Larson.

“Now I’m nervous. When two pretty ladies talk about me that could spell trouble,” I joked.

“Bob is the neighborhood flirt,” said Mrs. Larson. “Not that he tries to be. He’s a perfect gentleman and as trustworthy as the day is long. We ladies have voted that if there’s ever a gigolo living on the block, we want it to be him.” She giggled and I realized she was a little drunk. She covered her lush lips with one finger and said, “Oops! I wasn’t supposed to say that in front of him!” she giggled again.

“How interesting,” said Mrs. Stanton, as her eyes raked over me.

“We’re not serious,” said Mrs. Larson. “You know how it is when you’re lonely, bored and maybe a teensy bit neglected.” Her eyes crossed and went owlish. “I think I’ll just stop talking now and go sit down somewhere,” she said. Mrs. Stanton and I watched her go.

“I guess I’m not the only one who has issues to deal with,” said Mrs. Stanton.

“She’s really a nice lady,” I said. “I think she just had too much to drink.”

“I’m sure,” said Mrs. Stanton. She glanced at me. “Bob, the neighborhood gigolo, huh? How much do you charge?” She smiled.

Do not ask me why, but I blurted out, “The first time is free.” I looked away, worried she’d yell.

She laughed instead.

“I think I’m going to like living here after all. At least I have interesting neighbors this time.”

Maybe it was because of what Mrs. Larson had blurted out, but I noticed a lot of the neighborhood women liked to chat with me and smile a lot. Of course I had chatted with them all before, lots of times. I either mowed their lawn or did some kind of handyman job at their house to make spending money as a teenager. I’d kind of stopped doing the handyman stuff these days, but I still mowed lawns because they all said they couldn’t find anybody else to do it. They said kids these days didn’t want to work.

I stayed there, watching Mrs. Stanton moving around in her flowery, light summer dress which was snug up top and flowing down where her legs were. She was just beautiful to watch. So was Mrs. Larson but her husband dragged her out around six. I managed to slip some bourbon into the Coke in my Solo cup, but mostly just watched the people who were there. I was beginning to see people I already knew in a different way.

About seven or so I slipped out the front door and went back to my house. I sat down in my dad’s Lazy-Boy and reclined it, unzipping my pants and reaching in to squeeze my hard dick. I remembered Mrs. Larson and Mrs. Stanton standing there, together, looking like babes and tried to imagine them calling me to enlist my gigolo-ness to make them both happy at the same time. My pants were too tight to stroke and I couldn’t slide them down very easily. I had just gotten them below my balls and started jerking when the front door opened and Mrs. Stanton walked right in.

“Bob?” she called out. “Are you here, Bob? Have you got any ice?”

Then she saw me. She stopped. I stopped. We both stared at each other.

“I am so sorry!” she yipped, turning around.

But she didn’t leave.

“Gimme a second to get decent,” I gasped.

I worked the lever of the chair and stood up, pulling my pants up over my offending member.

“You wanted ice?” I said, trying to sound like everything was as normal as pie.

“I couldn’t find you and I thought maybe you’d come back here,” she said, still facing away from me.

“Let me wash my hands and I’ll get your ice,” I said.

“Thank you.”

That was it. Just Thank you. As I washed my hands I wondered if she was thanking me for washing my hands, or getting her some ice. Suddenly she was right beside me.

“I’m sorry I intruded on you,” she said.

“Remember when you asked me to guard the door?” I asked, as I opened the freezer and pulled the big ice bucket out.

“Yes.”

“I kind of intruded on you by ... um ... listening through the door.”

“I don’t know why I did that,” she moaned. “I don’t even know why I told you I do that!”

“My mom says everybody does that,” I said.

“Your mother?”

“She caught me one time, kind of like you just caught me. She felt like it was necessary to have a long talk about it.”

“Oh my. How embarrassing,” she said.

“No more embarrassing than you seeing me doing it,” I said.

There was an awkward silence as I filled up a used plastic grocery bag with the ice.

“You want me to carry it for you?” I asked.

“Would you, please?”

“Sure,” I said.

I took it over to her house but then lied and said I needed to go because I had to be at my friend’s house the next morning to help him move into a new apartment. There was no friend and no apartment, but it was too awkward being around her after what had happened.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, she approached me and invaded my personal space. “I’m sorry you had to hear my husband and I fighting, earlier.”

“It’s not my business,” I said. “I should have gone in the house and not listened.”

“And I’m sorry I ... interrupted you.”

“No problem. I hope I didn’t disgust you.”

“I wasn’t disgusted at all. Like your mother says, everybody does it. You’re a very nice young man,” she said, leaning to give me a peck on the cheek.

“Thanks again,” I said.

As I was going out the door she called out, “Bob?”

I turned and looked at her.

“I’ll let you know when I want my free trial.” She said it with a straight face, but then she gave me a brilliant smile and laughed.

This time, when I got inside my house, I leaned against the door, pushed my shorts down and beat my meat like it owed me money.

I have no idea how things might have gone forward after that, had not this other thing happened. But it did happen and it changed everything.

It was only two days before my parents were due to get back and I was cleaning the pool (A-gain! It always needed cleaning!) when I heard some yelling next door. I could hear her higher voice screaming and his deeper voice yelling back. I thought they were having a fight and it had just gotten loud. Then Mrs. Stanton ran out the back door of their house being chased by the guy who I had only seen once and assumed was Mr. Stanton. I could see over the fence that she was barefoot and something glinted in his hand. Everything happened so fast. She was screaming and I saw him catch up to her and grab her hair. He pulled it viciously and her head snapped back as she let out a yelp of pain. Her feet went out from under her and she landed flat on her back.

“I’ve told you not to disrespect me, bitch!” he yelled. “Now you’re going to pay! Turn over! You’re taking it up the ass this time!”

“No! Not there!” she wailed as he reached to flip her dress up over her back. I saw him literally rip her panties off her body and throw them to one side. He held her down with one hand on her back while he fumbled with his zipper with the other hand. Before he did that he dropped the shiny thing in his hand and I realized it was a knife.

“No!” she squealed. “Get off me!”

Now, I didn’t know the law or anything, but I just figured it wasn’t right for a guy to force himself on a woman, even if he was married to her. And, technically, since nobody had ever introduced me to him and the only words he’d ever said to me were “Thanks, kid,” I wasn’t even sure this guy was her husband, so I jumped over the fence and ran toward them.

“Get off her!” I yelled. The guy looked up at me.

“What are you doing in my yard? This is none of your fucking business!”

“Get off of her,” I said, my voice normal. “No means no. Let her up.”

The guy got to his feet and leaned down to pick up the knife. Even from three feet away I could smell the stink of alcohol on his breath. Maybe the wind was coming from behind him.

Mrs. Stanton rolled over and tried to cover her loins with her dress. I could see that her face had been hit, and hit more than once; that beautiful, pale face was all puffed up and bruised.

He stood beside her and looked down at her.

“You stay right there, you fucking bitch!” he snarled. “Don’t you move an inch! I’ll deal with you in a minute. Don’t make me chase you again!”

Then he looked at me.

“You’re trespassing. I’m gonna count to three and if you’re not out of my yard I’m gonna break your legs.”

I let him say, “One!” and then I stepped forward and kicked him in the balls as hard as I could. As he bent over I followed it up with an upper cut that felt like it broke two of my fingers. He went down like a sack of rocks and the kitchen knife he’d been holding dropped on the ground. He groaned, but then relaxed, out cold.

Mrs. Stanton sat up and stared.

That’s when I saw the blood.

I didn’t know it then, of course, but she had filed for divorce and when he was served, he came home to kill her, detouring to a bar, first, where he got a snootful of booze in him. I heard her tell the cop who got there just before the ambulance did about the divorce and that he was drunk. I had been standing by Mr. Stanton, ready to kick him in the head if he woke up. When the cop came into the back yard he had his gun out and it swung up to point at me. She screamed that I wasn’t the guy who had stabbed her and he took the time to look at her. He leaned his mouth to his shoulder and said something into his microphone thing. I contributed my part of the story as the cop tried to do some first aid to Mrs. Stanton, where blood was making circles on her dress that were getting bigger and bigger. Mr. Stanton woke up and started moving around on the ground, cursing and threatening ... at me, I guess, since he didn’t know the cop was there, yet. He found that out when the cop put handcuffs on him and did exactly what you see them do on TV, talking about how he had the right to remain silent and have a lawyer and all that. It would have been cool, except Mrs. Stanton was hurt bad. I was never so happy to see paramedics in my life when they finally got there and started taking care of her.

Things got chaotic for a while, with more policemen showing up and some guys in civilian clothing. Some of them walked around inspecting things. One of them picked up the knife off the lawn and put it in a paper bag. One of them came over to me and said he was a detective and he interviewed me. He said I’d have to testify in court and I said I’d be happy to. Mrs. Stanton had already been taken away in an ambulance, its siren screaming on what was usually a very quiet street. I saw some neighbors out front but police were keeping them out of “the scene”. They got to see Mr. Stanton get stuffed into the back of a patrol car, but that was all.

I went home (back over the fence, so I didn’t have to talk to neighbors) and worried all night that her injuries might be serious. There had been a lot of blood. I was so shook up I called my parents and talked to my dad, telling him what had happened. He said I’d done the right thing and to cooperate with the investigation and they’d be home soon. I could hear my mother asking him what was wrong and he kept telling her to be quiet and he’d tell her in a minute. Then he hung up. I half expected my mom to call back, but she didn’t.

The next morning I got up and tried to work but attention to detail is very important in my job and my mind kept wondering how she was. Around ten o’clock the phone rang. It was her.

“Bob? Is there any way you could come get me?” she asked. “My husband is in jail and my car is at home.”

“Of course,” I said. “Give me half an hour and I’ll be there.”

“They said it will take an hour for them to process me out,” she said. “Can you do me another favor?”

“Sure, what?”

“The police locked my front door for me but I think the patio door is still unlocked. Could you go in and go to my bedroom and get me something to wear? The police took my dress as evidence.”

“No problem,” I said.

I went over and it was kind of spooky going in her house, but I went upstairs. I looked in the closet but most of that was dresses and that didn’t seem appropriate, somehow. I looked in her chest of drawers and found a sweat suit. Then I looked for socks and the first drawer I opened was her panty drawer. I stared at colorful, lacy things and tried to decide if it would be awkward for me to take her panties to wear. I finally said, “Screw it. She asked for clothes. I’m taking her clothes.” I picked a pair of blue panties up and put them with the sweat suit. I found bras and got one of those out, too. Socks was last and then I grabbed a pair of running shoes from the closet and bundled it all up. When I got home I stuffed it all in my old gym bag and took it to the car.