A Neighborly Thing


Gold Member
A Neighborly Thing

I came home early and found my wife of ten months being fucked on
my poolside patio where she likes to bathe in the sun in the late
afternoon - the gentle sun - catching harmful rays for delicate
skin. I figured I might find here there, but not like I found her
- on her feet with her bikini bottoms down around her lower
thighs, her top all askew, both arms pinned behind her back by
one muscular one, being roughly penetrated from the rear while
the free hand in front continually affronted her front modesty
going from breasts to crotch. She stood there and took the
affront and assault, because there wasn't a damn thing she could
do but take it. Her assailant was massive all over. She wasn't -
not at all.

This scene screamed for action on the part of a husband, and I
was tempted to do something, pick up something, turn a hose on
them, call the police - something. I had to do something, but
something told me this wasn't what it looked like, and then I
realized she wasn't screaming, struggling, or trying to do
something. I stood in shadow behind smoked-glass patio doors and
watched my lovely, young, fertile, and
terribly-difficult-to-knock-up wife get fucked by a modern-day
cave man in the form of my good neighbor Hank.

I have a good neighbor like Tim Taylor the Tool Man of Tool Time,
only my good neighbor is the Tool Man with all the tools. Hank
has knowledge, wisdom, experience, and tools. All I have are
endless how-to questions and plenty of pussy any man would crave
a whiff of and kill to own. The pussy was all mine; the answers
were all his; but I needed his answers as much as he needed my
pussy. I got all of my answers; he was now busy collecting on a
debt like an irate debt collector determined to get his due.

I never should have told Hank how difficult Loella was to get
with baby, or how badly she wanted one, or how in a moment of
anguished frustration after failing yet another pregnancy test,
she threw the test strip and cried, "I swear, a fuck that ends in
pregnancy would be a gift from a merciful god."

She felt awful after saying that, but I knew she meant those
words. I couldn't blame her. After eight months of trying
everything in the How-To-Get-Knocked-Up book, my little mommy
wannabe was at her wit's end. She already knew her stuff was
good. That meant my stuff wasn't, or wasn't enough, or wasn't
planted deep enough often enough. That will make a man feel less
a man even without a blurted-out fuck wish.

That awful blurt came back to my mind as my hurt mind tried to
sort through the image I was seeing. I gradually stopped seeing
rape and began seeing - well, I still wasn't sure. He was not to
afraid she'd break loose, but wasn't worried about
her crying out, screaming, yelling, or trying to talk him into
stopping. She may as well have been wearing a good gag. With her
arms so effectively captured and safe from kicking feet, he could
do as he pleased. From where I stood, Hank seemed pleased to
enjoy my wife's sexy body and ultra-slippery, super-tight pussy.
Hank appeared eager to knock my wife up for me while doing the
Lord's work for her.

This didn't look like rape, and this didn't look like cheating -
at least not on Loella's part and Hank was divorced. This did
look more and more like pure sex or a neighbor borrowing pussy
the way I slip into his garage and borrow the electric hedge
trimmers. Hank is a good neighbor. I try to be, but I never meant
to be this good. Then again, the only thing I have that Hank
might want is great pussy, knock-out tits, and a fine ass, all
carried on the best legs at Randolph Walker High School by
popular vote - junior and senior year - twice in a row voted The

Hank, our neighbor loved that ass. His feeler-upper hand
kept going to the rear for a feel. He could not get over that ass
of hers. We both knew that months before he did this. Hank had to
say something about that ass of hers, and after he did, he always
did. Loella never got used to that or ever took an ass compliment
or friendly fanny slap, pat, or rub without blushing. We both
knew what Hank wanted, because he kept on telling us. He wanted
to fuck that fine ass of hers.

To my knowledge, no one ever dared say that to Loella Crimshaw.
She had several big brothers who would take great exception. It
might take all three to make Hank sorry, but they'd never know,
because Hank was a good neighbor, and a young married couple in
their first home must have at least one of those. We needed two
who were in the building trade with all the tools. We bought an
old fixer-upper, but we couldn't fix a leaky faucet. If we knew
how, we didn't have the tools. If we had the right tools, we'd
destroy the house with them, and buy the wrong washer. Hank knew
everything and had every tool ever created. The best part was, he
would tell you exactly how to the job right, then do the job

No, after a few months, we owed Hank so much that we wouldn't
dream of correcting his language or being insulted by a playfully
innocent fanny slap or feel, even under clothing. He was good at
getting in under shorts and even panties to feel her bare ass.
Any brother would break an arm for what Hank did before he became
bad. He loved everything, but he never tired of feeling her ass.
He made it very clear that he was an ass man, and Loella had the
ass of an ass man's wetdreams. In time, he felt it, saw it,
sniffed it, and even licked it.

Hank loved to pull Loella over his lap for a playful spanking
that eventually became the bare bottom variety after we didn't
get upset over the panty-covered variety. He was good at trapping
her arms, and very good at getting her ass uncovered. Despite her
best struggling and verbal protest efforts, a dress would go up,
panties got dragged down. Shorts were easy. Shorts and panties
came down easy after the arms were pinned. She began wearing
tight jeans. That did slow him, but only made it slower for her
to get decent again after a bare bottom spanking.

To get her jeans on, she must lie on her back with her
award-winning legs up. Hank preferred seeing her in jeans because
he got to see more of her - front and back for longer periods.
Wearing jeans were like waving a red flag in front of a bull.
Jeans became a real treat. When she wore jeans, she was begging
for it. She eventually stopped begging for it, but Loella in a
sunning bikini was praying for it. Late afternoon was generally a
safe time to pray because Hank generally didn't get home before
five. From three to five she could go out back and pray in the
gentle rays. He came home earlier than I did and answered her
prayers - royally.

Hank had never done anything like this. If he had, I am sure
Loella would have said something. She never failed to tell me in
intimate detail all she had to endure at the paws of our good
neighbor. He was OUR good neighbor, but the cross SHE had to
bear. Since I worked while she attended college, she wanted me to
know each and every time she made a contribution through
sacrifice. Whether I was present or not, if she endured crude
seduction attempts, insults to her modesty, and unjust as well as
humiliating spankings, I had to hear all about it the way she had
to hear about the rough day I had earning the money we barely
lived on.

I will say this in Hank's favor. He was no worse behind my back
than in front...until this. This was much worse, what we both
feared might one day happen, only we were sure his cudgel would
be going up her fine ass, which was not for recreational sex,
certainly not for procreation. I was six feet from them and
could easily tell that his large, muscular, masculine cock was in
her dainty pussy. I could see the shaved lips clinging to the
meaty shaft and flowing over the bulging veins on the withdraw -
about a ten-inch stroke, leaving about two inches of head in.

That's a lot of cock - a true cudgel - and she took the whole
thing but not in stride. A hard in-stoke to the fine ass would
lift her to her tippy toes with a harsh grimace on her pretty
face. She knew she was getting fucked. She had to wonder what I
had been doing. I am half his length and a third his mass. I will
admit, I have a less-than-average penis and I have nuts. Hank
swung a big pair of hairy balls. When he slammed pork, those
balls swung up and slapped her in the clit. By the look on her
face each time he did that, I'd say she knew Hank had big balls.
He had a big pair to be fucking my fertile wife unprotected
in my back yard with me away at work - a big, big pair.

I should have been pissed, but the more I watched that illicit
copulation the more intrigued I was with the raw animal passion
of what I was seeing. That was fucking as nature intended. That
was caveman sex. That was natural selection. She made his dick
hard, and he took her like a caveman would, or the alpha male in
the herd would. I can't say she didn't take it like a female
something in season. I mean, when lions fuck, they bite the
lioness on the neck and hold her. I saw a lion and a lioness
fucking in my back yard.

In the back of my mind, I knew that one was a good neighbor and
the other was a good and faithful wife. In the front, I saw them
rut. Oddly, that made my dick hard, but then, so did most of his
bare-bottom spankings. Loella never failed to point that out and
demand an explanation that I couldn't give because I didn't
understand my dick, either. My damn dick will get hard when I
want it to stay soft, and stay soft when I want it hard. My dick
had a mind of its own, whereas Hank's cock would get hard on
command, stay hard, and go soft when he no longer needed to
showoff. We knew exactly what made him hard - the sight or scent
of Loella.

I swear, he could smell her through a closed vault. We'd be in my
garage tinker-fucking with my clunker. He'd suddenly lift up,
sniff the air, and go, "Pussy. I smell pussy."

He'd then go open the garage door to the house and there would be Loella
tinker-fucking in the kitchen.

He'd go, "Yup...pussy. Do I have a nose for pussy or what?"

That would make Loella blush. She was
sure he could smell her pussy, and in her mind, "smell" meant
"stink." She hated to think he could smell her vaginal stink at
the sink from the garage. Seemed like he could. Personally, I
think he had better ears.

She should have known he didn't mean stink as many times as he
had her over his lap with a finger buried in her honey pot, only
to pull out a slimy wet finger, run it under his nose, and then
go, "Ahhhh, the sweet smell of Loella pussy...[suck the
finger]...with a taste like honey. Gotta get me some more of that
sweet Loella cunt honey."

He would, go in again and again while
she kicked and squealed. We'd have to laugh that off, but I did
my laughing with a stiff dick. She did her mock protests on
rubbery legs with sticky inner thighs.

Nothing got her as gooey in the gams as a bear of a man playing
honey pot with me looking on helplessly, making light of the
assault like crudely finger-fucking my wife was no big deal,
harmless neighborly slap and tickle. That was what he called it -
slap and tickle. That was what I called it, though what he
tickled was her pussy and her asshole - tickled deep - no
laughing matter.

In private, Loella called it sexual assault, pure and simple. Not
only that, but I supported sexual assault and promoted it because
I felt I owed him sexual assault rights, AND, watching one made
my dick hard. I could not deny either charge. Both were true, but
WE owed him, and I could not help or control my damn dick.

I could not control my damn dick any better while watching them
fuck. I stopped fighting it, hauled it out, and jacked off to it.
I had to. That fuck only got better and better and just went on
and on and on. I watched for ten minutes before deciding to join
them, then pumped my peter for at least another ten before
squirting into my cupped hand. They were still going at it, now
with her bent far forward at the waist, her long, wavy, golden
tresses puddled on concrete.

He still controlled her arms, only now they were straight and
stiff, used to hold her to bend over. In that position, he
slammed pork to her. In that position, Loella had an orgasm,
bringing forth the first sounds I heard come out of her mouth.
Those sounds went well with the hair-flailing of concrete. Right
after that, he reached his climax, pumping her full of cum and
sending it all into the deepest recesses of Loella. That
triggered another orgasm or it extended the first. She sank to
her knees and made his cock flip out. That was one mighty cudgel.
I got a good look at one well fucked cunt where there had been a
compact, neat, trim pussy - certainly an award winner had there
been a The Pussy award.

Actually, there was a The Pussy, but that ignoble title went to a
male who was the biggest pussy on campus - Ian "The Weeny"
Sweeney in our junior year and Benny "The Butt" Buford in our
senior year. I just thought I'd throw that in for accuracy. I'm
sure you think I exaggerate after describing that fuck and that
man's cock and balls. I assure you, I am not, did not, and you
would have had to be there and seen what I saw to know how
accurate I am. You would also need to know the before and after
of my wife's vagina. The most accurate way to describe that is to
say she had a pretty pussy before, and a pretty fucked-up cunt
after. I dare say I could have put my arm up her cunt to the
elbow and squished out a full cup of semen.

Okay, that might be a slight exaggeration, but from where I
slinked back, that was what it looked like. That was a sobering
sight added to a fascinating sight. That was a scene from the
distant past acted out in my cave with my cave wench. I left that
scene on shaky legs feeling rather meek and emasculated. I had to
hide one hour to arrive home on time right on schedule as usual.

If I had stayed in school one more year, I
think I could have won The Pussy hands down - no sweat.

I can't even make a damn baby in a fertile and healthy girl who
wants one. Low sperm count was to blame. Do it more and put more
into it, they said. Eat the right foods, get plenty of rest,
watch porno flicks, get super horny, then bang her like a bunny.
My doctor actually said, "Bang her like a bunny." What does he
know. "Fuck her like a damn alpha male lion," now that was good
medical advice. That might actually work if sperm count counts.
Hank had that.

Seemed my wife decided to try it with a hung lion. I can't say I
blame her or that she didn't give it her all with the rabbit. The
rabbit had his shot, time to bring in the heavy artillery and get
down to serious baby making. No doubt, she thinks a merciful god
sent Hank on a mission of mercy.

I should have been depressed, sore, hurt, upset, cheated upon. I
was and wasn't. I'm not sure why. I guess because I loved one and
liked the other so much. I know she didn't give it away. I know
he had to take it. He didn't dare release her until he got what
he came for. Even then, he stepped back to avoid being swung at.
She didn't swing, she went to her all fours and simply told him
to go away. He said that he was sorry but he had to. She said
again, go away, adding please go away. I don't know what happened
after that, because I went away.

I spent a lot of driving home time wondering
what happened after I went away, but I was sure Hank wouldn't be
there. I was also prepared for the ultimate sacrifice speech this
was sure to bring on. Loella and I talked about the ultimate, but
we both thought the ultimate would be anal or oral sex - more
likely anal. Oral, giving or receiving, seemed more a destiny, a
given, a sooner-or-later event in the continually escalating
sexual assaults. I know she dreaded one while the other held a
naughty appeal - giving or receiving, though she doesn't like
giving head.

I know she often thought about sucking on something that
masculine - Hank or a black man. The idea of being forced to suck
off a mega cock made her pussy wet. I knew she had that fantasy
back in high school. When she got a load of Hank's load, her
vaginal wheels began churning. I was sorely tempted to let that
drop to a dear friend in need. The only reason I didn't was the
apparent need not to after bare-bottom spankings became a
neighborly norm. The famished bear appeared not long after.

Sooner or later, he was sure to get her in a double arm lock
with a grip on a lock of her hair, a cock at her lips, and a firm
order to open wide and suck. I knew she would - suck and swallow
- then bitch about the sacrifice with a bellyful of masculinity,
with pussy cream running to her ankles down both legs, swearing
she hates that bastard, and seeing me with a boner after giving my
laughing support like a big pussy who can't fix a damn thing
without a man's help or a wife's sexual sacrifice.

I imagined more of the same, but I never imagined Hank still
being there or her still in her bikini. She did have an open
shirt on, and a pair of loose shorts on over the bottoms, but
that was not attire to parade before the bear.

When I entered, he was seated at my dining table drinking a beer
that she had just set before him without being groped, pulled over his lap, or
goosed. They appeared somber and serious, as though they had been
talking, just talking, but had talked through most of the serious
rape and were now back on solid ground, not playfull ground -
friends who let a silly flirtation get way out of hand.

After an exchange of pleasantries and a beer handed to me, I took
a seat expecting to be brought current, prepared to play as dumb
as I could be, tired from a stressful day, not too stressed-out
to be understanding and forgiving. I was all ready, but they
weren't coming forth or forth-coming. One might think they hadn't
fucked an hour earlier. One might think Hank wasn't horny for
once, or was now over his sexual infatuation with my wife and
onto one with some other man's wife, just stopping by for a
friendly beer before going back to work on spanking her.

This was not our norm to say the least, but I would not have
suspected they had been fucking had I not seen them fucking. I
would have suspected he tried real hard and made her angry,
backed off, apologized, and was now trying to get back on her
good side. Those scenes happened often as he made steady progress
toward an unrelenting goal.

The more I thought about how much
that looked like that, the more I thought a comment was
appropriate, so I addressed my comment to no one in particular at
a pregnant pause, saying into my beer, "I think somebody went for
the brass ring and got shut down."

Hank just sat there playing it cool, looking to the brass ring to
field that turd I dropped in the punch bowl. She looked from her
beer to Hank, then to me, thought, then smiled weakly and said,
"Good observation, Mr. Buford. Too bad you weren't here. You
missed a good one."

I looked to my good neighbor and said, "Caught her getting some
rays in her bikini, did you?"

"I got off early thinking I might. With all this good sun and
warm weather, I thought my chances were excellent. A guy's gotta
try, Benny. You moved in next to a guy."

Loella said, "We moved in next to a...a good guy who takes
advantage of our friendship, lets himself in without knocking,
and won't leave when asked. We were just discussing that when you
entered. Perhaps you'd like to add your thoughts."

I thought about that, then said, "Well, good neighbors shouldn't
have to knock, but anyone should leave when asked."

She didn't have to think. She fired back, "So, what you are
saying is, I can kiss any right to privacy away. That also tells
me that you agree with what Hank just said. He has the right to
try. I suppose I have the right to try and stop him. Maybe you
haven't noticed, Benny, but I don't do too well against a man
with a hundred pounds on me and a one-foot height advantage.
Whether you are here or not, I deal with him all on my lonesome.
The only difference is, sometimes I have an audience - sometimes,
I don't. Like I said, you missed a real good bout today."

That was her turd tossed in. I looked to Hank who shrugged and
said, "I would apologize, but it isn't like you don't know I want
her. I won't apologize for being a guy, but I think you know I
would never hurt Loella, or use my full height, weight, and
strength advantage to get what I'm after. She can put me in my
place, and she has, many times. You've seen that many times. If I
am no longer welcome here, I'll go and leave you two in peace,
but if I am welcome, don't ask me to change. I can't. Not around
her. If I can enter at will, I will put on sneakers and sneak in
just in the hope of catching her in a private moment."

He looked to my softened spouse and said quiet earnestly, "When I
get around Loella or even pick up her sexy scent, I turn guy. If
I don't, call the morgue to bag and tag me. If I'm breathing, I'm
lusting. I would slide naked down a fifty-foot razor blade into a
vat of iodine, crawl one hundred yards through broken glass, then
across a mile-long salt flat just to hear sweet Loella fart over
a telephone with a poor connection. [looking to me] I am lusting
after your wife, buddy boy, but your precious wife is being as
faithful as she can possibly be under the circumstances."

Three turds in the punch bowl, but that eloquent turd pleased my
wife and softened her like a kitten's belly rub. She sat back and
showed some tittie by letting the shirt tails fall apart. That
body language begged tittie attention. He reached over and
uncupped the left one, then the right one. In the past, she never
let a single uncupping go unchallenged. She was now letting two.
She just sat there looking at her proud bare titties as he
casually tweaked one nipple and then the other, then watching him
roll them between thumb and forefinger to turgid stiffness. This
spoke volumes about how the bout went.

Seemed like a message, so I said, "Whatever happened, I see it
killed your breast bashfulness."

She looked up from a nipple being elongated to say, "I was never
bashful in the breasts, Benny, just decently modest as any girl
should be and any wife must be, but I am not at all shy. If Hank
is welcome here and can enter at will, invade my privacy, and
stay as long as he pleases, he is perfectly welcome to expose my
breasts and do this."

Hank's finger went south to her shorts where he unsnapped and
unzipped them as she casually watched that, too, then said, "Or

After saying, "Or This," she lifted her ass clear of the seat so
that the shorts and bikini bottoms could be worked down and off
her legs. Effectively nude, she sat with her legs casually parted
and watched her fucked cunt get casually fingered and played
with. I had to see that, too, so I scooted around the corner to a
position with a view. There, I saw a fucked cunt being played
with and fingered, which told me she didn't even wipe, just put
her suit back on. I looked into the crotch of her suit bottoms
lying between her parted feet. There was much more evidence.

She noticed me noticing the wad of fuck in the crotch of her
suit. When our eyes met, she shrugged and said, "Like I said, you
missed a good bout. There is nothing left to defend, so I am
defending nothing. If Hank is welcome to come into our home at
will, Hank is welcome to cum in this at will. Cumming in this
will make a little Hank. I'll bear it if you'll raise it."

Without pausing to think, I said, "We do need a new roof."

Hank scooped up my wife and carried her into the master bedroom
where I was welcome to stand by the bed and jackoff. After he
fucked her, he made me eat her.

You should see our new roof, and you would not believe the
size of the cock and balls on our baby Hank. I'm not shitting
you. Henry is hung better than I am.