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 Legs. 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 right. 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 this." 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.