Suzanne Mellows

The neighbor_s pet

CHAPTER ONE

A descriptive paragraph she had typed onto final draft the day before from her husband's current masterpiece raced sensually through Beth Ann Durke's young mind as she watched her handsome neighbor leave his expensive home across Tasman Drive and walk with a smooth, athletic grace toward his three-car garage. Mmmm, he did! He literally radiated virility! What had Jay entitled the book? HER LUSTY NEIGHBOR? Yes, that was it… and very fitting, or so it would seem. She remembered the exact passage:

He was tall, broad-shouldered and handsome, the possessor of a wealthy crop of black hair which was worn in fashionable masculine shagginess to the nape of his neck. Only slight tinges of grey brushed his temples; flecks of a similar color floated about in his lecherous dark eyes. Neighborhood wives, the promiscuous young girls who worked for him, in fact, women in general who happened to lay eye on him, couldn't help but secretly ask themselves the same erotic question. With such a handsome face and built, could he possibly be as good in bed as he physically suggested? In fact, just how big and enduring was it… that unknown quantity he had to be superbly endowed with?

Yes, the intrigued, blonde wife lustfully imagined as she stood behind the front room drapes admiring Stan Wilson, he just had to be masterfully blessed with a large penis. She watched him back the black Continental from the garage, then saw his vivacious Sara come running from the house in a smart looking wrapper and matching gold slippers to bestow a day-lasting kiss on him through the lowered car window. With what Beth had come to regard as almost a neighborhood tradition, Sara Wilson carried on a simpering flourish of bye-byes and dainty swipes at her long, coal-black hair, then demurely clutched at the expanded bosom of her attractive robe until he was into the street and gone.

Undoubtedly, she'd bought the morning wrap in Los Angeles, Beth reasoned with envy. Certainly, there wasn't anything that chic in San Arbella, to say nothing of the Edgemont Heights shopping center! She tasted from her cup, letting her thoughts return to the male reason for her secret excitement as she moved from the window toward the kitchen. Again, she glanced down at the provocative ensemble she'd chosen for her intended role of seduction, trying to recall the reflection that her vanity mirror had offered.

It was her favorite outfit, but she was growing tired of it. Still, she was satisfied that it showed her legs and ripely curved body off best, and that was the delight of finely knitted material. Black always did things for her anyway – like most blondes who wore their long hair in a straight, below-the-shoulder fall of casualness and the skirt was more than just a little bit mini. Turtle necked and clinging, the combination not only displayed a racy eyeful of thigh, but made it possible for her to go without a brassiere and yet not appear chippyish. Fortunately, she still had the firm uplift of full rounded breasts to carry off the braless fad with a proud "in" look, though she couldn't remember when she'd last discarded the snugly reassuring garment before that morning. Nor for that matter, she mused, a chill of lewd incitement prickling up her back, could she ever remember wearing a sexy garter-belt and high-thighed hose with a mini, either; but she was that morning, and with the sheerest wisp of black nylon panties she owned shading her most intimate parts!

The rackety-tat-tat of Jay's prolific typewriter coming from his study only helped to underscore her lurid intentions. Even if she didn't need shoes, her naughty little scheme would have taken her into Stan Wilson's "Footwear For The Family" store to try on a new pair, and Jay's erotic writings were responsible. She'd certainly been conscious of their handsome neighbor's existence before her husband had chosen him as a model for his lead character, but it was the satyric lustiness that Jay had fleshed him with that had set the fire warmly glowing inside her loins. Silly though it was, Stan Wilson and Vic Slade of THE LUSTY NEIGHBOR had become one and the same person for her, while she saw herself as Della Stewart, the novel's sensuous and sexually frustrated young wife. As for Sara, Beth could hardly see her in the role of Maggie Slade, the bi-swinging temptress; she was too petite and prissily shy, as if she wouldn't speak at the table if she had a mouthful. But perhaps Jay was right when he insisted that those were the kind who came on like a prairie-fire in bed. She, herself, wouldn't know, though she couldn't help but wonder what Jay would ever do with such a wanton ball of flame if given the opportunity. In the fifteen months of their marriage he'd never once taken her all the way, and damnit, she wasn't that under-sexed, nor given to just lying there waiting for ecstasy to sweep her away…

Oh well, to hell with it! The die had already been cast as far as she was concerned! If there were any regrets, providing her seductive little trap worked, they certainly wouldn't be on her part, the young blonde wife determined, a risque thrill of arousal edging her nerves. She set her empty cup onto the kitchen table, tracing her lush, white-glossed lips with a skilled little finger. For a moment, she listened to the rhythmic typing clatter of her egotistical, near middle-aged husband, the infuriating knowledge that he had unwittingly ensnared her with believable spoofs of security when she was on the rebound of a heartbreaking romance, adding to her fervid sense of non-guilt.

Love him? Yes, oddly enough, she knew that she did in some ridiculous sort of way. But what she had in mind, what had begun as a mere caprice and continued to ferment ever since she'd begun to re-type her spouse's pornographic manuscripts was far removed from that vein of affection. In the beginning, she'd had hope for their marriage, but the sexual frustrations had quickly drained the sap from it, leaving some sort of sterile bond she compared to the feeling she'd had for the uncle and aunt who'd raised her.

Jay Robert Durke was a big man, bearded of late, robust and a shade less than achieving complete failure when she'd met him. Generally, she thought of him as an overgrown child, awesomely equipped genitally, but God knows, heartbreakingly inadequate with all of his blessing. She'd actually met him in the office where she'd clerked and he'd been a once a month calling salesman. Her lover and future husband, who had been winding up his last year at law school, had done the sonofabitch thing… met and married another woman two weeks before!

She'd lived and breathed agony, probably two steps away from shoving her head into the gas oven of her apartment! Jay Durke, drunken lingerie traveler and an unknown week away from being fired, had been a desperately needed pillar to cling to. She had let him sleep with her the very first night and damned near laughed in his face in both mental and sensual chaos at his inexperienced love-making. Still, she'd had hopes, and he did mean security, so she had blindly married him that very week-end in Chicago and climbed aboard a 707 with everything she owned stored in the cargo below.