by Mat Twassel
(12/13/00)

I was standing at the little window of my upstairs office wearing nothing but purple running shorts. Bill had just called, canceling our morning run. I found myself looking down into the little side yard next door, at the new neighbor working in her garden. It was the first Saturday in June, bright and early, and the young woman from next door was digging up spring bulbs and placing them in a large shallow wicker basket. "Aren't you going running?" It was Laura standing in the doorway behind me. She sounded a little sleepy. Maybe the telephone had woken her after all.

"I don't know," I said. "That was Bill who just called. He can't go."

"Oh, how come?"

"He's not feeling well. Some kind of stomach something."

"That's too bad," Laura said. "Are you going to run by yourself?"

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe later. Maybe in a little while."

"Or you could come back to bed for a few minutes. Scratch my back or something."

Laura had moved next to me. She began running her fingernails lightly down my side.

"I hope you're not neglecting to water your jade plant," Laura said. Laura had potted the jade and given it to me as a little Memorial Day present. The year before, she gave me a small cactus, and now both plants sat on my computer desk near the window where we were standing. Laura looked out.

"She's pretty, isn't she?" Laura said. "Our new neighbor."

"Yes," I agreed. "But not as pretty as you."

"You always say that," Laura laughed. Her fingertips were making little circles on my side, just above my running shorts.

"But it's always true," I assured her. Laura pinched me. Not a hard pinch, but enough.

"Am I getting flabby?" I asked.

"No, not at all," Laura said. Her fingers went back to their circling. Then a fingertip slipped under the elastic at the waist of the running shorts, touching the skin there before retreating. "We'll have to meet them," she said, "our new neighbors. Do you know what her husband does?"

"No," I admitted.

The woman was wearing maroon shorts and what looked to be a man's linen dress shirt. The sleeves were rolled up almost to the elbows. The woman squatted in her work; she dug her fingers into the soil and eased the bulbs out of the earth.

"She does have a nice ass," Laura said. "You have a nice ass, too." She giggled. "We all have nice asses. Maybe we ought to join a nice ass club." She was standing behind me now, smoothing her hands over the back of the silky running shorts. "I wonder what the dues would be."

The woman worked slowly, giving each bulb a little shake before setting it securely into the basket next to its neighbors. I watched carefully, shivering slightly as Laura's hand snaked inside the back of the shorts. Her middle finger followed the furrow.

The woman pivoted and her shirt shifted with the small soft shift of her breasts. No bra, just bare breast skin under the cloth of the linen shirt. Laura's finger touched the edge of the wrinkled spot. I clenched. Fresh fat worms curling in uncovered soil. Sunbeams warming the shade between the woman's breasts. She brushed her hand across her brow. A faint ruffle of moist dirt streaked her forehead; an unconscious smile offered at the earth.

"Do you think she ever does it back here?" Laura said. The pad of her fingertip explored the shy ridges.

"Huh?" I asked.

"Do you think she lets her husband have her behind?" Laura's middle fingertip pressed and probed, but entered only the scantest fraction of inch before withdrawal, as if penalizing my sluggish response.

"I don't know," I mumbled.

"I know you don't know," Laura said. "At least I hope so! But what do you think? Do you think she lets her husband into her that way?"

The woman was on both knees now, both hands burrowing.

"Like a squirrel going after buried nuts," Laura said. "Or a dog worrying out a bone." And suddenly she had both hands inside my shorts, pushing them down with her wrists. Her hands smoothed my flanks, up and down two and then three times, and then slipping forward, forefingers simultaneously finding the creases at my front, the curly dark down.

"I bet he has big balls," Laura said. "And a big blond prick. A prick like yours, big and blunt, and always wanting, always willing. Willing his way to where it wants."

She had her hand around it now. One hand, while the other played with the pods, caressed them front, bottom, and back, gently but insistently, all while the first hand drew me up and out, long slow strokes all the way to the maroon red ring and then back down to the root.

"Do you think he buries himself in one fell swoop... or does he tease his way in a quarter inch at a time?" Laura squeezed as she spoke, a squeeze at the top, and a squeeze at the bottom. "I think she's standing up," Laura said. "I think she's leaning forward with her palms on the kitchen table. Her breasts must look lovely when she leans that way, her little bottom angled back, jutting up, and her back so sweetly sloped, her neck all innocent, a girl's neck, and her legs spread, spread just enough, and his balls are so big, fuzzy as tennis balls, and his penis is so hard, so hard and hot and aching for her, but I still don't know... I still don't know whether he goes in all at once, or whether ...."

The woman had stood up, dusted herself off. The basket of bulbs lay in the grass. The woman stretched. Her breasts swelled as she stretched. Such a long deep breath she took. Perfect June air -- a hint of moisture, a sky full of sun. Laura had stopped her stroking and now her fingertips touched the special ruffle of skin just under the hood. One fingertip reached up, gathered the slip of moisture from the slit, and smoothed it against the fleshy wrinkle. The woman next door knelt again in the grass. Laura resumed her stroking, slightly faster than before, and firmer. Nudging the head with each upstroke. Lingering just long enough to tickle that little ruffle of special skin before pulling down, stretching in both directions, up and down, firm and smooth, again and again. I took a deep breath.

"Probably he teases her, prying her apart but letting the tip of his penis touch the skin of her hole only for the barest instant. Entering just enough to stretch it, stretch it the tiniest bit, but then out. Abruptly out. And then nothing. Nothing but air. Air on the wetness of his excitement. The shine of sex-seep on her tight little asshole. Oh, honey, you like it when I say asshole. I can feel you twitch. Such a nice twitch you have. You're so dear and sweet." Laura moved her fingers rapidly. Not stroking now but trembling her fingers upon my penis skin. The twitching increased. Then Laura slowed. Blades of grass scraped the woman's ankle. Sunlight bathed the bottom of her foot. Her shoes were off. When had this happened? Where were her shoes? Oh, in the basket, along with the bulbs. Laura resumed the long slow strokes. Her fingers slipped easily along the stalk. The squeeze at bottom and top. Sometimes she drew the skin up, sometimes she let her fingertips skim along my cockskin. The woman fished out another bulb, inspected it, brushed it off, brought it to her nose. Her lips? Birds chirped, sunlight streamed down, and Laura held her hand tight, a long moment of quiet grip. Of decision. Her other hand returned to my bottom.

Her fingertip was spittle wet. Slow circles of searching. Searching and centering. Finding the way, the little opening. And suddenly it was in. A mere inkling of in-ness, but in. Pausing just a second, as if to rest. And then working there, widening. Wallowing -- then suddenly -- oh, so full. So strangely, surely, succinctly full. In the moment following that plunge Laura stroked my cock, and instantly I shot. I cried out, hard enough to make the woman glance up, and semen leaped up all the way to the upper window.

"Oh," Laura said. "Oh my!" And then she laughed a little. "That was wonderful." She milked me. She milked my prick and her middle finger rubbed and rolled in small deep wonderfully intense circles.

"Underwater stones," Laura said. "And salmon leaping waterfalls on their way to spawn." She laughed a little more and squeezed my penis playfully, and her finger was still inside, playing with the last tremors. "Oh, I could feel you so strong," Laura said. "When you came. So nice! I can still feel you. You feel so good! You're sweet."

"I feel like a puddle," I said. "I don't know how I'm still standing." Adjusting my position, I nearly tripped on the tangle of running shorts around my ankles. My thigh nudged the desk, and the potted plants wobbled against each other. The jade fell over, but only a small amount of soil spilled out, not too much, nothing that couldn't be cleaned up. Laura's finger stayed firmly where it was.

"Honey," she crooned as I rested my palms on the window sill and let the sun warm my face. "Honey," she sighed, and her finger twisted and tickled, soothing and massaging the deep throbbing core.

After a few moments Laura drew out her finger. "Oh," I said softly. The sun warmed my eyelids. A small part of me was afraid to turn.

"Not too bad," Laura said. "Like freshly dug farm earth."

"Farm earth," I repeated. I faced her and we hugged. We hugged hard and long.

"Why are you so nice to me sometimes?" I said.

"I don't know," Laura answered. "But look, the window is leaking."

I turned to look at the upper glass.

"I bet that was a world record," Laura said. "I bet no one has ever come that high."

Down below the woman was still working. The basket was almost full. Her shoes were on the grass. More room in the basket for the last bulbs.

"That might be a good project for you today after you get back from your run," Laura said, "Cleaning all our windows while I'm out shopping for Father's Day. And if you do a really good job, maybe when I get home there'll be a very special treat for you." Laura wiggled her bottom as she walked out of the upstairs office.

I decided not to go running right away. After tidying the jade plant, I sat at my computer desk next to the little upstairs window and started writing in my journal. Later, looking out the window, I noticed that Laura was in the yard next door. She and the new neighbor were standing there talking. They talked for a long time.

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