Message-ID: <46184asstr$1073859003@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Delta <delta@nym.alias.net>
Subject: {ASSM} (RP) The Good Neighbour - by Delta (MF)
Date: Sun, 11 Jan 2004 17:10:03 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Should you wish to comment upon my story, I can be reached by 
E-mail at: 

the_deltonian AT nym DOT alias DOT net

Do not reply to delta@nym.alias.net, as I am abandoning that
nym due to horrendous amounts of spam.

Comments and critizisms are welcome.

Standard disclaimers:  This is a work of fiction - no character 
within is a depiction of any real person, living or dead.  No 
place or event described within exists outside of the writer's 
imagination.  Copyright retained by the author and this post
is for private use of the reader only.  It is not to be published 
in any form whatsoever, including being made available on BBSs, 
or on Web Pages, without the express prior consent of author.
     Any readers who are underage in the jurisdiction in which
they reside are asked to please pass by.


Delta.


                 THE GOOD NEIGHBOUR (c) 1995
                         by Delta


     Eyes are the windows to the soul, it is said, and that one
eye, grey, with the large black pupil, held his attention as no 
other could.  In the eye he glimpsed eternity.  He lowered his 
gaze.
     Only two things sat on the table in front of him:
a dish-towel and the envelope.  The envelope had only one word
on it:  Vincent.  She had scrawled it in her inimitable style.  A
shudder went through him and his gaze rose again, to contemplate
the grey eye with its large black pupil.
     It wouldn't be so hard, Vincent thought, it wouldn't be
difficult at all.  This vaguely surprised him.  He had thought
it would be otherwise.  Vincent grinned ironically, what would
life be, if not for its surprises?
     His arm grew tired, for the gun was heavy.  Reluctantly,
he turned the barrel away, causing the grey eye to disappear,
and lowered the gun to the table, to rest on the dish-towel.
     As he shook out his tired arm, Vincent looked around the
room, then out, through the window, to the apartment building
opposite.  Empty, all empty.  Faceless people, big city, all
empty and devoid of all that mattered.  It would be a relief,
he decided.
     His hand didn't tremble at all as he reached into his
shirt pocket and pulled out his bullet.  Not any bullet, but
'his' bullet.  It gleamed in the afternoon light which streamed
through the now uncurtained window.  So beautiful.  Such utility.
He marveled at the simplicity, the stark majesty of it.
     The revolver, with that heady aroma of gun oil, was in his
hand.  Practiced fingers unlatched the cylinder and swung it 
open.  Practiced fingers picked up the bullet and slid it into
the chamber.  Practiced fingers spun the cylinder, until the
loaded chamber was in the proper position, then swung it closed. 
The sharp click sounded very loud in the quiet room.
     A last look around?  Why?  There was nothing to see anyway.
All that he needed to see he could see in his mind's eye.  The
cold grey eye as it rose and . . .
     The knock on the door startled him.  What to do?  His mind
blanked.  The knock repeated, a little louder, a little faster.
     "Damn."  Why couldn't he think, make a decision?  Shoot or
answer the door.  The knock came again, insistent.
     "Damn."  Vincent lowered the gun to the table and carefully
covered it with the dish-towel.  He stood as once again the 
visitor rapped upon the door.
     "Coming," he called, irritated by the insistence of the
rapping, by the delay this person was causing.  He swung the 
door open quickly, catching the woman by surprise, her fist
poised to knock yet again.
     He had startled the woman with his sudden opening of the door 
and the way he thrust his face forward.  He could see it in her
eyes.  Her expression, at first determined, seemed tentative now.
Her whole posture spoke of indecision.
     "Yes?" he asked, his voice harsh.  Best to send her on her way
at once, to get back to what was important.
     Her face composed itself before his eyes.  She straightened
perceptibly.  A bright smile appeared, as if by magic and he
had a sinking feeling.
     "I've come to talk with you about . . ."
     "You're a JW, right?"  Vincent interrupted her.
     The woman's smile dimmed then brightened again, her eyes
laughing.  "I guess you could say that.  My name is Janet and
my last name . . ."
     "Starts with a W," he finished with her.  "Well, Janet W.
what do you want?"  He wasn't about to let her get started
with anything.
     "To come in," she replied and pushed her way past Vincent,
catching him off guard and too surprised to stop her.  He
followed behind her as she walked past the kitchen and
into the living room of his small apartment.
     "Ah, a minimalist," she commented, looking around at the
bare walls and lack of furnishings.  Only the table and one chair 
remained in the room.  "Very Spartan.  I like that."  She
looked up at him.  "Shows a strength of character."  She nodded
as if confirming something to herself.  "Mind if I sit down?"
     "Yes."  Too late.  She lowered herself to the floor even 
as he spoke and came to a rest in a cross-legged position.  
     "You're not being much of a host," she complained.  Vincent
gaped at her.  "You haven't offered me anything.  I'd like a
glass of water, please."
     Stunned, Vincent turned and made his way into the kitchen 
through the fog of the situation.  He needed time to think.  He'd 
never dealt with such a situation before.  He gathered his 
thoughts while allowing the water to run, testing its temperature 
with his finger.
     This Janet was a reasonably good looking woman, mid-thirties
he guessed, no longer slim, but with a nice enough figure.  She had 
her longish brown hair pulled back and clipped with a barrette at
the back of her head, exposing her face.  A good face, he thought 
as he allowed the glass to fill with cold water, nothing
extra-ordinary about it, but a good face with a nice smile.
     Vincent walked back to the living room and handed her the
glass.  She hadn't moved.  He glanced to the table, to
the envelope and the dish-towel, and grimaced.  What was he
doing?  He'd have to get her out of here.
     He looked back at her, but Janet sipped at the water, 
making no attempt to make known her purpose in appearing at his 
door.  He'd have to prompt her, he decided.
    "So, you live here and just decided to go visiting?" he 
asked, forcing a smile to his face.
    "No, I don't live here," she replied.
    That surprised Vincent.  It was cold outside.  He took another
look at her.  She wore a flannel shirt, jeans and runners.
That was it.  Not even socks.  How could he have ever thought her
a JW?  What *was* she doing here?
     "You said you wanted to talk to me.  Talk, then."
     "Please sit down.  I'm getting a sore neck looking up at
you."  
     She smiled at him again and he cursed her under his
breath.  Nevertheless, he sat, uncomfortably, on the floor.
She was much more limber than he.  He'd have to exercise more,
he thought, then almost laughed out loud at the incongruity 
of that last thought.
     "Okay.  I'm sitting.  Talk."
     Janet nodded, yet made no attempt to begin.  Vincent
waited, knowing, somehow, that she was gathering her thoughts,
putting them in order.  Finally she looked up at him.  He waited,
expectant.
     "Sometimes I wonder."  He heard a hint of desolation in her
voice.
     Vincent waited, but nothing more came.  The the unreality of 
the situation struck him and shook his head.  He returned his gaze 
to Janet and noticed that her eyes had that far away look in them.
     "Sometimes I wonder if I am still pretty."
     Vincent made no attempt to respond.  She wasn't really
talking to him at all.  He somehow doubted that she was even
aware that he was in the room.  He felt like a character in 
"The Twilight Zone".
     "He doesn't say it much anymore, and I'm often tired
by the time we have time to ourselves.  Oh, I can look in the
mirror, but I don't think I'm the woman I see there.  All I
see now are the labels."  Janet fell silent once again.
     Labels he could understand and his expression softened.
He was 'the manager', 'the boss', 'the husband', yet somehow
'Vincent' had disappeared in the eyes of the others.  He 
wondered how that had happened.  He suspected that the same
had happened to her.  This didn't explain her presence, of 
course, but it seemed to explain something.
     Vincent wondered who the 'he' was.  Boyfriend?  Husband?
The plain gold ring on her finger gave him his answer.  Had
he, too, been like that?  No.  He had been devoted to Leslie,
and because of that the acrimony and venom in her letter hurt 
so badly.  He didn't understand how she could see him thus.
     It didn't matter.  The pain and the anguish would soon
be gone.  Nothing would matter.
     Vincent became aware that Janet was watching him, reading
his expression.  She sighed at something only she knew.  Again
she looked tentative, then once again composed as she made
whatever decision she needed to make.  An interesting woman.
     Vincent blinked.  She began undoing the buttons on the
flannel shirt.  He swallowed convulsively, unable to take his
eyes from her fingers as they deftly undid each button in
turn.
     "Sometimes I wonder," she began again and he raised his
eyes to hers.  "Sometimes I wonder if they are too small, if
they are not beautiful."  She looked down at her breasts as
her hands, with their long, slender, fingers opened the shirt
and bared them to her eyes and his.  "I see how men look at
women with larger breasts, how their eyes trace the curves,
then I think of my own and sometimes I wonder."  The 
wistfulness, bordering on pain, in her voice caused Vincent 
to react.
     Why not do a final kindness?  It would soon make no
difference to him, yet it might make a difference to her.
     "They are beautiful," he affirmed, his voice husky,
"and they are not too small."  He was relieved as his
voice regained its normal timber after the first few
words.
     Janet looked up at him and smiled and he felt a sudden
lurch in his stomach.  Something different showed through her
smile, something he couldn't place.
     "And the nipples?" she asked, delicately stroking them
until they stood proud.  Her head was bowed and she looked
coyly up at him from under her eyebrows.  
     Vincent had to smile.  "Your nipples are beautiful, too."
And they were.  She had lovely breasts, and lovely nipples,
and the sight of them, of her stroking them, excited him.
     "And the skin?  It isn't too rough?  I know I don't have
the complexion which once I did."  
     There was no way he could answer that without touching
her and he knew it, and she knew that he knew it.  An
invitation.  Would he accept it, he wondered.  Distress appeared
on her face and he knew he would.  She had risked too much for
him to be able to deny her without hurting her, and hurting as
he did, he found it unbearable to think of hurting another.
     Vincent moved forward and gently stroked her skin, lightly
caressed the undersides of her breasts, circled the nipples 
stroked them as well.  She was breathing through her mouth, 
now, he noted, and her respirations became fast and shallow.
He reached around her head and began to unclasp her barrette.
As he did so, he could feel her fingers unbuttoning his shirt.
     The barrette fell to the floor and his hands moved 
through the silky hair, enjoying the feel of it as it slipped
through his fingers, while her fingers lightly stroked his
chest and tweaked his nipples.  His breath came breathing faster, 
now, too, he noted.
     Vincent lowered his head to hers and breathed in.  He 
caught a strange fragrance caught in her hair, which puzzled him.
Then he knew - she had been baking.  He was in the 'twilight
zone' for sure.  Then her hands were on his face, drawing him
down, bringing his mouth to hers, her tongue darting out to
taste his lips before they joined with hers.
     Then they were together, exploring each other with
fierce abandon, before breaking apart breathlessly, to rid
themselves of their remaining clothes.
     Vincent looked down at Janet's naked body and shook his
head in wonderment.  "You are truly beautiful," he told her,
knowing that she had to hear this, hear the words, though
his expression surely conveyed that to her.
     She was beautiful and she was ready.  His fingers 
discovered this as they sought out her moist center.  Those
long, slim fingers found his hardness and traced his outline
before grasping him, pulling him to her, drawing him between
her legs . . .
     She hesitated and his eyes sought hers.  The eyes mirrored
the action.  Something was wrong.  Then the hesitation was 
replaced with resigned determination and Vincent laughed out 
loud.  He knew.
     "I'll be right back," he told her.  The relief and gratitude
in her eyes as he returned, unrolling the condom over his
hardness, told him he had been right.  He also carried with
him his silk robe.  He didn't want her - or him - to get carpet
burn.
     Now the hesitation vanished.  She pulled him forward
and positioned him at her entrance.  Her heels at his buttocks
urged him onwards and he obeyed.  Together they gasped out their
pleasure.
     His excitement burned like a hot coal through his mind
as he slicked in and out of her, breathing tender endearments
into her ear as he did so.  Then he could no longer concentrate
and his body went rigid as he drove into her hard, once, twice,
again, and again.
     His senses returned and he took his weight off of her
and carefully pulled out, ensuring that the condom came with
him.  Then he began kissing her breasts and touching her sex,
stroking and caressing, playing her body like a musical
instrument, bringing to her the pleasure which she had brought
to him, glorying in his ability to please her.
     Janet's breath came in gasps, then she, too, went rigid,
raising her hips from the floor before relaxing with a long
sigh.  Vincent continued to caress her as she slowly came down.
Her eyes opened and she smiled up at him.
     Her smile faded.  She looked about wildly, grabbed his
watch from the floor and gasped.  "Is that the time?  I have to
go."
     With a bemused look on his face, Vincent watched Janet 
dress and replace her barrette.  He found it hard to believe that 
just moments ago she had been moaning, rocking her hips and
urging him on to greater and greater speed as he made love
to her.  Now she was all business again - in that strange way
of hers.
     His bemused look turned to one of consternation as Janet
walked over to the table, removed the dish-towel and picked
up his gun.  She pointed it in his general direction, though
not directly at him.
     "Did you enjoy yourself?" she asked him.
     "Yes, very much" he answered cautiously, wondering what 
would come next.
     Janet studied the revolver for a moment, then fumbled it
open.  She ejected the single bullet and returned the gun to
the table.  Vincent let out a small sigh of relief.
     "Yet you are willing to forego the possibilities, willing
to use this," she held up the bullet, "because of this?"  She
picked up the envelope, then dropped it on the floor, a look of
disdain on her face.  "It doesn't make sense to me."  
     Vincent stared at her in shocked disbelief.  How could
she know?
     "Well, I guess it's your choice."  She tossed the bullet
to him and he caught it by reflex, his eyes never leaving hers.
His face was stone.  She looked at him, her confidence fading,
a fear coming to her eyes.
     "Do me a favour?" she asked.  He said nothing and her
hands began to shake.  "If you see me - you don't know me."
He sat, silent.  "Please?"  He didn't move.  Then she was
gone, fairly flying out of his apartment.
     Curious, he moved to his window, putting on his robe
as he went.  Sure enough, Janet exited the building and
crossed to the apartment block opposite his.  He nodded.  It 
was the only thing that made sense.  
     He saw her breath, condensed in the cold air, as she turned 
and glanced back once, and then she was gone.  He looked to 
the sky.  It had clouded over and it the darkness loomed.  He 
moved back from the window and waited.  Sure enough, a light 
came on in the apartment directly across from his.  He sat in 
his chair and watched, not moving.
     She appeared and, suddenly, two children, still clothed 
for the out-of-doors, came running to her.  She picked one up 
and spun him around, giving him a hug and a kiss.  The second 
child got the same treatment.
     Vincent waited, still, quiet and unmoving.  After a 
long time passed, a man appeared, crossed over to where
she worked in her kitchen and gave her a perfunctory kiss.
     Vincent shook his head.  The man didn't know what he had.
He lowered his gaze to the table, to the bullet, ugly and
stark against the wood.  How could he ever have thought it
beautiful?  It was hard and cold.  He remembered her breasts,
soft and warm.  It was they which were beautiful.  His nose
wrinkled in disgust at the cold metallic smell of the gun oil.
He remembered the smell of the baking in her hair, the smell
of her excitement, and sighed.  He pictured, in his mind, her 
face, animated, filled with joy.  He remembered beauty.

     Eyes are the windows to the soul, it is said, and her
eyes were wary, frightened.  She walked, with her husband,
towards their apartment and he walked away from it.  He envied
the man, seeing how she almost melted into him, her arm around
his waist.  They would pass within centimeters of each other.
Would he stop, would he talk to her, would he *tell*?  Vincent 
read all that in her eyes in the fraction of a second they met 
before his gaze continued on past, to the sign on the corner.  
He didn't know her, wouldn't recognize her.  His face betrayed 
nothing. 
     It was the neighbourly thing to do, the least he could do.

THE GOOD NEIGHBOUR by Delta.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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