Message-ID: <46184asstr$1073859003@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Message-ID: <20040111160310.13177.qmail@nym.alias.net> From: Delta X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 11 Jan 2004 16:03:10 -0000 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 Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, newsman, dennyw 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 It is not to be published in any form whatsoever, including being made available on BBSs, or on Web Pages, without the express prior consent of author.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. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderators: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |ASSM Archive at Hosted by | |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}| +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+