Inside Information Pt. 01

Until recently, I never really understood why Insider Trading is against the law.

Sure, I realize that acting on facts you aren't supposed to have can give you an unfair advantage, but just how much of a benefit it gives you was something I couldn't completely comprehend until fate put me in a situation to find out for myself.

My name is Kevin. I'm your average American male; average height, better than average build, average looks. And no, I don't have a monster-sized schlong that makes women drool with lust after just one glance. As my Granny always said, "Follow your dreams." There are worse mottos to live by.

I've learned how to make the best out of life, as you'll see, so I try to smile a lot, and that brings out my dimples. I've been told, by more than a few women, that my dimples are irresistible.

This whole story started eighteen years ago when Missy O'Bannon moved into the house at the end of my street. Even though I was a scrawny, eight year old kid at the time, I immediately fell in love with her. She was the most beautiful eight year old girl I'd ever seen. She was tall and thin, with long, auburn hair and dark brown eyes. Her eyes turned green when she was mad, which happened frequently when she was around me.

For the first two days after she and her family moved in, I must have ridden my bicycle past her house a hundred times, just hoping to catch another glimpse of her. My Granny also told me, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained." Yeah, I know, my Granny told me a lot of things. She was a smart woman. I just wish she would have been alive when everything went down hill. Maybe then life wouldn't have been so bleak for so long.

So, the moment the empty moving truck drove away, I screwed up my courage and rode straight to her house to introduce myself.

Missy answered the door to my tentative knock. I'm twenty-six now, and I can still remember what she wore that day; faded denim cut-offs and an old Aerosmith concert t-shirt -- the kind that's white with black three-quarter length sleeves. Her long hair was tied back with a blue ribbon the same color as her shorts. That was the first time I saw her close up. She was even more beautiful than from across the street.

"Who are you?" she snapped. That was the first time I realized her brown eyes turned green when she was angry.

Swallowing the huge ball of fear lodged in my throat that was making it nearly impossible to talk, I finally managed to squeak out, "H-hi, I'm Kevin. I l-live down the street, in the gold house."

"Swell. Now I know which house to burn down. Get lost, creep," she said angrily before slamming the heavy door in my face. That was also the first time I realized that no matter what I said or did, I would always make her angry.

For fifteen long, lonely seconds, I stood there in shock, staring at her door, not knowing exactly what to do. I wanted to knock again, but I was afraid of her (a fear I would never quite lose). So, with a crushed heart, I turned around and started for my bike. That was when the door opened again.

With rising hope, I turned back to the door, but it wasn't Missy; it was her mother. Mrs. O'Bannon who was an older, fuller version of Missy. Missy's mom had the same dark, auburn hair and dark brown eyes, but she wasn't as lean and taught as her daughter. Though they looked similar, they were far from alike. When the X-Files series came out years later, I realized that both Missy and her mother had a striking resemblance to Gillian Anderson.

Where Missy's eyes were dark and foreboding, Mrs. O'Bannon's were bright and friendly. Where Missy's smile was tight and fleeting, Mrs. O'Bannon's was wide and cheerful. Where Missy's hair was long and straight, her mother's hair was shoulder-length and wavy. Where Missy could be rude and irritable at times, Mrs. O'Bannon was always polite and friendly. Yes, Mrs. O'Bannon greatly resembled Missy, but as I was to learn in time, it was in appearance only.

"I'm so sorry about that. Please don't mind Missy. Moving away from her friends has been very tough on her," Mrs. O'Bannon apologized. Over the years I realized that was something Mrs. O'Bannon would frequently do for Missy.

"That's okay. I just, uh, stopped by to, uh, see if you needed any help unpacking," I stammered. Now that I thought Missy hated my guts, I was too embarrassed to tell her mother the real reason I came over.

"Oh, my, what a gentleman you are. We sure could use the help of a big, strong man like you," she said, smiling sincerely. "Does your mother know where you are?"

"My mother died when I was five," I said matter-of-factly. Even to this day, I have a hard time looking people in the eye when I tell them about my mom and how she died, which was in a car crash on her way home from the grocery store. I guess you never really get over losing your mother. Plus the look of pity most people get after hearing about my loss only makes losing my mother harder to bear. "But it's okay, because my dad says she's in heaven watching over me."

"Your dad sounds like a smart man," Mrs. O'Bannon replied. When I finally did look up at her, I couldn't help but see the care and concern etched across her friendly face.

"Yep, he is. He works all the time. But I don't mind so much, because I get to see my Granny a lot," I told her.

"That sounds like fun." Mrs. O'Bannon said pleasantly. When she put her hand on my shoulder to usher me inside, I wished with all my might that Mrs. O'Bannon could be my mom.

* * *

My father works long hours and was constantly away from home on business. Sometimes my Granny would watch me when dad was gone. But, as my Granny got older, she couldn't watch me as often as she used to. That's why, over the next ten years, I spent more and more time at the O'Bannon house. Mrs. O (I started calling her Mrs. O the year after they moved in) had a soft spot for me, the poor little motherless neighbor kid. I was over there every chance I got. Their house became like a second home to me, and Mrs. O willingly became my surrogate mother. Even though Missy sometimes treated me like I was some kind of disease-ridden vermin, Mrs. O was always happy to see me. She greeted me with a kind word when I was down, she tended my many scraped knees and cuts, she played games with me when Missy wouldn't, she gave me a shoulder to cry on, she laughed at all my jokes, she helped me with my homework, and she baked cookies with me every holiday. She was everything a mother should be.

I don't know who was happier that the O'Bannons moved into our neighborhood; me or my dad. The fact that Mrs. O was so willing to befriend me and care for me, which I soaked up like a thirsty sponge, was a great relief to my father. I was really happy about it too. Ever since my mother's death, my dad threw himself into his work to avoid dealing with the painful realities of life. As a result, he was less attentive to me than he should've been, and that, in turn, caused him even greater grief. With Mrs. O around to fill the gap, my dad's guilt was greatly lessened. I didn't blame him, too much. I knew he grieved so deeply for my mother because he never stopped loving her. That's one trait I definitely picked up from him; fierce and lasting loyalty.

As I got older, my relationship with Mrs. O changed from a mother/son type of relationship to that of a special friendship between a favorite aunt and nephew. I only had one or two close friends my age then, but even so, I never opened up to them like I did with Mrs. O. She and I had lots in common, and we would sit and talk for hours. Often our talks centered on one particular subject: Missy. I was so hopelessly infatuated with Missy, and Mrs. O was worried that she wasn't as close to Missy, her only child, as she wanted to be. We both knew, though it was never said out loud, that I was the reason Missy wasn't closer to her mother. It was plain to see, even for a young kid like me, that Missy resented me because I took her mother away from the time she would have been spending with Missy if I weren't around.

Mrs. O joked that we should form a mutual support group: "The Friends of Missy O'Bannon Club; meetings daily after school and on weekends; emergency sessions by appointment."

Of course the relationship between Missy and I evolved as the years rolled by. Our friendship went from older, bossy sister who beats up her younger, pesky brother, to ravishing girl next door who never realizes the boy next door would do anything to maker her love him sort of relationship.

Yes, that's right. I never outgrew my love for Missy. No matter how rudely she treated me and no matter how hard she tried to ignore me, I continued to adore her. Of course, that only angered Missy all the more, but I couldn't help it. I knew back then, hell, even from the first moment I saw her, that Missy was the girl of my dreams.

I spent so many sleepless nights trying to come up with a sure fire plan to make Missy love me as much as I loved her. There had to be a way to open her heart; there just had to be. I desperately sought that sacred knowledge, that inside information, that would make her mine. I knew that if I could only say the right words or do the right thing, Missy would one day return my love.

But I didn't know the right words to say, and I didn't know the right things to do. Not back then anyways. Not for a long time.

Missy grew more beautiful with each passing year. At the same time she started developing and maturing into the stunning woman she would grow up to become, I discovered the joys of voyeurism and masturbation. I spent all my spare time ogling Missy, hoping for a revealing glance at her full breasts and rounded ass. But, no matter how unobtrusive I tried to be, Missy somehow always knew where my gaze was centered.

God, how Missy loved to shake her ass in my face to watch my eyes pop out of me head. Or, as would happen more frequently, she would "accidentally" bend over right in front of me, giving me an awesome view down her shirt, showing me almost all of her generous breasts. I'd be so busy straining to see her elusive nipples that I'd get careless, and of course, she'd catch me gawking. She'd give me her trademark sneer, glance mockingly at my obvious erection, and then snicker loudly, "Pervert."

Every time my cheeks would burn with shame. But I was also left with a massive hard-on that wouldn't go away until I took matters into my own hands, which also happened frequently. I lost count of how many times I had to rush home and stroke myself to a gloriously gushing climax.

One thing (of so many) I never understood about Missy was no matter how mad at me she got each time she caught me ogling her ass or peeking down her blouse, it never stopped her from flaunting her body at me the next time.

Of course, Missy only behaved this way when her mother wasn't looking. In front of Mrs. O, Missy was a perfect angel. But it didn't matter to me; I was too horny and in love with her to care how she treated me, as long as she showed me her magnificent body. She could do whatever she wanted to do to me just as long as she didn't ignore me completely. And Missy knew that, too. She thrived on that. Sometimes, when I look back on those years, I think Missy's only objective in life was to make me as sexually frustrated as she possibly could. If that was truly her aim, she certainly succeeded.

I don't want to give you the wrong impression of Missy. She really was a pleasant, easy going girl. Though somewhat shy, Missy always had lots of friends, and she was popular at school. She wasn't a part of the In-Crowd, but most everyone knew her and spoke well of her. For some reason I just brought out the devil in her. We're like oil and water, fire and ice, and all the other clichés rolled into one. She wasn't always a bitch to me. There were plenty of times she was nice to me. It just didn't happen often enough.

All in all, my life was good, at least until I was eighteen and a high school senior. Two things happened that year that would forever change my life. The first was seeing Mrs. O naked, and the second was finally getting to kiss Missy O'Bannon.

* * *

Mrs. O threw a party for my eighteenth birthday, because my dad, as usual, was away on business. Though it wasn't a huge bash, it was the best birthday I ever had. Mrs. O invited several of my friends and some of Missy's to their house for a pool party. I was so looking forward to it that for the entire week before the big event, I talked of little else.

The night of the big party, I was supposed to go over an hour early to help set up decorations and whatnot. But I was so excited that I ended up getting there a half hour earlier.

As was my habit, I entered the O'Bannon house through the door leading from their attached garage into their kitchen. Since I was practically family, Mrs. O had told me years ago I didn't need to bother knocking every time I came over. And Missy, in true Missy-fashion, told me I didn't need to bother coming over at all.

So, like I've done countless times before that, I let myself into their house. The house was silent. I walked through the kitchen and looked into the family room; no one. Normally, Mrs. O was bustling around the house, busy doing something. I was starting to wonder if anybody was even home when I heard Mrs. O giggle. This wasn't her ordinary laugh; this sounded unusually playful, almost girlish.

After another few seconds of silence, I heard Mrs. O' speak. Her voice was coming from down the hall. "Stop it, Tom. Missy's in the backyard and Kevin will be here soon to help decorate."

"Come on, Rita. Missy's on the phone as usual; she won't hear us. And Kevin won't be here for another half hour," Tom O'Bannon countered. "We'll be quick."

"You mean you'll be quick," Mrs. O retorted frankly. She didn't sound overly playful then.

I was torn. My upbringing dictated that I shouldn't invade people's privacy, but my natural inquisitiveness demanded that I take the two steps forward necessary to peek down the hall to see exactly what was going on. It took a half-second for my curiosity to win out.

I tip-toed forward ever so quietly and carefully peered around the corner. There, at the end of the hall outside the entrance to their bedroom, were Tom and Rita O'Bannon. They had their backs to me. Mrs. O must've just gotten out of the shower. She had a towel wrapped around her body, and her hair was wet. Mr. O'Bannon was dressed in a business suit, so I imagine he'd just come home from work. He was hugging his wife from behind and planting soft kisses up and down the back of her neck. That's what was making her giggle.

He paused, speaking barely loud enough now for his voice to carry to me. "Well? Do you want to?"

"I told you, we don't have time," she insisted.

"Please? I know I could make you want to."

"No, Tom, don't." Mrs. O sounded serious. She tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but she wasn't fast enough.

Mr. O'Bannon swiftly tipped his head to one side and began passionately nuzzling his wife's ear.

Mrs. O's reaction was immediate. She groaned like a bitch in heat. There's no other way to describe it. The instant he began kissing her ear, she threw herself backwards against him, grinding her ass hard into his crotch. All the while she growled loudly, lustily. "Oh, that's not fair. You know how horny I get when you blow in my ear. Oh, god, don't stop, don't stop, you bastard!" she demanded urgently.

I'd never heard her talk that way before. It was at that very moment that I stopped thinking of Mrs. O as my surrogate mother and friend, and I saw her for the truly beautiful woman she is.

"You like that, don't you, you horny slut?" Tom crowed proudly.

"You know I do," she retorted through clenched teeth. "My ears are so sensitive that I can't resist when you blow in my ear."

"I know," Mr. O'Bannon chuckled devilishly. He doubled his efforts on her ear while his arms moved down the front of her writhing body. Even though I couldn't see what his hands were doing, it didn't take a genius to figure out what he was up to, especially when Mrs. O suddenly began groaning louder.

"Oh, yeah, oh, ohhhh," she moaned forcibly, tossing her head back and forth. It was hard to tell if she was trying to push her husband away or she was lost in the throes of passion. I think it was a little of both.

Whatever her reasons, Mr. O'Bannon had to struggle to keep his mouth attached to her ear. "Do you want me to fuck me now?" he murmured between kisses.

Mrs. O didn't answer. She just continued to groan and gyrate harder. Her breathing became loud, ragged, almost as if she was panting.

His arm movements became short, rapid thrusts. "Your sweet little pussy is dripping wet."

Mrs. O's legs abruptly stiffened and she hissed, "Yessssss! Faster, uh, uh, uhh!"

I could actually hear the squishing noises his fingers made every time he drove them up into her obviously flooded pussy. It was the most erotic sound I'd ever heard. Her breathing was now a series of rapid-fire grunts as she hunched her pelvis in time with his maniacally thrusting fingers. I don't know exactly when it happened, but suddenly I realized that my cock was an iron-hard bar that threatened to burst through my swimsuit. I was so stiff my cock was aching. I wanted to whip it out right there and then, but I was so caught up in the forbidden seen before me that I didn't want to move a muscle and risk alerting them to my presence. Though I'd had a few fumbling trysts with one or two girls, I was still a virgin then. There was no way I was going to miss out on that incredible scene.

"God, you're so wet," Tom growled. "I know you want me to fuck you now, don't you?"

"Yes! Fuck me; fuck me now!" She was tearing at her towel with both hands, trying to get rid of the barrier that stood between her and the fucking she so desperately needed. But her ravenous desire made her frantic, and she became overly clumsy.

Tom stepped back and literally ripped the towel off Mrs' O's body, twisting her half way around in the process. Time seemed to stand still. For that one moment I was treated to an unobstructed profile view of Mrs. O'Bannon's exquisitely naked body. I had no idea Mrs. O was so hot. Normally she wore loose-fitting, modest clothing, so I never realized what a luscious, curvy body she had. I would never look at her the same way again.

Her firm breasts, at least the one I could see, were a generous B cup, and were perfectly proportioned with her 5'2" frame. I loved the way it bounced and heaved with her ragged, gasping breathing. From her succulent tits down to her perfectly symmetrical ass, her sultry curves made my cock throb with sweet agony. Yes, she was in her late thirties and, yes, she carried an extra five pounds or so on her hips, but it made her look sexier, more womanly.

Suddenly, Mr. O'Bannon maneuvered Mrs. O forward and into their bedroom, slamming the door behind them. I was left standing there by myself with a raging hard-on that threatened to explode at any second. Though Mrs. O was out of sight, the vision of her naked body was forever seared into my brain.

I stumbled into the family room and sat down. Not more than five seconds after I collapsed on to their couch with a blissful smile on my face and a pillow spread strategically across my lap, Missy walked inside the house from the backyard. She was talking on the phone and didn't see me at first. When she noticed me, she stopped in her tracks and demanded.

"What are you doing here so early, creep?"

I was in too good a mood to be upset by her usual snide remarks. "I couldn't wait to see your lovely face." It was the truth, more or less. I always looked forward to seeing Missy, and she did have a lovely face. Plus, today was my birthday, and Mrs. O, who was at that moment getting royally fucked, had just given me the most wonderful present.