The Neighbor's Wife

On my first day home for the summer from law school, my aunts informed me I was escorting them to an open house being held by the Parkers, our new next-door neighbors. I would have much preferred to sleep because I hadn't done a lot of it lately, but my not-so-discreet protestations were summarily ignored. So, at six p.m. on Friday evening, I was dressed in charcoal gray slacks, blue blazer, white, button-down shirt, and a silk Brooks Brothers tie. My stubble had been banished. My black loafers gleamed.

"You do clean up nicely, Jimmy," Aunt Dorothy said admiringly as she looked me up and down.

"You're quite a handsome man," Aunt Linda said, beaming up at me.

"I'd better be to escort two such beautiful ladies," I replied. Aunt Linda giggled.

"Background," Aunt Dorothy said. "He is Dr. Arthur Parker, renowned as a surgeon, pompous ass, and self-proclaimed God's gift to women. She's Amanda, his trophy wife."

"She's a cool customer," Aunt Linda added.

"Kids?" I asked.

"His are grown, and they don't have any," Aunt Dorothy replied. "The Warners will be there, but Julie's back to being a loyal wife, so cool it."

"Simon still doesn't know Julie and I had an affair?" I asked.

"No, he doesn't," Aunt Dorothy said.

"And he doesn't know about Julie and Dorothy either," Aunt Linda added, giving Aunt Dorothy the evil eye.

Aunt Dorothy reddened and changed the subject. "Here." She handed me a bottle of Silver Oak Cabernet with a bow around its neck. "Carry the house warming gift. Come on. Let's go."

Aunt Dorothy led the way out the front door, and I brought up the rear as I followed them down the sidewalk and across to the house next door. The Millers from across the street joined us as we walked up the Parker's sidewalk toward their open door.

Dorothy Nelson, my mother's younger sister and only sibling, took me in and became my legal guardian when my parents were killed in an automobile accident. She was twenty-five and a year out of nursing school. I was a lad of ten. Only a few months later, Linda Connell, twenty-three, graduated from college with a teaching degree and moved in with us. She wasn't really my aunt, but calling her aunt was a convenience. They raised me with all the love and attention a young man could want. Our house was in an upscale neighborhood near the downtown area where older homes were being demolished and new mansions being built for the doctors, lawyers, and other yuppies. Ours was one of the best of the earlier construction and impeccably maintained. The Parker home was one of the new ones, almost gaudy in appearance.

As we queued in the reception line, I got my first look at Amanda Parker. She stood next to her husband, smiling woodenly as she met Mr. and Mrs. Miller. Amanda was a cool, classy beauty with long, loose curls of strawberry-blonde dyed hair framing a square shaped face, a full mouth, clear complexion, and eyes of sea-foam green in a lightly tanned face. When the Millers stepped to the left, I saw the rest of her. She wore a white, backless cocktail dress with a square, halter-style bodice that tied behind her neck and low on her back. The dress, made of a slinky, clinging material, fell to mid thigh. It was the perfect dress to display, in a socially acceptable manner, the perfect figure. Her white open-toed, sling-back pumps with a five-inch high heel brought her to about six feet, her husband's height. There was a solitaire diamond dangling from a gold choker around her neck and an anklet around her right ankle.

Then Mrs. Parker noticed me. Her body language clearly said she liked what she saw. Aunt Linda went first in the reception line, then Aunt Dorothy who introduced me to Dr. Parker, a beefy and florid man nearing sixty. The word pompous fit him to a tee. He turned slightly and introduced me to his wife before turning his attention to the people behind me. Obviously, my pedigree wasn't enough to hold his attention.

When I shook Amanda's hand, electricity flickered up my arm. Her eyes, no longer wooden, sparkled at me. I handed her the bottle of wine. "Thank you, Jim. I'm happy to meet you," she said with more warmth than a bottle of wine deserved.

The party was in full swing. I worked my way through the crowd talking to neighbors I seldom saw any more. Some of my friends were there, either home from school as I was, or working in the city and back in the neighborhood to see old faces. I did visit with Simon and Julie, who stopped for a short but pleasant conversation.

I was in the back yard talking with a group of four when I saw Amanda working her way through the crowd, playing hostess as she talked to her guests. She watched me surreptitiously from the corner of her eye, and it wasn't long before she joined us. We made small talk for a few minutes before I excused myself to go the bar. I joined another group, visited with them, and waited. Once again, Amanda joined us. We all had a pleasant visit before she left to mingle with her guests.

By then, I had received enough signs - signals if you will - from the wife of Doctor Parker to know she wanted me. I don't mean to sound cocky, or, heavens forbid, pompous like her husband, but I was not mistaken. She was a woman men pursue with wild abandon, hurling platitudes and diamonds like spears and laying roses in her path. I'm sure she had been fighting them off since puberty, so her instincts were trained to be wary. Her position as the trophy of a wealthy man doubled her need for discretion and increased her anxiety. So my pursuit of her, or, my surrender to her after her pursuit, if you will, would be a little game of cat and mouse I believed I'd find most enjoyable.

I rejoined my aunts who were on the patio talking to the Solomons, who lived in the next block. We were discussing the stock market when I felt a tug on my coat sleeve. I turned to face a young woman who was only five six or so even in her heels. She had bright, bleached-blonde hair that fell straight, almost to her waist, far too much makeup, and she wore skin tight, black leather pants encasing a well-shaped ass with a black leather halter-top that was losing the battle to contain her breasts. Her midriff was bare, and her navel piercing held a dangling diamond.

"Hi, Jimmy Johnson. Remember me?" I saw the barbell in her tongue when she spoke.

"Cheyenne Young. My but you're growing up."

"I go to college in the fall. Come talk to me," she said taking my hand.

She led the way, first to the bar to refresh our drinks where she got a rum and coke and I got a light Scotch and water, and then to the far corner of the back yard where we sat on a bench under a magnolia tree. I sat facing the house and her. As Cheyenne and I talked, she batted her eyelashes and gave me plenty of looks down her cleavage. She kept her firm thigh pressed against mine and initiated our handholding. Cheyenne had grown up in the neighborhood, and she'd had a crush on me since she was eight. She'd be easy pickings. Too easy. But I always liked her, and she had developed nicely, so I didn't want to be rude.

We had been on the bench about thirty minutes when Aunt Linda joined us. "Dorothy and I are ready to go, Jimmy," she said.

I stood and Cheyenne stood with me, holding tightly to my hand. I said to her, "When will you be eighteen?"

"I am now," she lied. Then she deflated. She knew I knew how old she was.

"After you're eighteen, I'll call you," I said. "In the meantime, be sweet." I kissed her lightly on the lips, squeezed her hand, and left her there.

I enjoyed Cheyenne. She didn't give me the brainless bimbo act she used on kids her own age. But I'd spent that much time with her because of the effect our visit was having on Amanda Parker. She had kept an eye on us like a jealous wife.

Aunt Linda and I worked our way back through the crowd, saying our goodbyes to friends old and new, and easing Aunt Dorothy out of a heated discussion. We were almost to the front door when Amanda stepped in front of me.

"Leaving so soon," she asked me.

"With all these guests, you'll hardly miss us," I said.

"I wouldn't say that. I saw you with that girl, and I was hoping for equal time."

I leaned forward and whispered in her ear. "Cheyenne is unattached and you're spoken for."

She started to say something but bit her tongue. Her face changed back to the happy but wooden hostess. "Well, we certainly enjoyed having you here. Come back again soon."

I escorted my aunts to our house. Aunt Linda went straight to their bedroom, no doubt to shed her high heels as she never enjoyed wearing them. Aunt Dorothy went to the bar. "Something else, Jimmy?" she called out.

"Thanks, but I'll pass," I said.

I plopped down on the couch in the living room, kicked off my loafers, and put my feet on the coffee table. With a highball glass in her hand, Aunt Dorothy sat down beside me.

"So, stud," she said. "Which one are you going to fuck first?" I grinned but didn't speak. "Cheyenne would've done you on the spot if you'd asked her." Aunt Dorothy took a sip. "Did you make a date with her?"

"I still think she's eight with pigtails and two teeth missing," I replied.

"I thought I raised you better than that, Jimmy. That is not the body of an eight-year-old."

"I told her I'd call her when she's eighteen. That's only in, what, four months?"

"But that's not the real reason you put Cheyenne off, is it?" Aunt Dorothy said.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning Amanda Parker, the trophy wife. She is a beauty, isn't she?

"Yes, she is," I replied, and a picture of Amanda filled my mind.

Aunt Dorothy watched me intently when I lamely smiled at her. "She couldn't take her eyes off of you either. You know the wonderful doctor is gone all day, and she's alone most of the time." I didn't reply. Aunt Dorothy took another sip of her scotch and soda and said, "My guess is you'll have her by Friday."

"This Friday? Wow, you do have a lot of confidence in me," I exclaimed.

"I do. And I know she's very unhappy. She's not like me, Jimmy. You know how I treasure my independence."

I nodded.

Aunt Dorothy continued. "She likes belonging to a man and all that it means, but Arthur is a fool. He really does treat her like she's a slave girl in his harem, either ignoring her or showing her off like she's a brainless Barbie doll. No one likes that, and Amanda is certainly no exception. Did you see that diamond ring on her finger?"

"How could I miss it?" I said.

"Three carats at least. It's quite a rock. Your problem is she won't do anything to endanger her meal ticket."

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

"Dr. Arthur Angus Parker is a pig, a pig who requires regular blow jobs from an office clerk I know in order to keep her job. A pig who has hit on both Linda and me."

"Aunt Dorothy! I do believe you're blushing. Tell me all about it," I demanded.

"You know I didn't give in," she said pointedly, emphasizing the "I".

"But Aunt Linda did?"

"He caught her at a weak moment, and that's all I'm going to say."

I waited. It wasn't long before she continued.

"I will tell you this. He is one hell of a seducer, smooth as silk. She said he was good in bed, but not nearly as good as you are." She downed her drink, sat the tumbler noisily on the table, and stood. She kissed me on the forehead, rumbled my hair, and said, "It's bedtime for me. Lock everything up, will you, honey?"

"Sure, Aunt Dorothy. Good night."

I haven't said enough about my dear Aunt Dorothy. She's only fifteen years older than I am, younger than my dead mother by six years. She is smart and intelligent. She has a good sense of humor and a backbone of steel. She's an attractive woman, tall and slender, with great legs and smallish breasts. Her black hair is kept short as she hates to spend time on it. Her eyes, like mine and my mother's, are a rich, bright blue. She was thirty-eight, still in the prime of her womanhood.

She and Aunt Linda taught me the difference between sex and love and how they fit together. Aunt Dorothy would talk to me about anything, anytime, being open and honest. Sometimes, she was a little too clinical, but she was a nurse.

She taught me about sex. I don't mean Aunt Dorothy fucked me. She had said, "I'm a lesbian, Jimmy. I like men. I just don't like to fuck them. But even if I liked to fuck men, I wouldn't fuck you because you're my nephew and I'm your aunt and your legal guardian, so quit getting hard every time you look at me."

Aunt Linda was an entirely different matter. She was bisexual, and she wasn't really my aunt. She was as attractive as Aunt Dorothy, but shorter, less extraverted, and more passive. She had a sweet demeanor and a soft, womanly body. Men were attracted to her, but she usually told them "no." She had had an eight-year-long affair with a married teacher at her school. Because he was married, their time together was sporadic. It was the way she preferred it. She was in the relationship for the sex just like he was. Aunt Linda was the woman I first held in my arms. Together, she and Aunt Dorothy taught me what women like and want and need, how to please and fuck and eat and stroke and tease them until they begged for cock.

Neither of my aunts would ever marry. As Aunt Dorothy said, if they needed a man for sex, they could find one. For love, they had each other, sleeping together in a queen-sized bed in the master bedroom.

I awakened early the next morning, slipped out of bed, and put on my boxer shorts before padding toward the smell of fresh coffee coming from the kitchen. Aunt Linda, in a revealing knee-length nightgown, was sitting at the kitchen table reading the morning paper.

"How did you sleep?" she asked.

"Just fine." I kissed her on the mouth and poured myself a full mug of her strong brew. "How about you?"

"Wonderful as always, but I was thinking of a nap this afternoon," she said.

"That sounds good."

"Maybe you could join me," she said, with a reddish tinge in her cheeks.

"I'd love to." I never approached Aunt Linda. She always approached me. That arrangement had worked out just fine.

I finished my coffee and read the sports page before changing into my running gear and hitting the road like I did five or six mornings a week. As I jogged the familiar streets near home, the air was cool and only slightly damp. After my run, I walked the final half block to cool down. I was opening my front door when a voice called out, "Jim."

It was Amanda with my billfold in her hand. I had intentionally left it at the Parker house to see how it would get returned. She was wearing Bermuda shorts, sandals, and an expensive, tasteful blouse. She looked good, very good. As I watched her cross the yard toward me, I realized where I'd seen that walk. It was the straight-backed promenade beauty-pageant contestants use when they walk across the stage.

When she got to my house, I wished her good morning, invited her in, and closed the door behind her. She handed me the billfold and said, "This must have slipped out of your pocket last night."

"Must have. Thanks for bringing it over."

She was on-edge. "Arthur is leaving for a conference in Boston in the morning. He won't be back until Wednesday," she said.

"He's not taking you?"

"He never does," she said.

"That's too bad. Well, thanks for bringing this over. I know you've got things to do."

She bristled. My guess was in Amanda Parker's experience, men did not dismiss women like her, unless they were married to her. Rather, they curried her favor to bask in the sunshine of her beauty. She was on shaky ground having to pursue instead of being pursued. She started to speak and her hands rose to touch me, but when her fingers brushed my arms, she dropped them to her side and blushed. I purposely brushed my hand against her as I opened the door. She turned and was against me, her breasts grazing my chest. Her expression said, kiss me, but I didn't. I smiled and opened the door. She looked confused as she stepped out onto the porch.

"Have a good day," I said as I closed the door behind her.

I went to my bedroom and hooked up my computer that I'd brought home from school. I checked my e-mail and played around for a little while before eating lunch with my aunts. Over a tuna fish sandwich, Aunt Dorothy produced a honey-do list that would keep me busy most of the summer.

I didn't run Sunday morning. In fact, I didn't get out of bed until ten when my two dear aunts demanded I take them to lunch. "Nothing fancy, Jimmy. Just Matthew's Grill," Aunt Dorothy said. Ah, Matthew's Grill. The best eggs in the world. And the best coffee. I had a grilled T-Bone, four fried eggs, hash browns, biscuits, and coffee. "I forgot how much he can eat," Aunt Linda said to Aunt Dorothy as I finished up the last of my feast.

An hour or so later, I went out back to start the yard work. I wore standard yard work attire: old shorts, an old T-shirt, and tennis shoes. By two, I was mowing the front lawn. Amanda Parker watched me from her kitchen window. I pretended I didn't see her. Soon, she came outside and pretended to examine her flowers. I killed the lawnmower engine and wiped my face on my shirt.

"Hi, Jim," she said brightly. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

"Sure is," I replied.

"You look like you need a break. Want some lemonade?" she asked.

"That'd be nice," I said.

"Come on over." She turned and headed for her front door.

She wasn't dressed for yard work. She wore skin tight shorts, a halter top, and mules with three inch heels. Her hair was in a pony tail. The rock was on her finger, the choker and solitaire around her neck, and the chain around her ankle. I followed her enticing sway through her front door, which I shut behind me, and into her kitchen where a large crystal pitcher full of lemonade sat on a silver tray. A small silver candy dish piled with Pepperidge Farms' Milano cookies sat beside it.

"Did you get your hubby off to Boston?" I asked.

"Eleven-thirty flight," she replied. "Have a seat."

I sat at the kitchen table. She sat in the chair nearest me, turned it to face me, and crossed her legs, right over left. They were great legs.

"So, tell me all about yourself." She leaned forward to pour the lemonade into Waterford glasses, with the pleasant side-effect of giving me an excellent view of her cloth-encased breasts above her flat and narrow stomach.

She asked, so I told her. Salutatorian of my high school class and President of the Student Council. Bachelor of Arts in Political Science summa cum laude. Top one per cent in my law school class after the first year. Golfer. Music lover, everything from Baroque to jazz. I filled in some details, told her how I loved my morning runs, participated in school activities, things like that. She was a good listener.

"Isn't law school expensive?" she asked.

I explained I had a couple of scholarships and my aunts helped. It was a bald-faced lie, but the truth wasn't any of her business. My father and his father before him had been single children and successful lawyers. Inheritance from my grandparents and parents, life insurance proceeds, the litigation settlement, and the skillful investments by the money manager over the fourteen years since they had died gave me a brokerage account containing about $12 million. The income had paid for college. I did not flaunt my money and I never would.

Then I laid the last bit on her, which seemed to be more important to the women I met than it was to me. "I work as a male model, too, print work primarily, for everything from autos to underwear. I've done two TV commercials and been in a music video," I said.

"That sounds like fun," she said.

"It is, and it pays well. I'll bet you've done some modeling yourself."

"I did," she said brightly. "Print work, of course, and some commercials, nothing national though." I wondered if Amanda had been with another woman. From the female models I knew, I guessed she had.