Belle Beth Devoe Ch. 01

Looking back, I have my dog to thank. I treat him very well for his unwitting part in what has turned out to be the most gratifying sexual experience of my life thus far. No, it doesn't involve my dog directly, you sick fucker. He merely stopped to pee, and that has made all the difference.

I am 34 years old, and not a bad looking man. I have had several memorable relationships, which is good for the soul, and many more one-night stands, which is good for the ego. Perhaps as a result of this good fortune, I am not yet married. The knowledge that another more intriguing interaction may be just around the bend has resulted in an unwillingness on my part to commit. In Italy, they say that a life of many women is all a man can hope for. Conversely, I have found that it creates a deep inner turmoil: if I am getting what I want—what men are supposed to want, anyway—why am I not fulfilled?

So, so, so. I was walking the dog late one night. About midnight. I often get home late from work, or just being out, and my dog, a pointer, isn't too agreeable without at least two hours of walking, or an hour at the dog park. At midnight, walking is the only option, so we find ourselves briskly covering neighborhood ground, as the lights go down and upstanding folks tuck in for a nice rest.

It was on one of these nights, six months ago, that it started. We were only a few blocks from home, on the return leg of a long walk, when Jim (that's my dog), pulled up to pee. He's always pulling or stooping as we walk, to sniff out a scent or pursue one, but there's a different kind of tension in the leash when it's a pee-stop. A good owner learns this differentiation by feel, and doesn't tug to get the dog moving. I stopped and looked back to see Jim "Truly Outrageous" Dog, whizzing on a sapling trunk. If the nickname doesn't make sense, don't worry. It's totally an 80's thing.

As he was finishing up, I heard a female voice coming from a dark window of the closest house. It was faint, but I could make out most of what she was saying, but not all. She was definitely enjoying herself.

"...what you wanted to see? Did you want me to...his cock? ...turn you on? He was fucking her...nice and deep..."

I felt my own cock move in my jeans. She sounded breathless, and her voice was just the one I always wanted to hear from a lover. Assured and knowing, but soft. Jim just looked at me, wondering why we weren't proceeding.

"You liked it, didn't you? His cock sawing in...little pussy...grabbing onto him...needed it so bad...oh fuck..."

And then a male voice, louder. I made out all of what he said:

"Yeah I fucking liked it, baby...I liked watching you rub your sloppy little pussy while you watched...you are such a slut...fucking ride me, just like that..."

I stepped onto their lawn robotically, drawn toward their voices. It wasn't until Jim pulled at his leash that I realized I was advancing on their house like some criminal.

"Did you want to fuck him, baby? Did you want that big cock?" It was the man again.

"No, baby...I just like watch...ohhh...watching them. I like when you...oh that's good, baby, just like that...oh fuck yes...you paid attention, didn't you?"

It was too much. I quickly yanked Jim down the block and found a tree. I wrapped his leash around the base, tied a quick half knot, and hurried back to hearing range, but this time I made sure I was shaded from the street light. She was simply moaning and panting, and he was grunting and saying things like, "Fuck him, baby," and other unintelligible phrases. It was clear that they were nearing a mutual climax. I had to resist pulling my cock out. I was hard to the point of pain, but I wasn't about to get caught jerking off onto a stranger's lawn, three blocks from home...but god, it was impossible to keep from rubbing myself through my pants. The problem was her voice: it was captivating. How to explain? There was something in her voice that seemed to be speaking directly to me. Like she knew I was there and she wanted me to hear her.

From the tree trunk, Jim started to whine, impatient for his walk to resume, and I thought better of standing around. Surely there would be a repeat performance, some night in the future, and I had plenty to think about when I got back home. I couldn't wait to masturbate when I got there.

Now let me say this much. I think voyeurs are kind of weak. Get off the sidelines and all of that. That didn't stop me, however, on subsequent evenings, from walking past that same house, as slowly as I could without being obvious, as often as possible. Stopping in a particularly dark spot to listen, I strained my ears, hoping for anything—a moan, a silhouette in the window—anything. In fact, the dog ended up getting more walks than time at the park. After a month or so of trying, I began to feel a bit stupid. My dog was not properly exercised, and I was frustrated. It had been a one-night thing, and she was probably just average-looking to boot. It could have been a hardcore movie soundtrack, for all I knew...in other words, I was telling myself anything to stop thinking about how hot it had made me listening to those two fuck. Her voice triggered something inside. I felt stupid and haunted. Go ahead and laugh. You didn't hear her.

Many years ago, I saw a couple having sex at a fairly close distance. I was in a hotel by the ocean, and the way it was laid out, from my room I could see her getting eaten out, and him fucking her for about five minutes, and him eating her out some more. A lot more. I got the feeling he was trying to make up for his short performance. At that time, I had no urge to do anything but masturbate, but this one stupid aural encounter on the street...good Christ! It had left me with a few distinct urges, or maybe even fantasies, all of which were basically unfounded. I mean for crying out—I'd never even seen her! Still:

1)I wanted to watch him fuck her, unseen by both. 2)I wanted to fuck her, with or without him around. 3)Then, I wanted her to myself, and I wanted to know, from her mouth, that she wanted me more than him.

That and a bunch of other shit. I wanted to tease her asshole when she came, I wanted her to spit on my cock and suck it off, I wanted to massage her cheeks while she sucked me, and most of all, I wanted to do all the things her husband refused to do, or didn't like. Weird stuff. The lack of logic! And all of this sight unseen! I imagined her in my mind—I had a pretty fair picture going—a picture based on nothing but a few moans. I felt like I was losing my better judgment.

Eventually, after some soul-searching, I stopped walking by their house as much at night. Then not at all. It just didn't feel right, and I have my pride. Some degree of integrity.

A couple of months later, I was returning from the store, where I had purchased steaks for a barbecue I was having later that evening with friends. A few blocks from home, I noticed a woman on her lawn, pulling weeds. I took my foot off the gas. I braked. I stopped right in front of her house. She was stunning. She was wearing shorts and a tank top, and as she bent over to pull the weeds, her breasts were showcased nicely. Her legs strained with her arms, and the skin on her shoulders and legs shone in the sunlight, breasts heaving with each pull. She was struggling with it, and not looking too pleased.

The neighborhood I live in is nice, and almost everyone prides themselves on their lawns and gardens. Most folks hire someone, but regardless, that kind of attention to the small things breeds a weird kindness, or a mutual understanding (i.e., by keeping it nice, we keep the riff-raff at bay!), and that was exactly the way in which I planned to approach this woman: under the guise of politeness. In reality, I just wanted a closer view of her tits. I pulled over and jumped out.

"Excuse me, could I give you a hand?"

She didn't hear me at first. I took another step closer and then...it was like someone punched me in the stomach. It was the house. I stared over quickly at my "shady spot" near the sidewalk...yes, it was the house. How could I not have noticed? It did look different by day, but for crying out loud. Fucking architecture. If you think about it, there's not a whole lot of variety out there.

I was standing there considering how weird it was when she noticed me.

"Can I help you," she asked, a little annoyed. I was on her lawn, after all.

"Oh...I, well, I was going to ask you the same!"

"About what?" she asked, hands on hips. This was not going as planned.

"With whatever it is you're struggling with. You looked like you could use..."

She interrupted: "But why were you just standing there looking off into space?"

"Oh, I just remembered something as I was walking up to ask you," I said, as confidently as possible.

She narrowed her eyes. "Are you a Jehovah's Witness?"

I laughed. "Hardly, ma'am." (Born in the south. Never goes away.)

"Look," she said, "I'm sorry, I'm just having a shitty day, and weeding is not my favorite thing. I'm Beth. What can I do for you?"

Well, it was all a bit much. It was the same voice, and she was really attractive, and here I was, of all things, tongue-tied!

"What's the matter," she asked. "You got laryngitis just now?"

I mean, fuck! Here she is, and a smartass too, which I love, and I am the king of smartasses, and all I can do is try not to stare at her tits. Maybe as a result, I overcompensated, with, of all things, the truth.

"No, I was just having a hard time not staring at your breasts. They are rather amazing, and..."

"I'm married, asshole," is what she said, but she said it with the slightest hint of a smile.

"Now make yourself useful and pull this fucking thing up, will ya?"

It was not fun. Her hedge trimmer was broken, and a spade would have been worthless. I struggled mightily, and broke a sweat, got some dirt on my suit, but I got that thing—some sort of little tree?—up and out of the ground. It took several minutes. She laughed at me the whole time. Afterward, she offered me a drink, and I chose beer. It seemed like the thing to say. She started inside, and I followed her.

"Whoa, partner," she said at the door. "You stay here—can't have the neighbors talking too much. Meet me in the backyard—there's a gate over there."

How well I knew the layout of their yard. Too weird. I went around back.

It was a beautiful house, closer up. She was something else altogether. You know that girl (or guy, or wood nymph or whatever gets you off) who isn't Barbie or Ken or Eyowyn? But they are exactly what turns you on? Maybe your friends would agree that she's hot, but no one seems to like her as much as you do? That was this woman. What was her hair color? Eyes? Etc? Why does that matter? You know exactly what she looked like. What her nose does when she laughs, the way she brushes her hair back, the taper of her forearm...but I will tell you this much—her breasts were perfect. And her eyes were green, if you really must know. An indiscriminate shade of green.

We talked for about half an hour, and not about much. It was enough to just be there, and picturing her riding her husband while they dreamed of another couple. I wanted to ask her about that, of course. Were they at a swingers party? Had they just casually observed another couple? Was it from a movie? But no. We talked about maniacal gardening neighbors, the weather, baseball(!), and G.I. Joes. Long story.

Eventually my cell rang and real life came crashing back. I had to go. BBQ. We parted ways, and I realized that I was about to walk off with no way of contacting her, short of catching her weeding again.

"Um, Beth, I know you're married, and I don't want to ask for your number or anything, but..." She was looking at me and smiling, reveling in my discomfort.

"Yes? What?" she asked.

"Well, I really enjoyed talking, and I thought we might do it again sometime, if that's not too much."

"It is a little much, but my husband's gone a lot, and I don't know too many people here, at least not the kind I like to hang out with, and you're funny. So, sure. Why don't you email me—I'm good with email."

She gave me her address. At the time, it seemed pretty natural, and you'd think I'd be good at picking up signs of interest, given my history, right? Well, friend, I had no clue whatsoever. She was very disarming, and she managed to make me feel like I did in junior high when the girl you like wants to "just be friends." I had no notion that it would go further.

I waited a few days to email, to not appear eager, but my cock was raw from jerking off while thinking about her and reading implausible stories online about fucking the hottie neighbor lady. I think some of it had to do with her being married, and the taboo thing, but after meeting her in person, it was harder than ever to not think about her. She had said little about her husband, but two things were clear: he was a good guy, and yet she seemed to want something more. There was something in her tone that said "He's great, but..." Nevertheless, I didn't get the feeling that I was a candidate for the position of illicit lover when talking to her. Me! I know!

I emailed her. I tried to make it lighthearted. Who knows how that shit comes across. The bottom line is, she responded that night. It was casual banter. This went on for a couple of weeks. Then, one afternoon: "Come over Thurs. at 7. We can grab a bite at this place I know across town. –B."

My friend, I will tell you this much: when you're down—and I had been in a dating slump for a couple of months—it seems that down is the only direction. When that tide turns, all is well, and it seems, in equally unlikely fashion, that it won't turn back to bad. People get out of your way. Drivers yield. The checkout girl at the market checks you out instead of the other way around. Your dog sits at your feet and sleeps. It's nice. And that's how I felt. Like things were getting better. And that was based on what? The prospect of dinner with a married woman? I don't know why I was so happy about it, but I knew we'd have a great time. I just knew it.

So, we ate. Mexican. It was cute, not pretentious, and great mole sauce. Good margaritas and warm chips, decent salsa fresca. And Beth, she was open, laughing, drinking a fair bit, making jokes. She seemed relieved to be out, and even when I slipped and showed my cards a bit (telling her for the third time how great she looked, etc.), she just smiled. No reproach or anything in her eyes. Just smiling and having a good time.

Which is what made the drive home so shocking. I was thinking we were working our way into a friendly-pals kind of thing. You look, but don't touch. You think about the other person when you masturbate, and occasionally when with your partner, but that's it. Instead, about halfway home, she told me to drive over to a nearby park. "Just find a nice spot on the hill." I was tempted to make a lover's lane joke, but honestly, my throat was awfully tight. I was hoping my silence was coming off like suave as hell. Who knows.

When we stopped, I turned to face her, and she was not smiling, nor was she looking seductive. She looked like she was starting a business meeting.

"OK, here's the thing. I like you, and I like spending time with you."

Good...right?

"I get the sense that you like me, and I know you want to fuck me, and that's perfectly natural, and I'm not offended. I am, however, married."

Hm...cock gets hard, cock gets soft.

I started to speak. "Beth, I just..."

She interrupted. "Don't talk. I have already made up my mind about how this going to proceed, so just listen. You'll like it, I'm sure. And if not, well, that's that, and no hard feelings." I never knew until that moment how sexy a woman with resolve can be. And I didn't even know the plan.

"I want you one night a week. He's gone on business every Wednesday, almost without fail. I want Wednesdays to be ours. I will tell you what we do, and how far you are allowed to proceed. We will not be fucking anytime soon. I will be teasing you to the point that I can whisper in your ear," --at this point she lowered her voice a bit-- "and you'll cum right on the floor. But eventually, you will get to fuck my pussy. Maybe my ass. We will have a lot of fun, I think. However. If I ever change my mind, you are to drop out of my life immediately. For any reason I choose. If you ever hear me say "It's over," it is."

At this point she paused, staring into my eyes, and reached over to my groin. She gently squeezed my cock. She never broke her gaze.

"Good...it's big enough."

"For what," I asked, barely audible.

"To keep me happy. I want one bigger than my husband's, and you are. I'm not into the outrageous ones. Yours is good. If I ever need to get really stretched, I'll have you wear a strap-on and do me very slowly."

It was like the curtain had been yanked back, and the wizard operating this lovely woman's body was even sexier than the woman herself. I wondered if this was her first foray into seducing men while married. I wondered how she would pull this off. I wondered if this was healthy for me. The easiest part was realizing that I didn't give a shit. I wanted this so much, and the planning only made it more intriguing. Except the last part.

"To guarantee that you will exit my life for any reason I choose, you will provide me with two credit card numbers, the addresses and phone numbers of all members of your nuclear family, and those of your boss and two coworkers, and your social."

That broke the spell. The blood rushed back to my brain.

"No fucking way! Beth, what the hell? That's just...well, it's creepy! And I don't want to hurt you, or any..."

She interrupted again. "I have everything to lose. My husband provides a nice life for me. He is a good person, and I don't want to hurt him, or our families. People are irrational. Affairs end badly because they are poorly managed. I don't manage my life poorly. I am a project manager, a seriously talented project manager! I get what I want, and I don't get hurt. I want you. But in order to take you where I will take you—and it is a trip you definitely want to take..."

As she talked, she began slowly and deftly to unbutton the little silk buttons of her light blue top with her perfect blood-red nails.

"...I must have the ability to hurt you, just as you will, as a matter of course, have the ability to hurt me. I don't want to be hurt, and I certainly don't want to hurt you. I have no interest in drama. I want you as a lover, after all. But I'm nobody's fool."

She unclasped her bra, but held the cups together.

"What say you, lover?"

I don't know what I was thinking. My mind was not executing its task list very well. (Weigh threat. Weigh risk vs. reward. Weigh possible outcomes.) The only thing I wanted to weigh were the tits that got me to stop on the street not too long ago and approach this woman. A woman whose bedroom voice I already knew. A woman who had made me hard from 30 feet using only one sense, unbeknownst to her. I considered telling her about my obsession with her from before, but she was holding enough cards already. I felt actual drool almost pour over my bottom lip. Jesus. Are men so simple?

"Yes. Fine. I'll do it," I whispered.

She slowly opened her bra. I won't tell you how perfect they were, or of their imperfections that made them all the more real. Pale, with the nipples just so, areolae colored and sized as you might imagine. They were the breasts of a refined woman. They simply would not have been on the chest of a stripper or a secretary. They were proud. So was Beth, judging by her smile at my reaction.

I began to move toward her, preceded by my hands.

"Whoa now!" she said, laughing. "That's not at all how this goes! You get to kiss one of them, lightly, for three seconds. No biting."