Love Thy Neighbor

Hillary was alone in the new house. Jenna was at a teacher's conference, and Uncle Jefferson was on a book tour, promoting his new thriller "I Spy a Wild Guy".

She sat at the table in the kitchen and took stock. They had moved in only a week ago. Furniture had been placed in six of the rooms. One room on the second floor and the entire third floor would remain empty for the moment. Critical boxes had been unpacked, but many more remained unopened.

The kitchen and breakfast nook had been completely set up the first day at Jefferson's insistence. He was the main cook, breadwinner, and rule maker, so he got what he wanted.

Hillary chuckled to herself, "I can't cook, but even I wanted the kitchen set up. I do like to eat."

The woman took a sip of coffee and ate a bite of peanut butter toast.

Getting the dozens of other boxes unpacked was actually the least of the work that needed to be done. The wallpaper had to be stripped, rooms painted, the exterior cleaned, and the yard brought under control.

When Hillary had seen the house, she fell in love with it. The others weren't as thrilled. From the outside, the house was dark, brooding, almost menacing. It was the type of house you might find in a Jane Austin or Emily Bronte novel, standing alone on a Scottish moor occupied by a reclusive woman with a tragic tale of abandonment and loss.

That isn't what Hillary saw. She saw a castle with fair maidens in brightly colored gowns, knights fending off dragons, fancy balls, and secret rendezvous' by young lovers.

It appealed to Hillary's overly active imagination and her sense of adventure.

Convincing the others wasn't as hard as Hillary expected. Uncle Jefferson, who would have to pay for the house, saw a bargain. Unoccupied for several years, the heirs of the former owner were being threatened with big fines if they didn't start cleaning up the place. They were ready to dump it on the first sucker (oops, I mean buyer) who made a halfway decent offer.

Aside from the bargain price, Jefferson could have a quiet office to write in and space to entertain his numerous friends and business associates. Being off the beaten path would also limit the number of crazy fans who appeared uninvited at the front door.

Jenna was the one who needed the most convincing. Best friends since elementary school, Jenna was the pragmatic one who tried to limit the 'crazy' in Hillary's crazy ideas, sometimes successfully, sometimes not.

What she saw in the old place was a lot of work. Work that had to be done while she was starting a new job and Jefferson would be on a long book tour. Hillary would promise to help, but holding her to the promise was another matter.

On the plus side, Jenna's new job was at a local private school. Living at the house would cut her commute to almost zero. With a big house, she could set aside a room or two for after school tutoring of students who were struggling.

Jenna also thought a big house might help with Hillary's flights of fancy. Not eliminate them, but at least keep them contained. She agreed to the purchase but only after making Hillary triple pinky swear to work hard.

"I love you house," Hillary said aloud. "We'll make you a happy place again."

The family decided to begin on the outside. One could live with outdated wallpaper, but the depressing gloom cast by the house had to go. The lingering threat of fines made the decision even easier.

Jenna removed some moss and dirt by hand to find the actual stone was a rose color. She rented a professional pressure washing machine and blasted 90 years of accumulated gunk from the first floor walls. Professionals were hired to do the top two floors.

Heavy drapes were removed. Jefferson cut down the trees blocking the windows, brightening the inside considerably. He dragged the debris to a compost pile near the back fence using a small tractor. With a mower attachment, he attacked the acres of overgrown weeds.

Hillary worked on landscaping. She had a vision for what the outside should be like -- a country Squire's home. Ornate planters would flank the door, filled with brightly colored annuals. Heritage roses, planted near each corner of the house, would blossom all year. Heather would border the walkway. The overgrown hedges surrounding the yard would be trimmed.

The battered black mailbox was replaced with one that was the same shade of rose as the house. A local artist painted butterflies on the sides. Underneath a sign hung, immodestly but truthfully declaring it "The Big House".

Hillary slipped on a dress. She had been naked, as always. Hanging in the foyer and by the back door were dresses that were easy to slip on when visitors called.

Today, she was taking on the hedges surrounding the house. They had been untended for years, growing tall and thick with branches sprouting wildly in all directions. Hillary was determined to return them to the clean straight lines of formal English gardens.

With her own way of doing things, she began with the hedges facing the kitchen window rather than starting at one end or the other. Those were the hedges she looked at the most, so those would be the ones she trimmed first. She had barely begun when she realized there was a brick wall behind the hedges.

"A secret wall!" she thought.

To Hillary's way of thinking, that was as good as finding buried treasure. Who knew how long ago the wall had been built? Or how long ago it had been forgotten?

An hour later and six feet down the long line of bushes, Hillary discovered a gate. Her sense of adventure whetted, she attacked with the clippers and uncovered it. Pulling the handle resulted in loud squeals from the hinges, but the door stopped moving after an inch or two.

Hillary knew lube was in her bedroom, but that was the wrong lubricant. She found the box with tools and supplies, returned to the gate, and sprayed on a liberal coating of WD40. Pushing, pulling, and more sprays quieted the squealing hinges, and eventually, the door opened all the way.

The other side of the gate was covered by ivy, not hedges. Cutting a person sized hole, she stepped through to find herself in the neighbor's side yard. Looking back at the brick wall, she saw it was covered with ivy.

The ivy on one side and the hedges on the other completely hid the wall. Hillary, Jenna, Jefferson, and the realtor had passed by many times without seeing it.

The realtor had mentioned that decades ago when a railroad magnate had owned the property, the land where the neighbor's house was located had been an orchard.

"I wonder if the gate was so he could sneak out to the orchard to meet his mistress," Hillary thought, grinning at the idea.

Hillary imagined a nubile young woman reaching up to pick an apple. She wore a long, lacy, gossamer gown revealing her firm breasts and dark pubic hair. The woman sat under the tree, eating her apple and waiting for her lover to appear.

Her vivid imagination would have conjured up other scenarios, but she was distracted by a passing vehicle. The engine roared as the driver downshifted, brakes squealed, and the noise fell to an idle. It was the school bus stopping to let out three students.

* * * * *

I was lying on a chaise lounge in the backyard, working on my tan. I have always wanted an all-over tan but am afraid somebody will catch me naked in the backyard. Outrage would certainly follow such a discovery.

This is a small town, so the outrage might be about the nudity or because lying in the sun, doing nothing productive, violated a firm belief in the Puritan work ethic.

The bikini I wore was as skimpy as my modesty and age allowed. Not that I'm old, but at 37, I wasn't about to wear a suit as daring as the very trim, very firm twenty somethings that frequented the local beach. Nobody needs to see the dimples on my ass.

The bus rattled to a stop. It always sounded ready to give up the ghost. I ignored it. The bus stop is at the edge of my property. When I first moved in, I watched out my window feeling it was my civic duty to be sure the children got off safely. The only kids who got off now were teenagers who didn't need my vigilance.

"HEY! LEAVE HIM ALONE!"

I didn't recognize the voice, but I recognized the tone. It was the commanding tone adults use when children misbehave.

Getting up, I went to the corner of the house. A petite woman with auburn hair was striding toward the bus stop. There was purpose in her step. There was also a sway in her hips that made my stomach do a flip.

I didn't know who she was but took a guess it was one of my new neighbors. I had caught glimpses of them working on the exterior of the house but hadn't introduced myself. The fact they were fixing up the place was enough for me to like them.

Down by the street, three boys stood, looking toward the redhead. Whatever had been happening had been interrupted by the shout. I knew all three, at least by reputation. They were seniors in high school. The two tallest were minor-league troublemakers who had been held back multiple times.

They were bullies, the sort that picked on weaker kids but scurried away from any serious challenge.

Hank, the leader, was just under six feet tall with muscles that come from weightlifting, not work. Tank, whose real name was Francis, was the follower. He was a couple inches taller and thirty pounds heavier. His size was his main weapon.

The third boy lived nearby. Timmy was quiet, thin, and awkward. A nerd. The perfect target for the other two.

Strolling across the yard, I figured I would provide backup for the redhead. Plus, I could get a better look at this stranger with long wavy hair and a cute ass.

Why was I thinking about her ass? I'm not into women. Except once or twice in college. Maybe three times, but that was a long time ago. Before several ex-husbands soured me on relationships. I shook my head and focused on the scene in front of me.

The redhead was standing between the bullies and their target. Hank and Tank dwarfed the woman. Almost a foot taller and considerably heavier. Timmy lingered nearby as if uncertain whether to flee or not.

The body language told the story. Hank and Tank stood with feet apart, defiant. The redhead was firmly planted in front of them, alert but not scared. She was giving them an earful.

Hank moved like he was about to push Timmy or possibly the woman. He didn't reach either one. Instead, he suddenly stumbled, flipped, and lay on the ground, his arm twisted awkwardly behind his back. The redhead sat on Hank and glared at Tank, who was already retreating.

I arrived in time to hear the end of what the redhead was saying.

"You leave him alone from now on. I can do this every day and twice on Sunday. I'll be watching."

There was anger and determination in her tone. She let Hank's arm go and stood. A wise boy would have left quietly, but Hank was not a wise boy. Halfway to his feet, he muttered, "Bitch."

The redhead put her foot on his rather large behind and shoved. Hank face-planted on the sidewalk for the second time.

"It's very rude to call a woman that," she explained with a smile.

I struggled not to laugh out loud. Hank limped off down the road.

"Are you okay?" she asked Timmy. "Do you want me to walk home with you?"

The boy looked as if nothing could be worse than having her walk him home.

"He lives just down the street," I broke in. "You head home, Timmy. We'll stay here."

He nodded gratefully. "Thank you," he said to the redhead before moving off. He looked back once, making sure we weren't following.

"That was quite a show. I was coming to back you up, but obviously, you didn't need it."

"My parents were worriers. I was four when they first signed me up for self-defense classes."

She waved as Timmy opened his front door. He reluctantly waved back.

"I hate bullies," she commented. "I was bullied in school because I was short. At least until I beat the crap out of a couple kids. Jenna keeps telling me I should take conflict resolution classes, but I never do."

She turned to face me, a grin on her face.

"My way is quicker and more satisfying." She held out her hand. "I'm Hillary. We just moved in next door."

I had seen her using heavy hedge clippers on my daily walks. Yet, her hand felt soft and warm, like holding a small puppy.

I looked at Hillary more closely. She was young, probably no more than 22 or 23. Barely five feet tall, with wavy auburn hair that hung almost to her waist, green eyes, and a petite frame. My impression was of a delicate pixie.

Something about her attitude made it clear "delicate" wasn't part of her vocabulary.

"I'm Harriet. I was in the backyard when I heard you shout."

Hillary's eyes roved over my body, and I was suddenly aware of how little my bikini covered. Unlike when a man leers and ogles, her gaze was very matter-of-fact, as if she was assessing a painting or sculpture. However, the sparkle in her eyes said more than mere curiosity was behind the look.

There was suddenly dampness between my legs and I felt perspiration on my forehead.

"How did you happen to be in my yard?" I stammered. "Were you coming over for something?"

Hillary laughed. "Come see. It's a secret passage."

She put her arm in mine and a thrill coursed through my body as she guided me along the ivy to an area that had been newly cut. Peering into the dark recess, I made out a door.

"I was cutting the hedge on the other side and found a wall behind it all. Then I discovered this gate. It's like a secret passage from our kitchen to your house," she babbled. "Before your house was built, I bet people used it so they wouldn't be seen. You know to meet their lovers."

My practical side thought it ait more likely the gate was a convenient way to deliver groceries to the kitchen.

Hillary continued, weaving a tale about knights, secret trysts, late night rendezvous, and forbidden love. Since the town had been founded in the 1800s, I was pretty sure there had never been knights, but Hillary's enthusiasm got me caught up in the story anyway.

"The moonlight caressed her pale skin as she waited for her lover, sheer nightgown fluttering in a warm breeze. Forbidden by her father to marry, she was running away. Her lover rode up, as dark as she was fair. Only his expression was light, and then only when he looked at her."

"He swept her onto his mighty stallion, turned, and put the spurs to its flanks. They disappeared over the hill. Her mother sat up in that window for months, grief stricken, praying to see her daughter one more time."

Hillary pointed to a window on the top floor at the corner of the house.

"A year later, to the day, a dark carriage appeared at the top of the hill. It approached slowly, entering through the front. A man stepped out, turned, and tenderly removed a shroud covered object. He laid it before the mother and eased back the cloth. It was her daughter. The mother fell to her knees, weeping."

"He turned and brought out another bundle. It was a newborn baby, her granddaughter. Now, she wept tears of joy."

We stood in silence for a moment. I'll admit to having a tear in my eye.

"One thing's for sure," Hillary continued, hands on hips. "Dear old dad never got laid again after he made his daughter run away."

I burst out in laughter.

After inviting me for coffee the next day, Hillary collected the hedge clippers and walked back through her secret door. I knew I'd always remember her imaginary ill-fated lovers, Sir Martin and Lady Madelyn.

* * * * *

Hillary carefully wiped off the hedge clippers before putting them away. Jenna was the Queen of the Tool Chest and demanded each item be kept in good condition.

She slipped off the house dress, returning to her normal state of nudity, and stretched. A nap might be required before dinner.

"Harriet seemed nice," she thought. "That bikini was sexy as hell. Maybe I'll get to see what's under it one of these days."

Trudging up the steps, Hillary decided an elevator should be added to the To-Do List. She lay on the big bed, pulling the sheet up to her shoulders. One hand went between her legs and the other on her small breast.

She thought about her neighbor. Taller than Hillary, tanned with blonde hair. A natural blonde. Hillary had seen tufts of hair sticking out from the scanty bottoms of the bikini, which hinted at a full bush.

Hillary had her fingers deep inside her pussy, slowly sliding in and out, keeping a level of stimulation that was arousing but wouldn't make her cum.

Harriet appeared to be in her mid to late thirties. The woman's breasts sagged a little, and there were a few extra pounds around the waist, but Hillary found variety in the human form to be sexy.

A skimpy bikini made of thin material. Nipples outlined under the top. A full bush. Clearly, Harriet was not shy about her body.

Hillary wasn't shy about her body either. This could be interesting. Her fingers were still in her wet slit as she drifted off to sleep.

* * * * *

In the morning, I heard the rattle of the school bus and jumped out of bed. I was naked and stood back from the window, but I could see well enough. I wanted to know if my auburn haired pixie was really going to be watching to make sure Timmy wasn't bullied.

She stood about 15 feet from the stop, arms crossed and bare feet firmly planted on the grass. The low angle of the sun put highlights in her hair. I noticed her muscular calves and wondered about her thighs.

One by one, the boys arrived and waited. Timmy gave the woman the tiniest nod and turned away, both relieved and embarrassed that she was there. Tank, who had scampered off yesterday, looked at the ground and scuffed his shoe in the dirt. Hank had a sullen glare but didn't look away.

As the bus slowly ground to a halt, Hillary casually strode forward. Resting her hand on Hank's arm, she said a few words and walked away.

Coffee was scheduled for 10 a.m., and I was feeling uncomfortable about going. Entering my house after the encounter yesterday, I paused before a long mirror. Twisting and turning, I noticed tufts of pubic hair sticking out of my bikini.

"Oh, god. Hillary had to notice that. How will I sit and chat with her, knowing she's seen my pubes?"

Moving to my closet, I tried to decide what to wear. One outfit was too formal; one was too casual. This one was too revealing; that one didn't reveal enough.

I thought about canceling but didn't know Hillary's phone number. Showing up at the door to say, "I can't come over," seemed ridiculous.

Why was I so nervous? It felt like a first date, not a neighborly cup of coffee. I knew why I was so nervous. I wanted to make a good impression on the little pixie.

Time was getting short. I swapped my t-shirt for a white blouse. The jeans were adequate. Tying the blouse under my breasts, I shook my head. Too young a look for a woman my age. I tucked the tails into the jeans. My mother would have said I was "presentable".

As I went through Hillary's secret gate, I wondered what adventures might await me. A silly thought. I had a job at the bookstore, my pottery business was doing well, and I had friends and family nearby. At 37, my life was settled and happy.

There was a burst of activity after I knocked at the door. Hillary ushered me in, wearing a floral wrap-around dress with the belt loosely tied. Being a few inches taller, I couldn't help but notice that her small breasts were braless. I wondered if she was also without panties and blushed at the thought.

Hillary is one of those rare people who can chat easily and also listen intently. She talked about how the work on the house was progressing and her desire to find a satisfying career. I talked about my job and pottery business.

She got the coffee pot and refilled my cup, leaning over the table as she did. I glanced down at the dress and couldn't stop staring. The dress was loose, her tits were small, and the result was I could see everything. Her breasts were firm and pale, shaped like ice cream cones, with lovely brown nipples jutting from the ends.