tagErotic CouplingsMrs. Steven Rudy Ch. 01

Mrs. Steven Rudy Ch. 01

byHamletMacbethIII©

Author's note: A few points are in order. First, I must acknowledge that this story was inspired by the song of the same title by Mark McGuinn, but all characters are my own creation. Any resemblances to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Second, while I try to keep my stories fairly grounded in reality, this remains a work of fiction, of fantasy even. So if something seems biologically or anatomically improbable, just remember the MST3K mantra: "It's just a show; I should really just relax." Finally, I am by no means a novice writer, but this is my first attempt at erotica. I welcome criticism/feedback; all I ask is that you be somewhat gentle, as it's my first time.

Chapter 1: Something To Do With My Hands

"Heather!"

Mike jerked awake with a grunt. Eyes closed, he let his head flop back down on the pillow while fragments of the dream replayed in his mind. His nighttime fantasies usually broke apart upon waking, but these dreams refused to disperse. Mike wasn't sure if it was because of their intensity or because fantasy was as close as he'd ever get to what he desired. He wanted it -- he wanted her -- the way a starving man wanted food or a drowning man wanted air. He wanted her body writhing in ecstasy. Her heavy breasts swinging as her flesh slammed into his. Her hips riding his hard cock. Her moans as they came together. Mike groaned and grabbed his aching dick through the briefs he'd worn to bed. His fingers found a sticky mess. Apparently, the climax he felt in his dream had been real.

Sitting up, Mike rubbed his face with the other hand. He climbed out of bed and glanced at the clock. 7:42. Enough time for a quick shower before I go get the paper, he thought. He walked into the bathroom, peeled off his soiled underwear and tossed them in the hamper with a rueful shake of his head. Twenty-six years old, and I'm having wet dreams again. Not that it really came as a surprise. The dreams about Heather occurred several nights a week, as they had since he purchased this small, two-bedroom house next door last July. He'd had plenty of time to get used to it over the last eight months. Fortunately, they only got this intense once every few weeks. The dreams were the whole reason he had taken to wearing underwear to bed again -- at least they provided a bit of protection from having to wash the sheets too often. He had just changed them the other day.

A shower just short of scalding proved distracting enough for Mike's hard-on to dwindle away by the time he finished washing himself. What's the point? he wondered. It would just come roaring back a few minutes after he stepped out the door. The weekly ritual tortured him and fueled his never-ending lust, but Mike couldn't make himself quit. Heather needed a friend she could talk to, and he needed to be near her -- in whatever way he could. Sighing, he shut the water off, got out of the shower, dried himself, and brushed his teeth. He inspected himself critically in the mirror. Not bad looking, he told himself once again before admitting once again: I'm just so damned ordinary. Nothing to catch her eye, that's for sure. At six feet, he stood a little taller than most, but a pale complexion, moderate build, and brown hair and eyes combined with a natural desire to avoid notice, he rarely stood out to anyone. Once he finished in the bathroom, Mike dressed himself in a pair of loose pajama pants and a T-shirt. The clock now read 8:13. Perfect. He walked to the front door and paused with his hand on the knob. "You can do this," he muttered to himself, secure in the knowledge that he had done so several times before. Still, it took a few deep breaths before he could make himself open the door and walk outside. Eyes focused on the thick Sunday edition laying in its plastic wrap -- Not unlike a condom, he mused -- on the sidewalk, Mike walked to pick it up and placed it under his arm before allowing himself to turn and face his neighbor, one hand raised in greeting. Let the torment begin.

Mike laughed softly to himself as he crossed the lawn. The fact that he lived in this well-to-do neighborhood at all was something of a minor miracle. Most of the homes in this subdivision sprawled far apart on lots of an acre or more. Hedgerows and tall fences took care of whatever privacy distance couldn't. Mike's more modest dwelling sat at the end of the street much closer to his neighbor -- a mere minute's walk -- without any intervening barriers. Shortly after moving in, he had learned from Heather's husband Steven that their two properties had been created from three lots with the smaller house intended for in-laws that never manifested due to some marital squabble or other. The Rudys had no need for the extra house, so they had the property subdivided and sold off. They had figured an elderly couple would probably purchase the house, but Heather's husband said a quiet high school geometry teacher worked just as well.

"Husband," he muttered, trying not to let his disgust twist his features. He could clearly see Heather's beautiful, smiling face, which meant she could see his, too. She smiled and waved, sunlight reflecting off her wedding ring. The thing had to be at least a carat and a half, set among smaller diamonds in a platinum band. Bright, expensive, and gaudy as hell. Mike waved back and picked up his pace. He learned a few things from that first meeting with his neighbors. One was that Steven Rudy loved to talk about himself. Another was that the man had married an absolute goddess. And he found that Mr. Rudy kept his wife under an iron thumb, but otherwise seemed content to ignore her. How he could do that, Mike could never understand.

"Good morning, Mrs. Rudy! How are you?" Mike said as he climbed the steps up to her wraparound porch. She was always "Mrs. Rudy." The one time he had tried to call her Heather was the only time she ever raised her voice at him. She was a married woman, Heather told him, and he would keep a certain level of propriety if he wanted to maintain any kind of friendship. Mike did, so the proprieties were kept.

"Good morning, Michael," Heather said from her seat on a porch swing as he mounted the steps. "I am doing well, I guess. How are you?"

Mike nodded and mumbled a response. He perched on a porch rail across from her while trying not to gawk too openly. As usual, Heather had draped herself in a short robe. She couldn't really be said to wear the garment as it seemed to perpetually be in danger of falling off of her. Thanks to the warm spring weather, she had donned one of Mike's favorites: a short, silk kimono that revealed more cleavage than it hid. God bless Texas, he thought. Whenever she leaned over, he got a good look at her blue-ribbon-worthy tits. He figured the heavy (and heavenly) boobs had to be at least a good D-cup, with large areolas and prominent, pencil-eraser nipples. And she leaned over quite often, since she like to use this time to paint her toenails. This brought her feet into the chair, frequently giving him just as good a view of her panties, which were invariably thin and tight enough to show that she had puffy lips and kept her pussy either shaved or waxed. Mike's money was on waxed.

These little displays started a couple of months after he moved in. By that time, their weekly chats had become routine. Mike couldn't quite figure out how flashing him squared with her notion of "propriety." Either she assumed him too much of a gentleman to look -- which, since she knew he was a breathing, straight male, he doubted -- or she considered it a small reward for his friendship and being at least enough of a gentleman to refrain from bringing it up. Either way, he was more than happy to let her keep providing fodder for his dreams and masturbating marathons. Heather might be, as she put it, "hovering around forty" (she refused to say where, exactly), but she put women decades younger to shame. He hadn't needed porn in months.

Wait. Did she call me "Michael"? Propriety had always mandated she call him "Mr. Baker." He finally looked at her face. She normally let her long, auburn hair fall freely to frame her oval face and cascade down her back, but now she had it back in a ponytail to keep it out of the way while she painted her nails. This gave her a more youthful and vulnerable appearance as it left her features open. Looking at her now, Mike thought he saw a tightness around her emerald green eyes and a strain in her brilliant smile. "Mrs. Rudy, are you sure you're OK?"

Heather ignored his question. "Do you think Steven will like this color?" She straightened her left leg, thrusting her toes toward his face and giving him the clearest view of her crotch ever. Mike groaned. Her panties weren't just thin; they were sheer. For the first time, he could clearly make out the cleft of her pussy. Mike wanted nothing more at that moment than to bury his face in between her legs. His cock, which had been hard since he sat on the porch rail, stiffened painfully. Mike forced his eyes back down the smooth leg to focus on the toes in question. They were a brilliant electric blue.

"Very nice," he croaked. He couldn't seem to get enough spit in his suddenly dry mouth to talk correctly. Heather studied his face for a moment. Her smile relaxed and broadened. The leg folded itself back onto the seat, and she giggled. Mike thought he'd never heard a more beautiful sound. He felt his lips stretch into what had to be the goofiest grin ever. The silence spun out between them as they gazed at one another.

Suddenly, Heather's smile vanished. In its absence, she looked tired, sad, and confused. And a little angry, Mike thought. "Oh, who gives a fuck?" she growled, snatching the bottle of polish from the swing beside her and hurling it off into the yard. "It's not like he's going to see the damn things, anyway." She folded her arms and scowled. "And in answer to your question, no I am not fucking OK."

Mike's jaw dropped. He'd never heard her use such language. Hell, I didn't even know she knew that kind of language. He cleared his throat. "Another extended business trip?"

"What else? It's always the same thing. You would think the bastard would at least come up with a new excuse," she snapped. Taking a deep breath, Heather shook her head and sighed. "I'm sorry, Michael. You didn't deserve that. I don't know why I'm unloading on you. You come over here for a nice chat, and I start dumping my problems on you..." She buried her face in her hands.

Sliding off the rail, Mike slipped into the swing beside her and wrapped one arm around her shoulders, careful to keep his hand on the silk robe. He didn't know if he would be able to control himself if he touched bare skin. "It's no problem, Mrs. Rudy. Really. What are friends for?"

"Thank you." The older woman smiled at him and leaned into his shoulder. "You have certainly been that. In fact, I'd have to say you're probably my best friend. If you hadn't moved in next door, I think I would have lost my mind by now."

"Oh, I doubt that." Mike managed a small laugh. He hesitated a moment. "If you don't mind a friend asking, what is the problem?" She frowned and arched an eyebrow. He spoke in a rush: "I mean, why now? As you said, it's always like this, so what's got you chucking bottles this time?"

Chewing on her bottom lip, Heather stared at him for a long moment. Probably trying to decide if telling me about marital troubles is kosher within "a certain level of propriety." Whatever debate was going on in her head, she settled it quickly with a quick nod of her her head and a small sigh. "Our anniversary is next week. It's our twentieth. We decided a couple of years ago that we would take a special trip to commemorate the occasion, but here we are, a week away, and I haven't heard one word about such a trip or even a hint that he even knows next week is anything special. Just another call last night to say his business would keep him in New Orleans another day or two. Bastard."

"Maybe he's got it set up as a surprise?" The words sounded lame in his ears. Mike hated defending the man, even accidentally, but figured it should be said, however unconvincingly. Heather looked at him as if she wanted to ask him how many IQ points he had lost this morning.

"Does Steven really strike you as the type for romantic surprises?" she asked dryly. Mike shook his head. "He even scheduled his proposal." Her eyes narrowed. "Do you think he's cheating on me?"

Mike wanted to yell, "Of course he's cheating on you," but managed to bite back the words. "Mrs. Rudy, I can't say."

"Can't or won't?"

"Can't," he said firmly, and then sighed. "It certainly looks suspicious, but I'm not one to level accusations at somebody without proof, not even --" He snapped his jaws shut.

"Not even my husband?" Heather barked a wry laugh. "It's OK, Michael. I'm well aware that you don't like Steven."

"I don't like the way he treats you," Mike said softly. She looked at him oddly, and he coughed into his fist. "I mean, what kind of friend would I be if I just stood by and ignored the fact that your husband takes you for granted?"

"Thank you," Heather whispered. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and stood. She crossed the porch to lean on the rail where he had been sitting. The woman was tall, just a few inches shy of looking him directly in the eye. A pair of decent heels, and I'd be looking up at her, Mike thought. I'd like to see that. Heather fiddled with the belt of her robe as she spoke: "It's not just taking me for granted. I could probably deal with that. Any couple can get into a rut after two decades together. No, it's the fact that he flat-out ignores me that has me so riled up. Do you know that we haven't made love in...well, let's be honest. We haven't made love in years. I guess what I should say is that I haven't been fucked in six months. It was his birthday, so he gave me a good five minutes of his time before he rolled over and went to sleep." She laughed bitterly. Mike caught a hint of tears, as well.

"Six months? Surely not. I mean, your birthday was last month..." He trailed off, uncertain of what to say.

"My birthday?!" Her laughter sounded a little wild this time, and her tears were much closer to the surface. "He celebrated my birthday by going to bed extra early so he would be well rested for another business meeting. Shit, you gave me my only present this year."

"That's a little pathetic." Mike had to laugh a bit at that. His gift had been a book of Shel Silverstein poetry, something she said she had enjoyed since childhood.

Heather joined in his laughter. "It was sweet." Her mirth died as quickly as it began, swallowed in a sob that made her shoulders heave. As much as Mike hated himself for it, he couldn't help but notice how it also made her breasts sway. He dismissed the thought as her tears began to flow. "What is wrong with me?"

"Absolutely nothing, trust me --" He started to get up, but she held one hand in a halting gesture.

Her tears stopped, but her lips trembled still. "I do trust you, Michael," she broke in. Heather stopped fiddling with the sash and untied it. "I trust you to be honest with me. So give me your honest opinion." She shrugged, and the robe fell in a puddle at her feet. "I know I'm not really young any more. How bad do I look?"

Mike's eyes bulged. Heather stood with her arms lifted slightly from her sides, wrists turned out, and one knee bent as she submitted herself to his perusal. He had enjoyed the glimpses of her body over the last several months, but they had done little to prepare him for this moment. Her large breasts hung heavy on her chest. They might have sagged a bit in deference to her years, but if so, it was minimal and did nothing to detract from her beauty. His gaze slid down her flawless skin, across her taut belly, and around her full hips, finally resting on her crotch. Heather still had her panties on, but he pussy was so wet that the sheer fabric had glued itself to her lips.

Mike realized his jaw was hanging open and snapped it shut, certain he was drooling as much as that delectable cunt. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a dry wheeze.

"What was that?" Heather asked, chewing on her bottom lip.

I'd love to kiss those plump lips, he thought. Or maybe slide my cock in between them. He cleared his throat. "Absolutely gorgeous. Mrs. Rudy, you are perfection personified." He sat back, hoping to see her relax and maybe even smile.

Heather's face crumpled, and she looked to be on the verge of a fresh bout of tears. Then anger began to rise. Her beautiful features narrowed and focused, making her look something akin to an avenging angel. Mike found himself a little scared of her and more than a little aroused. "I asked for honesty, Michael, not this pathetic attempt to get into my panties." She bent and retrieved her robe.

"Oh, no you don't." Growling, Mike shot to his feet and stepped quickly across the porch until they stood toe to toe. He snatched the robe away and tossed it on swing. Her eyes went wide when his finger poked her between the breasts. "You said you trust me to give you an honest opinion, and when I give it to you, you call me a fucking liar? I don't think so. But if you won't trust my words, maybe you'll believe this." He grabbed her hand and shoved it to his crotch. Gasping, Heather gripped his hard-on through his pants. Mike gritted his teeth and fought the urge to cum. His voice came out as a moan. "Does that feel like I'm lying?"

"No, but --"

"'But' nothing. I don't know what your husband's problem is, but the man is obviously a complete idiot." He removed his hand, but hers remained, squeezing and relaxing his throbbing cock. Pre-cum had already soaked through the pajamas. "You have had me hard almost constantly since July."

"Seriously? You spend all day with hot teenage girls, and you expect me to believe that I'm the one doing this to you?" She sounded skeptical, but she looked thoughtful, and her hand still worked his dick.

"Children. A bunch of little girls playing at being women." He cupped her chin and turned her face toward his. "You are the real thing. You're beautiful, and curvy, and so damn sexy." He kissed her lips softly. She remained still for a moment, then opened her mouth to his. Heather moaned as their tongues wrestled and explored each others' mouths.

Mike pulled back and lowered his head to kiss her jaw, the first in a trail that lead down her throat and around to the curve of her neck and shoulder. He reached behind her head and pulled the ponytail loose, allowing her hair to tumble free. Heather's moans rose as he ran his fingers through her hair and nuzzled her neck. "Mrs. Rudy," he whispered.

"Mmmm." She let go of his cock and grabbed his waistband. Her free hand gripped the back of his head and pulled him to her mouth. She kissed his lips and cheek before taking his ear lightly between her teeth. "Call me Heather, please." A quick pull of his drawstring, and his pajamas fell to the porch with a soft whump. He kicked the pants behind him and spread his legs to keep from falling over. Heather looked down and licked her lips. "I thought you felt nice, but I wasn't expecting you to be quite so...impressive."

"Glad you like it," he groaned as her fingers tried to wrap themselves around his hard-on. They couldn't quite manage. At a little over seven inches, he'd never considered his length all that "impressive," but it seemed to get the job done, especially when it was nearly as thick as his wrist.

Mike let one hand slide down Heather's back to grab and massage her heart-shaped ass while the other pushed her panties aside to grant him access to her sopping wet pussy. Two fingers pushed inside and started pumping -- slowly at first, but quickly building speed. Heather gasped and tightened her grip on his cock, stroking his turgid member in time with the fingers fucking in and out of her cunt. Mike lowered his head and sucked on her right nipple, which felt easily as hard as his dick. She yelped when he nipped it with his teeth. Thinking he had gone too far, he tried to pull back, but Heather shoved his head to her other tit. "Suck it," she growled. "Bite it."

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byHamletMacbethIII© 3 comments/ 10142 views/ 14 favorites

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