On The Street Where You Live

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Fantasy becomes painful reality.
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MaxT
MaxT
25 Followers

The summer he turned eighteen, Paul was working two jobs, a part-time gig in a bar and doing gardens, the latter taking him mostly to the suburbs on the eastern outskirts of town. One of his main sources of work was an estate called Ellismore, a nice middle-class enclave where garden quality and maintenance was of critical importance to the residents. For him, however, the attraction in working this particular beat was not simply financial. Ellismore was where Jane lived.

Jane was the Guidance Counsellor at the secondary school that he had left for good just a few weeks before. Over the course of the five years he had spent there, via a process akin to the action of a slow poison, she had become his obsession. A fleshy brunette in her early thirties, she was a pleasant looking if unremarkable woman. Her dark, feline eyes were her best feature but her most prominent was an aquiline nose that dominated her face and made her appear sterner than the easy-going person she was in reality. Why her rather than one of the other more conventionally beautiful female faculty members? He couldn't explain it. Those women were better looking but they all lacked a mysterious and fascinating something that Jane, alone out of all of them, possessed in abundance.

When he sat opposite her in her office, sitting in one of the two high backed chairs she used for one-on-one sessions with pupils, Paul wondered if she knew what she was doing to him. She was so close. He could smell her almond scent, see the hem of her bra through the sheer blouses she used to wear. She liked red lipstick and nail varnish, tight jeans and thick gold jewellery, patent leather shoes and polo neck sweaters stretched to agonizing tautness about her breasts. He knew that one of her rings was a wedding ring and that she was the mother of a young son but none of that mattered to him. It was her body that preoccupied him, the sweet promise contained in her flesh, her breasts, her cunt...

The fantasy Jane he concocted loved to fuck. She fucked with relish and with a lack of guilt that was the defining characteristic of his idea of a modern, independent woman. There was nothing she wouldn't have tried, he reckoned -- other women, double penetration, gang-bangs. He imagined a procession of lovers she had taken in the years before her marriage and which, for all he knew, she was still enjoying. Her husband he had down as a habitual cuckold, a no-man whose only gratification came from watching his wife getting fucked by men who, unlike him, were fully capable of performing the deed.

If she was aware of the effect she had upon him, then she made a good job of concealing it. Their relationship remained cordial but professional and it was only in the extravagant world of his fantasies that he could show her how he really felt...

Jane and her husband looked after their own garden so they weren't in need of his services. But when he was in Ellismore, it was enough for him to be close to her, to watch her as she came and went in her burgundy Corolla, unloading bags of shopping from the boot or extracting her son and his paraphernalia from the back seat. Once or twice she spotted him and waved but for the most part, she remained oblivious to his presence.

Her house fascinated him. He monitored it incessantly as he sweated in her neighbours' gardens. He willed x-ray vision on himself so that he might see through the walls and observe the small details of her daily life. It didn't have to be sexual. He would have been content to watch her sort through the washing or talk on the phone; peel vegetables or sit in silence, an upturned novel in her lap, peering through the window at the boy -- what was his name again? -- working in the garden of the house opposite.

She and her son had the house to themselves every day of the summer. The generous break was one of the perks of her career. Her husband, on the other hand, who worked as an actuary, had no such luck. He left the house every morning at half eight and returned between half five and six, greeted at the door every time by his beautiful wife and son. What happened once the door shut? Dinner, junior's bedtime and when she came back down, having settled the child, he was waiting for her on the couch in the front room, his cock already hard inside his pants. Except it was no longer her husband. Lying in bed, achingly erect on the edge of sleep, Paul watched from the sofa in her front room as she walked towards him unbuttoning her blouse, her lips moist and smiling...

*

Paul was in Ellismore that morning to finish off a job from the previous day. He was glad that there wasn't much to be done. Even though it was only nine o'clock, it was obvious that the day was going to be punishingly hot.

Up the street from the garden where he was working, he could see Jane's car parked in the driveway outside her house. The two previous days, she and the child had left at ten and returned in the afternoon. He was curious to see if she was conforming to a routine. Though he had fantasized many times about creeping her house, it was only since the day before that he had felt the new and irresistible need that had arisen within him, one whose prompting was impossible to ignore. He worked out a timeframe: she was gone from ten to three, say. He'd be finished up at half ten. Providing he could find a way in, that gave him four hours. Four hours alone in her house...already he saw himself fingering her clothes, smelling the sheets where she slept. He could take a souvenir, he thought. Something small but intimate, something she wouldn't notice was missing. An old sock or a pair of knickers...it didn't matter as long as it was hers.

He wiped the sweat from his face and checked his watch. Nine fifty. His cock was so hard with anticipation that he found it difficult to stand still. Any notion of the sleaziness, or, indeed, the illegality of what he was contemplating was powerless in the face of the violence of his urges. He prayed that she would come out and she did, just after ten, dressed in a pair of cut-off jeans that ended just above her knees and a green short-sleeved blouse, her eyes hidden behind a pair of shades. Her son clutched one of her hands while in the other, she carried a gym bag with a rolled up beach towel on top. An identical MO to the previous two days. They would be going to the lake, he decided. The boy could paddle while Jane deepened the colour of flesh that was already deliciously brown. She waved at him as she drove past and he waved back with a trembling hand.

As soon as he was finished, he left the estate via a gap in the ditch that bordered a green space between Jane's house and her left hand neighbour's. On the other side was a field that granted access to the back wall of Jane's garden. He scanned the terrain. Not a sinner in sight. The breezeblock wall he sought was thickly covered with ivy and, after a final wary look around, he buried his hands in the greenery, using it to hoist himself up. He paused at the summit, flattening himself among the cold leaves. Directly below was a small shrubbery and beyond this, a neat, toy-strewn lawn. He dropped down and made his way carefully through the bushes before sprinting towards the white pebble-dashed kitchen extension at the rear of the house. The back door was locked but when he checked the window, he found that it was only loosely secured from the inside by its bottom latch. He popped the latter with the aid of a plastic wall tie he had brought along and heaved his way inside on to the sink, taking care not to upset the washed up breakfast plates on the draining board as he climbed down on to the floor.

His breath was shallow and his bowels in turmoil as he stood there, frozen in the clock-ticking stillness. He took in his surroundings...a table and chairs in the centre of the room, a glass-fronted dresser against the right hand wall containing ornaments and ceremonial china, a white painted door in the wall opposite. With each item he noted, he felt a mounting sensation, equal parts panic and euphoria, as he came to terms with the enormity of the fact of where he was and what he was doing. "Jane's house...I'm in Jane's house." He breathed in the same cool air she had breathed earlier that same morning, aroused by the hint of her recent physical presence. And there was more, the white residue of her wiped mouth upon the sleeve of a familiar blue cardigan that was hanging among the aprons on a set of hooks on the back of the door. He probed the stain with his tongue to see what she tasted like, a drop of come leaking from the tip of his cock. Her wet mouth, her wet cunt...He dropped the sleeve before the urge to masturbate into it became overwhelming. It was too soon. There was a whole house to explore...

Beyond the kitchen door was a tiled hallway that ran parallel to the staircase. He stopped to examine an airbrushed family portrait hanging on the right-hand wall. Both husband's and wife's smiles looked forced, he thought. The boy looked terrified. Jane, who was sitting, held the child in her lap. She was wearing a red and white striped dress that he had never seen before, reminding him that upstairs, in her bedroom, was the treasure chest of her wardrobe.

His hand left a trail of sweat on the bannister on the way up the stairs. Every creaking board sounded like an iceberg shearing off a portion of itself. And an adrenaline-induced need to shit, one that had been building in intensity since he had climbed through the window, had become critical. Unable to hold out any longer, he emptied his bowels in the bathroom upstairs, hoping to God that the poisonous stench would have cleared by the time Jane returned. Even Glade was useless. Wincing at the racket made by the toilet's flush, he examined a laundry basket by the door. It was empty except for a man's white shirt and a pair of pink cotton knickers that he drew forth as if they were a holy relic. His fingers shook as they explored the tired elastic of the waistband, the stiffness of the bleached gusset, the faint brown line at their rear. He put them on his face like a mask...There. There it was, in the midst of the funk of her arse and cunt, the scent of almonds, conjuring up a bombardment of images -- her aroused cunt moistening the fabric that enveloped it, the undulation of her arse cheeks beneath skintight denim, her tongue sliding over his and into his mouth...

He groaned her name and unzipped himself, wrapping the knickers around the tip of his cock and, almost immediately, shot the most blissful load of his life up to that point. The cotton became dark and slimy with hot come as his juices finally mingled with hers. His face looked back at him from the mirror above the sink, slack-jawed as an idiot's. He hadn't wanted to come so soon but Jane had made it impossible not to. The joy he had felt on entering the house surged up again. He wiped the last drops of cum from his cock and stuffed the balled up knickers into his pocket. What else did she have to show him?

Her bedroom was different to how he had imagined it. The fantasy version, where they had fucked on countless occasions, was always dim. A nostalgic wrinkle in his fantasizing had added window shutters and candlelight but it was a place where past and future were meaningless. Their fucking took place in an intense and eternally frozen present, devoid of all realism. So familiar to him was the imaginary space that, for a few seconds after opening the door, he had difficulty accepting that what confronted him was actually the real thing. Beige carpet, soft aquamarine walls, cream built-in wardrobes, a double bed bearing a navy-blue covered quilt and flanked by two identical lockers...It couldn't be the place. It looked like his parents' room.

The air inside was dense with heat, alive with trapped dust. He inhaled the smell of old sweat, the mustiness of sloughed off, sunburned flesh, a candied glut of cosmetics. His cock began to stir again as he touched the items on the dressing table in a space between two wardrobes. He sprayed some Calvin Klein on to the back of his hand before extending the glans of a tube of crimson lipstick and unzipping his fly.

Jane...

He wrote the name in fat, red letters upon his cock, then untangled a necklace of black beads, one he remembered her wearing many times in school, from its fellows in a small wooden box of costume jewellery and wrapped it around his hand. There was an old black and white passport photo of her in the bottom corner of the mirror behind a decorative spray of feathers arranged in a terracotta vase. Would he have desired the girl who looked back at him as much as he did the woman she had become? Her hair was long and she bore the last traces of adolescent acne upon her chin and around her mouth. In all his years beneath her spell, he had never considered how she might have been as a virgin and the thought excited him. The fist of beads felt good upon his cock, bearing an echo of the harsh initiation that he decided had been hers. She would have discovered early on the brutality of men's appetites. He saw her taken by an older man, a figure of authority -- one of her university lecturers, perhaps, or maybe an untouchable member of her family's caste, one who was permitted to fuck with impunity thanks to his unimpeachable social status. But rather than being repulsed, Jane would have learned immediately how to cater to the beast and how to utilise its cruelty for her own pleasure.

Droplets of sweat fell from his forehead on to the dressing table as his delirium intensified. With madness came daring and he toyed with several plans, each one more far-fetched than the last -- how he would leave his next load of come on her pillow; don a mask, dress up in her underwear and wait for her to return before fucking her on the floor of the hall; kidnap her and take her to some undetermined location where he would train her to be his personal whore. Of course, none of that was going to happen but, thanks to the step into the unknown that he had taken by entering her house, he now had a sense that anything was possible.

He opened the drawer beneath the dressing table and reached out for a pair of neatly folded tan nylons. And then everything went black...

*

The pain came first, an intolerable pulsing whose goal appeared to be the sundering of his skull, followed by the dawning of consciousness. Indistinct and vibrating shapes resolved themselves, as did a range of mysterious sensations -- a feeling of constriction, a stickiness at the back of his neck. His lips were thick with congealed saliva but he was unable to raise a hand to wipe them and trying to do so only intensified the sheet metal ache that cut from shoulder to shoulder through his entire upper body.

Gradually an unfamiliar room came into focus. He saw that he was laid out lengthwise on a sofa and suddenly, he recalled where he had been before...what? What the fuck had happened? He tried to move but the pain came again, this time incorporating his calves. Looking down, he saw, to the south of his still gaping fly, that his ankles were bound with a length of orange rope. Simultaneously, he realized that his arms were pulled back behind him and bound at the wrists. His bladder gave out and he was helpless to prevent a hot, pleasant trickle of piss issuing forth. It was not so much panic that he felt -- although an uncertainty characteristic of panic was a component of it -- as resignation; that of a sinner confronted with the prospect of a punishment that he had always known he was destined to face one day.

He turned his head to the side, a numbness taking hold of him when he saw Jane.

'Miss...'

The word escaped him out of habit. She said nothing. She was sitting in an armchair next to an empty-grated fake marble fireplace, beneath a mirror in which a reflection of his restrained body described a parody of a maja. Her face was teacher severe, eyes steady and unblinking, cheeks depressed into a lemon-sucking pout.

'Have you been making those phone calls?' she said. 'Hanging up when I answer?'

He shook his head but the denial was half-hearted. Now that she had him where she did, that there was no longer any need for pretense, he felt a perverse urge to tell her every single detail of his obsession with her. He was so deranged with captive's relief that he wanted to let her know everything -- how intensely she had haunted him, how much come he had spilt in her honour -- and similarly, thanks to a thought process exclusive to the outer limits of rationality, figured that she could only be impressed by what he had to convey.

'There were nights I didn't sleep,' she said. 'Nights on end, lying awake, wanting to puke. My skin crawling every time the phone rang. That was you?'

He shook his head again.

'Maybe I'll make a phone call,' she said. 'Maybe I've made one already...you're disgusting, you know that?'

'I'm sorry, Miss.'

'Sorry?' Her tone was one of absolute revulsion. 'You...infect my house. My child's house...'

She stood up. Enraged as she was, arrayed as he was, he nonetheless discovered that conditioning overcame all other considerations as the sight of her in motion made his cock twitch. He noticed that, in spite of the heat, she had put on the cardigan he had seen earlier in the kitchen. His saliva was on its sleeve, he remembered, mixed with hers...She crossed the room towards him with a predator's agility and slapped him across the face. The fresh explosion of pain blinded him for an instant, reminding him of the unconsciousness he had just emerged from. Then, before he had time to adapt, she grabbed his hair and yanked his head back.

'Who do you think you are?'

He was unable to stifle a cry and she slapped him again.

'Shut your mouth. I won't hear a word.'

He recognized the phrase from school. In her rage, she was no less a teacher.

His vision cleared above a face still burning from her palm's contact. Her body was tense, poised for further violence, her face reduced to a hostile arrangement of bones. He was afraid, but the fear that was making his stomach turn in queasy circles was mingled with admiration. To confront and subdue an intruder, to be able to bind him in such a manner as to cause maximum discomfort while ensuring his total incapacitation (where had she learned how to do that?)...his abilities were child-like in comparison. He felt acutely the weight of their gap in years, all of the experience and knowledge that she possessed in inverse proportion to his lack of the same.

'Why did you do it, Paul?' She threw down his head and wiped her hand on her hip. 'Do you know how much trouble you're in now?'

She crouched down, taking from her cardigan pocket the panties he had come into and the beads he had used on his cock.

'I found these.' She dangled the panties from one finger. 'You didn't break in to rob the place, did you? You can tell me. I just want to know.'

'I love you.'

It was ludicrous. Jane looked at him incredulously before starting to laugh, amusement seeping into every part of her face except her eyes.

'The police are going to be here soon,' she said. 'They'll take you to the station, fingerprint you, put your name on a list of perverts. Later you'll go to court. Everyone will know. Your family...all your dirt will be out in the open. You're finished, Paul. You might not realise it yet but you are. So tell me again why you did it?'

He couldn't speak. He ran his tongue over the foul tasting scum on his lips and tried to shift his body to conceal the erection whose tip was poking from his open fly but only succeeded in exposing it further. She was so close. Even though what she was saying filled him with a nauseous dread, it was enough that it was her, Jane who was speaking. He felt maddened by the depth of his arousal. His imagination, he realized, had failed him all those years, unable as it had been to even begin to visualize the violence of the emotion he was feeling at that moment. If he was to be destroyed, he wanted her to be the agent of his destruction.

MaxT
MaxT
25 Followers
12