The Neighbors

My neighbors are a bunch of losers.

The lady, Sandy, is a widow with two children -- a boy and a girl -- both grown up. The son still lives with his mom, and now over thirty has never had a job -- or a girlfriend. I don't know his name -- I just call him Deadbeat, even to his face.

The younger child, Diane, got a degree in accounting, but doesn't work as one. Instead she's a poorly paid manager for a small business. She's married to some guy named Matt who just lost his job. So they had to move back in with mom.

Matt looks to be in his late 20s, and Diane a couple years younger. Sandy just turned 62.

So four people, two dogs, and a bunch of semi-stray cats live in this big, old, falling-down, farm house (on which they still owe money). Diane has a job and Sandy works part time in childcare. Probably comes to about $800/week total. Hardly enough to cover booze and smokes for the two "men" of the house.

So one morning Sandy rings my doorbell and asks for a chat. I offer her a cup of coffee.

"Thanks, Jim. I appreciate it," she says, sitting down at the kitchen table. And we make small talk for a few minutes.

"Jim -- I need to ask a favor of you." She tries to stay calm. "I was wondering if you could lend me some money?"

"How much do you need?"

"Maybe $2000, though more would help."

My jaw dropped. I'd have expected something like $20, or maybe $100. "What do you need all that for?"

"My son has to pay restitution -- $500 per month. We're three months behind, and if we don't catch up they're gonna put him in jail." Despite her best efforts she started to cry.

I offered her a tissue while thinking through my options.

"How do you plan on paying me back?"

"Once we get caught up, we can have the restitution paid off in only six months. Then we can start paying you back. We'll pay interest." She looked at me for a response.

You gotta be kidding me, I thought. "Sandy, honestly, there's no way you could ever pay me back. You're not asking for a loan. What you want is a gift. Sorry. No deal." I paused, thinking. "Is there something you can do for me that might be worth $2000?"

She looked at me desperately. "I can sell you my car?"

I couldn't help but laugh. "So there are at least three things wrong with that. First, you need the car to get to work. Second, that old clunker isn't worth two grand. And third, I don't need another car -- especially not that one."

Sandy stirred her coffee. Personally, I thought she'd be better off if she just let Deadbeat rot in the clink for a few months. "How long would he have to stay in jail?" I inquired.

"Probably two years. At least that's what the judge said when he was sentenced. The idea was he'd get a job and pay back what he stole."

I understood why the stoned dumbass was unemployable. I tried to think of a way I could help Sandy -- and myself.

An idea came to mind. "What about Diane?"

"What about Diane?" she repeated, uncomprehending.

"So Diane is a reasonably attractive young woman. I could make use of her."

"Whaddaya mean?"

"For starters, I could pay her $100 to spend a day cleaning my house. I can do that myself, but having a cute young lady do it for me will be more fun."

"A hundred bucks doesn't really help us any. I owe a thousand by next week, and another thousand the week after. And then $500 a month for six months after that."

"You owe it?" I inquired, curious. "I thought Deadbeat owed it."

"Technically he does, but he's got no way of paying."

"Doesn't look like you do, either. But Diane might. So the hundred is just the beginning. I'll pay her an additional $900 per week for personal services. That's a thousand dollars total for just one week. And I could see this gig lasting for three or four."

"Personal services? What's that?" Hope had faded from her voice, replaced by skepticism.

"Things like blowjobs and sleepovers and stuff," I replied as casually as possible.

She looked at me like she'd just discovered I was male. I guess the testosterone effect had never occurred to her. "You want my daughter to be a prostitute?"

"Actually, no. I'm hiring her for personal sex services. I won't be renting her out." Though even as I said that I thought of ways I could earn her a bit extra.

Sandy started bawling, too angry with me to accept the proffered tissues. "You're a pervert."

"Maybe. But I'm not gonna just give you two grand. And as far as I can see, the only asset you've got is Diane. So I'm trying to solve your problem. If you have any other ideas I'd like to hear them."

"You know that Diane's a married woman, don't you?"

I shrugged. In truth, cuckolding that dipshit husband of hers was part of the fun.

"So just what does 'personal sex services' mean?" she asked, thinking sensibly again.

"It means that Diane will fuck or suck me whenever I ask. She'll wear whatever clothes I want her to. She'll clean my house dressed any way I want her, or maybe not at all. She'll cook meals for me. I'll let her keep her job, and I won't ask her to do anything that gets her in trouble at work. I won't beat her up. But otherwise anything goes. I own her. For the whole week. And if we renew, then I get her for the next week."

"Let me talk to Diane after she gets home from work."

Maybe my offer wasn't quite blackmail, but close enough. If you define blackmail as An Offer They Can't Refuse, then I had them by the short hairs -- or whatever the female equivalent of that was. I even had a judge holding the gun to their head for me. How cool was this?

Actually, I'd never met Diane. I'd seen her walking out their door from a distance, but I didn't really know what she looked like. So I took a gamble that she'd be fuckable. She looked a bit chubby. In the worst case I was out a grand -- not all that much money in the scheme of things.

The next morning Sandy knocked on my door again.

"So I talked this over with Diane and Matt, and we agreed this is probably our best option. But Matt insists that we get at least $1,500 per week. And I think he's right. That'd get us out of the hole in a couple of weeks" She stared at me as if she had some bargaining power.

"Sorry, Sandy, but my offer is $1,000. No more than that. Take it or leave it."

If she was surprised that I'd walk away from the deal, she shouldn't have been. "Well, we might not be able to do it for that," she opined.

"Then there's no deal." I pointed to the door.

"How about $1,200? That's a compromise."

"Sandy, please don't waste my time," I said irritatedly. "The offer is for a thousand dollars a week. That's it. Either accept it or walk away. It doesn't matter to me what you decide. Look. I'm trying to help you out here."

"Alright. One thousand dollars. I guess we'll take it." She looked deflated. Complete capitulation -- it made my day.

I took ten, clean benjamins out of my pocket and held them on the table. "Where is Diane now?"

"She's at work. She gets home around 5:30."

"OK. Here's the deal. She rings my doorbell no later than six, wearing the same clothes she wore to work. She brings a toothbrush, a hairbrush, and a pair of house slippers with her -- no other luggage. And I'm going to feed her dinner, so don't let her eat anything before she gets over here.

"Can you promise me that?"

"I think so," said Sandy, hesitantly.

"You need to deliver," I said, sternly, while passing her the thousand bucks. "If you can't follow directions to the letter, then you'll never get another penny out of me. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Look, I just gave you a thousand dollars. That's worth some respect. Answer appropriately."

"Yes, Sir," said Sandy.

Diane

The doorbell rang at 5:42 pm. I opened it to a youngish woman, 5'4", dressed in washed blue jeans, with a reddish, pullover blouse. Clean, combed, dirty blonde hair fell to her shoulders. She wore newish, white tennies, along with a necklace and earrings.

Chubby wasn't quite the right word. More like stocky -- she had a fireplug figure. Losing a few pounds wouldn't hurt her, but she'd never look like a fashion model. The extra weight was all on her boobs and thighs, where it didn't look bad. Her arms and legs were muscular rather than fat. She was a girl who spent a lot of time outdoors.

This was the bitch I'd just bought.

"Come on in," I greeted, smiling. I noticed she carried a plastic bag with her. "What's in the bag? Let me see."

As directed, she brought a toothbrush, hairbrush, and slippers with her. She also smuggled in lipstick and bobby pins. I let her get away with it. I put the bag on the hall table.

"Are you hungry?" I asked.

"Yes, I am," she said, smiling nervously.

"Good. I hope you like hamburgers." I led her toward the kitchen. "There are a few ground rules about our relationship. One is you shall always address me as 'Sir.' Is that clear?" I looked at her sternly, albeit with a smile on my face.

"Yes, Sir," she said, still smiling.

I bade her to take a seat while I grilled up the cheeseburgers, got out the fixings, and prepared some fresh vegetables. I served it all with panache, using the nice dinnerware along with a good red wine. There were flowers on the table.

Halfway through dinner I started to lay down the law. "You will always answer your phone when I call. I won't call you when you're at work, but at any other time. Your phone might ring at 6pm, or 6am, or just after midnight. You will always answer it. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You will obey me instantly. If I call and want you to come over here, you will be here in a few minutes. Or if I tell you to fetch something at the grocery store for me, you'll do it immediately."

"Yes, Sir."

"Except when you go to work, you will not leave home without my permission. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir."

Again, except when you go to work, you will wear what I tell you to wear. Both here and at your house, or when I give you permission to go out."

"Yes, Sir."

I'd wiped the smile off her face.

"It'll be like being in jail. Except I won't hurt you. The cause is pleasure. Not pain. Mess up on my instructions, though, and I'll cut you off. You're brother really goes to jail."

We finished the meal. She was hungry -- I gave her seconds. I don't think she was used to quality meat or fresh vegetables.

I sensed a natural submissive. If not, she'd soon learn to be one.

"Clear the table," I ordered. I watched the feminine sashay as she strutted self-consciously back and forth to the kitchen, carrying dishes.

"Unload the dishwasher." I joined her in the kitchen and showed her precisely where everything belonged.

It's complicated. The silverware is sorted into bins in a drawer. Most people put the forks in one bin, the spoons in another, and so forth. But I had more different kinds of silverware than bins. There were tablespoons and teaspoons, and then the nicer stuff was separated from the cheaper goods. There were approximately ten different categories to be sorted into six bins. Some got doubled up.

Some spoons and forks got put together in the same bin. I had it so that the most commonly used silverware was the most readily available. The less used got doubled up. It was all very efficient, but counterintuitive. It served as a rudimentary IQ test.

She failed, apparently inheriting the trait common to the rest of her family. Submissives should be stupid I thought, wishing it were otherwise.

"Wash the dishes."

I wanted her to follow a precise protocol. I stood behind her at the sink, not shouting, but otherwise acting like a drill sergeant. "You messed that up. Please wash it again." Or "that goes here, not where you put it."

As she started with the dinner plates I pushed my hard cock against her butt. She jumped. It was the first time I'd touched her.

While she washed the glasses my hands rested on her waist.

As she soaped the silverware my fingers massaged her breasts, while my dick pressed harder against her ass.

"Clean the grill. There's steel wool under the sink." I backed off a bit to let her fetch what she needed. But when she started scrubbing, my cock resumed its position. My hands descended to her crotch. After brief exploration I unhooked her jeans and reduced the zipper.

I could now reach inside the waistband toward her pussy. She scrubbed harder.

I pushed the pants off her hips, leaving her underwear in place. They pooled around her ankles, making it hard for her to move around.

"Rinse off the grill," I ordered.I pushed her pantie down and rammed my cock against her ass. She scrubbed iron while I scrubbed pussy.

"It's not clean yet," I said as my fingers groped for her slit. I put my hand in the classic "fuck you" position, with the middle finger doing just that. She felt wet, and not from dishwater, either. I started massaging her -- in & out, in & out. Her devotion to dishwashing faded.

"Wash it again," I commanded, bringing her back to attention. She followed directions. In & out, in & out.

By now I wanted to get my dick inside that bitch. I stopped my ministrations so she could return the grill to the stove, waddling with her pants around her ankles. That done, I pulled her pantie off her butt and indicated she should step out of her clothes. I picked them up and threw them across the room.

"Wash your hair," I commanded.

"What?"

"Here's the dish soap. Get your head under the sink and wash your hair." She turned around and looked at me as if I were nuts. I just stared back at her. "Make sure your legs are spread and your cunt's up in the air while you do it."

She spread her knees about two feet apart -- not enough room for me to get between her thighs. I kicked her ankles out to a spread-eagle position. "If you can't keep your cunt up in the air you're gonna get it up the ass."

That put the fear of dick in her. She spread her legs even further. I dropped my own pants, letting my cock rise to it's full, 7" length.

She had to bend way over to get her head under the faucet, forcing her to stand on tippy-toes. I helped her by reaching between her thighs and grabbing her pussy.

As she rinsed her hair my tool was an easy reach to her luv hole. I slowly pushed my way in. "Don't forget your hair," I warned as her attention flagged. She reached blindly for the dish soap. I pushed my cock all the way into her. She started shampooing locks.

It's pretty difficult to wash your hair under the kitchen sink while some guy is ramming you as hard as he can from the rear. I gotta say, she tried hard. Keeping her balance required one hand to support herself. Soaping your head one-handed is a bit of a trick anyway -- that she got it done at all is to her credit.

I was really whaling at her now, my hands roughly massaging her breasts while I did so. "Don't forget to rinse," were the last words out of my mouth before I completely lost it. Bang, Bang, Bang. Her hole filled with cum as we both hit orgasm.

As my penis deflated I rested leaning against her, breathing heavily. She, equally spent, leaned wet-headed across the sink.

Saturday

I'd been looking forward to Friday -- the beginning of the weekend when I could put my new sex slave to a real test. Unfortunately I'd had a really long day at work, leaving the house at 5:30am in time to meet a client for breakfast in the city, more than an hour away. Then I had a long and stressful conference call with some Japanese suppliers, followed by a lunch meeting with a sales lead (I closed the deal).

Then I drove downtown to meet with my staff, after which a bunch of us headed over to Piro's for dinner. Since I had to drive home I mostly laid off the booze, but figured I'd better have a cup of coffee before I left.

Long story short, it was almost 9pm before I got home, and I was beat. I lay down on the sofa and shut my eyes for a minute.

When I woke up it was already 2am.

What the hell am I gonna do at two o'clock in the fucking morning? Who you gonna call? Of course I knew who to call. Any time of the day or night I'd told her. I picked up the phone and dialed Diane.

One ringy-dingy. Two ringy-dingy. No answer. It went to voicemail. What kind of bullshit is this?

I dialed again, and it went to voicemail again--almost. At the last second a man answered the phone--I assume it was Matt.

"I need to talk to Diane."

"Now? Do you know what time it is?"

"Yeah. It's 2:07am. Give the phone to Diane and you can go back to sleep."

There was some conversation in the background--I couldn't make it all out. A man's voice said "fuck," and the first word out of Diane's mouth was "shit."

"Hello," she finally said, angrily.

"What are you wearing right now?"

"My pajamas, of course."

"Good. I want you over here in five minutes wearing your pajamas. You can pee after you get here--no need to go the bathroom. Don't be late or your ass is fired." I hung up the call and started the stopwatch.

The doorbell rang in four minutes and 32 seconds. The lady was clad in pajamas, but she'd put on some shoes. "Take your shoes off," I ordered.

"I really need to pee!" She squirmed while removing her footwear.

I let her use the bathroom. "Keep the door open." I listened to her pinkle.

I love women in pajamas -- makes them feel like oversized teddy bears. I took her to the bedroom and tucked her in. Then, with the lights off, I stripped naked and got in there with her.

We made love. Literally. Gentle, slow, sensuous, orgiastic. I let her keep her top on -- I like the mystery, and it was roomy enough for me to get to her boobs.

Making love is not the same thing as being in love. Manufactured love only lasts for the moment, but what a moment it was.

Post-coitus we spooned. She fell asleep -- I might have dozed off. She likely supposed that we'd both sleep in, and maybe I'd even serve her breakfast in bed.

Little did she know that I'd set the alarm for 5 am, just before sunrise.

"Time to get to work, slave," I said as I rousted her out of bed. "It's gonna be a hot day today -- best to work in the morning."

She looked at me incredulously, as if I wasn't serious. "Get those PJ bottoms back on. And go put on your shoes." Meanwhile I poured her some cold cereal. "Hurry up and eat. You don't have a lot of time.

"Go home and change into yard work clothes. Be back here in fifteen minutes. Don't you dare be late!" The sun was still below the horizon, but it would be broad daylight by the time she'd gotten dressed.

She returned wearing blue jeans, a long-sleeve shirt and some work boots. She'd even brought garden gloves. Good girl!

"You need to weed and mulch this flower bed," I instructed her as we walked the grounds. "There are five bags of mulch in the garage." I opened the door for her, showed her where the mulch, tools, and wheelbarrow were, and let her at it. "I expect you'll be done before ten."

Meanwhile, I fixed myself some coffee, bacon and eggs. I sat out on the deck watching her as I ate breakfast.

The girl definitely knew her way around a garden. She extracted the weeds effortlessly using a garden fork. Soon the wheelbarrow was full. "Where do I put the yard waste?" she yelled up at me. I pointed to the far corner of the property.

I kept her at work until nearly eleven. By that time it was over 80 degrees and very humid. The girl was sweat through.

"That's good for today, bitch," I yelled down at her. I'd been eating an early lunch on the porch, while watching her work. As I said, the girl knew her way around outdoors.

I hadn't yet turned on the air-conditioner. The house--still cooler than outside--felt warm and stuffy. She removed her boots before coming inside. I shut the back door behind her. We stood in the laundry/mud room.