The Drone

If Biff could do something to give her hope and excitement, he would, even if it meant spreading wide the plush towel around his waist and letting her look without the intermediary of the drone.

Biff followed Mrs. Jamali into the first-floor laundry room where she tossed his wet clothes into the dryer and started the machine.

"Come," she invited. "Sit."

They went into the kitchen, and Biff sat on a barstool across the kitchen counter. Mrs. Jamali pulled an oven mitt over her hand and drew out from the oven a platter with about eight skewers of chicken upon it.

"This is chicken kebab. Have you tried it?"

Biff shook his head. The smell of the onion, garlic, cumin, yogurt, cinnamon, and chili filled his senses. His stomach rumbled with desire.

She removed her oven mitt and then drew up a spear. Her delicate little fingers pinched the meat at the pointy end and pulled back. She said, "Pull down to release. Push up to remove." Her fingers pushed the stringer of seven or eight golden-coated chunks of cubed chicken off the skewer and onto a plate.

She did it again with another skewer. Taking the plate of chicken, she walked around the counter and beside Biff. She set the plate down, saying, "This is my grandmother's recipe. It is traditional. Taste it."

She poked a chunk with a fork and brought it toward him.

He started to reach for the handle, but she guided the morsel to his lips.

"Oh," Biff said, lowering his hand. He opened his mouth, feeling the steaming heat, and closed his lips over the bite.

His teeth sunk down into the savory flesh.

She fed herself a bite from the plate, watching him. "Do you like it?"

Biff chewed; a groan escaped him. This reaction surprised Biff. He wasn't into food the way others were, but the flavor of that chicken yanked a moan of satisfaction right out of him. As he swallowed, he couldn't talk. He pointed at the platter several times and shook his head.

Mrs. Jamali smiled and brought another morsel to his lips.

He readily devoured it. The spices overwhelmed his taste buds; beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. He swallowed with a gasp, uttering, "It's really spicy."

"Have another," she said. "It is easier to eat than to stop to cool your palette." She fed him another bite.

She fed herself more, watching Biff munch. He noticed that the spices had no visual impact on Mrs. Jamali. She might as well have been eating breakfast cereal.

When he swallowed, she asked, "What do you think?"


Gulping air, Biff gasped, "Hot, but really, really good."

"Thank you."

She fed him again, saying, "I hope you have been kind enough to keep my secret as I have kept yours."

The drone, Biff thought. She's talking about the drone. "No," he said, still chewing, "I'll never tell anyone."

"And neither will I. It is our secret, isn't it?"

He nodded, swallowing. Mrs. Jamali had another bite ready for him, and he took it without a moment's hesitation.

"Thank you, " she said. "No more kebab. I wouldn't wish to spoil your appetite for dinner." She rose and walked to the refrigerator.

He gulped down the last bite with another gasp, and he watched Mrs. Jamali pour him a glass of whole milk with a longing he did not think possible.

She brought it to him, and he swigged it down in one long pull to put out the fire inside.

"Follow me," she said as he set down the cup. They walked down a hall, and she led him upstairs. At the top she turned down a loft hallway and went through a door.

This, Biff realized, is the room with the window that faces our house.

It was the master bedroom, and it stretched from the back to the front of the Jamali home. He glanced at the window where she stood to control the drone. The room was immaculately clean and organized. A king-sized bed, piled high the lush red and furry white pillows, sat in the center against the back wall between the front and back windows. A thick, downy comforter stretched across, underneath the pillows.

Biff had the sudden urge to flop down upon the bed and pull the cool pillows over his body.

"Come," she said, waving Biff over to a large walk-in closet. He entered behind her. Every hanger held shirts or pants, perfectly spaced and color-coordinated. There were no clothes on the floor. Shoes of all shapes and colors perched in neat rows on shoe rack-style shelves. A double set of drawers lined the back wall.

Mrs. Jamali opened one of the top drawers and turned to Biff.

He walked over and looked inside.

Panties.

There must have been sixty in there, each laid out staggered to the front in four even columns.

He couldn't think of a color or pattern that he didn't see, and every one of the panties was unique in some way from the others—no repeat styles.

It was mesmerizing.

They were so tiny, and Biff glanced at Mrs. Jamali's body, realizing as if for the first time her petite figure.

His eyes returned to the panties.

"You may choose one as a gift from me," she said.

They looked at one another. Biff stammered, "You—you want me to...?"

"Ah," she interrupted, "I will not offer you one from my hamper, but you could also choose these."

Mrs. Jamali hooked a thumb underneath her yoga pants midway between her hip and her belly button. She pulled the waistband down, exposing a swath a cocoa skin interrupted only by the tiny pink string of her panty's waistband. Biff saw, just peeking out, the floral embroidered corner of the crotch.

"Would you like these panties, instead?" she asked.

Biff was too stupefied to form a coherent thought. He merely nodded.

Mrs. Jamali smiled. She pointed and said, "Go and wait on my bed."

He left without a word, sitting in his towel upon the thick mattress.

Dressed again, she emerged a minute later. When she reached him, she said, "Put out your hands."

He did, cupping and raising his hands together like a supplicant.

She placed the panties there.

They're so light, Biff thought, I could be holding nothing but air.

"Come and let us check on your clothing," she said, walking toward the bedroom door.

Nervous energy flooded Biff, but he couldn't resist. He blurted, "Can I see which ones you're wearing now?"

Mrs. Jamali stopped. Without turning she said, "I am not wearing any right now." Then, her little hands slipped behind her back. She straightened and brought her legs together. Her thumbs hooked under her yoga pants. Her back arched, and she bent forward. She drew the waistband of her pants down a few inches.

Biff's heart lurched in his chest when he saw the rounded bulges of flesh divided by the hint of a dark shadow marking upper crescent of Mrs. Jamali's ass.

She pulled her waistband up, repeating, "Come, Biff."

Downstairs, they went.

She pulled his clothes from the dryer. "Yes, these are dry now. Come here."

He did.

Mrs. Jamali handed Biff his shorts, socks, and shirt. Keeping his underwear, she got down on her knees in front of him. She pulled on one of his feet, and he raised it. She slid one side of the gray boxers over his foot.

Biff raised the other one, and she fed the foot through. Then, Mrs. Jamali tugged the waistband up, over his knees to his thighs.

The towel began to separate. Her fingers slid toward the back, and she raised the underwear over Biff's ass. Her fingers came to the front and she pulled them up to his waist. Then, with two shorts sweeps, her hands ran over Biff's ass and the front of his thighs as if to remove any creases.

She rose, placing her hands on his chest. Her touch was extremely delicate and warm. Mrs. Jamali's fingertips slid down over his tummy and under the towel. She released the cinch and drew it away. Tossing it into the nearby hamper, she said, "I will bring your payment while you finish dressing."

A minute later, Biff had his shorts and shirt on.

Mrs. Jamali handed him two crips bills. "Thank you for your hard work."

He nodded. "Thank you for the chicken."

"And the other gift?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, feeling the skimpy panties in his fingers.

She escorted him to the garage and opened it. As Biff left for home, Mrs. Jamali said, "Will I see you tonight, perhaps?"

Biff was too amazed at the events that had taken place to smile. He simply said, "Yeah."

Mrs. Jamali's head nodded once, and then she turned. The garage door began rolling down.

***

Back in his room, Biff took out the panties.

He didn't think moms wore panties like this—sexy ones. First, the lace front and rear were nearly see-through. Then, there were the straps—the waistband, if one could call it that. They were nothing but elastic strings. A medium-sized rubber band, Biff thought, is thicker.

He knew Mrs. Jamali wasn't big like her daughters, but he could never think of her as tiny. Holding the skimpy panties in front of him, he reconsidered this idea. She was short and fit. Maybe, Biff thought, it was like his Dad says—how big personalities make some people seem bigger than they really are.

Plus, Biff recalled, she had been wearing these. Biff drew them to his face and took in their aroma. Then, he did it again, only this time he smelled the back. Quickly and guiltily, he rearranged them and smelled the crotch.

He stood in his room without moving for a few moments. His eyes took on the appearance of deep thought—looking without seeing.

He hid the panties under the covers of his bed, went downstairs briefly, and then returned.

Biff carefully folded and sealed the panties in a ziplock sandwich baggie. He put them in his top nightstand drawer, hidden but accessible.

***

From the moment he had smelled Mrs. Jamali's panties—taken in the fragrance in three different places to verify and comprehend the thing as a whole—Biff was bisected in regards to the woman.

Her fragrance initiated something coded and original in him. It felt like an appetite, but one for which his entire body ached, rather than his stomach, alone.

Before, when he thought of sex and girls, he thought of it in terms of a sensory exploration—see this girl's tits or touch that girl's ass. What does her breath smell like when we kiss? What might her pussy taste like? How does she sound when she's enjoying touches?

With the triggering influence of Mrs. Jamali's aroma, Biff began to think in terms of advancement and progress. He was still curious and eager to explore girls, but there was a new and relentless nagging—put bluntly, to cum in or on a girl.

The thought of it made him feel a bit guilty, but he could stop its beckoning call no more than he could stop hunger when he hadn't eaten.

Biff hungered for Mrs. Jamali in a way that was instinctual and implacable.

But, another part of Biff resisted it.

His eyes were unused to evaluating older women for sexiness. He had friends who did it, but he never could. He could be attracted to someone's mom no more than he could be to his own aunt.

So earlier, when his eyes saw the flesh of Mrs. Jamali's lower abdomen as she revealed her panties and when he caught a glimpse of the top of her ass, he had definitely been stirred, but he had forced these thoughts down.

Intellectually, he knew her breasts were large and attractive. Any craving to actually touch them, however, he instantly cast aside.

He chose to see her face as pleasant to look at—very much so when she grew serene or smiled—but not alluring, not beautiful.

It was all choosing, but not consciously. He denied his sexual attraction to Mrs. Jamali out of something that was almost as hard-wired inside of him as this new, insatiable desire for sexual conquering.

And for the most part, the denial worked.

Thus, when Biff envisioned the night's visit from her drone, it was now something different, something not as sexy.

When he believed he was undressing for one of the daughters, it excited him. As he considered the prospect of undressing for the mother, he didn't feel the excitement stirring his guts.

Tonight's show, he reckoned, was really more of a favor to an older woman, one who needed to feel hope, to feel young.

***

Biff stood naked at the window, mostly limp.

The drone had gotten a good long look at his balls, and now it began to do something new. Biff understood immediately.

The drone moved back and forth, towards Biff and back...towards him and back.

He suspected this was coming since the moment—weeks ago—when Mrs. Jamali, through the drone's movement, had signaled him to massage his testicles for her.

The drone waited, edging closer.

Biff took his soft shaft in hand.

The drone drew closer to the window.

He began to slowly stroke his cock.

Nothing happened. He could not get hard for Mrs. Jamali.

The drone watched for a minute, and then it rose to his face and hovered there.

She's asking why, Biff thought. She wants to know why I'm not hard like before.

As if in perfect confirmation of this, the drone descended to the level of Biff's penis, watched for another minute, and as nothing changed, it departed without another signal.

Biff looked across the street at her window, but she was already gone.

***

The next morning, Biff woke, struggling to remember a dream that had something to do with Mrs. Jamali. The only thing he could remember was how the severe cast of her eyebrows bent toward him.

He thought of her panties. Taking them from his drawer, he wondered if he might trigger his remembrance of the dream by her smell. He pulled them from the bag and unfurled them between his hands. He brought them to his nose.

In a flash, he forgot all about the dream; new ones formed in his mind. His heart churned blood, and in a stunningly short span, his cock tented the sheets over his groin.

Biff threw the sheets down and wrapped Mrs. Jamali's panties around his cock. He stroked himself only a few times before the waves of pleasure gathered and surged.

Suddenly, he stopped. He watched the head of his cock mushroom into a shiny bulb over and again as the muscle pulsed. He didn't cum, but he was incredibly close.

That was what? he thought, six or seven strokes? Shit.

He sealed up and carefully put the panties away.

***

For several minutes, it looked as though Mrs. Jamali would not appear that evening. The lights in her bedroom were on, but curtains had been drawn shut. There was no movement.

When at last she appeared, she looked across at Biff. He put his hand on the glass. She didn't move for some time. Then, she left.

The drone rose over her house, and Mrs. Jamali reappeared at her window.

Then the machine stopped across from Biff, he held up a finger for it. He drew down his shorts and boxers to his knees in one swooping motion. Like yesterday, his cock hung like a lifeless thing.

Nervous energy filled Biff. It was obvious that she had been disappointed about his performance yesterday. Today, she seemed reluctant. He didn't want to let her down again.

Reaching to the desk beside him, he pulled up the panties and displayed them for the drone's camera.

It didn't react.

He drew them to his face and took in the scent, holding the scanty pink thing to his nose.

Biff needn't have been worried.

When the drone saw the reaction of Biff's body to the panties, it lowered to get a closer look.

Biff and the drone watched his cock become an oaken post.

The drone backed away. It back-flipped. It barrel-rolled left and right. It backflipped two more times.

He smiled, glancing across the street. A small hand came up and rested on the window.

Biff put his hand there, too.

When Mrs. Jamali reassumed the remote control, the drone asked Biff to masturbate. It drew perilously close to Biff's window at groin level, hovering there.

He performed, and the drone watched closely.

Biff's body did not accelerate toward climax as rapidly as it had in the morning, so after a minute, the drone's movement drew Biff's attention away from the panties in his hand and the woman in the window across the street.

The machine pivoted ninety degrees to Biff's right, and then it made the back-and-forth motion perpendicular to Biff.

He turned the same direction.

The drone back-flipped, and then it rocked back-and-forth.

She wants, he realized, a side view of me jerking off.

He did.

In the end, the drone wanted him to finish pointing directly at the camera, and Biff ejaculated on the glass and the sill of his window.

The drone showed its appreciation with several acrobatics, and then it rose high in the sky.

Biff saw Mrs. Jamali raise her hand to her face. The silhouette appeared to blow him a kiss.

She left with a wave.

***

On Tuesday afternoon when Biff returned home from his summer gig—landscaping for a company owned by his Dad's friend—his Mom called him into the kitchen.

"Follow me," she said, and it was one of those times where he wasn't sure if his Mom sounded upset, like he put colors in with the whites, or if it was something simple, like she could use a hand moving a dresser.

At the top of the stairs, Biff's Mom turned toward his room.

No. Shit, no, Biff thought. He forgot to wipe the cum from his window.

She opened his door and marched in.

Biff stopped at the threshold. Mrs. Jamali's drone was sitting on his bed.

"Can you explain this?" his Mom asked, pointing at the machine.

"Huh?"

"Well," she explained, "Nira came by this morning with this. She said her daughters are out of town for the month with their father, and she says she thought you might like using it."

"What?"

"Yes," his Mom nodded. "You didn't ask to borrow it, did you?"

"No. I swear."

"Because this looks very expensive, and you shouldn't even ask...."

"I didn't."

"Then why would she offer it to you?"

Biff shuffled uncomfortably. "I guess—when I mow over there, I see it sometimes. Maybe she saw me watching it or something."

"Strange," his Mom sighed. "Well, be especially careful. Do not break it. Oh, and Mrs. Jamali did say it was only for you to use, so do not let your brother try it."

"Okay."

"I suppose she thinks you're trustworthy then," his Mom offered.

"I guess so."

"Thank you for being a good neighbor. It's important."

"Yeah."

She grabbed the door handle and looked back. Her eyes fixed on the window. A look of exasperation washed across her face. "You spilled something on your window, Biff. Clean that up. You know how I can't stand dirty glass—and, look, it's on the wood. Moisture will stain wood."

"Sorry."

"Come on, sugar. You know these things."

"Yes, Mom."

She left.

After cleaning his window, Biff showered, ate dinner, and spent the early evening practicing with the drone while his kid brother watched enviously. By nightfall, he had mastered the device, but he had run the battery down to nothing.

He checked and re-checked, but it continued to charge.

Instead of being in his room, Biff waited on his front porch at midnight. When he saw Mrs. Jamali in the window, he rose and waved to get her attention.

She waved back, and Biff, after checking both up and down their street, sprinted across and ran around the back of the house. He mounted the steps of the wooden deck and knocked on the sliding glass door.

Mrs. Jamali emerged into the kitchen in a bathrobe. She opened the door.

"I ran the battery out. I'm sorry."

"There is nothing to apologize for," she responded. "I assumed you might need to practice, and the battery needs twelve hours to recharge."

"Oh."

"Do your parents know that you are out right now?"

"No—I mean—they're asleep."

She said, "Ah, I see. It was very considerate of you to tell me about the drone's battery."

Biff caught a whiff of something very sweet when Mrs. Jamali opened the door. Now, he smelled it again. "What is that smell?"

She smiled. "That is the smell of Ladoo. Come, I will show you."