The Girl Across The Street

This story is a work of fiction. Some real institutions are mentioned, but they are used fictitiously. Insofar as the author knows, no real person affiliated with any of those institutions has ever behaved as do the characters in this story. The Heartland Bank referred to in this story is completely fictitious. Any similarities between any character in this story and any real person are coincidental and unintended. Comments on this story, both favorable and unfavorable, are always welcome. Thank you for reading this.

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Hello. My name is Will Lewis. A little background on me is, I think, important for you to understand my story.

I got a swimming scholarship to a selective university in the Chicago area that also tried to run a big-time athletic program. I was what coaches call a "role player." During my college career, I swam every event. My best finish was fourth in the conference in the 400 fly my senior year.

The scholarship allowed me to get my bachelor's in economics. I did well enough to be accepted into our well-regarded Graduate School of Management and, two years later, had my MBA. My concentration was finance, but I wanted to stay in the Midwest rather than going to New York. I took a position in risk management, reviewing proposed loans, with the large regional bank, Heartland, based in my hometown in the lower Midwest.

My parents had died in a car accident during my first year of B-school. I inherited the pre-Civil War farmhouse where I grew up. The house was in a pocket of rusticity about 15 miles east of the city, about halfway up a ridge that ran along the south side of Poplar Creek. From our front porch, you looked down at Poplar Creek and Poplar Creek Road. Across the road was another ridge. When I was a child, that ridge had been all second-growth forest. During high school, it was turned into a high-end residential development: minimum seven acre lots, houses in the $400,000 - 900,00 range. That development was served by a private road called Poplar Run.

I moved back into the house on Poplar Creek when I started at the Bank. In the post-pandemic world, I usually worked from home via computer. That facilitated my efforts to stay in shape. One of my workouts was to run Poplar Run. Poplar Run, about two cars wide, went off Poplar Creek Road on a steep incline for about three quarters of a mile. There was about 250 yards of flat land where Poplar Run made a broad S curve, first to the right and then left, before you went up another steep incline for a half mile. Poplar Run ended on top of the ridge with a flat three-quarter mile stretch that ended at the drive of a large, modernistic house.

I probably ran Poplar Run two or three times a week usually in mid-afternoon. During my first summer and fall, my only contact with the people on Poplar Run was an occasional wave from someone in a passing car. My running tailed off over the winter, but I started up again when the weather improved in March. Swimming, and working for the Bank, ingrained the notion that you did everything against the clock. I focused on improving my time on Poplar Run rather than adding distance.

There was a large brick house on your right as you entered the first part of the S-turn going up Poplar Run. I noticed it more than the other mansions because there was a brick wall about five feet high that came off the house and enclosed part of the yard between the house and the top Poplar Run's lower incline. If you looked through a metal gate in the corner of the wall closest to Poplar Run, you could see a swimming pool and diving board. The pool was positioned so that the house screened it from view from the upper incline of Poplar Run and, except for the small piece you could see through the gate, the wall screened it from view along the flat and the lower incline. If any other houses had pools, they were in backyards completely out of sight from Poplar Run.

That May was unseasonably warm. Typically, by the time I passed the house with the pool on my way back down Poplar Run, I was dripping sweat. It was about ten days before Memorial Day. I was pounding through the S turn on my way down Poplar Run when a voice called from the direction of the brick house "you're working hard." I looked to my left. I could see a woman's head above the wall around the pool. The wall covered her from the neck down.

I was close enough to see that the woman was probably in her forties and had dark brown hair framing a lovely face. She was smiling. "Hi," she said, "I'm Carol Webb. I've seen you out here running for several weeks now."

I gratefully slowed to a walk but stayed on the pavement. "I'm Will Lewis," I replied.

"Oh," Ms. Webb said, "you're in the house across Poplar Creek?"

"Yes," I replied.

"You have a beautiful setting over there," Ms. Webb replied, "and so private. With the trees leafed out, we can't see your house from the road. Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt your run." I picked up the pace and went down the rest of Poplar Run and went home.

The next day was even hotter. As I came back down Poplar Run past the Webb house, I heard Carol Webb's voice again. "You look like you need fluids," she said. Again, she was standing inside the pool wall. All I could see was her head and a hand holding a bottle of Gatorade on the stones that topped the wall. Carol Webb raised the bottle of Gatorade slightly in a gesture offering it to me. I trotted over to the wall and gratefully took the bottle from her.

Ms. Webb was standing so close to the wall that I could not see her below her neck. Past her, however, I could see a nice-sized pool with a diving board. There was an outdoor shower, lounge chairs, a picnic table, and an expensive-looking gas grill.

"You have a nice pool," I said.

"Thank you," Carol Webb said, "we like it." She chuckled. "I'd invite you for a swim but Bruce, my husband, is in Chicago. I'm not sure he'd appreciate my inviting in strange men when he's not here."

"I've spent a lot of time in pools," I replied. Carol Webb raised an eyebrow inquiringly, so I explained that I swam in college. She asked where and I told her.

"Bruce swam for Michigan," she said. "He's quite a bit older than you though. Still, I'll bet he'd like to meet you. We're going to New Haven over Memorial Day. Our daughter is getting her BFA in dance. Maybe we can have you over after we get back."

I thanked Carol Webb for the Gatorade and finished my run. I did not think much about a possible invitation to the Webb's pool. I was from the low-rent part of the neighborhood.

It was Wednesday in the first week of June. I was making good time back down Poplar Run when I heard a male voice from the Webbs' house call out "Hello." Looking left, I saw Carol Webb standing behind the wall around their pool. Next to her stood a man slightly taller than her. The man said, "I'm Bruce Webb. Carol says you're a swimmer."

I slowed to a walk. "I was," I replied.

"You never really leave it, do you?" Bruce Webb said. "You look like you could use a dip right now," he added. "Why don't you come in?" Somewhat naughty-looking smiles, which I didn't understand, showed on his and his wife's faces. I did not wish to be rude to my neighbors, so I walked to the metal gate, unlatched it, and entered the pool enclosure.

I was shocked. What I couldn't see from the other side of the wall was that Carol and Bruce Webb were both nude. Carol may have carried an extra pound or two, but she was an exceedingly attractive woman. Bruce was very fit. Neither of them had any tan lines.

Smiling, Carol said, "I hope we didn't shock you. We don't like to wear swimsuits."

"In fact," Bruce said pleasantly, "we don't allow suits in our pool." He pointed to a sign mounted on the inside of the wall that had screened the Webbs' nudity from my view. The sign said, "SWIMSUITS ARE PROHIBITED. Skinny-dipping only."

"Although we're from the Midwest," Carol said, "we lived for several years in the Tampa area. Some friends down there dared us to go to a clothing optional resort. We did and became converts."

Before I could say anything, my attention was distracted by a young woman coming out of the house. "This is our daughter Danielle," Carol said. "Danielle, this is our neighbor across Poplar Creek, Will Lewis."

Danielle stepped towards me and said, "I'm pleased to meet you." Danielle had bright blue eyes, a wide smile, strong jaw, and high cheekbones, framed by brown hair a shade lighter than her mother's hair. I noticed that later. What I noticed immediately, because Danielle was also nude, were her proportional C cup breasts, flat stomach, firm legs, and the small brown landing strip on her mound. Danielle Webb was, quite simply, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in person or in pictures.

I tried not to stare and quickly said, "My pleasure to meet you;" but Danielle caught me looking at her. She smiled at me.

"You seem very overdressed," Danielle said to me.

"Please," her father said, "take your clothes off, get a quick shower, and join us."

Apart from a few girlfriends and my teammates, I had never gone nude in front of anyone. I certainly had not expected to meet a family, and a physically attractive one at that, who went nude right across the street from where I grew up. I was overwhelmed, but a part of my brain realized that his was an opportunity which I might never have again.

"Thank you," I said to Bruce Webb. "You all look so comfortable I appreciate the invitation to join you." I walked over to the outdoor shower, pulled off my running shoes, socks, shorts, and compression shorts, and stepped under the shower. I did keep facing the wall.

Behind me, I heard Carol Webb say, "I told you he would."

When I was clean, I faced a moment of truth: turning around and facing the Webbs with no clothes on. I cheated. I grabbed a towel from a nearby stack and toweled off my face as I turned around and exposed my front to my neighbors. I finally mustered the courage to uncover my face. Danielle, Carol, and Bruce were looking at me with smiles on their faces. "You have a very fit body," Danielle said.

"He's a swimmer," Bruce said. "You know swimmers have the best bodies."

"Dad!" Danielle exclaimed.

"Take a dip," Carol said, "or you can sit and chat with us. Would you like something to drink besides another Gatorade? We have beer and wine." I asked for a beer. Bruce went to a small refrigerator I hadn't noticed and pulled out a bottle Ayinger, one of my favorite German beers. I sat in a patio chair and crossed my legs. Danielle, Carol, and Bruce pulled chairs into a semi-circle in front of me. Bruce had a beer. His wife and daughter had white wine.

"I do have a question," I said.

"Let me guess," Carol replied. "Why did we invite you to come in and get naked with us? By the way, you can uncross your legs."

"You are psychic," I said. I uncrossed my legs, exposing my dick to Danielle, Carol, and Bruce.

"It's an obvious question," Carol replied. "The basic reason is that you seem to be the only person in the neighborhood, besides us, under the age of 50. We were hoping for someone local to spend bare time with. You're single so there's no wife to object. You're a swimmer so Bruce automatically approves of you. And, I looked you up online. You got your MBA with high honors, so you are intelligent."

"The MBA," I said, "was more a matter of the B-School faculty trying to make sure I left."

We talked for about an hour and swam briefly. At one point, while I was in the water, Danielle climbed up the ladder out of the pool. The water dripping off her bare body was close to, if not the, most beautiful sight I had ever seen. She stopped before she stepped out of the pool, turned, caught me looking at her, and smiled.

One reason I ran in the afternoon was to create a break in my workday. I still had work on my computer at home that had to get done that day. After about an hour, I thanked the Webbs for their hospitality and excused myself to go home and work.

The next morning, I vacillated between looking forward to my next visit with the Webbs and deciding that I had just fantasized going nude with them the day before. In the mornings, before it got too hot, I often took my laptop onto the porch and worked outside. I was doing that just after 9:00 a.m. when a female voice said, "Hey." I looked up and saw Danielle Webb standing a few feet away in shorts, a tee shirt, and running shoes. Even dressed down like that, Danielle Webb was drop-dead beautiful.

Danielle looked around. "You need to paint your house," she said, "but the setting is beautiful. With the trees leafed out, no one can see you up here. I'm surprised you have clothes on."

"I'm not in the habit of working naked," I said.

"We'll have to change your habits," Danielle replied. I brushed off a patio chair for Danielle to sit on. As she sat, she asked "What do you do?" I tried to explain banking risk management, but there is no effective way to make it interesting to non-bankers.

"What are you doing?" I asked Danielle.

"That is the question," she replied. "I'm sure mother told you that I got my bachelor of fine arts in dance."

"I would have guessed you are a dancer anyway," I said, "you move with a dancer's grace."

"Thank you," Danielle replied. "The catch is that I don't think I want to be a professional dancer. The hours suck and the pay is not great. And, dancing's dirty secret is that most dancers end up with chronic problems with their knees, ankles, or hips. That is a bigger risk for me because I'm relatively heavy for a dancer. I'm about 125. I'm not sure I want to be using a walker at age 30."

"What are your options?" I asked.

"The university here has a well-regarded master's program in arts administration," Danielle said. "I'm thinking of doing that and then work on the business side of performing arts. It is a two-year program and I can live for free with Mom and Dad." She smiled as she said that last part. "Any way, that's not why I came up here," she said.

I smiled and asked, "Then, why did you come up here?"

"The modern dance studio by the university has re-opened," Danielle said. "They are having a recital tomorrow night. A girl I know from a dance camp when I was in high school dances with them. They had to cut the size of their audience to be allowed to open, but Twyla got me two tickets. Do you know anything about modern dance?" I shook my head. "Then," Danielle said, "your education is incomplete. Pick me up at 6:30 tomorrow night."

Danielle stood and started to walk from my front porch to my driveway. Before she went out of sight, she stopped and turned to face me. "Running today?" she asked.

"No," I replied, "today is weights."

"Where do you lift?" Danielle asked.

"Here," I said, "I have a decent weight room in the basement."

Danielle stood silent for a moment before saying, "I don't know a lot about lifting weights. I may ask you to teach me." She turned and went down the drive. From the front porch, I saw her cross my bridge over Poplar Creek and start up Poplar Run Road.

Of course, I picked Danielle up at 6:30 the next night. She directed me to a building that looked like a small abandoned warehouse three blocks east of the university campus. Inside, in an otherwise empty room, chairs were set up on all four sides of something that looked like a wrestling mat. The usher told us that we needed to sit three chairs apart.

Danielle wrapped her arm around mine and said, "He's my date. I'm not socially distancing from him." We sat together through several episodes of men and women, sometimes singly and sometimes in groups, making very strenuous looking movements accompanied by jarring music. It lasted about 90 minutes without an intermission.

When the program finished, Danielle looked at me. "You didn't get into it, did you?" she asked.

"I thought you were going to explain it," I replied.

"There's nothing to explain," Danielle responded. "You give what you see your own content." Danielle stood. "Let's go backstage. I want to say hi to Twyla."

"Backstage" was a separate room where the dancers were changing clothes. Twyla was the good-looking female African American dancer. She yelled out "Dani!" like a high school girl and the two women hugged. When they broke the hug, Twyla asked Danielle, "What did you think?"

"I'm not sure," Danielle replied.

"I know," Twyla said, "I'm not too sure about this program either. Hey! Have you guys eaten? Gregory's just re-opened with patio service. Come with us, please?" Danielle looked at me and I nodded. "Great!" Twyla said. Turning, she called out "Bobby, are you ready yet?"

A very slender African American male dancer replied, in an almost stereotype effeminate voice, "Just give me a minute Bitch."

As the four of us walked the two blocks to the restaurant, Danielle introduced me to Twyla and Twyla introduced us to Bobby. The restaurant had tables spaced far apart on what had been the sidewalk. One was free and we took it. Danielle and Twyla apparently had not seen each other for some time and spent a long time catching up. When there was a break in their conversation, Bobby said from across the table, "Will, you are certainly a very well-built piece of man." I had a burger in my right hand. My left hand was resting on the table. Danielle was sitting to my left and quickly placed her right hand over my left. Bobby saw Danielle's gesture and gave a disappointed "oh."

Danielle and I and Twyla and Bobby went our separate ways on leaving the restaurant. Walking back to my car, Danielle said, "I hope you didn't mind me warning Bobby off. I've been wrong before, but you don't seem gay or bi to me."

"Thank you," I said. "Exclusively heterosexual, although I guess I have to modify that with 'non-practicing.'"

"Why 'non-practicing?'" Danielle asked.

"I haven't met anyone since I've been back here who appealed to me," I said, then corrected myself. "I hadn't met anyone appealing until very recently."

"So, you're seeing someone?" Danielle asked.

"I don't know yet," I replied. "We've only had one date."

Danielle smiled. She took a step away from me. "Do you like what you see?" she asked.

"Very much," I answered truthfully. "Do you?"

Danielle stepped back next to me. "I do," she said, "but, you're still in the audition phase. You have another performance to give before I'm sure you have the role."

What is that?" I asked.

Danielle's smile broadened and her eyes twinkled. "Mom and Dad are having a pool party for some of their friends tomorrow night. You know the rules for my parents' pool. Will you be my date for that?"

I'd already gone nude in front of Danielle and her parents. How much worse could it be going nude in front of some people I didn't know? "I'd love to," I replied.

Danielle seemed genuinely pleased and excited. "Will, that's great! Be at the house about 7:00 p.m."

"Should I bring a bottle of wine or some food?" I asked.

"You don't have to bring anything but yourself," Danielle answered, "but a bottle of wine would be very nice."

I was not sure what you are supposed to wear on your way to a nude pool party. I finally settled on polo shirt and khaki slacks. Along with an expensive bottle of cabernet, I brought a bouquet of flowers for Danielle. Driving up Poplar Run, I saw people out at the Webbs' pool. Because of the wall, all I could see were heads. It looked like about ten people, a mix of men and women. Pulling into the Webbs' driveway, I thought I had guessed correctly because I counted five cars in front of me.

I went up to the front door and rang the bell. A moment later, Danielle answered the door in a flower-print sundress. "I am so glad you didn't chicken out," she said.

"You thought I might?" I asked.

"I never take anything for granted," Danielle responded.