tagExhibitionist & VoyeurDoing The Right Thing

Doing The Right Thing


Back in 1990, when we were living in St. Louis, I'll never forget what happened one long weekend when my wife was out of town for her grandfather's funeral, and I couldn't get off work to go with her. There was this gal who lived in our small, 11-unit apartment building in the Tower Grove East historic district. I first noticed her because she had a really nice, brand new black RX-7 and appeared to be good-looking, but I couldn't really tell what she had beneath the super-conservative business suits she always wore. She and I had exchanged neighborly smiles at each other and said "hello" a few times, but that's all the interaction we'd ever had until the weekend in question.

Alone in my second-floor apartment drinking beer and watching the late, late movie, I had dozed off on the couch and was awakened by hell-breaking-loose rapping on the front door downstairs. So I grabbed my S&W Model 66 and proceeded to see what all the commotion was about. Peering through the glass door's blinds, I recognized the girl on the other side but could not readily identify her. One thing was for sure, though--she definitely had a look of abject fear in her pretty face. As she veritably screamed to let her in, I realized it was the gal with the RX-7, but she looked altogether different from usual.

She had on lots of make-up and her long brown hair hung down over her nipply ample breasts beneath a tight tee-shirt tucked into skin-tight jeans. Damn! Was I dreaming or what? So I let her in, seeing no one else outside. I was a bit embarrassed about the .357 in my hand, but she seemed relieved that I had it, and I led her upstairs to the living room, where the coffee table was covered with empty Buds, so I offered her a seat and a beer and left momentarily to go get two more brews from the frij at the opposite end of the apartment.

As I returned, she was standing at the big bay window, which overlooked the street below, staring out into the darkness. Startled, she sat back down, swigged the King of Beers, and we began to make chitchat. Over the course of the next two hours or so, we drank several more Buds and I learned a bit about this intriguing woman. Seems she was the Office Manager for a West St. Louis mortgage company (which explained her usual conservative attire), was a fairly recent college grad, and had moved into our building a few months before.

Each time that I'd return from retrieving a couple more brews, I'd catch her looking out the window again. When she went to use the bathroom, I looked out the window myself to see just what the hell she was so interested in. At first, I didn't see anything unusual, but then I noticed exhaust coming from the tailpipe of a '73 Electra 225 parallel parked across the street in the dark. No lights on. Never seen that car around there before. Hmmm. I did not want to intrude on her privacy, but I was extremely curious, and she, now finishing her 4th beer, seemed pretty relaxed, so I asked her what the deal was with her earlier panic.

Stuttering, she proceeded to tell me the story. She said she was on her way home from work and was approached by a "creep" while filling up her Mazda that was nearly out of fuel at the Fast-Gas across the bridge. She relayed that she had politely brushed him off, only to realize that the same guy had followed her home after she'd parked, locked, and got out of her car. Afraid and seeing that my apartment's lights were the only ones in the building still on, she rapped on my door so that he would not know exactly where she lived.

"Was he driving an old land-yacht Buick?" I asked.

"Why, yes, he was," she replied.

I queried further, "You say you were returning from work. I didn't realize Office Managers at mortgage companies kept such hours, and why would you have been over in Illinois anyway if you work in West St. Louis?"

The blood seemed to drain from her face as she stared at the wall blankly for what seemed like an eternity. I sat silently. There's nothing like pointing out an inconsistency, followed by utter silence, that will get people to talk.

She got me to swear to secrecy on saints I'd never even heard of (St. Louis is a big Catholic town) and then proceeded to tell me the whole story: Although she had a good job, she had become financially "extended" with the new RX-7, the upscale historic apartment, and lots of new clothes. Then she reconnected with her best high school girlfriend, with whom she went to parochial school and had not seen in a few years, in a similar financial situation.

She was shocked to learn that she was dancing at PT's, a titty-bar across the bridge in Illinois, where she made more money working a couple nights a week than she did all week at her "real" job. So, very reluctantly at first but persuaded by her really-just-a-sweet-Catholic-girl old friend, my neighbor got up her nerve, aided by tequila, danced topless on PT's amateur night—and won.

So, in dire financial straits but having discovered a new income-producing talent, she decided to bare all by working weekends at PT's. She said she never walked out of there with less than $500 a night, often much more, in tax-free cash tips. She said the first night was incredibly difficult, but when she realized the clientele was mainly well-healed businessmen, she quickly came to not just endure but actually enjoy the attention—and, of course, the money.

But that night, the creepy customer there wanted more than eye candy and to cop a feel, following her to the gas station where he propositioned her again and then to her home—freaking her out.

Well, well, well, so my pretty young neighbor was a stripper! I told her I understood and that she certainly had everything it takes to be a wildly successful dancer. We drank the last two beers, I checked the window to find Mr. Duece-And-A-Quarter was gone, and walked her back to the door of her apartment. She thanked me profusely for my kindness and nonjudgmental attitude and lingered forever at the door chatting before finally saying goodnight. Then, she leaned towards my mouth to kiss, but I quickly turned my head to accept it on the cheek, and walked down the steps as she went into her apartment. Positively poo-poo-faced, tired, and sleepy, I went back to my place and crashed big time.

A couple of nights later, Sunday I believe it was, after renting a couple of videos, I settled on my couch to watch the movies alone, as my wife would not be returning until the next evening. Just after dark, there was a knock at my door, so I trudged downstairs in my boxers to see who it was. Yep, my Office Manager/Titty Bar Dancer neighbor. I know this sounds like a Mark Frechette story, but she was smiling and was clad in high heels, a clingy fuschia camisole and matching tap pants.

I could clearly see her perfectly shaped 34 Ds and pencil-eraser nipples straining against the thin silk as she raised up a 12-pack of Bud and said, "Reimbursement!"

She was drop-dead gorgeous!!! In that outfit, she had certainly been extraordinarily bold, as she had to walk the 40 yards around the building, but I suppose she had done it unnoticed, as I would have certainly heard catcalls and tires screeching to a halt if anyone had seen this babe. What was I to do, send her away?

So, not one to be rude, I opened the door and let her in.

"Where's your gun tonight? Got it hidden away?" she asked, glancing at my crotch.

She went up the stairs ahead of me to deposit the beer in the frij, and of course my eyes trained on her beautiful bottom, the smooth round cheeks of which alternately peeked at me with each step.

First offering her a seat, I quickly ducked into the bedroom to slip on my robe to conceal my manhood, quickly engorging with blood and rapidly becoming obvious in the boxer shorts. When I returned to the living room, she had transferred the pile of newspapers from the couch to the only two chairs in the room, leaving me nowhere else to sit but by her on the couch. And what I saw next literally took my breath away. She was sitting Indian style, which caused her tap pants to gap open and expose her meaty-lipped, completely shaved pussy!!!!!!

Before I could force any sounds to come from my mouth and nervously fingering my wedding ring, she very directly said, " Listen, I've been thinking, you were the nicest guy in the world the other night. You were exactly what I needed, and I knew I was safe and secure in here with you and El Creepo outside. Any other guy would have tried to jump my bones, and, considering the state I was in, I would have surely succumbed. I don't have a boyfriend, and I know you are happily married, but I can't think of anyone I'd rather make love to right now than you, so let's crack open those Buds and party!"

My eyes darted from her face to her tits to her twat, but I finally forced myself to say, "You are a lovely, sexy girl, but I am a man who is devoted and faithful to his wife, so I must turn down your very generous offer."

"I guess you wouldn't be the kind of man you are if you accepted, but if you ever have a change of heart, well, you know where to find me. At the very least, please come see me at the club."

So, I escorted her to the door, but admit I could not resist patting her fine firm fanny as she left.

I walked on down the steps to keep her in sight and make sure she wasn't molested wearing those rape-me raiments. Just before she disappeared around the corner of the building, she looked back at me with a big, sexy smile, raised her eyebrows, and gestured with her head in the direction of her apartment door, boobs jiggling alluringly as she did so. Damn, she was gorgeous! I just waved, turned, and went back in.

About two months later, the guy who lived next door was getting married, and I got the job of planning the bachelor party. Well, where we would have that celebration was about the easiest decision of my life. He did not recognize her as our neighbor, and, of course, I kept the secret and did not tell him who she was. I can tell you, the private dance she gave me that night was much better than the one she gave the groom, and his was awesome!

I never told my wife of her visits—what possible good could come of that?—and she never let on that she was anything other than the pleasant, professionally dressed Office Manager neighbor the whole time we lived there.

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