Brush Strokes (13 page)

I found myself frowning as I studied the
pool. Strange I’d never noticed before the pattern etched into the
bottom. The Smiths had interwoven a darker color between the light
tiles. The result created a delicate swirl that stopped in the
middle of the water. I visually followed the trail of dark tiles,
momentarily mesmerized by its simple beauty.

Motion off to the side caught my attention,
and I squinted into the darkness, trying to gauge what had moved in
my neighbor’s yard. Perhaps a meandering cat or perhaps just a bit
of debris kicked up by the breeze. But then it shifted again, and
pale light reflected from what I recognized as glass.

I followed the shape of the bottle, glossing
over the hand wrapped around its dark brown form. As my eyes
adjusted, I recognized the outline of a person reclined in a deck
chair. His defined chest was bare yet too far away to determine if
any hair existed or even the color of his nipples. What I did
notice was the flexing motion of his abdomen during his rough
breathing. Not just the flexing of his flat stomach but the
rhythmic up-down motion of his arm.

I almost took a step back when my brain
finally registered what it all meant. A small cry of surprise tried
to spill from my lips, but I bit it back in time. Instead, I stood
transfixed and watched an amazing specimen of human musculature
move with an erotic beauty that took my breath.

I’d seen men masturbate before. Who hasn’t
been drawn to the free sites on the Internet that allowed such
decadent voyeurism? But watching him now, my neighbor, was nothing
like I’d ever before seen.

His thighs were spread, his feet planted on
the concrete. He wasn’t muscular like a bodybuilder, but he had
natural definition, as if he’d spent time doing manual labor.
Shadows hid his face from view, but between his slow strokes, he
sipped from the bottle, allowing me to triangulate where his face
would be.

From his position, he probably couldn’t see
me. I hoped to God he couldn’t see me. But the idea of getting
caught watching wasn’t enough to make me turn my head. Besides, I
was similarly afraid any movement made by me would draw his
attention. If I left, perhaps he would think I hadn’t seen a thing,
but then again, maybe he would know the truth.

I became fascinated by the motion of that
one hand stroking over an elegantly long cock. He used his fingers
to tease the head, and then on the downward stroke made certain to
pay attention to his testicles. Instead of the urgency I expected,
he seemed at ease with the lazy pace. As if he knew he’d get
himself to where he wanted to be eventually.

My own arousal swept over me in a rush,
surrounding me in its embrace. Reminding me it had been too long
since I’d known a lover’s hand or even my own.

I thought briefly of Patrick. What would he
say to see me here, yearning and fascinated?

I braced myself, ready to
feel the guilt. A heated blush should have crept over my face, the
shame of wanting to be here burning me from the inside. Instead, I
remembered his lovely smile and knew if he saw me here now, his
mouth would be curved into a grin. 
Enjoy yourself, honey. He wouldn’t be outside if he didn’t
want an audience.

Perhaps that was my own justification for
staying, but at the same time, I was sure Patrick would have said
those words…or at least something similar. Bolstered by my own
wants, and what my husband would have approved of, I stayed. I
watched. And I enjoyed it.

My neighbor’s pace increased, his hips
jerking as I suspected he brought himself closer and closer to the
point of no return. Mouth dry, I watched every lovely moment,
waiting to see the rush of his release. Between my thighs was damp,
my breasts heavy.

Up until now, he’d been silent, but when I
heard his first low groan, my focus sharpened. Licking my lips, I
stared at his cock and could have cried out in triumph when his
hand’s action sped up, and then his hips punched into the air. I
couldn’t see it clearly, much to my disappointment, but the way his
body tensed, I knew the moment he climaxed. The sounds he
simultaneously made, just as sexy.

His chest heaved as he drew air into his
desperate lungs. I knew his need to gulp in the night based on the
way my own body reacted, my empty pussy pulsing with a familiar
ache.

He picked up the forgotten beer bottle and
ran it over the muscles of his abdomen. Over the muscles of his
chest, and even the points of his nipples. He must have been
scorching and let the glass cool him down as much as it could.

With a groan, my neighbor stood, leaving
behind the bottle. He stepped out from the shadows, and this time I
did not catch my gasp in time from piercing the night. For the past
several minutes I thought I’d watched the antics of a middle-aged
man who’d somehow kept himself well preserved. I should have known
better.

The person who stepped out from the shadows
was not the owner of the house, but instead, his son. Jeff—Josh,
maybe—was home from college. Some stint at the state college that
his parents had been very proud of. My God, he’d grown up. When was
the last time I’d seen him? Six, seven years ago?

This time, heat flooded my cheeks because he
was easily ten years younger than I, if not younger than that. I’d
crossed the line from sexually curious into improper prurience.
Still, did that stop me from watching him move with liquid grace
toward the pool? Nope.

It wasn’t until he dove beneath the waters
that fear of being caught and guilt about my resultant arousal
urged my feet into motion. He swam in my direction, and the very
last thing I needed him to do was break the surface, look up and
find me staring. So I made certain he was completely submerged, his
body nicely silhouetted against the pool tiles, before I made my
escape. I quickly backed away from the deck railing, grabbed the
forgotten glass of wine and almost stumbled in my haste to go back
inside.

What would my neighbors think if they knew
I’d seen him in all his naked glory? What would my coworkers say? I
had an obligation to my community, and lusting after one of its
barely legal members wasn’t included. My heart raced, adrenaline
finally catching up.

“
Mrs. Pace!”

Not more than a foot from the sliding glass
door, I stopped. Why, I couldn’t say, but hearing my name called
across the otherwise quiet night served as well as a traffic light.
I couldn’t bring myself to put my foot in front of the other.
Couldn’t get myself to keep going. I’d been caught and deserved
whatever chastisement would be coming my way.

“
Mrs. Pace?” The voice,
mellow yet deep, was nearer now.

I turned slowly, ready to face my accuser.
“Yes?”

Mrs. Smith’s boy, my next-door neighbor’s
son, walked toward the fence that separated my yard from theirs,
his lean body glistening and dripping. I quickly took in the rugged
features of his face: narrow nose, broad jaw, dark eyes. Although
he was as naked as nature intended, he moved leisurely. His steps
still somehow managed to cross his yard in short order. He grasped
onto the fence, elevating himself just enough so that I could see
him well over the six-foot privacy fence, and so he could also see
me.

His eyes glittered in the night. “Same time
tomorrow, Mrs. Pace?”

Thoughts of how to respond to him tumbled in
my mind, and I stood momentarily too stunned to answer. Was he
being serious? Or just cocky? Was this an invitation or an
accusation?

He must have thought my hesitation had some
special meaning, for he added, “It would be my pleasure.”

A smile touched my lips at the thought of
this young, arrogant man propositioning me. That’s what it was.
Permission to repeat tonight as part of his enjoyment. And
mine.

I still didn’t know what to think of what
he’d done. Of my being here. But the idea of a similar clandestine
meeting made my pulse surge. Every bit of common sense in my brain
shrieked at me to voice my indignation. To perhaps chastise him for
putting us in this uncomfortable position. Young enough to be my
child, he shouldn’t invite me to pursue another such strange yet
titillating adventure.

But then I thought of my Patrick, and my
life—or lack thereof—and I wondered where, truly, was the harm? So
long as I stayed on my side of the fence and he on his, this was
nothing more than consensual adult fun. The potential for a line to
be crossed was there, but I knew myself enough to know I would
never breach it.

I turned and put my hand on the door handle,
using it as an anchor for my sanity. One single step inside
accompanied by my silence would give him the answer to his
question, but instead of crossing the threshold without reply, I
said over my shoulder, “Perhaps.”

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