Quite why remained a mystery. They’d had years of opportunity, they had the baby oil, and Lord knows his missus had the tits! Forget the impending ice age, the residents of this close were all living in the cleave-age thanks to Shelley from Number One and her ever-present plunging necklines. It was difficult to remember a time when at least half of her bust wasn’t on public display. The Policeman seemed to revel in this, but when it came to claiming his titty treat from his very own nearest and dearest, he clammed up. Maybe it was from not wanting to show a kinky side she didn’t know he had. Maybe it was out of some weird kind of respect for her. Whatever, that particular pleasure looked to have eluded him completely until Eva came along.
Any previous reticence hadn’t stopped him asking her, on that very same day she decided it would be prudent to have a real-life policeman looking out for her interests. She had only planned to blow him. He had greedily pawed at her breasts, seemingly trying to drag them out of her top via the open neck of it. Mainly to avoid damage she had bared them for him, and that is when he came alive. ‘Let me fuck your tits,’ he had said without hesitation, since the two of them had no history, no boundaries, and no love between them. He could be as rude with her as he liked. She had shrugged and done as he asked and, just as now, his excitement had fed her own - although now it hadn’t turned her on quite enough to quell her disappointment at hearing Hunter returning on his motorbike. Patience that evening might have brought her greater rewards, she thought, as she sucked and wanked and titty-fucked the spattering seed from the Policeman’s straining prick.
She wiped the mess into her skin, just as he liked. For all his size he now looked weak and a little pathetic with his arms secured behind him. This would not be a day to leave him there. Boats were not to be rocked before she had taken her chance to give Hunter a similar treat. She considered going there now and catching him while he was in, but doubted he’d think much to a pair of pre-oiled breasts flopped out in his face, especially when they were streaked with the flakes of another man’s barely dried cum. She would go home and her fingers would be inside her before she had even made it to the shower. Such naughtiness made her so horny and it was only right that her throbbing, patient pussy received the kind of expert attention that only she herself, or one of her girls, knew how to give.
She left via the kitchen door, checking first that the street was clear. Once on the road it would appear as if she was simply returning from the village. From this back door she was only visible from the windows of Numbers Six, Seven and Eight. It took less than three seconds for her to step from the door to the road and that was the only danger point in all of this. Otherwise it was just absolute plain sailing to pop round and fuck another woman’s husband whilst she was out. It really was as simple and as risk-free as that. Even in those three seconds you would have to have someone looking exactly your way at exactly that moment, which was massively unlikely. Realistically, there wasn’t a chance in hell of ever being spotted. Or so one might think.
The Worst Part
It wasn’t so much that he simply refused to get out of her mind. The worst part was that he had made Nesta question her own home-life happiness. Since his welcoming party she had seen him just once, briefly, and that only from her kitchen window. He had been loading his board onto the roof of the Beemer. It was a kiteboard apparently, a pursuit of his she had learned of via Roni - although when and where her pretty neighbour had gleaned this snippet was unclear. She certainly hadn’t mentioned bumping into him and there hadn’t been a time at the party when Nesta hadn’t been present. Anyway, there was the kiteboard plus the huge motorbike that she was yet to see but had been told about by Maria, who had in turn been told by Eva. There were these things and maybe more beside to tell of what he did in his spare time and what made him tick.
Everyone in the street seemed to have a long list of hobbies. Roni and her husband did their scuba diving and kayaking. Maria had her cycling - allowed by her husband to join a club once he had ascertained it was a women only one. Alicia and her other half did swimming in the winter and archery in the summer, plus tai-chi and yoga all year round. Shelley had an endless list of activities: walking, geocaching, pottery classes, all the things you wouldn’t expect someone who wore such low-cut tops to do. Then there was Eva, who had her biking, her bitching, and her rug-munching to keep her busy. Everyone, Nesta mused with a tinge of envy, was doing something except her.
It might have been lack of inclination but she always took it to be time constraints. There was always some chore that needed doing, usually concerning the kids - parties to take them to, that sort of thing. Her children certainly had a more active social life than she did. Her husband worked hard and liked to relax by doing as close to nothing as humanly possible, usually involving the TV or the PlayStation. She had never before challenged his attitude. Gone were the times she made half-hearted suggestions. She knew what fatigue was all about so as far as she was concerned he deserved to spend his free time as lazily as he wished, not caring that this might impact on her own life fulfilment, or lack of it. Short of a few gentle family strolls, and some pottering about the garden or the shops, they didn’t really do anything at all. They never had done.
It was a bit of an eye-opener to suddenly realise how boring you actually were. Most of the day-to-day stuff and conversation revolved around children so she had never felt left out. In truth she rather enjoyed her no-risk ways. She enjoyed putting the kids to bed and then cuddling up with him to watch a film or listen to music, without needing to worry whether one’s parachute was going to open or not. Having children was seat-of-the-pants enough in her view. She liked knowing that her husband would never shock her or do anything stupid. Safe made her happy and happiness was good, as Hunter himself had pointed out.
The sex was more sporadic now and it wasn’t exactly fire-starting, but so what? It was good for her and it should never be about box-ticking. Her husband wasn’t an instigator in matters of a sexual nature, which meant that it would be down to her should she want to try ways to spice things up. However, at least she knew she was never going to get a phone call from him saying he was in casualty with his thingy lodged in a bowling ball, and she was never going to die of asphyxiation hanging off the back of a hotel door wearing a latex French maid’s outfit. Sometimes she hankered after a little more spark and spontaneity, but why seek the unknown when what you knew was good enough?
A man like Hunter was unnerving. You don’t fight in wars or end up in jail by living life with a safety net. You don’t fling yourself about on kiteboards and motorcycles and then pop home for a nice cuddle and maybe, if tiredness allowed, a bout of well-practised missionary sex. He would want to be leaping at you from the top of your wardrobe with a cat o’nine tails in his hand. It didn’t matter how calm and assured he came across, he was danger, and no doubt reckless with hearts and lives.
A part of her wished he was safer, but this was the paradox he imbued. It was him being exactly as he was that made him so unshakeably captivating. It was from being the complete opposite of what she thought she wanted - the complete opposite of her husband. He had to have the ruggedness, the edge to the eyes, the chequered past. He had to have that hidden hint of power and mercilessness. He had to house the bomb inside that calm, faultless exterior. It was all the things that frightened her that gave her that what if? feeling. However, it was this same fright that made her know she would never actually have the courage to follow through with the flights of fancy that had filled so many of her waking moments since he first arrived, and that knowledge kept her calm.
The danger of him could have been imminently lurking. He had, after all, told all the girls they were not safe from him. He had implied he was coming for them all. Nesta was reasonably sure this was said just to tease Eva, but who could say for sure? What was certain was that he had put the idea into each girl’s head. The possibility had been raised. Suddenly on their doorstep was a very
handsome man, with a mysterious past, who apparently wanted sex with them. No-strings sex, to be exact. It would have made them all consider the ease with which it could be achieved, how few obstacles they would find in the way. They would evaluate all his positives: his humour and quiet assurance as well as his physical presence. They would recall that he was not emotionally devoid but indeed capable of great love and devotion, as demonstrated by his refusal to besmirch his late wife’s memory by giving his heart again (a brilliant get-out clause on the commitment front if ever Nesta had heard one). This was almost a challenge to be the one to make him love again, to show him that life could be kind after all. Females liked that sort of thing.
Of course all of it could have been lies: the story of his wife; his macho career; the prison term. There was certainly no one around to refute him. Yet you just knew it was the truth. If anything there was way more to him that he was keeping back. When you saw him up against someone around his own age - someone like Shelley’s husband, or one equally as big and self-assured and dubiously proud of his manliness - Hunter just looked like a breed apart. He was like the one Hollywood actor amongst the group of amateur dramatists. He was spottable from a mile off. He had grace, respect, and warmth, despite a life of turmoil and conflict that hardened his exterior. He had humour despite those eyes. It was heart-melting to see someone like him smile with such ease at the things you said. If he truly came for you, then what on earth would stop you from capitulating to him in a moment?
It would be a scary thought had Nesta believed Hunter would ever waste his time on someone like her. Even if, as his body language suggested, he was attracted to her physically, he must certainly think her too dull. Having taken a back seat at the party she had surely put herself way down his list of potential targets. If the kiteboarding man of action was going to go for one of them, would he pick her or one of the go-getters amongst them? Any of the others could regale him with stories about how they caught scallops from beneath the hull of a wrecked fishing vessel, or pulled massive wheelies all the way down the Harbour Road, or split arrows Robin Hood-style with one of their own. All she could tell him was about how she had cleaned the grease filter from the cooker hood that morning. At age 35 her life was passing by with little or no risks, and a minimum of drama.
The trouble was she didn’t want to be seen as boring, not by him. It was nice to chat and mildly flirt with someone who you found attractive and to sense that the feeling was mutual. Life was so much better if the people you spoke to were good-looking and gave you that little frisson. It swelled your spirit to know that you could be stimulating to such a one, and that you could make them smile with such ease. It meant that they were noticing you, taking a genuine interest.
She liked most of the other guys in the street, even quietly fancied a couple of them, and didn’t mind any of the usual gentle flirting. But unlike Hunter they were all benign family men, hidden safely behind the barrier of their happy marriages. They didn’t leach danger like Hunter did. And that’s what made him so exciting, she knew this. The reason thoughts of the other guys hadn’t kept her awake at night was because they couldn’t ignite her soul. It was just titillation with them, mere play-acting. He was a man who could shoot you through with fizzling electricity just from a look. With him it was real fire, real edge of the cliff passion, the possibility that your secure, mundane life might suddenly explode into careering, heart-racing action. She knew that when it came to the crunch he wouldn’t go for someone like her, whatever hints he had given. She was too much the wallflower for him and this was a relief. But at the same time she couldn’t bear the thought of being overlooked, of one of the other girls in the street being given the prize.
Number One
Shelley’s world wasn’t just turning. It was flipping and spinning enough to make her clutch at the edge of the kitchen worktop, having failed to drive the episode from her mind. It was playing on a loop, coming back vividly, over and over. There was flour spilled all over the surface. She had erroneously dunked the wooden spoon into her half-full mug of tea. She had absolutely no idea how much sugar she had poured into the mixing bowl, or why she had cracked half a dozen eggs into it rather than the required three. All of this from five short words, no more than five silently mouthed syllables in total.
The cake was ruined and she would have to pull herself together and make a new one or disappoint those neighbours who had come to love and possibly expect the little treats she liked to make them each week. In her heart of hearts this is all she considered herself to be - an honest, friendly, open and generous sort, but primarily a simple soul who liked little more than to bake cakes for others and generally spread kindness. She didn’t hanker for anything else. She had a nice home and a nice life, without those dramas younger families are prone to. The boys had grown up and weren’t around now, with one at university and the other already in a very good job and flat-sharing with his girlfriend. She had the freedom to just potter about and do her little hobbies, to chat without time constraints, to bask in the knowledge that life could be good if you never expected too much of it. And now this.
She would like to have claimed it came completely out of the blue but something like this was always bound to happen with all the provocation she provided. It was the fact that it had been him of all people. If it had been anyone else, someone less dishy and altogether captivating, she might have had to do something to nip it in the bud quickly - either warn them off or make her husband aware. Here she doubted she had the power or conviction to approach and spell out to a man she barely knew why she had to gloss over the whole episode and pretend it had all been a dream. A good dream, obviously, but not one she could ever make reality. Even now she could feel her legs quaking at the thought of confronting him again. She would be on the floor, quite literally - a pile of quaking nonsense at his feet. All the bluster and boldness and brazenness people assumed she had would be gone and the lie would be exposed.
She couldn’t tell her husband. He wouldn’t want to know that attention had come from this quarter even if he had spent all their 24 years of married life trying to make other men desire her. It was her husband’s fault in truth. Yes, she had gone along with it and still did, but if she had been with anyone else she wouldn’t have turned out like this. Of course she liked to look attractive but who didn’t? It was the most basic instinct of females of any species, hard-wired into their systems even before birth. Attract a mate, the best one you can. The better you look, the better your pulling power.
Well, it was mission long accomplished for her. She had got her mate and done pretty well, so most would think. However, her mate wanted her to keep on attracting, to this day. Not out of any kinky desires for threesomes or swapping or watching her with other men - far from it. It simply fed his ego to know that other man wanted his wife. The more glances she got, the more dirty images in dirty men’s minds she induced, the prouder he was with himself. He could stand in kitchens at social events, big and tall like the police sergeant that he was, his chest out like a cockerel, taking loudly and bawdily like he always did, confident that jealous respect was coming his way. He could pretend to be completely oblivious to the furtive looks cast at his wife’s cleavage. However, although he wasn’t looking at the leering hordes, he was giving off silent waves that said: that’s right, my missus is a lovely over-spilling handful of gorgeousness, so what do you think that makes me? Go on, have a good long look at those tasty titties and think whatever sordid thoughts you like about them. But always remember that they are MY property, because I am who I am, and that means you will always have to keep your filthy fucking hands to yourself.
He could be like this because he was physically imposing, even in his late forties and with a head of cropped grey hair. He could dominate proceedings and set up the boundaries which others wouldn’t dare to cross - until now, of course. This newcomer gave off an authority that was way beyond a humble policeman’s. It was silently a
nd magically transmitted, neither through word nor action. You just looked at him and thought: this man has power. He has incomprehensible strength and could harness fire. He has abilities and knowledge and keeps the most guarded secrets. He might look calm and immaculate, speak politely and respectfully, and always smile with his eyes, but there is a menace within that could hopelessly engulf whole armies. He might not be as young as some, or as physically large as others, but somehow you could sense he could rip this whole neighbourhood apart in seconds if he chose to do so, and none could come even close to stopping him.
Five short, silently mouthed words. Shelley felt her lungs filling with trapped breath once more. She put a trembling hand to her mouth and inadvertently wiped flour across her flushed cheeks. She had flirted, perhaps more than she was comfortable with, but still she never saw this coming. He gave no indication of any admiration. She had not spotted his eyes on her chest like she did with other men when she was sporting one of her killer tops. The plunging neckline was her calling card, her primary armament. Tops without a V-neckline - or buttons that could be undone to produce one - made up about one per cent of her wardrobe. She wanted to cover up more but it wasn’t allowed. The last time she had worn a round-necked T-shirt her husband had unceremoniously cut it up the very next day and used it as cloth for cleaning his car.
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