Authors: Lisette Ashton
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ John shouted from the hall. ‘I’m going to the pub with my mates.’
Before she could respond the door slammed closed.
‘Fuck him!’ she murmured angrily. If he was happy to miss his chance with the horniest woman on Cedar View, then he could go and do whatever the hell pleased him. Angrily she hissed, ‘Fuck him right up the arse.’
5 Cedar View
IF JOHN SMITH
had been pressed to identify the horniest woman on the View, Jane Smith would have been the penultimate name on his list. Beneath his wife, a long way beneath his wife, he conceded in a spirit of grudging marital respect, was the shapeless, slovenly single mother at number two, Tanya Maxwell. He supposed it was unfair to dismiss her so abruptly. He didn’t know her well enough to be sure if his low opinion of her was justified or simply based on a prejudice against her wash-weary pink sweat-suits and her dislocated air of inner-city poverty. He did know that it was always her children who were blamed for the occasional spurts of petty vandalism that struck the View. And he felt certain it was Tanya Maxwell’s cat that kept digging shit-holes in his front lawn.
Above his wife he would have placed Denise Shelby and Rhona Grafton, as well as Ted’s Linda from number six. There would have been no particular order or preference in his arrangement. Blonde, brunette and redhead, respectively, none was particularly glamorous but all were attractive in a soft-focus fashion. Denise Shelby usually looked as if someone else had selected her clothes, nevertheless, the woman inside the mismatched ensembles of pinks and blues or stripes and
was obviously attractive. When she wore her biker gear – tight leather jeans, figure-hugging jacket and a full-face helmet – he thought she looked like a goddess. But then any woman on the View, even Tanya Maxwell, would have looked desirable in such an outfit.
He considered this for an instant and then shook his head to dismiss the idea. It seemed acceptable to argue the sexual pros and cons of all the women on the View, but Tanya Maxwell didn’t belong in that grouping. He wasn’t even sure Denise, Rhona or Linda really deserved his high estimation. He only believed they were more sexually exciting than Jane because they weren’t domineering, ball-busting megabitches. Or, if they were, they weren’t domineering him or busting his balls. And in his heart he knew that none of them was sufficiently spectacular to earn first or second place on his private list of the View’s horniest women.
Across the road, the mysterious Ms McMurray stepped from the door of number four, tossing a mane of jet hair from her brow. Her head turned to the left, then the right, as though she were looking for something or someone she wanted to avoid. Her eyes were hidden by sunglasses as black as her hair, the lenses so large they hid most of her alabaster face. When her gaze swept in the direction of Tom from number one, her retroussé nose wrinkled with disgust and she quickly looked away.
Her body was draped with a long leather coat. Sleek, sexy and shiny, it dusted the floor as she walked down the path. Although the leather concealed most of her slender figure, the slit up the front of the coat occasionally parted to deliver a flash of fishnets and ankle boots. In one porcelain-pale hand she held a torn envelope and a small sheet of pink paper.
John blinked to make sure she wasn’t a figment of his imagination. He didn’t think he had ever seen her
daylight hours before. Ordinarily Ms McMurray was a creature of the night, a stranger he glimpsed in the glow of the View’s two streetlights, a shadow from his wet dreams, an enigma from the realms of suburban legend. On his personal list of the cul-de-sac’s most desirable women Ms McMurray competed for pole position with his darkly beautiful neighbour Joanne Jackson. The temptation to stop and stare, as Ms McMurray sauntered smoothly down the path, across the street and towards number seven, was almost irresistible.
But remembering his own outrage at the obvious voyeurism of Peeping Tom from number one – and the dirty old sod was still sitting there, one hand holding the binoculars to his eyes, the other thrust hard against his groin – John tore his gaze away and stepped through the gate of number five.
The sound of the water feature was with him immediately. The burble and glug of the fountain, splashing constantly and musically on to the ornamental pond, aroused him. It was the sound he always heard before he enjoyed the best sex of his life. A smile stretched across his face. He drew a deep breath, already aware of the stiffness in his pants, and pushed open her front door.
The scent of incense made his pulse quicken. The smoky floral perfume always reminded him of sexual satisfaction, punishing passion and glorious golden gratification. It was the fragrance he associated with visiting Joanne. He remembered an argument with Jane once, when she told him he had no interest in foreplay. Well, it hadn’t been so much an argument as Jane shouting, ‘Your idea of foreplay is to get an erection.’ He hadn’t said anything in response and had gone outside to have a cigar, but the harsh accusation had hurt, and he realised now that it was unfounded.
did enjoy foreplay and always had. Leaving Jane at home, walking to Joanne’s, hearing her fountain and inhaling the scent of the smouldering incense sticks: those were all elements of the foreplay rituals he enjoyed with his illicit lover. Quashing the urge to smile at this discovery of his sensitive side, enjoying the bowel-tingling thrill of being close to Joanne, and away from Jane, he closed the door gently behind himself.
‘When will you ever learn to knock?’
He swallowed a nervous shriek and nodded.
She stood in the doorway of the kitchen at the far end of the hall, looking like the embodiment of his darkest desires. Thigh-high boots with eight-inch heels. A black corset compressed her full waist and made her plump breasts look even more generous. She had tied back her blonde hair so it looked viciously severe. In her left hand she held a riding crop, a quivering extension of her anger.
John’s erection ached as though it was about to explode.
,’ he concurred.
‘You’re wearing shoes.’
He apologised and began to wrench them from his feet. At home, next door,
, he despised the ritual of removing his shoes and placing them in the neat, tidy shoe cupboard behind the front door. His wife’s insistence that he remove his shoes before entering his own home was a slight upon his masculinity and made him feel dominated, emasculated. But here, whenever Joanne demanded he remove his shoes, John found the act of going barefoot highly erotic. It was another element of the foreplay that Jane claimed he didn’t understand.
‘You’re standing up.’
He knew what she expected and dutifully fell to his knees. She looked taller from this perspective, more commanding and more beautiful than ever.
He longed for her.
‘How dare you walk in here unannounced,’ she declared, striding towards him. ‘Tanya spent the morning hoovering this house, cleaning from top to bottom. And you think you can simply march in here wearing your nasty shoes? Do you think that’s acceptable behaviour?’
She was in front of him and towering over him. His face was on the level of the crotch of her panties. The familiar scent of her sex was warm, musty, musky and inviting. He inhaled deeply before dropping his gaze and mumbling another apology. His erection was a steel rod inside his pants. His balls strained for release.
‘You stink of cigars. And you’ve only come here for one thing, haven’t you? It’s the same thing you come here for every Tuesday and Thursday night, isn’t it?’
Blushing, he nodded.
She made no response and, as the silence stretched to breaking point, he knew she wanted him to say the words. Trying not to stammer, hoping she wouldn’t berate him for not being worthy, he spluttered, ‘Yes, Mistress Joanne.’
She shook her head and used the riding crop to slap him twice across the backside. His shorts and trousers cushioned the blows but he still felt twin stings of discomfort. Joanne used the tip of her crop to point at the toe of her boot.
‘Only one person is allowed footwear in this house. Who is that?’
‘You, Mistress Joanne.’
‘And why am I allowed footwear?’
This was a new one. John hesitated. Was she allowed footwear because it was her house? Or was it
she was the one in charge and he was merely her inferior? Maybe there was another reason he had missed? Knowing she despised lies and stupidity, aware that a wrong answer would earn him a punishment more severe than two stripes across the back of his trousers, John shook his head sorrowfully and lowered his gaze. His heart pounded with fresh enthusiasm and he savoured the sensation of bowing to her authority.
‘I don’t know why you’re allowed footwear, Mistress Joanne.’
She sneered at him. Her maraschino lips wrinkled with disgust. Her teeth were as white and predatory as a shark’s. ‘I’m allowed to wear boots because I have slaves like you to keep them clean. Slaves like you to lick them clean.’ She spat the words with obvious impatience. ‘Stay down on your knees,’ she said, stepping past him. The heels of her boots clicked hollow against the floor. ‘Follow me into the front room. I want to see what’s going on outside.’
‘There’s nothing going on out there,’ John mumbled. ‘Only that old pervert from number one spying on everyone with his binoculars.’ She either didn’t hear or she wasn’t listening. She walked through to the front room. John, still on his knees, shuffled after her.
The layout of Joanne’s house was identical to that of the home he shared next door with his wife. He supposed all the houses on Cedar View were virtually identical. The only difference he could see between Joanne’s house and his own was that where he and Jane had a lounge, Joanne had a front room, and he wasn’t sure if that counted as a real difference. When the buildings had been completed the designers had installed laminate flooring throughout all the properties and finished off their work with the same fixtures, fittings and colour
. Joanne’s choice in furniture, however, stretched to a darker shade of leather than the suite Jane had installed in number three.
Joanne walked to the bay window and rested her elbows on its sill. Like a well-trained dog, John followed at her heel. Because she was bending slightly he was able to admire the rounded curves of her backside. Joanne had no time for thongs, dismissing them as uncomfortable and unflattering. Staring at the panel of black fabric that concealed her broad rear, John thought she was probably right not to compromise her principles for the sake of fashion. But he still wished he could take a good look at her bare bottom. The unspoken desire filled him with a mixture of longing and frustration.
‘Was that the McMurray woman I just saw? Going over to the Graftons? What the hell is she doing out before nightfall?’
John said nothing. He had been present during conversations like this before and knew he was not expected to contribute or participate. As soon as he was close enough to Joanne’s backside she extended a foot and presented him with her boot. It was his job to hold her shin and then lick the sole of her boot, kiss the toe and the heel, while he worshipped her superiority. The bent leather behind her knee squeaked softly as he held her leg. His erection ached and throbbed with the urgent need for release.
‘I didn’t think she ever went out during daylight,’ Joanne murmured. There was a trace of irritation in her tone, as if a secret had been kept from her. ‘And what’s she doing at the Graftons? Rhona and Charlie have never mentioned that they know her.’
John stroked his tongue against the sole of Joanne’s boot. The taste of house dust and grit from her front path was unexciting but, as with most things at
house, it was a flavour he associated with arousal. Not that he thought of the task as tasting house dust or grit. He was being allowed to worship at Joanne’s feet, kiss her boots and pay homage to her superiority. Moving his lips to the toe, kissing the leather with genuine passion and adoration, he longed for her to notice his enthusiasm and effort. When he slipped his mouth to the rear of her foot, taking the eight-inch heel between his lips and sucking on the length, he wished she would glance down at him and congratulate him for doing such a thorough job.
‘You were right about
,’ Joanne said with a sigh. ‘The seedy old bastard is out there with his binoculars. They’re pointed in this direction now. Although I doubt he can see anything through these nets. Is he playing with himself?’ She laughed, a shrill, nasal sound, etched with disgust. ‘I can’t abide men who play with themselves,’ she muttered. ‘I despise them. They’re weak and despicable fools. It always makes me think of gruesome little boys playing with worms. Puerile. Vulgar. Contemptible.’
She turned her head and stared down at him. John still had her heel in his mouth. His lips sucked hungrily on the eight-inch spike. One hand was pressed hard against his groin, squeezing, stroking.
‘Are you going to play with your worm, little boy?’ she sneered.
The disdain in her voice was crushing. He almost came in his pants. Breathing deeply, trying to find the internal reserves to stave off his climax, he took his lips away from the heel and shook his head. ‘I’ll only play with my worm when you’ve given permission,
She glowered at him. ‘You’re a snivelling puddle of piss.’
He grinned at her insult as though she had awarded him the highest praise. Her scorn was a spur to his
. Her contempt was one of the most powerful aphrodisiacs he had ever encountered. He abruptly stopped rubbing at his lap, fearful he would bring himself to climax before she had granted permission.
Joanne tore the boot from his grasp and readjusted her position. She continued watching through the window but lowered herself to squat on her haunches. If Tom’s binoculars had been able to penetrate the veil of the nets he would have seen only her head bobbing over the bay’s windowsill. Her backside, large before, now seemed swollen to an immense and glorious size. John knew what she expected from him but he prudently waited for her command.