This is part II of the story. I suggest you read part I first.

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My name is Katherine, and this is the story of how I became infatuated with the neighbor across the street, Marc.

I am a 61-year-old divorcee. I have a daughter who lives in Dubai and I see her a couple of times a year. I live alone with my dog Lily. I like to do Pilates and jogging, actually more than jogging. I have run a couple of 5K races every summer since I was in my thirties. For my age I think I am in very good shape. I have a plump butt, and back in my day I had large perky breasts that now, sadly, have suffered the effects of gravity and are not so perky anymore. I have fair skin, thin lips, and a tiny nose. I like to keep my hair dyed light brown or strawberry blonde, although I don’t rush to do it. I can live with a good chunk of white hair on my head. It does not bother me. I am 5 feet 2 (1.57 m). Back in the day I was a catch. Nowadays, maybe not so much, but I like myself very much. I own my house and I made good investments in my youth that allow me to surf through my golden years with no worries in that regard. I also happen to have a very close group of female friends that I have known half my life and can rely on. All in all, I am happy and have it all, except for some company. But I did not care and I was content with it, or so I thought.

A few years back a new family moved across the street. Her name was Clara, and along with their two kids came her husband, Marc. Lovely family, always very respectful and well mannered. Besides a few hand waves, head nods, and name exchanges, we had no interactions. We live in different stages of life.

Through the years I saw this family grow and they reminded me so much of the first years of my own marriage, with the distinction that my husband (sorry, a very long time ago now, my ex-husband) was nothing like Marc. For example, my ex would never wake up early to take the trash out without giving me shit for it. He was basically an entitled man-child. On the contrary, Marc was out there early no matter the weather and for any reason: cutting the grass, shoveling snow, fixing shingles, warming the car, grocery runs... you name it. He was always available for the household. And mind you, he was a piece of eye candy too. At 5 feet 9, he had fair skin and dark hair with a very nice face and deep green eyes.

One summer afternoon the sun was not too hot and I had some gardening to do, so I decided this was the best moment to get the work done. I threw on some comfortable clothing and went outside. After a few minutes of moving pots I felt watched, that sensation that someone was sneaking a look behind you. I turned and saw Marc sitting with his laptop on his porch. I was relieved. He does that sometimes, works outside. It’s Marc. I have nothing to worry about.

I started getting hot and sweaty. The sun warmed my back and my top began clinging to my skin. Suddenly I became self-aware of how gross I must look, dirt on my knees, hair sticking to my neck. So I turned around to see if someone was watching me and saw that Marc quickly turned his head somewhere else. Great, I thought, now he knows how disgusting I look and he knows that I know. I went back to work, bending over a pot, shifting soil, my backside pointed toward the street. After a few more minutes I turned again and the same thing happened. His head snapped away the second I looked. How gross do I look? He can’t stop staring. I was sure that at any minute he would get up, walk straight over, and ask me to please go inside and take a shower.

The third time I turned more carefully, slowly, without making a sound. I kept my body angled as if I were still working, but my eyes found him. And he was still looking. His eyes were fixed right on me, on the curve of my butt as I leaned forward. His laptop sat forgotten on his knees. One of his hands rested over the front of his pants, and he was rubbing himself in slow, deliberate strokes. Not a quick scratch. A firm, continuous motion up and down the outline of his manhood. I froze. What is he doing? Is he watching porn on that screen? No. His eyes never left my body. My butt was in the air and his gaze stayed locked there while his hand kept moving, pressing and sliding over the fabric. He rubbed harder, his wrist flexing, the shape under his pants growing more obvious with every pass. He was so focused that he did not notice I had stopped moving and was staring straight at him. Thirty seconds stretched out. I watched the way his fingers gripped and released, the way his hips shifted slightly on the chair as if he could not help it. Then something snapped in him. He glanced down at his laptop, his face changed, he stood up fast and hurried inside. And so did I.

Once inside, it took me a minute to understand what had happened. Was this thirty-something-year-old man jerking off to me, this old rag? Impossible, I thought. He was watching because I was gross, all sweaty, and he was touching his crotch because he had an itch. Case closed. I went upstairs and decided to end this foolishness. I will shower, get into fresh clothes, and ring a friend. When I started undressing myself, however, I noticed something strange on my underwear, something white. When I touched it with my fingers it was sticky between my thumb and my index finger. Could it be? Yes, I am lubricating. I haven’t done that in years. I delicately brought a finger to my labia and confirmed it. I was wet. Slippery and warm.

More than wet, I was aroused. My finger slipped inside my vagina so naturally, so automatically. It brought me back almost 50 years in the past, to when I discovered I could do this and enjoy it when I was 15 years old. This, same as then, felt amazing. The soft walls closed around my finger. I had not masturbated in more than a decade. I never had the hunger for it, but now I was thrusting two fingers in and out, slow at first, then faster, the wet sound filling the quiet bathroom. Still, something felt off. I was missing something. I was missing a man, a cock. I had accustomed myself to enjoying real intercourse for so many years in my marriage that now just touching myself felt incomplete. My fingers alone could not stretch me the way I suddenly needed.

Then I remembered. I left the washroom and walked half naked to my daughter’s old room. I knelt down and pulled a shoe box from under the bed. I removed the lid and saw the diary on top of her commemorative graduation t-shirt. I had found this box under her bed years after she moved out. I don’t know if she forgot about it or intended to leave it at home for safekeeping. But the diary and the t-shirt were not the point. I took them both out and saw what was behind them. Something my daughter obviously was very private about. A bright orange dildo. I took it out of the box, felt the weight of it in my hand, and then laid down on her bed.

I spread my legs apart and with care pressed the tip against myself. Slowly I pushed it in. It was tight, as tight as a virgin. I guess that is what 15 years of zero usage will do to a woman. The first inch made me gasp. I felt every ridge as it opened me. I worked it deeper, little by little, breathing through the stretch. My pleasure was immediate. The dildo was rimmed and I felt each ring push against my inner walls. It opened me. It stretched me out. I don’t think I got half of it in yet, but that was enough. I began to move it the way Marc had moved his hand, in and out, steady and firm. I could not stop thinking about that scene on the porch. His hand sliding over his pants, the focused look in his green eyes, the way he had rubbed without knowing I watched. I matched his rhythm. The heat built in my thighs, a slow boiling that spread upward. The tickling started low and grew stronger. Something was coming. I pushed the dildo deeper and held it there, then pulled back and thrust again. The orgasm came like an ocean wave and broke on the shore with force, splashing everywhere. My whole body clenched. I instinctively brought my hands to my mouth to cover my loud moan.

My legs went from extreme trembling to being still and unable to move. Then relaxation kicked in and I was numb, floating. After a few seconds I spread my legs a little wider and the dildo slipped out on its own. With it came a large discharge of liquid that soaked the sheets beneath me. I brought one hand to my labia and started caressing my pubis, soft circles over the sensitive skin. With the other hand I picked up the dildo and without a thought put it in my mouth. I tasted my own juices, the salty flavor of myself, and dreamed that the dildo was Marc. I was in heaven. I made a mess on the bed of course. I will take care of that later.

Weeks passed, then months. More than having a quick chit chat in the street with Marc, nothing came out of the experience. Well, something changed. The dildo did not go back in the box. Now I furiously went home to masturbate every time I had the chance to talk to Marc in the street or see him do some physical act outside.

In July I was doing some house cleaning and wanted to get rid of a couple of old chairs just taking up space in the house. I posted them as free on Marketplace and forgot about it. An hour later I get a message from Clara saying she wants them. I said of course, please pick them up any time. She replies that she is sending Marc over right now. I was upstairs and got to the window. Marc is opening his front door. He is on his way. Then I freaked out. I was wearing my worst appealing pajamas, and under them the old granny panties.

I rushed to my daughter’s room and started pulling her drawers apart while undressing myself. First I grabbed one of her panties, a small red pair with lace, put them on, and saw silk shorts. I throw them on and they just slide on my skin. They follow the contour of my body. Good. Now the top. I had no chance to find something sexy, so I leave my bra on and find the tightest t-shirt I could find, something that shows off my boobs. Bingo.

I hear the doorbell. I go downstairs and open the door.

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