Page 2 of Daddy’s Naive Little Neighbour

My ex-wife is a bit of an ordeal. What happened between us was ugly and painful, but it’s over now, and I want nothing more than to put it behind me. More than anything, these days, I’m just thankful we never had kids together.

So now the house is my baby. It’s a sprawling old bungalow, the work of some local architect, who was talented in a mid-century modern kind of way, but whose work needs to be brought several decades into the future. As of now, I’m currently living on on a cot in the garage, because I need to pull up all of the carpet in the place and refinish the hardwood underneath, and there’s no sense moving the contents of my apartment in and then moving it all right back out again.

Still, there’s no schedule. One of the first things I did was install a window unit air conditioner in the garage’s back window, and it keeps it cool enough to sleep there at night. I don’t mind the summer heat, it’s milder than it was back home. I spend my days making plans and doing the necessary prep work to get the house ready for the first round of renovations. The kitchen will be first, and then the bathrooms. Both require updated plumbing and rewiring, new appliances and fixtures throughout. It’s all careful, thoughtful work that’s going to require a lot of time and effort.

But there’s no homeowner to satisfy besides myself, and I’m not changing my mind every five minutes about what I want done or how quickly I need to do it and the only cost I need to worry about is what I spend on materials, not what’s fair for my labour. I’ve worked for a lot of lovely people over the years, but I’ve also worked for a lot of demanding assholes. This house is going to help bring me back to what I love about this work, and why I chose to make it my career.

Today, I’m busy in the garden. The front yard is a little overgrown, but one of the last things the former owner did her best to keep up with. A large ornamental plum tree shades the front yard, and the garden out front is a pretty tangle of wildflowers and shrubs that only need a little bit of trimming. The landscaping half of this business was always my ex-wife’s thing, but I learned enough in the time we were together to know the basics. For the rest of summer, I’m just going to let it all run wild, to be a big buffet for birds and bees and other wildlife. There’s an old cement birdbath right smack in the center of the flower bed, and I make a point to fill it at least a couple times a day, so that my little neighbourhood friends have somewhere to come for a bath and a drink.

This is what I’m doing when I hear a triumphant yell from behind me, from up the neighbour’s open upstairs window. I can’t make out what’s said, but I recognize the pretty, girlish voice of the neighbour’s daughter. Every time I’ve caught a look at her, she’s been furtive and shy, but now she sounds excited and happy, and it makes me smile. She seems like a good kid. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope to get to know her better.

CHAPTER THREE

Bethany

It’s probably creepier that I’ve set up the webcam to do this rather than doing it myself.

But rather than standing at my bedroom with a pair of binoculars, instead I’ve got a discrete little bluetooth webcam propped up on the window sill, and a live feed of the neighbour going right to my computer screen on the other side of the room. He doesn’t even know I’m watching. I don’t even know why I am.

I guess I’m just bored. I don’t feel like getting yelled at by my mom again, so I’ve told my friends I’m going to be taking a few days off and letting my thumbs recover, and apparently what I’ve decided to do instead is sit at my computer, browsing gossip sites and watching the neighbour work on his car.

His name is Marshall. I got a handful of other details out of my mom at the dinner table, but the name was the most prominent. I have the vague idea that he’s fixing up the house next door, and that he moved here from some other state, but other than that I just know his name is Marshall and that my mom only talks about him so much in an effort to make my dad jealous enough to look up from his boating magazine. So far this hasn’t worked.

Marshall is a handsome guy.

I’ve never really been into older guys. My best friend Meg is, probably to an unhealthy degree, considering she let herself be basically kidnapped by her professor and whisked away overseas to be his sex slave. But I’ve only been in a couple relationships, mostly online, all long distance. The few times I’ve tried to date people in person, it’s always fizzled out and gone nowhere.

My webcam is positioned at just such an angle that I can watch him as he circles around the vehicle, some classic muscle car, cherry red and gleaming in the late summer sun. I saw it the day it arrived, delivered on a flatbed truck by a moving company, all wrapped up in its neat canvas package.He’d stood off to the side as he’d watched it being unloaded a few weeks back, arms folded tight across his chest in the manner of a man who doesn’t like the way a thing is being done but is restraining himself from comment.

Wherever it came from, the car made it off the truck and back into his possession in one piece, and now he’s lovingly giving it a wash with a big chamois mitt and a bucket full of soap suds. He seems unconcerned with the fact that he’s gotten himself soaking wet, that his t-shirt clings to his body like it’s been glued there, and that his shorts outline the curve of a surprisingly bouncy looking ass.

“Mmm, Daddy is looking juicy,” I murmur to myself, before I realize I’m saying it and then freeze once I realize I have. I snap the video window closed, my cheeks burning and an uncharacteristic panic rising in my chest. That was new. That is not a thought that has ever crossed my mind, and yet.

I open the webcam feed back up, and he’s bent over the hood of the car, his chest rubbing against the metal and his butt pointed straight at my window, almost like he’s doing it on purpose. I’m a virgin, but somehow I’m imagining myself pressed up against him, both hands clinging to the glorious curve of that ass of his, and my hips shift involuntarily in my chair, rolling my pelvis against the seat cushion as I sit up straighter.

There’s a magic bullet in the bottom of my desk drawer. Tucked away in a neat little box, a little silicon and metal capsule, enclosing a sturdy little motor with variable speeds. I bought it a few years ago, I brought it back with me from college, and immediately hid it in the place I hoped my mom was least likely to find it. So far, so good, or at least I hope so. It’s still there when I pull the box out of the bottom of the drawer, still watching the screen as I carefully unpack it.

The thing is old school, still attached with a wire to a handheld remote control. I set this atop my desk, glancing over my shoulder to ensure that my bedroom door is still locked—not that it matters, my mom is out grocery shopping and my dad is down at the marina, hassling other boat owners—and then slip the little bullet vibe down the front of my shorts, into my panties. It nestles, comfortable and familiar, just inside me, right beneath my clit.

I start it slow, but I still gasp softly as it turns on, buzzing gently. My cunt tightens automatically against the sensation, and I sigh as I lean back, enjoying it. I watch the neighbour with half-lidded eyes, breathing slow and deep as I dial the intensity slowly upward, feeling moisture and slickness slipping against the little vibrator as I carefully adjust it, and in doing so accidentally find just exactly where it wants to be.

This is the moment Marshall chooses to take off his shirt.

And it’s only a grainy picture on a webcam from a bad angle, but I still moan aloud and feel my hips thrust automatically, my back arching against my chair as I start to come, because I’m imagining his body against mine. Imagining his cock hard at work between my legs, fucking me for the first time in my life, this stranger who’s old enough to be my father—my Daddy.

The last of my climax peters slowly out, and outside I hear the hose turn off as Marshall heads back into the garage. I get shakily to my feet and gather up my things, heading to the bathroom for a shower, and some more private time alone with my imagination.

CHAPTER FOUR

Marshall

The neighbours have a pool, but their daughter is the only one who swims in it. It’s creepy of me to watch her, but I do anyway. There’s a gap in the fence that I don’t think they know about, where one of the broken boards on their side lines up just so with one of the dying hedges on my side, and I get a narrow view of their backyard.

And of their daughter, as she pads out of the house in bare feet, in a scant blue bikini that reveals the girlishness of her body, with a towel around her neck. The gap in the fence isn’t high on my list of repairs.

It’s just enough to catch glimpses of her from where I lounge on the back patio of my place, in an old adironack chair, with a beer in one hand and a copy of my favourite woodworking magazine in the other. I watch as she unwinds the cover at one end of the pool, and then tests the water by dipping her toe in. Whatever temperature she finds it to be must be pleasing to her, because she slips the rest of herself in afterward, and starts to swim slow, leisurely laps.

Her name is Bethany, and I think she’s lovely. Something about her seems sad, somehow, trapped and downtrodden in her parents home. I can’t pretend I know what girls her age want or like, but it seems to me she should be spending her time out of the house, hanging around with friends, not holed up in her parents’ house, rarely seen.