Nancy the Girl Next Door Ch. 1

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“C’mon in, Nancy,” I said as I opened the door. It was our neighbor. We share what is romantically called a “townhouse” by the new neighborhood residents, but to those of us who have been here for many, many years, it is a “twin” or a “double” in the west end of our city. It is only lately that the transplanted “yuppies” of the 1980’s have been giving these old homes new lives and, I guess, appropriately enough, new names.

Nancy and Mike have lived next door to us for about ten years now. They are an apparently happily married couple with three children – Lauren, 12 their natural child, Richie, 9 and Kayla, 5 both bi-racial adopted children. They are perfect neighbors for an older couple – quiet but very friendly and always willing to help out with anything. Mike is an insurance salesman who still hits the road for long days. Nancy is a stay-at-home mom who dotes on her house and her children and has done a very nice job with them, both my wife and I agree. Nancy actually grew up in the house next door and when her parents passed on in an accident a bunch of years ago, she and Mike inherited the house. So, the entire neighborhood was already familiar with her, and I’d known her through childhood, puberty and those terrible teen years.

They are church-going Catholics who send their children to local parochial schools and who apparently adhere to all the tenets of Catholic family life. So, it was a bit of a surprise when Nancy showed up on my doorstep that early Sunday morning at a time when they are usually at Mass. (I am sort of a lapsed Methodist, and while my wife continues to attend church and is involved in seemingly dozens of meetings, committees, circles and share groups, I putter around the house on Sunday mornings doing those things I didn’t seem to find time to do during the week.) My wife and I are retired and semi-retired. That is, I am a fully retired educator and only put in a few hours each week at the local community college, helping out an old friend who is now the president of the college. My wife is a half-time secretary at the church. I tell the reader these things to set the stage for the tale I am about to relate.

Nancy walked in and looked around. Though we are good neighbors and good friends, I realized as she looked over the living room/dining room combination, that she and Mike have really only been in our house once before. We just don’t travel in the same social circles – big difference in ages, I suppose. She commented on the fireplace with the built-in bookcases on either side, and other items in our house that were different from hers even though the other half of the double is a mirror copy of ours. I could see she had something on her mind and offered her coffee. She accepted, and as I poured I asked her what she needed. Help with something heavy? Something from our kitchen? I asked where Mike and the kids were and she told me that Mike had taken the children to his mother’s church this morning. She was not much for his mother and decided she had a very bad headache and could not attend. They would most likely spend the entire day with his parents and not get home until evening.

She said she just wanted to talk a minute, then asked a very strange question. Did I think my wife would mind if I showed her the upstairs of the house? I chuckled a bit and told her that if my wife found out I had a beautiful young woman upstairs in our bedroom, she’d call the local mental hospital and have me committed because I would be certifiably insane. Nancy laughed a small laugh and moved as if to leave the table. I took her cue and led her back into the dining room and up the stairs to our bedroom. She looked in and just sort of hmmm-ed and then asked what we used the front bedroom for. I walked her down the hall, past the bathroom and the extra bedroom we use for our grandchildren when they come to visit, and into the front room, which we have converted into sort of a computer-room/den/office/exercise room. It is large, light and open and it is a great place to do any of the former activities.

“Ahhhhh,” she exclaimed. “Now I understand.” She was looking at my bike on the stationary trainer in the corner of the room next to the wall that separates this room from her house. “Does that make a noise when you ride it?” I told her it did, and asked why. “Well, my daughter has been complaining of something humming ‘in the walls’ in the evening when she is doing her homework. They could not figure out what it was and she thought she would ask to see our room to see if we had some sort of machinery against the wall.

I asked if she wanted to try out the bike and see for herself. She agreed, and said she always wanted to get one of these to put her bike on for the winter months when she didn’t ride outside, but wasn’t sure if it would be worth it. I told her that it was certainly worth it and I kept this bike on the trainer year-round so I could get some exercise even when I was too lazy to go any distance. She made a move türbanlı escort as if to mount the bike, but it was so high off the ground, she had to climb onto the pedal first and swing her leg over the saddle to get on. It was apparent she was not going to be able to do that as she was wearing a short denim skirt that didn’t allow for much leg-lifting. I was just about to say that she could try it some other time when she was dressed properly, but she surprised me by loosening the tie in the back of the skirt – it turned out it was a wrap-around sort of thing – which gave her greater ease with her legs.

She climbed up, flipped her leg behind her and sat on the saddle, turning the pedals at some deliberate speed. The hum immediately filled the room. I never realized that the bike made this much noise because I usually wore a headset connected to the stereo nearby so I could set up a rhythm to my riding. The bike was an old off-road model with a knobby back tire and it made a huge humming noise when it rolled on the base rotor.

She seemed to be having a good time and began to perspire just a bit. I asked her if she wanted to get in a workout while she was here, but she said she didn’t have time. She continued pedaling and told me she loved to ride but just didn’t get enough time to do it with Mike’s long days. She didn’t like to leave the kids alone. I told her she could come over here and ride my trainer anytime she wanted to and the kids would be just next-door. She beamed at the idea, speeded up, and I could not help but catch a glimpse of well-muscled thighs and pink panties under the short skirt as she slowed her pedaling.

Nancy obviously saw me look and giggled a bit. “What are you looking at, Ed? This isn’t the outfit I would normally ride in, you know.” I told her I would just love to see her in Spandex shorts, but it might overtax my aged heart. She laughed out loud and said she thought I was flirting with her. I told her that, yes, I was; but at my age I had forgotten why. She laughed again and told me she was sure that was not true and that I was probably chasing the young coeds at the college all around the campus. I said, yes, I was, but by the time I caught them I was never sure why I had been chasing them in the first place.

We had another laugh and she moved to dismount. Now, this was a challenge and she did not have exactly 100% success. When she moved to get off the saddle, her skirt caught and she wound up standing beside the bike with her skirt pulled up to her waist, giving me an absolutely riveting view of beautiful legs and high-cut pink panties. What surprised me most, though, was that she didn’t immediately shriek and pull at her skirt. Instead, she turned toward the bike, which only served to pull the skirt apart in the back and give me a view of the cutest little ass I have seen in so many years I cannot remember.

Let me give you a quick overview of what was in the room with me. Nancy is tiny. Perhaps only 5′ 3″ tall. Very small, maybe 105 pounds. Blonde (I would think natural, since I remember her as being blonde as a young girl). Very slender. And the tiniest set of breasts I’ve ever seen on a grown woman. I am not much for bra sizes, but I would guess that she was no more than a 32 or 34 A-cup, I think that is how they are measured. But with all the exercise she does – running and riding – her legs are magnificently proportioned and well muscled. She is certainly a well-kept lady.

Well, here I am, at 60+ years with a 33-year-old, adorable ass staring me in the face. What’s a man to do? I whistled. Yep, childish though it may seem, I whistled, as I would have when I was 16 or so. Nancy laughed and managed to loosen her skirt enough to get it off the saddle and nearly back into proper position. “Like what you see, you dirty old man?” she laughed.

“Absolutely! But I will probably have to get new batteries for my pacemaker,” I joked back.

Now she surprised me with another request. As she re-arranged her skirt and moved away from the bike and motioned down the hall, she asked, “Can I see your bedroom, Ed?” I was a bit nonplussed at this, but told her it was right down at the other end of the hall. She took the dozen or so steps it takes to get there and looked around for just a minute or two and then returned to where I was standing. “That explains it,” she stated.

“What in the world are you talking about? That’s the second time you’ve said that today.”

“You moved your bed. When I was a kid, my room was right through that wall. I could sometimes hear you at night … you know … in bed. But I don’t hear you any more.”

I laughed out loud at that one. “My dear Nancy; believe me when I tell you that moving the bed had no bearing on what you heard in that bedroom. We just moved the bed about a month ago when we re-painted. You haven’t heard anything through the wall for years, dear, but moving the bed was not the reason,” and tüyap escort I continued to chuckle.

“OK, you dirty old man; what do you mean by that?” she casually asked.

“Well, Nance, if you really want to know – and I think we’ve known each other long enough for me to say what I want to say without you getting all huffy and offended – there simply hasn’t been anything to hear for more than 20 years now, if you know what I mean.” And I gave her an abbreviated run-down of my wife’s slanted religious views of sex after a family has been established. I didn’t pull any punches, but didn’t add any embellishments, either. I just let her know that it was my wife’s idea that there be no sex between us, as simply as I could.

“Oh, my God!” she whispered, as she got redder in the face. “I didn’t mean to pry…I’m so sorry … What was I thinking about to ask that … Oh, damn, I put my foot in it there, didn’t I?” all ran out of her mouth in one long sentence of embarrassment.

I took her by the shoulder and patted it as I would a very young daughter and told her not to mind her curiosity. I thought it was cute when she told me she could hear us years ago. I asked her if she ever laid over there on her side of the wall and wondered what we were really doing over here on our side, and she told me that she understood about what we were doing, but never really had any concrete information when she was that young, so she could only imagine what it was like.

I asked her, “No books? No dirty magazines? No pictures?” and laughed again.

She admitted that she and Kristen – the girl across the street – had stolen her father’s Puritan magazines and had looked at a lot of pictures, but never actually did anything about it until a lot later when she went to college.

“Well,” I told her, “at least you waited until college. Too many kids get themselves in real trouble by starting too early and not knowing how to handle it.”

“Oh, I started earlier than college,” she admitted as we sat down on the sofa-bed in the office, “I just didn’t ever go all the way until college. I was scared, that’s all.”

The conversation was taking a turn I had not truly expected, but found rather titillating, to tell you the truth. But her next set of statements rocked me back on my heels.

“You know, Mike and I don’t have sex anymore, either. I guess he’s too busy, or maybe I’m not attractive enough anymore, or something. I know he’s not fooling around anywhere, ’cause he’s just too busy for that. But I miss it sometimes. I feel funny telling you all this, but I’ve known you since I was a little kid and somehow it doesn’t seem all that bad, does it?” And she looked up at me with such a pathetic little smile on her face that I felt immediately sorry for her and her plight…incredibly young to have to look ahead to a sexless life. I knew she would not go out and look for an affair. She was a very good Catholic girl – too good for that sort of thing.

I answered her little monolog with a few choice comments: “I don’t ever want to hear you say that again about not being attractive enough anymore. That is pure bullshit, and you know it. Did you ever take a good look in the mirror, Nancy? You are absolutely delicious! Not in a movie-star-huge-bust-sexy-mouth-come-screw-me way; but in a delightfully clean and innocent way. You probably drive men nuts at the grocery store and in church and at the mall and never even know it. The truly sexy women never do, you know.”

Her eyes got a bit wider and she breathed out, “Do you really think I’m sexy? You’re not just saying that to make me feel better, are you?”

I took a huge chance right then and there. I already had one hand on her shoulder, and I now followed it with the other and lifted up and bent down so that I could kiss her right on the mouth. I did it with as much slow, soft, tenderness as I could. I did not smash her lips into my mouth or tongue-wrestle with her. I just kissed her and held her very tightly by the shoulders so she could not pull away. But she really didn’t attempt to, anyway. As I released her lips, I simply said, “What do you think I think?”

She backed away from me and touched her mouth as if she’d been burned. I figured that it was all over and she was out of here and my wife would get a huge anecdote about her degenerate husband when she got home. But no, she hardly moved at all for a good, full minute.

When she did move, it was directly to me, pressing her head to my chest and wrapping her arms around me and squeezing me so tight, I thought those tiny little breasts were going to punch holes in my stomach right through the t-shirt. I had the fleeting image in my mind of her crying, but it didn’t last long. She stood up on tiptoes and I got the idea. I bent down and kissed her again. This time, her arms went around my neck and she pulled herself into me, tightly.

I decided to really play the game here and stood up tuzla escort straight, with her arms around my neck and my hands at her waist. I lifted her entirely off the ground and her body slid against mine and stayed there. This time, our kiss was a bit more animated, with her taking an active part. Lips and tongues came into play and she hummed into my mouth when I moved my hands to her ass and held her up by those cute round hemispheres.

We finally came up for air and she tilted her head back and asked in a very hushed voice, “What are we doing, Ed?”

I replied that I thought we were preparing to make very romantic love to one another. I told her that was an idea I’d had in my head for the last half-hour or so. I also told her that I first had that idea when she was a teen-ager. She gasped a bit at that and laughed, “You really are a dirty old man, aren’t you?” And she kissed me lightly and squirmed for me to set her down.

I did, and she moved to the other side of the room where I had my old-fashioned weight bench set up diagonally to the corner. (Nothing fancy; just an old padded bench with two struts at one end extending upward about 30 inches from the bench to a pair of brackets that would hold the bar of any weight I chose to use for my fitness – not strength training – workouts.) She turned to face me and asked what time my wife would be home. I told her not for a long while, and she could relax and not worry about our being interrupted with whatever she had in mind.

It took only a half a minute for her to unwrap the denim skirt and flick it toward my feet where it landed in a tiny blue heap. I looked from the pile of denim to where she stood and noted that she was twisting the hem of the white t-shirt in her fingers – perhaps trying to decide what to do next – which gave me a very nice view of the front of her panties. Small, pink and delicate. Conservative, as I had supposed, but appearing at least one size too small for her. She saw me looking at her crotch and placed one hand lightly in front of her to shield her bulging nest from my view, I suppose. I smiled a small smile and as if she could read my thoughts, she said, “They’re not mine; they’re Lauren’s. I was doing laundry earlier today and wanted the panties I had on for tomorrow. I didn’t have any clean ones in the laundry room, so I took a pair of Lauren’s. I guess they’re a little small, aren’t they?” (Lauren is her 12-year-old daughter)

I smiled a Groucho Marx smile and told her that they were “poifect” on her and that they brought out her “…most adorable feature…” She giggled – honestly giggled – and moved her hand to the hem of her shirt. I could tell she was about to lift it over her head when I stopped her by moving directly in front of her and taking her two hands in both of mine. I lifted her hands high above her head and ran my fingers down along her arms into her armpits and then to her sides, sliding them to the side swells of her tiny breasts. She shuddered just a little, but didn’t move her hands. She looked directly at me – no eyes closed, etc. – just looked at me to see where I was going with this.

In this position, her tiny little nubs were stretched upward and very taut. I could see the nipples poking hard against the bra underneath and trying to escape their confinement. I moved my hands to the undersides of her breasts and tried to cup them, but there was not enough flesh there to fill my hands. I opened my palms and lightly touched them to the tips of her nipples through shirt and bra material and moved them around in large circles, just causing enough friction that her nipples knew my hands were there – and they puffed up and dug into my palms within just a few seconds. For some unknown reason, this young woman was quite “horny” as the vernacular would express it.

After a short minute of palm circles, I bent and kissed her lightly and moved my hands to the hem of her shirt and lifted it clear of her body and over her head. I left it tangled around her wrists so that she could not take it off, nor could she pull it back down. Her arms were still stretched upward, her breasts pulling up and her bra gaping at the sides of the cups. I bent down in front of her and slid my fingers beneath the lower edges of her cups and lifted them up and off her breasts and slid this garment, too, up along her arms, wrapping it around her wrists with the t-shirt material.

I looked. I inspected. I marveled at the tiniest pair of breasts I had seen on an adult woman in my entire life. Tiny, twin pointed cones of flesh. Topped with dark, dark brown aureoles that seemed to take up more than two thirds of the breast altogether. Compared to the size of her breasts, her aureoles were huge. They were not huge for a woman of 34 or 36C proportions, but for a woman who most likely sported a pair of 34A breasts, these brown circles were immense. Her nipples were as dark as the fleshy, lumpy circles that surrounded them. What was even more unusual was the length of those nipples. Exceptionally large. Large, even, for a woman with much larger breasts. I laid my pinky finger beside one of them as it swelled and distended. The nipple reached from the tip of my little finger to the first joint – puffy, swollen, hard as a pencil eraser and indented slightly on the very tip.

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