Roger Tigger - Games neighbors play

Susie felt it happen as she slipped off her dress, sheer magic warmly enveloping her flesh, softening it to the bone. Her movements slowed. She dropped the dress on the bathroom laundry hamper and felt her face, her throat, her bra stretched by suddenly swollen breasts. Her nipples were hard. She slid a hand down her belly, over her panties to her crotch. It was moist.

She gazed about her blue-and-white bathroom. Nothing appeared altered. The tiles gleamed. She had scrubbed them this morning. The shower door stood open.

She had been about to shower. In the bedroom she had laid out fresh undies and a crisp summer dress. The kitchen smelled of roasting beef, to be done in an hour when husband Brian arrived home. Susie, young Mrs. Susie Fenner, was an efficient, methodical homemaker.

But magic sent fingertips languorously roving her nyloned breasts, buttery-soft caresses teasing the growing caps. She felt slinkily sensual, like a cat in heat, switching her tail and sniffing for toms. Magic? She did not believe in magic. It was sex. Her vagina was pulling, wetting. But why?

She turned to the mirror, saw cornflower-blue eyes wide, round, a blonde girl amazed at the transformation of herself. The eyes of innocence, about twelve years old, Brian had said with a sneer, her emotional growth stopped before puberty. And each time he drove his erection into her dry vagina, each time she humped desperately at him, trying to cum, and failing, she wondered. Maybe Brian was right.

But Susie was twenty, a grown woman with large, protruding breasts, and in her panties a broad fan of hair, and plump lips swelling the crotch.

She plucked at nipples like thumb-tips poking out the nylon. Lust had darkened her eyes. Heated breathing had dried her lips. A sliver of pink tongue-tip lashed out, wetting them. Brian Fenner's frigid wife saw her nostrils flare, then her hips writhing.

This was not the Susie she knew.

What was happening to her?

She curled an arm behind her back, pinched the bra hooks free. The nylon jerked, pulled by the weight of her breasts.

Her chest was golden, from gardening in the hot summer sun. Abruptly the color changed to milky white, flesh protected by her halter, broad mounds swelling outward, the inner curves almost meeting.

In the john at an office party she had overheard a woman say, "That wife of Brian Fenner is all tits and ass! Such a sexy girl, why on earth does he screw his secretary?"

Susie knew why. Brian screwed his secretary because his wife was frigid, had a dry, knotted vagina, despite the feeling right now of moistness in her panties.

She plucked the bra cups off her breast crowns, pink swells of teacup size, tipped with thick nipples. She brushed her fingertips about the areolae and watched them bulge, extending the nipples until together they formed cones. Hot, now. Tingling. She let the bra fall and fisted her tit ends, squeezed them, closing her eyes and thinking how Ronnie used to suck them, Ronnie her high-school guy, the awful shit, stood her up on dates, eventually joined the Army and disappeared, but sweet, dear Ronnie had kissed and licked every part of her body, loved her to the toes.

In the mirror her pink lips were open, teeth glinting as she drew deep, shuddering breaths. Avoiding the sight she looked down at her swollen breasts as she pulled the nipples out to fingering pegs. Then she dropped her hands to her panties, rolled them slowly downward over her mound hair, which expanded to a brownish fluff on release. She had a quite hairy snatch, a jungle of thick, silky curls hiding her plump mound and lips, even concealing her clit, which was grossly oversized. It disgusted Brian, who said it was like "a little boy's prick"!

"Well, it's what I've got!" Susie had sobbed.

Anyhow, it was not like a prick. It was smaller, and completely slick, and Ronnie used to suck it avidly. It was not a deformity, a doctor had assured her long ago, a mere anomaly, unusual but not rare. Susie was determined to ignore it. Yet had it something to do with her vaginal dryness, her inability to cum on Brian's penis?

She was rubbing her pussy before her panties were down, squeezing the hairy lips and working their slippery insides on her hot, swelling clit. Wow! Hot! And wet in there, like when Ronnie used to slip his prick in and sometimes she'd cum on feeling the head throb in her vaginal mouth.

She choked out a cry. So hot! She shoved the panties down, kicked out of them and hurried to the shower, turned it on and stepped in squeezing her pussy lips, pulling and pushing as the tepid spray dashed at her breasts. The water did not cool them. Instead the needling jets teased the turgid flesh to further swelling. Susie had begun hip-grinding, forcing her pussy at the finger pressure, wrenching and jerking, which made her firm breasts wobble and slip, roll here and there.

And why? Why? Because she could not cum in bed with Brian, and all her sexuality had bottled up? Because he was a selfish brute, just jamming it into her without a kiss or a caress? And maybe because of the new people next door, who laughed all the time, joyfully full of piss and vinegar? And she envied them? Because she was so alone?

All of those things?

She bowed her legs, slid a finger up her drooling, open hole, and went into a paroxysm of hip jerks, fuck-shoved, impaling her on the digit.

It was the people next door, she thought. They had to be part of it. It was since they moved in that those waves of heat had swarmed over her a dozen times a day.

She backed to the tiled wall, bracing herself as she surrendered to a flurry of hip jerks, hissing loudly through clenched teeth, writhing, twisting, breasts spilling to the right, then the left. She flagged her head, let out a shriek.

"My cum!"

A boiling gush, a flare of scalding heat ripped through her belly as a hip jerk shot her over the peak.

She sagged against the tiles, sobbing, the jerks slower, voluptuous now, and she groaned as her vagina slithered and pulled, gaped, then snuggled in on itself, all loose and sexy but empty, nothing in it but a girl's finger.

Susie felt wobbly-legged when she toweled dry, rubbing her flesh as though to punish it, sobbing, smearing at tears, avoiding sight of her reflection in the mirror. Shame! Self-abuse, that's what they called masturbation. If Brian knew, he would be sickened. Perverted woman! He'd say maybe her long clit was no deformity but the result of continual masturbation. Or from lesbian practices. Yes, he would say that. If Susie showed any warmth at all toward another woman he made horrid remarks, said maybe she was such a lousy lay because she really dug other snatches, wanted to eat hair pie!

Sniffling, she wound the towel about her body, knotted it under one arm and went to the bedroom, a bright place where sunshine glowed in the pale-yellow marquisette curtains, a color like the clothes she had laid out on the bed, a yellow dress and matching bra and panties. She would dress, look fresh and pretty for husband Brian, meet him at the door with a wifely kiss and a chilled dry-martini cocktail. But she would pass the evening in dread of the moment when he jammed his hard prick into her dry vagina, which he said felt like a rusty keyhole.

Yet right now she felt love juices trickling down her leg.

She could hear voices now, and a spate of laughter coming through the curtains. The people next door. She moved to the window, crouched against the wall and peered out through the curtains.

The neighborhood was composed mostly of ranch houses and split levels only a few years old but Susie was gazing at a relic of times gone by, a Gothic monstrosity of three stories, with cupolas and slate Mansard roofs, a house much too large for one family. Two weeks ago, three young couples had moved into that weather-worn antique.