Friday's Surprise

It was stupid to get caught.

The object of my desire is tall, blonde haired, blue eyed and ripped with drool inducing muscles. His morning routine consists of greeting the sunrise by pushing back his curtains, reclining on his bed, and watching whatnot on television. All of this is done in a one piece - naked as the day he was born - birthday suit.

My response is in kind. I spend mornings submerged in the darkness of my bedroom. I've even developed a routine. After I've tugged my curtains back I settle on the side of the bed furthest from the window and wait. Because I'm concealed by shadows I feel secure in performing an early morning strip tease down to a pair of tiny bikini panties. Within ten minutes my neighbor's curtains are thrust back. There he stands, the morning wood pushing against the windowpane while he stretches and studies the sky.

For months we've shared the same schedule. Most mornings he’d wrap his hands around his thick flagpole and I’d tuck my fingers into my panties. On off days we sit: he watches television while I watch him. This is our special time…until today.

Today he settles on the edge of the bed with the remote in one hand and his thickening joy-stick in the other. Something on the television bothers him and his thumb pushes at the buttons until he finds what he wants. My neighbor shifts back on the bed, pulls on the tip of his purpling plumb then looks up right into my bedroom window…and catches me watching.

What does one do when getting caught? I scramble over the side of my bed, stunned. With my ear pressed to the carpet I wait for a siren, the jangle of keys, and the static from the radio the cops wear on their hips. It was impossible to hear much over the blood pounding in my ears or spy incoming black and white uniforms with stinging sweat dripping into my eyes.

When all that fails to materialize, crawling belly down from the bedroom to the hall seems the appropriate action. In the hallway I expect to see myself in the highly polished reflection of a boot. What I get is a mocking chirp from a cricket under the refrigerator. Was that insect for ‘hands up’?

Immediate panic and fear ebbs to embarrassment. In the shower I soap away sweat from my hair, arms, legs and belly. At work I sit at my desk drifting through paperwork, calls and nosy chocolate monger co-workers. Lunch provides a break in the creeping monotony of my thoughts. I stand at the railings to the outdoor food-court pretending to eat a wholesome meal of chips and a hot dog the vender talked me into.

“It’s not as if we ever spoke to each other.” I say to the pigeons pecking at the bits of hot dog buns I throw down to them. “I couldn’t even tell you his first name.” One of the pigeons cocks it’s head at me. His 'coo' sounds disappointed. “That’s my point. You can’t have a relationship with someone who doesn’t even know you exist.” The other pigeons look up at me with reproachful beady eyes. “Ok…who didn’t know I existed. But he sure as hell does now!”

The pigeons wander away to check out a bit of cracker not far from my bits of bread. I frown at them. “Turncoats.” I mutter to the lot. Another bit of cracker lands further away from me.

I trace the arc of tossed food back to a man sitting on the bench not more than ten feet away. The blue eyes that lock with mine rob me of breath. My stomach clenches. I feel my safe secure world tilt. It's Him!

He smiles. His smile reveals dimples. Dimples? Suddenly my head is spinning. My handsome neighbor doesn't have dimples, does he? As I stare he lifts a hand to tuck a strand of short blonde hair behind his ear. Helpless, I watch this action. Absently I wonder if my neighbor had cut his hair. It's much shorter than I remember it being. But then, the object of my desire in the mornings isn't his hair.

His smile broadens as I take stock. In response to my searching look he slouches down, drapes his right arm over his thigh and tap-taps briefly on the growing bulge behind the zipper.

There is no denying I know the rhythm of those fingers. Heat rushes to the nether bits between my legs. I cannot hide the resulting blush.

His smile is all knowing and smug.

Salvation swoops in literally. “Ow!” I jerk back from the pigeon pecking the red nail polish on my toenails. When I look up, my neighbor is gone.

Back at work I discover wicked mischief is at hand. A single red rose has been set across my keyboard. Melissa, my best friend, chirps, “I met him, you know. He has long blond hair, ocean blue eyes and very dirty sneakers on. Talk about sexy!” She sits down in the cubicle next to mine with a dramatic sigh.

“You find dirty sneakers sexy?” The owner of the cubicle asks around sips from her coffee mug.

“Only if they’re a size twelve or bigger. He let me measure them.” Melissa’s usual dreamy gaze sharpens as she looks at me. “But you already know that.”

“Not this house mouse.” The red blooming in my cheeks belies my denial. Than I ask the burning question, “Are you sure he has long hair?”

“Sweetheart…he has hair to tangle your fingers in to hold on for the ride.” Melissa laughs. To my relief the cubicle owner evicts Melissa. Still, her words amuse me through the end of my workday. But they also prove that the man I saw outside was not the same as my neighbor.

Try as I might, I couldn’t figure out how some stranger would know the quick tap-tap of my next door neighbor. More to the point, how would he know my reaction to that move?

At the grocery store I reach for a zucchini. “That’s a bit tame for you, don’t you think?” The man standing next to me says. I look up at once, ready to blast him for such a suggestion, and freeze. It’s the man from the bench!

“Who are you? Have we met before? Am I dreaming?"

His dimples flash as he smiles. “Every lovely morning.” So saying he takes an envelope from his coat jacket and presses it into my palm.

“Wait!” I call as he strides of. No, swaggers off, and doesn’t turn around to come back. “The rat even took my zucchini!” I snarl to nobody in particular.

“Not bad by half. And the squash wasn’t bad either.” A blue haired, stoop shouldered grandma says from my elbow. She hobbles off to check the garlic bulbs. I quietly wonder if the whole world has gone insane.

I don't open the envelope until I get home. Within are pictures of my next-door neighbor in various stages of undress. Most have him stripping out of either a business suit or t-shirt and jeans. The very last photo was of him unbuttoning a button of a clown suit. This button was right over the all-man tenting in the lower half of the outfit.

“Hardy-har-har.” I mutter. Yet, something about the picture bothers me. I drag my eyes from the suggestive look on my neighbor's face to examine the other bits in the photograph. “What the…?” I mutter, squinting at a framed painting propped on the bed behind him. Turning slowly I examine the new blank patch on my wall.

Fury hits me hard. I stomp out of my house, down the sidewalk to bang on his front door. It was irrational, but his refusal to answer my pounding announcement heightens my anger. I give up on the front door. Around the side of his house is a familiar window that only takes moments for me to wrangle open. The irony is I've dreamt of doing this for so long it's become second nature. The dream, however, falls flat when all I find in the room is my stolen painting and a well made bed. The required hunky model with the top button of his button-down jeans un-buttoned is missing.

Disappointment hits hard. On it's heels is the realization that my nether-bits have picked up tingling again. Along side is a chorus of super sensitized nipples, over eager neck hairs and - most unexpectedly - the taste of spicy hot male meat making my mouth water.

In fact, for a moment, I can taste my neighbor so strongly my eyes drift closed and I suck my tongue. My body is a livewire of heavy pulsing energy. For a second it's Saint Elmo's fire from the tingly hairs on the back of my neck through the plump nub at the junction of my thighs and down to my toenails. I swear my toenails twitched in their own mini-explosion.

I'm frozen in amused horror. I've lost all idea of why I'm in this room. Then by chance I spot my painting propped on the bed. Grabbing it and shooting off toward the front door is not the result of planning but of instinct. In truth, my mind was still locked on the most amazing orgasm that I'd ever experienced. I wasn't certain of how the fireworks happened, but I wasn't about to perform an autopsy on the situation until I was back within the safe bosom of my home.

At his front door I fumble with the unfamiliar latches and bolts. The door swings open and I run out...right into the barrel of a gun. Just beyond is no-nonsense dry toast Cop. His eyes are keen on my flushed face and the painting tucked under my arm.

“Uh…I can explain.” I get out past my frozen throat.

“Really, she can.” A husky voice says from mere inches behind me.

“She forgot to put the code in for the alarm.” A second voice, different for only the slightest change in pitch, adds in. This, too, comes from mere inches away, from the body leaning against the foyer wall.

Twins!

For the second time that afternoon a shudder whips through me. It's not the imagined heavy fullness of a man in my mouth that brings me to tremble. No...this time It's the erotic sensation of being caught between two equally sensual beings. In my split second fantasy both stand so close to me that I can feel the heat pouring off their skin.

The Cop, ignorant of my body's betrayal, squints at both men. “Prove it.” He grunts even as he holsters his weapon.

In tandem they point to a framed picture on the wall just inside the door. The Cop's severe manner bends into a grin as he studies the picture. He chuckles in the amused way of men sharing naughty secrets.

I have to tear my hungry lusting emotions from the twins. It takes a moment for what I am seeing to sneak in. At first I only see a frame. It's a nice frame of apple wood and standard glass and - Oh, God!

"That's me." I say, startling myself. I hadn't intended to speak out loud. But the photograph of me is beyond belief. I'm half turned towards the camera; hands between my knees and head thrown back in self derived ecstasy.

The Cop takes this as acknowledgement of my place in the home. He speaks to the Twins. A grin twitches underneath his tamed mustache.

I don't hear his words. My eyes have returned to studying the only other object with me in the photograph. The bench I'm on is familiar. It's an antique I'd retired to my attic months ago. I'd busted the bench one eventful morning during what I'd now call my third most interesting orgasm. The memory brings on another pool of randy hunger in my belly. It's all I can do to keep breathing.

“There’s no problem, then?" The Cop closes his log book.

His words snap me back to the present. Half blinded by another wave of lust I reach for the nearest twin. Our lips seal together, a silent answer that pacifies the Cop's remaining concerns. As if from a distance I hear the Cop chuckle and moments later his cruiser cranks up before he drives off.

A second set of arms wraps around me, this one more interested in shedding my clothing than in kissing. These seeking hands cup around my breasts, squeezing the nipples in a pattern I'd abandoned early last year.

Several sated hours later a question wiggles to the forefront of my thoughts: Just how long had they been watching me after all?