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You undress without bothering to close the blinds. Your only neighbor is Jim Bussey, and his windows are dark. He’s probably already asleep. Nude, you pause to check your phone, and then put on deodorant, change into your pajamas, and climb into bed.
Across the narrow patch of grass and bushes between your houses, Jim Bussey stands invisible in front of the darkened window and watches.
–
Hours later, Jim climbs the steps to your front door, and curses when the porch creaks under his feet. He freezes, and hears no sound but the wind in the trees. He pulls a key out of his pocket and fits it into the lock. The aged deadbolt clunks open. He eases the door open, slips inside, and shuts and locks it behind him. He takes his shoes off and hangs up his jacket on the peg by the door.
He takes a deep breath and gives his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness inside. Then he climbs the stairs, keeping to the edge of each step as much as possible to keep them from creaking.
Your bedroom door is ajar. The moonlight falls through the window and pools in the valley between your breasts. Your chest rises and falls slowly as you sleep.
Pretty, pretty thing.
You told him you’ve got insomnia. You told him you take extra-strong sleeping pills that knock you out for ten hours, and the house could probably burn down around you without waking you up.
Jim stands by the head of the bed and smooths your hair back from your face. You don’t stir. Emboldened, he leans down and kisses your forehead, your cheek, your throat, and then your sternum. Still nothing. You’re wearing loose pajama shorts and a button-down pajama shirt.
“I’m going to be so gentle,” he murmurs. “So gentle you won’t feel a thing. I’ll just give you some nice dreams.”
He unbuttons your shirt and kisses your chest, avoiding your nipples so he can see them harden. You sigh in your sleep, shifting a little, and he freezes, but all you do is spread your legs a little and arch your back to put your chest in his face.
“Good girl,” he says, petting your thighs.
He licks over your nipple, finally, and you whimper. But he’s bolder, now, doesn’t stop until your skin is reddened from his mouth and your hips are canting upward. He puts his hands on your hips and holds you down firmly to the mattress. “I’m going to set the pace tonight, sweetheart.”
Then he very gently, slowly pulls down your shorts. Your legs fall open, revealing the flushed folds of your cunt. “Oh,” he breathes. He nudges your thighs further apart. “You need this, don’t you? You’ve been running yourself ragged. But don’t worry. I’ll give you everything you need.”
He teases a fingertip up through your folds, collecting moisture, and circles it around your clit. Gentle, he reminds himself.
He listens to your breathing - slow, even - as he traces your folds and presses a fingertip against your entrance. His fingers are thick. But you’re already so wet that he can slip one inside. It’s a tight fit: he goes a bit lightheaded imagining how you’d feel against his cock.
He strokes your inner walls. It might take hours. He feels like he’s floating, beyond time and space, living only in your soft sighs and the tensing of your muscles as he slowly, gently works you up. He wonders what you’re dreaming of. Who you’re dreaming of. Certainly not an old-shut in like him. He hopes you’re imagining someone nice, and handsome, and charming.
He sees your orgasm coming a long way off, and it only increases the pleasure of it, like seeing a friend at the end of a long hallway and hurrying his steps to meet sooner - in the same way he allows his fingers to speed up, just a little, and drop his mouth to your clit - gentle, gentle, more like a kiss. You’re moaning slightly more loudly now.
When you finally reach orgasm, your thighs tense around him, and he works you through it. Then, when you’re relaxed again, breath evening out, he pulls back, satisfied. Your cunt is so wet it shines in the moonlight, and you almost look like you’re gaping.
Well. Perhaps he’s not quite satisfied. He’s pushing his luck, he knows, but he wonders. He puts a finger to your entrance again and presses inside. Then two. You don’t stir. He scissors his fingers apart, judging…
Just the tip wouldn’t hurt. Couldn’t hurt. You’ll never even know.
He unzips his trousers. His cock is already half-hard, has been since he first kissed you (overexcitable, foolish, not used to looming over a woman like this, smelling your hair and your skin, tasting you) and the first kiss of the head of it to your folds is electric.
He closes his other hand tight over his mouth to keep from crying out as he eases himself inside. Just an inch, and then he forces himself to stop. Just the head. He won’t hurt you. He refuses. He strokes himself, telling himself that just this is enough. He closes his eyes and forces himself to take deep breaths.
He realizes he’s been pressing forward unconsciously, seeking out the pleasure of your slick cunt that he’s so carefully prepared. Maybe he’s being more selfish than he realizes.
He studies your face. Still serene. Still asleep. He allows himself to withdraw, and then press back in. Agonizingly slowly. Then he stops, catches his breath. “You have no idea, do you?” he asks you. “The things you do to me. You feel like heaven.” He rolls his hips again, savoring the slick drag of your inner walls against his cock.
The realization that nobody can stop him from doing this is intoxicating. He could keep fucking you until he cums, deep inside you, right up against your womb, and then use his fingers to press the mess as deep inside you as it would go and pull up your pajama shorts and leave you like that, leave you to wake up aching. And he could come back tomorrow night and do it again.
But he wouldn’t. He won’t hurt you.
His orgasm sneaks up on him, lost in fantasies. He pulls out almost too late, almost at the crest, and jerks himself to quick completion, his cum spattering over your stomach and chest. Marking you.
He stands there a moment, breathing hard. “Fuck,” he breathes. “Fuck.” He looks around. None of it got on the sheets. Thank god.
Your cunt looks ruined. He wants to get back on the bed and kiss it, probe it with his tongue, find out whether he can bring you to orgasm again, gorge himself on you. But he’s not as young as he used to be. He can’t stay up all night.
So he goes into the ensuite bathroom and cleans himself up. Then he gets a clean wash cloth out of the closet, wets it with warm water, and uses it to wipe the slick off your folds and the cum off your chest. He re-buttons your shirt and pulls your shorts back up over your hips.
Your head is turned on the pillow. It’s like nothing ever happened. Standing in the doorway, he takes one last look over his shoulder at you, sleeping peacefully. Then he turns to leave.
“Will you stay?” you say from behind him. Your eyes are open, now, shining in the moonlight. You’re beautiful.
His breath catches in his throat. His voice comes out a little hoarse. “Yes. I’ll stay.”
–
You scoot over to make room for him to lie down beside you while he strips off his outside pants.
“Be honest,” he says as he climbs into bed. “When did you wake up?”
“While you were unbuttoning my shirt,” you admit. As gentle as he was, you’re a light sleeper.
“Darn.” He lifts one arm so you can cuddle up against him, resting your head on his chest.
“But I didn’t want to spoil your fun!” you say. “And you were wonderful.”
“Thank you.” He turns his head hopefully, and you kiss him.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” you ask.
“Yes,” he admits. “Felt like a dirty old man, but that’s to be expected.”
He didn’t admit this fantasy until you’d been dating for almost a year. Most of the time he’s a teddy bear beneath his grumpy exterior. “My dirty old man,” you remind him.
“Right, right.”
“Maybe next time you can get farther without waking me.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Next time? You’d let me do that again?”
“Of course I would. I had fun.” You’re stroking his chest absentmindedly.
He exhales slowly. “Me too.”