the good neighbor

I live in a townhouse and share a wall with my neighbors; my neighbors and I are friendly, if not particularly social.

Most of the time I am a good neighbor. I’m relatively quiet. I mind my own business. I don’t leave messes. I play the pirate for neighborhood kids before heading out to Renn Faire. I move mis-delivered mail to the right mailbox.

Most of the time I am a good neighbor.

But sometimes…

Sometimes the sound of my hand on bare flesh is loud enough to carry through the walls. And if that wasn’t loud enough – the yelps, the moans, the ‘oh fucks’ definitely are.

Sometimes a friend of mine will leave in a disheveled state. Half-dressed, dazed, sleepily satiated or on edge from the tease.

Sometimes I don’t wait for the front door to close before I have them pinned to the wall just inside, my hand buried under their skirts and between their thighs.

Sometimes I have them bent over the wooden railing of my deck outside, spanked and beaten. Or I slide to one knee and slip their leg over my shoulder as I devour them amongst the leaves falling from the trees overhead.

It’s not easy to see onto my deck from the upper floors of my neighbor’s windows.

Not easy. But possible.

Most of the time I am a good neighbor.

But sometimes.

Sometimes I’m really not.

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