A Day in The Neighborhood Ch. 01

Disclaimer: All characters are purely fictional and over the age of 18.

Brett Anderson stood in the second-story window, sweat-cooled skin pressed against the sill, his cock still half-hard and ruddy from the girl on his bed. The sun had slumped past the neighbor's roofline, washing the street with an array of colors and giving everything, especially her, a kind of dirty, golden glow.

He barely glanced at the girl, though she was splayed naked on the sheets, arms and thighs painted with the fingerprints of his last hour's work, her ribs hitching with post-orgasmic tremors. His attention was on the house next door, the driveway, the sedan rolling slow into its spot.

A shadow passed over the lawn, and attached to it, she was there. Mrs. Sarah Thorne. He could barely think her name without getting a electric shock to his cock.

She drifted out of the house, bare legs tanned and toned, her ass poured into tiny running shorts, hair in a careless ponytail. Even from here, thirty feet and two stories away, Brett knew exactly what her chest would look like: high, perky, probably a 36C. He'd measured the bounce of her tits a hundred times when she ran in the mornings, watched her from the bleachers during community charity 5ks, even once from behind her in line at the post office.

The color of her nipples was easy to imagine, pale pink with a rusty brown edge, the color of a sunrise or the inside of a peach, depending on the day. He loved the cluster of light freckles high on her left breast, and the way they faded across her chest. She just had that kind of body, the kind where the closer you got the more you wanted to stare. The kind where you could barely believe she wasn't on the cover of something. The kind that made you want to lick every flaw, to memorize them as proof this was real and not some sick daydream.

He moved his thumb slowly up and down his cock, not to jerk it--he was too tired from before--but just because it felt good, because it was his and she was his and the world was fucking unfair.

The girl on the bed--what was her name? Courtney? Maybe Kelsey, whimpered, rolled to her side. "Brett, do you have any water? My mouth is, like, so dry," she called, in that pained, performative way girls did when they wanted to remind you they existed.

He didn't answer, didn't even look. He watched Mrs. Thorne float across the driveway, her bare feet silent on the concrete, then pop up on her toes to plant a kiss on her husband. Fred, the executive. Tall and boring, suit even on Friday night, hairline a little more desperate every year. Brett could tell he was tired--suit jacket over the arm, tie already loosened, a kid's drawing of a man who gave up but couldn't admit it. Sarah clung to him for half a second longer than necessary, then stepped back, head cocked, her lips moving. Even from here, Brett could tell the smile was fake. He watched her fingers, how they laced and unlaced nervously behind her back, how she bit her lip as Fred said something and then broke eye contact almost immediately. She was always like that, always half-here, half-somewhere else.

"You going to bring me water or what?" the girl groaned, louder now.

"Jesus, get it yourself," Brett said, without taking his eyes from the window. He heard her fumble off the bed, clutch the sheet around her. She was slow--probably from the bruise he'd left on her hip, the way he'd bent her over the edge of the desk and just hammered until she was sobbing and half-limp. It was a habit with him lately, like maybe if he fucked these girls hard enough, rough enough, it would get Sarah Thorne out of his head. But it never did. If anything, it made it worse.

He kept watching. Sarah and Fred disappeared into the garage. Brett tried to picture it. Her pressed against the hood, hands flat, skirt hitched up around her waist. He wondered if she wore panties, or if she was the kind of woman who got off on the risk, on the thought that maybe someone would see. He imagined himself as Fred, unbuttoning her blouse, cupping her tits from behind--except, no, not Fred. He couldn't get hard for that. It had to be him, Brett, the bad boy neighbor, the muscle-bound secret, making her shiver with every breath. He imagined her moaning, imagined her fighting it at first. She's too proper, married, so sure she could resist, and then caving, opening her legs, pulling him deeper, her breath going ragged, her nails digging into his back. He saw her on all fours, his handprint red on her ass, and for a second he was about to lose it again, right there against the window.

The girl reappeared, still naked, hair plastered to her face with sweat. She stared at herself in the mirror, blinking at the darkening bruises on her throat, at the bites along her shoulder. She touched her lips, then spit into the sink.

"You're such a fucking psycho, you know that?" she said, not really mad, more impressed.

Brett ignored her. He was picturing Sarah again, this time in the shower, water running down her chest, her nipples pebbling, her back arching as she bent over to shave her legs. Did she shave everything? He bet she did. He bet it was like silk, with just the faintest ridge of goosebumps. He wanted to bury his face in it, taste the sweat after her morning run, see if she really tasted like lavender and salt like he'd always imagined.

The girl watched him in the mirror, her expression a mix of disgust and desire. "You looking at your neighbor again?" she said, voice thin but playful.

Brett grinned. "Maybe. You jealous?"

"Fuck off. You're sick." She wiped her mouth, then padded to the center of his bedroom, scooping up her bra and skirt with slow, deliberate movements. She didn't put them on, just held them like a trophy. "What is it with her, anyway?"

Brett shrugged. "She's perfect."

The girl laughed, ugly and sharp. "Yeah, perfect. Good luck with that." She pulled on her panties, wincing as the elastic came over the bruise on her hip, then twisted her hair into a knot. "Are you gonna call me again?"

"Maybe," Brett said. He still hadn't moved from the window.

She rolled her eyes, defeated. She gathered her things and left, slamming the door behind her. He heard her stomp down the stairs, the click of the latch as she let herself out.

Brett barely noticed. The car was back in view now, the trunk open, Fred and Sarah unloading his carry-on and backpack. The modern day sign of a well traveled businessman. Fred bent over, struggling with something heavy, and Sarah watched him with an expression that made Brett's chest ache. Not pity, not love, just emptiness. She caught Brett's gaze, maybe by accident, maybe not. For a second, their eyes locked across the driveway, and Brett felt his cock throb against the windowsill.

He smiled, slow and wide, until she looked away.

*****

A couple hours later, Sarah Thorne set the table with some light music playing in the background. The house was clean, too clean given that she didn't have much else to do. She'd had some wine earlier and plenty of time to think with Fred away for work. Her week of planning all perfectly prepared.

She'd picked her dress with calculation. Butter-yellow, clingy in the places she wanted to be noticed, but light enough to embody the perfect housewife she was. Beneath it, a new set of lingerie: black mesh, delicate, the bra cupping her breasts high and round, the thong nothing more than a string and a few triangles of shadow. It was more risk than she usually took, but it had been a month since Fred last touched her in any way that mattered, and the idea of another sexless night made her want to scream.

She checked the oven, even though she knew everything was fine. Lasagna, Fred's favorite, though lately he ate like he was fulfilling a duty, all appetite routed to with the goal of getting back to his phone or the glowing laptop screen. She caught a glimpse of herself in the microwave door: the hair pulled back tight to keep sweat off her neck, the small lines at the corners of her mouth that she pretended didn't exist. Her mother always said thirty was when the beauty left and the desperation set in. Sarah was thirty-three, and the two were now locked in a slow, poisonous dance.

Fred came in from down the hall still in his suit since he got home. He was in his office, or his lair as Sarah like to call it and the dragon only came out when he was hungry. His footsteps were her starting bell. She took a breath, checked her lipstick, then arranged her face into the version of herself she thought he liked best: composed, warm, just the right amount of expectant.

"Hey, babe," Fred called as he entered, the word a placeholder for any real feeling. He leaned on the granite countertop, then immediately flicked open his phone, scrolling with the addictive boredom of a chronic gambler.

"Hi," Sarah said. She wanted to say "Welcome home," or "I missed you," but both sounded either too old-fashioned or too desperate. "Dinner's almost ready."

"Smells great." He didn't look up. His thumbs worked the screen with the precision of a surgeon.

Sarah stood beside him, letting the silence build. She wondered if he'd notice her perfume--she'd dabbed it behind her ears, between her breasts, even along her inner thighs, just in case. Fred didn't glance up until the microwave beeped, and then only to ask for a glass of water.

She poured it, setting it beside him. He drank without thanks, eyes never leaving the phone.

Sarah tried again. "I saw that the Andersons had landscapers out today. They pulled the hedges in the back."

Fred nodded, then: "That was Robert's crew, right? Did you meet him?"

"I did. He seems nice." She didn't know or care who Fred meant, but she'd learned it was better to agree, to be agreeable. "How was the flight?"

"Delayed. Usual bullshit." He pocketed the phone, only to have it buzz again a second later. He checked the screen, mouth tightening, then tossed it on the counter. "Sorry. Client from Singapore. Keeps forgetting the time difference."

Sarah made a sound, something between sympathy and accusation. "Must be exhausting. All that travel."

Fred shrugged, already half-removed from the room, then shucked off his jacket and draped it over the kitchen chair. She noticed the sweat stains under the arms, the way the white shirt clung to his skin. He looked older than she remembered, the graying at his temples less "distinguished" than "worn down."

He sniffed, then poured himself a whiskey--neat, two fingers, just like every night. Sarah watched the ice cube bob, its sharp click against the glass another tick to say her time with him was almost up.

"Can I help with anything?" he asked, as if reading from a script.

"Just sit. I'll bring it out."

She plated the food with the care, layering cheese and sauce so that each bite would melt perfectly on his tongue. She set the table, poured some wine, then called him over.

They ate in silence for three minutes minus the clinks of their forks and knives.

"How was your day?" Fred finally asked, looking at a point just above her shoulder.

Sarah's mind blanked, then scrambled to assemble something worth saying. "Busy. Garden club is planning the summer fundraiser. I volunteered to chair the auction."

Fred nodded, eyes on the lasagna, then: "Isn't that a lot for you right now?"

Sarah bristled. "I like being involved. It keeps me... active."

Fred's phone buzzed again. He ignored it for two seconds, then excused himself to the den, glass in hand. "I'll be back in a bit. Singapore."

Sarah listened to him leave, the quiet of the house swelling behind him like a tumor.

She picked at her lasagna, appetite gone, then carried her plate to the sink. The window above it looked straight into the Andersons' kitchen. She saw Brett was home. She sometimes saw him mowing the lawn, going for a run, or playing basketball in his driveway. As she thought more he was always in the same state. Shirtless and sweat striping his back in dark, hungry lines. She felt bad for him in a way, a senior in high school, barely 18, and already saddled with so much growing up without his father around. His mother, Joan, was a legend in the neighborhood, her gaze like a knife and her opinions even sharper. Sarah couldn't imagine what it was like to grow up under that kind of scrutiny, but Joan was also her friend and closest confidant in the neighborhood.

She poured herself another small glass of wine--just enough to take the edge off--and sat at the table, listening to Fred's muffled voice through the wall. It was more intimate than actual conversation; she imagined what it would be like if he just yelled at her, got it out in the open, instead of swallowing everything until it became a permanent lump in his throat.

She wondered if it Fred felt what she felt. She wondered if he still wanted the family they once loved to dream openly about with each other. At least one boy and one girl to bring up in this beautiful house they moved into when they got married. She'd be on the PTA and he'd coach little league. Why did that dream seem so distant now? Why does it feel like they missed their chance? She was quickly reminded of the answer.

It was barely 7 when Fred re-emerged, eyes bloodshot, tie loose, jaw slack. "I'm wiped," he said. "You mind if I turn in early?"

Sarah swallowed her response, the one that wanted to scream, to beg. "Of course not," she said. "I'll clean up."

He nodded, then went upstairs, feet heavy on the steps. Sarah heard the door close, then the click of his laptop, then the blue light flicker under the crack.

She cleared the table, then retreated to the master bath. She undressed slowly, letting the dress slip to the tile, then stood in the mirror in her lingerie. She tried to see herself as Fred might have seen her: the lift of her breasts, the shallow bowl of her stomach, the way the black mesh highlighted the dimple above her ass. She turned, studied her profile, ran her hands over her hips. The lingerie was expensive and new, the kind of thing she would have saved for an anniversary. But anniversaries didn't matter anymore. Nothing did, except this desperate need to be wanted, to be seen.

She lingered for a moment, then padded into the bedroom. Fred was propped up against the headboard, laptop balanced on his thighs, the glow painting his face ghostly white. He looked up, and for half a second there was something in his eyes--surprise, maybe even hunger. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"You look... really good," he said. "Damn."

Sarah smiled, letting the compliment soak in. "Thank you," she whispered, advancing on him.

Fred closed the laptop, then patted the bed beside him. "Hey, let's save it for tomorrow, okay? I'm just... dead tonight."

She sat beside him, the mattress dipping under her weight. She felt his heat, the nearness of him, but there was a wall now, thicker than brick, and she didn't have the tools to breach it.

"Tomorrow," she said. "Of course."

He kissed her on the cheek, then rolled over, asleep in minutes.

Sarah lay there, rigid, staring at the ceiling. Her body buzzed with anger, humiliation, desire. She tried to calm herself, but the thoughts wouldn't settle. She wanted to scream, to break something, to run until her legs gave out. She knew it was the only way to achieve peace of mind after this evenings anticlimactic finish.

She got up, stripped out of the lingerie, then put on her favorite running clothes. Tight purple yoga pants, sports bra that barely pulled down to the bottom of her breasts but provided great support, and a black tank top. On a whim, she left the mesh thong under the yoga pants.

Fred was already snoring as she crept downstairs, every step a small rebellion. She left the house without locking the door, without looking back, and let the darkness swallow her whole.

*****

Sarah ran until her lungs burned and her vision tunneled, every step pounding the anger further down into the meat of her thighs. Her breath was steamy in the night, and she relished how the ache of her calves made the ache in her chest feel smaller. She didn't keep track of laps or time--she just circled the block again and again, letting the rhythm of her body hypnotize her.

Sweat plastered her tank top to her torso, the fabric gone nearly sheer over her sports bra. Her yoga pants clung, outlining every flex and ripple of her hamstrings, the mesh thong underneath an intermittent tickle she could almost pretend was a lover's tongue. She told herself it didn't matter who saw her like this, that the neighborhood was asleep, that she was invisible beyond the few lights that lined the street.

By the fourth lap her anger had faded to a dull, residual heat. Her mind wandered to nowhere. She thought of Fred's hand on her lower back from their first date, then randomly the taste of coffee from her favorite cafe in town, the time Brett Anderson fell off his bike and she patched his knee with a Snoopy bandaid. He'd been, what, ten? Eleven? He'd cried--loud and unashamed--then grabbed her hand and held it all the way as she walked him home.

She almost laughed now, thinking about how the neighborhood gossips had spun that into a story about her being too touchy, too maternal like she was compensating for her empty house. In truth, Brett was just a sweet, lonely kid. He'd been over at their house constantly: shoveling the walk in winter, mowing the lawn in summer, always hanging around. Joan--his mother--was a hard woman, and Sarah suspected he came over less for the chores than for the cookies and the safety. She didn't blame him. Everyone craved refuge somewhere.

She slowed as she approached her front walk, heart racing, shirt clinging to her sides. She bent over to catch her breath, palms braced on her knees. The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and cut grass, and for a moment she just let herself float in it, the exhaustion almost better than the orgasm she had originally planned.

She straightened, about to head in, when a voice startled her from the darkness.

"Hey, Mrs. Thorne?"

She whirled, pulse spiking. Brett Anderson stepped from the shadow of his mother's garage, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his sweats. He'd grown at least a foot since last summer, and filled out besides--broad shoulders, thick wrists, the suggestion of a six pack under the white t-shirt. In the half-light his face was still boyish, but the way he looked at her was anything but.

"Oh, Brett," she breathed, hand to her chest. "You scared me. What are you doing out here?"

He shrugged, his eyes flicking over her body in a way she pretended not to notice. "Car trouble. Won't start. My mom's out and I tried to call, but..." He let the sentence trail off, a practiced helplessness in his voice.

Sarah wiped sweat from her brow, suddenly aware of the state she was in. "I don't know anything about cars," she laughed.

He smiled, sheepish and charming. "I just need someone to hold the flashlight. You'd be saving my ass."

She hesitated. The house behind her was dark, Fred probably asleep and dreaming of spreadsheets. She didn't want to go in yet, didn't want to face another hour alone in the cool, perfect silence.

"Okay," she said. "Lead the way."

The inside of the garage was a different world--cool, metallic, the air thick with the smell of motor oil and rubber. Brett gestured her to the old Volvo, then handed her a flashlight.

"Just shine it here?" he said, popping the hood and pointing to the mess of cables and hoses underneath.

She nodded, holding the light steady as he leaned in, his forearms flexing as he fiddled with the battery. They worked in silence for a minute, Sarah shifting her weight from foot to foot, the adrenaline of the run mixing oddly with the intimacy of the moment.

He glanced up, catching her gaze. "Sorry for the late ask," he said. "I didn't know who else to call and then I saw you coming up the street."

She smiled, more tender than she meant. "You can always ask me for help, Brett."

He grinned, looking down. "Yeah. You're the only one who ever let me."

Sarah felt her heart twist--an uncomfortable tangle of nostalgia, maternal pride, and something sharper and more dangerous lurking just below the surface. "You're a good kid," she said, then instantly regretted it, the phrase hanging in the air.

Brett's eyes flashed with something--hurt, maybe, or righteous indignation. He was, after all, technically a man now. She tried again, stumbling forward with her words: "I mean, you've really grown up. Turned into a really impressive young man."

He straightened from under the hood, wiping his hands on an old, oil-stained rag, the muscles in his arms flexing in a way she was mortified to find herself noticing. "Thanks," he said, but there was an edge to it, a challenge. He cocked his head and let his gaze linger on her in a way that was not at all boyish. "You look amazing by the way."

Sarah shivered as the cool air in the damp garage seeped through her thin tank top and shorts. A layer of sweat clung to her skin, turning cold and prickly against her flushed body. The small hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and a noticeable chill spread across her chest, causing her nipples to harden. She quickly crossed her arms over her chest, feeling a rush of warmth flood her cheeks. With a sheepish smile, she said, "Oh, this? Just trying to sweat out a long week."

He looked at her, long and hungry, and for a second she thought he might say something else. But he just smiled, and closed the hood with a heavy clunk.

"All done," he said. "Thanks, Mrs. Thorne."

She let out a nervous laugh, lowering the flashlight. "You're welcome, Brett."

He moved closer, not quite invading her space but close enough for her to smell his aftershave, a sharp, masculine scent that reminded her of something she couldn't place.

He reached out, gently brushing a stray hair from her forehead. "You're sweating," he said, his fingers lingering a moment too long.

Sarah froze, the intimacy electric. "Guess I push myself too hard sometimes," she whispered.

He smiled, then stepped back, the tension snapping like a rubber band. "I'm sure you do."

She let herself laugh not noticing where the sound behind her was coming from. The sound of a metal door dragged down and locked. She looked over her shoulder, a prickle on her skin. "Just need one more thing, Mrs. Thorne," Brett said, his tone easy as the garage door met the floor. But there was something else behind it, a confidence that wasn't there a moment ago.

She let it pass, still holding the flashlight, her fingers already numb from the strain of her run. The light flickered and shook in her hand, but Brett didn't comment. He went over to his work bench seemingly pretending to look for a tool. It was nothing, she told herself. He was always a little needy, a little desperate for attention, the way boys could be when they felt ignored by the world.

"Can you aim it in this cabinet?" he asked, glancing up at her with those dark, bottomless eyes.

She complied, the beam first painting his face before reaching the workbench. He was beautiful in that way only the young can be--jaw sharp, lips full, hair a careless mess that would look stupid on anyone else. She felt a twinge in her stomach, a memory of something she'd thought long gone.

"There?" she asked, voice strained.

"Perfect," he said, but he didn't look away. Instead, he just stared at her for a beat too long, the silence between them stretching and distorting.

She tried to laugh, but it came out brittle. "You know, I really have no idea what I'm doing here."

Brett grinned, teeth flashing. "Doesn't matter. Sometimes it's nice just to have someone around."

She swallowed, unsure how to respond. "Well, you know where I live," she said, meaning it as a joke, but the words hung in the air with a weight she didn't expect.

He set down the wrench, wiped his hands on a rag, then stepped around until he was directly behind her. She felt his presence, huge and overwhelming, the way a thunderstorm feels before it breaks. She tensed, suddenly aware of every inch of her body: the sweat drying on her skin, the racing of her heart, the way her tank top stuck to her spine.

"Can I show you something?" he said, his breath warm against her ear.

She turned, forcing a smile. "Is this where you tell me you've been faking car trouble just to get me alone?"

He laughed, the sound low and vibrating in her chest. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe I just wanted to see you."

She didn't know what to say. The urge to run, to bolt for the door, was matched only by the shameful curiosity of what would happen if she didn't.

He stepped closer, now barely an inch away. "You have no idea," he said, voice dropping, "how long I've wanted this."

Sarah felt his hands on her hips, gentle at first, then tightening. She pushed at his chest, but he didn't budge. "Brett, don't," she said, barely louder than a whisper.

He ignored her, moving his hands up her ribcage, fingers spreading over her waist. "You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured. "You don't even know."

"Brett, stop. Right now," she snapped, trying to twist away. He caught her wrists, holding them with a strength that shocked her.

"You're shaking," he said, almost in awe. "Are you scared of me?"

She tried to glare, but her eyes blurred with panic. "Let me go."

He did, but only for a second, only to slide his hands up her arms, over her shoulders, finally cupping her face. He leaned in, so close she could smell the sweat and shampoo. He kissed her--soft at first, then rougher as she tried to pull away. His mouth was hungry, searching, and for a moment she bit back a moan before catching herself.

She slapped him. Not hard, but enough to snap the air.

He grinned, tongue darting out to taste the sting. "I knew you'd fight."

Sarah took a step back, chest heaving. "This isn't funny. I'm married, Brett."

His eyes flashed. "You think I don't know that? You think I care? You think he cares about you? I see you, every day. You're wasting away in that house. You want this."

He pressed her against the workbench, the cold metal digging into her thighs. She struggled, but his body was a wall. He kissed her again, deeper this time, one hand holding her jaw, the other snaking under her tank top. His fingers found her breast, thumb grazing the tight peak through the sports bra. She gasped, the betrayal of her own body humiliating and undeniable.

He squeezed, slow and deliberate, then rolled the nipple between his fingers. Sarah felt her knees start to buckle. "Please," she whispered, but she didn't even know what she was asking for.

Brett broke the kiss, eyes dark and wild. "You like that. Don't lie."

She shook her head, but he just laughed, moving his hand lower, tracing the waistband of her yoga pants.

"Don't," she begged, but the word was hollow. He slipped his hand beneath the fabric, fingertips brushing against the delicate mesh of her thong, feeling the warmth that radiated beneath.

"You wore this for me," he said, almost reverent.

"No, it's not--" she started, but he cut her off with a kiss, this one softer, almost gentle. His hand moved slowly, expertly, the heel of his palm grinding against her clit while his fingers teased the soaked fabric.

Sarah's breathing came fast and shallow. She hated him. She hated herself more.

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. "Say you want it," he said. "Just say it."

She clenched her teeth, desperate to deny him. But her body betrayed her, arching into his touch.

"I can't," she whimpered, tears stinging her eyes.

"You can, and I can show you," he said, then kissed her again, his hands never stopping.

He lifted her onto the workbench, shoving tools aside. She felt the cold through her pants, the shock of it grounding her for a second. He tugged at her waistband, exposing the thin strip of black mesh, then slid his fingers underneath. She gasped, the sensation blinding.

He worked her with ruthless patience, alternating between rough and tender until she was shaking, until every muscle in her body screamed for release. He watched her face the whole time, drinking in every flicker of resistance, every collapse into pleasure.

Sarah's orgasm ripped through her, electrifying her muscles and making her cry out. She tried to suppress it, to bite down on her own lip until she tasted blood, but the sound escaped anyway--a raw, helpless sob muffled by the heat of Brett's shoulder, where he'd bent her by the nape of the neck. His hand never left its place inside her, clutching her sex even as she twisted and bucked, his fingers working her through every spasm, every humiliating aftershock. Her legs shook so violently that she would have fallen from the workbench if his other arm weren't coiled tight around her waist, pinning her in place.

He kept stroking her, softer now, tender even, his mouth pressed to her ear, his breath hot and rhythmic as he whispered: "That's it. That's my girl. Good girl. I knew you could."

The words were obscene. She felt her stomach clench with each one. She wanted to tear herself away, to slap him, to spit in his face, but every limb was too heavy, every bone hollowed by the storm he'd released inside her. The pulse between her legs refused to stop. Her body, traitorous to the very end, arched against his palm, desperate for the friction even as her mind recoiled in horror.

She felt the tears hot on her face, didn't know when they'd started. He licked one from her cheek as if tasting her defeat, then kissed her eyelid--so gentle, so falsely sweet it made her want to scream. "Shhh, it's okay," he crooned, still petting her hair, her neck, her face with the hand that had just ruined her. "You did amazing. You did so fucking good."

Her body rolled forward, letting her collapse against him. He tucked her head to his chest as if shielding her from the world, but she realized, with a shudder, that he was only shielding her for himself, wanting to be the only one to see her like this. The smell of him--sweat and oil and that sharp, boyish aftershave--filled her nose, made her dizzy. He cradled her as if they were lovers, not her tormentor looking to ruin her life.

Limp and exhausted in his arms. He stroked her back in slow, possessive circles, holding her close as if to keep her from drifting away. The sound of his voice--lower now, almost reverent--echoed in her ears: "You're incredible. I've never wanted anyone this much."

She slumped, spent, hating herself and him and the whole world.

He stepped back, breathing hard. "See?" he said, voice soft. "That's all I wanted."

She didn't speak. She just stared at him, unsure if she wanted to slap him again and run or beg him to let her go peacefully. He watched her, chest rising and falling, a look of triumph on his face.

"We're not done," he said, as if he'd just won the right to her body.

The next couple minutes minutes blurred, Sarah's mind oscillating between animal panic and the traitorous aftershock of orgasm. She kept waiting for Brett to let go, to laugh it off and let her walk out with her dignity barely scorched.

Instead, he just stood there, watching her collect herself on the edge of the workbench. She realized with horror that she was still throbbing between her legs, the memory of his hands haunting her.

She tried to muster anger, something sharp enough to cut through the shame, but her body wouldn't cooperate. She slid off the workbench, landing unsteadily on the concrete, and pulled her tank top down, jaw clenched.

"I'm going home," she said, her voice flat.

Brett didn't move. He blocked her path to the door, arms crossed. "We're not done," he repeated, but this time the words were different. Hungrier.

She tried to sidestep him. "Let me out, Brett!"

He shook his head, not unkind, almost gentle. "You want me to stop, you have to make me."

He was twice her mass, and the look in his eyes told her exactly how futile resistance would be. Still, she tried. She shoved him, hard, but it was like pushing a brick wall. He caught her wrists, spun her, and before she could catch her breath he forced her down--first to her knees, then to all fours, the floor biting through the thin fabric of her yoga pants.

Sarah thrashed, but he pinned her with one hand, the other already at his waistband. "You can't do this," she hissed, voice strangled by tears and rage.

Brett knelt behind her, looming, the heat of him radiating against her back. He seized a fistful of her hair, twisting her to face him. His other hand yanked open his sweats, freeing himself, and for a moment she just stared, paralyzed by the sight of it. She'd never seen one so big outside of the internet--long, thick, the head purple and slick with pre-cum.

She recoiled, tried to turn her head, but he gripped tighter, drawing her face closer.

"Open your mouth," he growled, voice so low it vibrated against her skull, hands gripping her hair so tight her scalp screamed.

Sarah kept her lips locked, shaking her head in frantic denial, but Brett's fingers closed mercilessly on her nose, cutting off her air. In seconds, the primal urge to breathe overpowered every other instinct, and her jaw fell open with a choked gasp. That was all the invitation he needed. He slammed himself between her lips, the thick head of his cock smashing into her teeth hard enough to make her whimper. The taste was sharp--salt and sweat and something filthy. He filled her mouth, stretching her jaw wide, then forced himself deeper, pushing past her tongue until she couldn't even close her lips around him. The blunt force of it made her eyes water instantly.

Sarah tried to jerk away, but Brett held her fast, one hand clenched in her hair, the other fisted at the nape of her neck, steering her like she was nothing but a puppet. She beat at his thighs with her fists, panic giving her strength, but it was wasted on him. He was a wall of muscle and intent, using her face like it belonged to him.

She tried to twist, to escape, but every time she moved he just dug his fingers in harder or shoved himself further, hot and insistent. Tears streamed down her cheeks, blurring the hard lines of the cement floor. Her nose pressed up against the taut skin of his stomach, every breath a struggle. The smell of him was overwhelming--a mix of cheap body wash and something darker, sweat and arousal, so strong it made her dizzy.

She tried to clamp her mouth shut, to bite, anything to force him off, but he was too fast--yanked her hair, shoved himself deeper, cutting off her air so that her body's reflexes overrode everything else. Her mouth opened wider, tongue flattened helplessly, and he fucked her face with brutal precision.

Sarah gagged, throat spasming around the thick shaft, and Brett moaned, the sound raw and animal. He started to move his hips, slow at first, feeding her more with every thrust, until the pain in her jaw became a steady, throbbing ache. The head of his cock battered the back of her throat, and then, impossibly, started to wedge its way in. She coughed, drool spilling over her lips. Brett didn't care. He just kept going, talking to her in a soft, coaxing growl.

"That's it, Sarah... take it... so fucking good..."

She sobbed, the tears burning hot on her cheeks, but he just moaned louder, rutting in and out of her mouth. Her hands clawed at his hips, nails digging in, but all it did was make him shudder and thrust faster. The world narrowed to the sound of his breathing, the wet slap of skin, the gasping, choking noises she made every time he bottomed out in her mouth.

He let go of her nose, finally, but kept his grip in her hair, pulling her forward with every snap of his hips. She tried to breathe through her nose, but it was hopeless--her throat was full of him, her mouth jammed wide, the only air she got was what slipped in around the thick column stretching her lips. She felt the drool and snot start to collect at the corners of her mouth, slicking her chin and dripping onto her chest, but all she could do was focus on surviving each second.

"You feel that?" he rasped, voice hoarse with need. "You were fucking made for this, Sarah. I knew you'd be perfect."

The words stung more than the hair pulling, more than the bruising of her lips and the ache in her jaw. She looked up, eyes swimming with tears, and saw his face--flushed, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth open in a snarl of pleasure. He looked almost beautiful, lost in the moment, and she hated herself for seeing it.

She tried to say his name, to beg, but the sound was just a muffled gurgle. Brett laughed, the sound thick and triumphant.

"God, listen to you," he said, voice trembling. "So desperate. So fucking hot."

He moved her head with both hands now, setting a vicious rhythm, like he was tuning an instrument. Sarah's neck burned. The back of her throat felt raw. She could feel herself drooling, spitting, tears streaming, but he just watched, drinking it all in.

She felt her arms go numb, strength draining out of her with every choking, helpless breath. Her vision started to tunnel, black spots everywhere, and still he kept going, fucking her face like it was the only thing left in the world.

When he started to get close, he gripped her hair with both fists, holding her so tight she couldn't move at all. She felt him swell in her mouth, the head of his cock bulging, and she knew what was coming.

"Don't you dare," she tried to say, but it was just a wet garble.

He laughed. "Oh, I'm going to. You're going to take every drop, Sarah."

He slammed himself in one final time, burying himself so deep she thought she might choke to death. His whole body went rigid, and then she felt it--the hot, bitter flood filling her throat, pulsing in heavy jets. She gagged, but there was nowhere for it to go. She had no choice but to swallow, gulping down the salty, viscous liquid as he held her in place, eyes glassy with pleasure.

When he finally let go, she collapsed onto her hands, coughing and retching. Cum dripped from her lips, smeared across her face and chin. She gasped for air, shaking, arms barely able to hold her up. Her throat was raw, lips swollen, and her whole face ached from the assault.

Above her, Brett was breathing hard, chest heaving, a look of absolute satisfaction plastered across his face.

He knelt down beside her, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from her cheek. She flinched, but he only smiled, wiping his thumb across her lips to collect a bit of his own mess. He smeared it over her tongue, then forced her jaw shut, making her swallow again.

"Such a good little slut," Brett panted. "You're even better than I imagined. God, I've wanted this forever."

Sarah's consciousness flickered. She thought of Fred, asleep in their bed, oblivious. She thought of the garden club, of PTA meetings, of every time she'd smiled at this boy, never suspecting the wolf behind the sheep's mask.

He stood over her, panting, cock still half-hard and glistening with her spit.

"See? That wasn't so bad."

She glared up at him, hatred and shame warring in her eyes.

He smiled, the look of a predator who'd finally claimed his prey.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, tried to stand, but her legs wouldn't cooperate.

"Oh, you're not leaving," Brett said, voice soft but absolute. "We're just getting started."

Sarah realized, with a cold clarity, that he meant it.

Sarah lay on the cold concrete, head spinning, every muscle still quivering from Brett's assault. The garage was quiet except for the harsh, uneven sound of their breathing. She pressed her palms to the floor, tried to push herself up, but her arms buckled. Instead she collapsed again, sobs building in her chest until they spilled out in ragged bursts.

Brett watched her, eyes dark and shining, as if this was some kind of documentary and she was just another animal in a cage. He didn't seem angry or cruel--just curious, fascinated by the aftermath the way a child might be after knocking over an ant hill. She hated that about him, hated that he could be so calm, so collected, after what he'd just done.

She finally managed to sit, legs folded under her, head bowed. Tears dripped onto her knees, but she made no move to wipe them away.

"Why?" she rasped, voice hollow. "Why would you do this to me? To someone who's done nothing but--"

He cut her off, stepping forward until his bare feet nearly touched her knees. "Don't pretend you don't know," he said, voice almost gentle. "I've been obsessed with you since I was, like, twelve. You'd let me stay for dinner when my mom forgot. You'd pick me up after swim practice. You cared when nobody else did."

She shook her head, unable to meet his eyes. "I was being a good neighbor. You're sick."

Brett crouched, bringing his face level with hers. "It's not sick. I'm just done pretending. You want me, too. I could feel it. I can feel it now."

He reached out, brushing her cheek. His touch was soft, almost reverent, and it made her skin crawl.

"I'm married," she whispered, desperate to hold onto the one thing that felt real. "I love Fred."

Brett smiled, a slow curve of lips that made her stomach turn. "Doesn't matter. He doesn't see you. I do."

He slid his hand lower, cupping her jaw, forcing her to look at him. She tried to pull away, but he held her fast. "I'm never letting you go," he said, and the certainty in his voice was terrifying.

Sarah tried to slap him again, but he caught her wrist, twisting it behind her back. He hauled her up, spun her, and shoved her face-first against the workbench. Her cheek hit the wood, the roughness scraping her skin.

"Please," Sarah begged, and the word came out splintered, as if something vital inside her had cracked. "Please, don't." But her plea was nothing against the brute force of Brett's hands.

He didn't answer, not with words. He seized the waistband of her yoga pants and ripped them down, dragging her thong with them in a single, vicious motion. The fabric burned as it chafed over her hips and thighs, and then she was bent double over the bench, ass exposed, cunt slick and shining in the harsh garage light. She gasped at the suddenness, the humiliation, the cold air prickling goosebumps up her bare legs. Every nerve was lit up, her skin hypersensitive from the rough handling and the leftover adrenaline--her body betraying her with a fresh bloom of wetness even as her mind screamed in protest.

Sarah twisted, tried to buck him off, but Brett only pressed her down harder, one beefy forearm pinning her shoulders to the splintered worktop. With his other hand, he yanked her ankles apart, forcing her stance wide and unsteady, making sure she couldn't get leverage to kick or run. She felt the sticky head of his once again hard cock rutting between her ass cheeks, hot and slick, searching for purchase. He let go long enough to spit into his hand and smear it over himself, then lined up and waited, savoring the terror and anticipation gripping her body.

"You feel that?" he said, voice low and trembling with triumph. "That's what you do to me. That's what you've always done to me, Sarah."

She squeezed her eyes shut, desperate to shut out his words, but every syllable pressed into her memory like a thumbprint in clay. When she tried to shift away, he just clamped her down harder, his palm flattening the small of her back, fingers splayed like claws.

With a grunt, Brett plunged inside her in one brutal thrust. Sarah screamed, the sound raw and piercing, echoing off the cinder block walls. The force of it knocked the air from her lungs, and for a moment she tasted copper at the back of her throat. He was so much bigger than Fred--thicker, longer, a battering ram splitting her wide, making her feel every inch as he drove in to the hilt. Pain blossomed from her core, radiating out in pulsing waves, but right behind it came heat, a sickening spark of pleasure that she tried to smother but couldn't.

He set a savage rhythm, hips slamming into her with mechanical inevitability, the slap of skin obscene in the otherwise silent garage. The rough edge of the bench bit into her thighs with every thrust. Brett bent forward, his sweat-soaked chest mashing against her back, breath hot and ragged in her ear.

"Say you want it," he growled, biting the curve of her shoulder until she whimpered knowing it would leave a mark. "Say you're mine."

Sarah shook her head, her face streaked with tears and snot and drool from her the brutal face fucking she endured, but repeating the word "No" only seemed to wind him up further. He rammed into her even harder, his cock pistoning in and out so violently she thought she might pass out.

"You're such a liar," Brett hissed. "You always pretend you're better than this. But you're not. You need this just like me."

He wrapped a hand around her neck, not quite choking her but just enough to let her know he could. His grip was absolute, terrifyingly steady. Then, with his other hand, he reached down and found her clit, rubbing it with furious precision. In an instant, her body jerked upright, hips bucking against his cock, the lightning of pleasure just as sharp as the pain.

She tried to scream again, but her voice was gone--replaced by ragged, animal sounds, the involuntary gasp and gurgle of someone completely overwhelmed. Shame rose up through her in a tidal wave, but her body betrayed her anyway, heat blooming in her belly and thighs, the edge of orgasm lurking close.

"God, you're so fucking wet," Brett spat, disgust and delight layered in his voice. "You like this, don't you? You love being ruined."

Sarah wanted to bite him, to claw at his eyes, but her arms were locked against the bench, wrists twisted awkwardly behind her back. The humiliation was total. She felt every hair and freckle on her exposed body, every bead of sweat on his skin, and the sick inevitability of what was happening to her.

He pounded her harder, slamming her hips against the workbench with bruising force. She couldn't hold back the noises anymore--moans, sobs, broken pleas for mercy and forgiveness. Brett drank them in, growing more relentless with every sound.

"That's my girl," he muttered, voice vibrating with the thrill of possession. "Good girl. Take it. Take all of it."

She didn't want to, fought it with every sinew and shudder, but the pleasure mounted anyway--thick and slow, a syrupy, venomous inevitability. The muscles in her legs quaked as Brett pistoned into her, each brutal plunge forcing another gasp or guttural whimper from her lips. She tried to focus on the pain--the burning stretch of her sex, the bruised ache of her hips, the way his cock battered the softest places inside her--but even the pain transmuted, twisted into a sick, keening want that she couldn't stamp out.

Her breathing ratcheted higher, chest shuddering as she clawed at the edge of the workbench for purchase. Brett's grip on her neck tightened--a warning, a promise--and his fingers burrowed between her legs, zeroing in on the swollen bud of her clit. The jolt of sensation was electric, stabbing up her spine, short-circuiting thought and decency. Her entire world funneled down to the spot where his body split hers, to the place where pleasure and humiliation scorched together.

He leaned close enough that his sweat dripped onto her collarbone, licking the tears and snot from her cheek with slow, disgusting laps of his tongue. "Bet he's never fucked you like this, has he?" Brett's voice was even, almost amused, like he was reciting lines from a script he'd rehearsed a million times alone in bed.

Sarah tried to spit at him, but all she managed was a wet, strangled moan. "No," she sobbed, voice shredded and alien. "No, he hasn't."

He laughed--truly laughed, the bark of a predator plucking the wings off its prey--and pounded into her even deeper, ramming her hips forward until her pelvis ground against the edge of the bench. "That's what I thought," Brett grunted. His hand clamped under her chin, yanking her head back so she had no choice but to look up, glassy-eyed, at the exposed bulb in the ceiling and the oily shadows that flickered across the rafters. "You'll remember this, Sarah. You'll remember who made you feel like this."

She wanted to hate him, to hate every rough word and every hard, punishing motion. But mostly, she hated herself; hated that her body burned for him, that every slap and squeeze and cruel twist of her clit hijacked her nerves and made her grind helplessly back against him. She hated the squelch of wetness between her thighs, the obscene sound that kept time with his thrusts. She hated that Fred had never, ever made her feel like this, not in ten years of marriage.

She felt the orgasm building, rising in an inexorable tide that filled her chest with panic. She tried to bite it back, to focus on anything else--the humiliation, the cold bite of the concrete beneath her knees, the shame that pooled inside her like rot. But Brett was relentless, rubbing her with gross, mechanical precision, fucking her with a brute force that made thinking impossible.

"Don't fight it," he rasped, grinding his hips into her ass as he mauled her clit with his thumb. "That's it. Take it. You're so close. I can feel you shaking, Sarah."

She tried to scream, but her voice was a thin, animal wail that echoed off the cinder blocks and died in the cluttered corners of the garage. Brett was right--she was shaking, every muscle in her thighs and core spasming as the pleasure overtook her. The more she resisted, the sharper the edge became, until her whole body was nothing but a raw nerve, lit up and desperate for release.

"Please, I can't--I can't--" The words tumbled out of her, not even sure if she was begging him to stop or to finish her. But Brett didn't care. He drove into her harder, jacked her clit faster, and the pressure built and built.

She wanted to scream at him, to kill him, to bite his hand and draw blood, but what came out was a helpless, trembling cry. He reached under her, finding her clit so easily she knew he'd been studying her, fantasizing about every detail, and he worked it with punishing circles, driving her higher until her brain flickered. There was no air in the room, no up or down, only Brett's breath in her ear, his cock splitting her open, and the ragged, choking sobs that kept escaping her.

He yanked her upright, her spine arched like a bow, and bit down on her neck. "I'm gonna breed you," he snarled. "Gonna fill you so deep you'll taste it." The words made her stomach twist, but her cunt clenched around him, desperate for more.

"Oh my god, Brett--oh, please, please--" She didn't know if she was begging him to stop or to keep going, but it didn't matter. He only fucked her harder, the slap of his hips against her ass impossibly loud, his cock swelling as he bottomed out with every stroke.

Sarah shattered. Orgasm overtook her with the force of a tidal wave, white-hot and annihilating, and she screamed as it ripped through her. Every muscle seized, her legs buckled, and her vision went black at the edges. She was crying, she realized--hot, messy tears streaming down her face, and Brett's hand came up to muffle her sobs, his other arm banding across her chest to hold her tight as she convulsed around him.

He felt it. He must have, because he went feral, fucking her in short, brutal thrusts, groaning her name like a prayer or a curse. The second she loosened her grip on the bench, he bent her forward again and pounded into her with every ounce of strength, both hands locked around her waist.

Brett howled behind her, triumph in his voice, and started thrusting even faster, using the pulsing flex of her orgasm to push himself over the edge. He let go of her neck, grabbed her hair in a fist, and wrenched her head around so he could kiss her, open-mouthed and hungry. His teeth raked her bottom lip, biting hard.

"That's it," he growled, tongue slipping into her mouth with animal ferocity. "Good fucking girl. Such a good little slut for me."

He pumped into her a final few times, sharp and punishing, then groaned as he came, cock spasming inside her. She felt the hot rush of cum splatter deep, felt it leak and trickle out into her. Brett kept fucking her through it, rutting like a beast, reveling in the mess they made, until finally he slowed, chest heaving, sweat pouring down his temples.

He slumped over her, draped across her back like a heavy, sweaty blanket. For a long, nauseating minute neither of them moved, both breathing ragged and shallow. Sarah's body shook with aftershocks, every nerve still jangling. She stared at the wall, at the racks of garden tools and ancient cans of paint, and tried to believe this wasn't happening, that she was somewhere else, that her life wasn't ending right here.

Brett eventually pulled out, his cock making a sucking, obscene noise as it slipped from her ruined, wet cunt. She felt more cum ooze out and drip down her legs. He laughed again, a little softer this time, as if even he was surprised by how completely he'd conquered her.

"Look at you," he said, voice thick with marvel. "Total mess. You love it."

He let go of her hair and stood, rolling his shoulders, stretching as if he'd just finished a workout. Sarah slumped onto the concrete, legs splayed, face smashed against the cool floor. She didn't want to move, didn't want to exist, but eventually she pushed herself up on trembling arms, every motion sticky and sore.

Brett crouched in front of her, completely naked, his body flushed and slick. He wiped a tear from her cheek, then traced the bruise blooming on her jaw with a gentle thumb. For the briefest second he looked almost tender, almost human--then the smile returned, wolfish and victorious.

"You can go home now," Brett said, as if this were some slumber party prank. "But if you ever want more, you know where to find me."

She yanked her pants up, wincing at the sticky mess left behind, and spun to face him. Her voice was a blade, honed and trembling: "You're sick," she spat, lips curled in disgust. "Don't ever come near me again."

Brett took a step toward her, closing the gap in a single, predatory stride. His eyes were alight with a strange tenderness, almost concern, but it was twisted by the satisfaction of conquest. "Sarah, don't lie to yourself. You'll be back. You can't help it." He said it softly, as if it were a secret between them, a forbidden truth.

She stared at him, every nerve ending screaming in protest. The memory of his cock inside her, the way her own body had betrayed her, made her want to claw her own skin off. She slapped him, hard, tears splattering across his cheek. He barely flinched, only grinned wider, as if her rage was an aphrodisiac.

"I'll destroy you if you ever tell," he hissed. "You understand? I'll ruin your life." Brett leaned in, "You won't anyway," he whispered. "because who will believe you? The lonely housewife taking advantage of the poor boy next door seems to be all too common these days. And anyway--you and me? It's just starting. You'll see."

For a split second, she thought he might kiss her. Instead, he licked her tears from his upper lip, savoring her defeat. The gesture was so casual, so intimate, it made her skin crawl all over again.

Sarah gathered what was left of her dignity, wiped her face with a trembling hand, and tried to steady her breathing. But the panic was overwhelming, a wild animal trapped beneath her ribs. She needed to get out--now, before she did something unforgivable, before she let him see how deeply he'd gotten under her skin.

She fled the garage, not bothering to close the door behind her. The night swallowed her, and Brett's words echoed in her ears.