1.
I have known my dear neighbour for years, a glamorous woman, short and slender, who always seems to look good, sexy even, like a Hollywood starlet from a golden age.
She dresses well, and wears her beauty with a confident air. She turns heads wherever she goes, always trailing tendrils of a heady exotic perfume in her path. She likes to laugh and is usually the centre of attention in any situation. And I have always admired her, felt fortunate to know somebody that glamorous, classy, a kind of woman that, much to my regret, has never been attracted to me.
I remember very clearly the first time we met, many years ago. Two blondes had been spotted visiting an apartment which had recently been sold. Its previous occupant, an unsociable woman who had a tangible disapproving air about her. I recall getting a fleeting glimpse of them, as the car which first brought her into my life drove away. I hoped they were going to be moving in and eagerly anticipated meeting my new neighbours, apparently a mother and her daughter.
A few days later I saw her as she was unloading things out of her car and called out a cheery ‘Hello.’ She looked so pleased that I had spoken to her. ‘Are you settling in OK?’ I asked her.
‘Yes, thank-you,’ she said, giving me my first taste of a smile that would captivate me from that moment onwards.
I introduced myself and she told me her name was Isabella. We both grinned, saying that we looked forward to seeing each other again soon.
Over time our friendship grew and, slowly but surely, we became very comfortable in each other’s company. I learned a lot about how she came to be our neighbour, the back story, how she had suffered terribly and was now making a new life for herself. The more I learnt the more I felt for her. I couldn’t change what had gone before but I could listen and show that I cared.
Early on in our friendship we started to flirt. It was fun, made us laugh. It was tolerated without too much eye-rolling by our respective partners. But whenever we found ourselves alone things were very different, quite proper even. I remember feeling a little bit disappointed but accepted things for what they were.
I would do odd jobs for her, fetch and carry like a good neighbour and never once did I think she thought of me as anything more than a kind and helpful neighbour. I decided she liked to flirt with me because it was safe. I was married, respectful, gentlemanly even.
We grew closer still as friends, my wife’s friend, a really lovely neighbour. I told my wife she had nothing to worry about, that the flirting only happened in public and that was that for several years.
But still, she became the object of my late night fantasies, occasionally to begin with. Short, petite even, always in heels, and very slim. Over time, I started to find her tiny body very erotic and wondered what it would be like to make love to her.
But by degrees I thought of her in that way more and more.
Over the years I must have imagined making love with her a thousand times, at least, and wondered what her breasts looked like, what her pussy looked and tasted like, what kind of lover she was. These thoughts were strictly private though, nothing more than a way of getting myself off at night before sleep.
More recently we had become closer still as she had spent more time in our house. Despite having a strong supportive relationship with her children she has also suffered terribly losing her childhood sweetheart after many years of very happy marriage. She became brittle, damaged by the experience and was struggling to live with her terrible loneliness. She lived alone with her memories and often struggled to cope, looking for love but never finding it.
On many occasions she came to our house and spoke freely about her pain, her loneliness.
I had comforted her, listening and trying hard to understand. And we laughed too. I loved to see that sparkle still lived and made it to the surface, despite everything she had been through.
Each time when she left for home feeling a little better,
we hugged. And over time those hugs lasted a moment longer. I loved holding her and pressed her body into mine, feeling her round breasts against my chest.
Our relationship hadn’t changed at all, I told myself. I was just being a dirty old man, getting off on hugging my neighbour. If anything I felt a bit guilty about feeling the way I did. She was upset, and here I was imaging what her breasts looked like.
For the past few months I have thought about her every single night. I would bring myself to orgasm thinking about her and began to long for what I honestly believed was something I could never ever know for real.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/aip4c2/isabella_an_erotic_novel_chapter_1
Good start. Looking forward to reading more.