Punished by My Neighbor 4-Book Box Set (2 page)

We had arranged to meet three hours from when I’d originally posted the ad at the local library. I had to beg the boy who lived in the apartment next door to come with me, Brian. I offered Brian $25 to look intimidating. He thought we were going to meet an ex of a friend--to give him back something of his that he’d left at her place. Brian might have terrible acne, and he might spend more time indoors playing video games than anyone I’d ever known, but he was a solid guy--easily weighing 270 lbs, and standing over six feet tall.

I’d hastily typed up the story and had already told my illicit panty buyer that I’d email it to him after--that I didn’t have a printer of my own and there wasn’t time to run to campus (not that I was even remotely comfortable printing this story off on campus) and he said that was fine.

It struck me as I scoured my closet for something to wear over my ivory panties that it was crazy how quickly I’d gone from, “How could I sell my panties?!” to having a buyer who wanted to give me $250. I started to feel like maybe I was completely immoral and I’d just been pretending to be otherwise for my nineteen years. I’d always considered myself a modest sort of girl, but here I was knowingly selling a man something that had touched me intimately to feed his fetish. Obviously, I was going to deliver these panties to him, and he was going to jerk off with them.

As I knotted the ties of my pink wrap dress around my waist, I wondered whether he might sit in his car immediately after meeting me, and jerk off then and there, or if he was apt to wait until he got back home again.

I smoothed the fabric over my large breasts, making the neckline more open than I usually wore it, but not so open that my red lace bra showed. I was even dressing sluttier now that I was the sort of girl to sell her panties! The me of 24 hours before would have been aghast.

I bundled the panties up into a big manilla envelope so that I could hand it to him discretely and got Brian and off we went, basically in silence the whole five minutes to the library where we’d agreed to meet.

The front of the library building was deserted--there was no one there--and after a minute or two leaning against the concrete planter I started to wonder if I’d been had. I was fidgeting with my package and wondering how long to stay standing there when a man approached me.

At a distance, he was mildly familiar, broad and tall, his ivory skin shadowed with dark stubble.

As he grew closer, I shrank against the planter. He was my neighbor! The man who’d lived next door since I was sixteen. He’d had a wife then, but she had died the summer I turned seventeen. He’d always been kind of a father figure to me, in a way. One night, he’d caught me making out with a boy in a car in front of my house, and he’d hauled me out of the car by the back of my shirt, lecturing me the whole way home about how dangerous and reckless it was to make out with a boy in a car and what was I thinking? The night of my prom, he’d interrogated my date (just a friend) on his intentions and whether or not he’d gotten a hotel room. I hadn’t seen him in a year, but it was definitely, “Mr. Barrows!” I said, trying to hide my surprise and suddenly hoping the man I was selling my panties to would be late.

He smiled warmly at me and then ran a hand through his dark hair that was shot through with silvery gray. The gray streaks sparkled in the sunlight. I’d never noticed he was so handsome before and my heart thudded in my throat as he stepped up onto the curb next to me. “Emilee,” he said, his voice so friendly. “Is that my package?”

“Your... package?” I stammered, my heart thudding hard, feeling like it had broken free of my ribs and was skittering all throughout my body.

“When I saw the photos, I wasn’t sure which outcome to hope for,” he said, his dark gaze locked steady on mine. “Had someone posted them without your knowledge, I’m not sure I would have been able to stop myself from destroying them.”

I blinked at him, not sure what to say in response. Had he just offered to defend my honor?

“No one could have posted them of me,” I said, suddenly feeling very shy. “I’ve never shared photos like that of myself before.”

He ran a hand down my arm and a chill raced up my spine. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said, his voice so warm it felt like a ray of sunshine on a bitter day. I wanted nothing more than to curl up in it and take a nap. Except, maybe, to curl up in his arms instead. He bent close to my ear and whispered, “I’ll pay an extra hundred if you’ll let me kiss you.”

I nodded, dizzy, though my decision had nothing to do with the money. I couldn’t quite believe something that had begun so mercenary for me was turning into something I wanted desperately. I closed my eyes and his warm, soft lips met mine, gentle at first, almost chaste.

But then, he wound his arms around my waist and pulled me hard against him. My breasts pressed against his chest and I squirmed a little, worried suddenly about the neckline of my dress that I’d so carefully placed to just cover my red lace bra.

He held me fast against him, though, and I had no hope of retaining any modesty. He worked my mouth open and began to explore with his tongue, sending shock waves straight to my toes. I’d never wanted anything so much as his tongue in that moment, I wanted it to fill me up, to explore me from head to toe. With a flicker of guilt, I imagined that tongue working against my clit and I moaned softly as I pressed myself to him, wrapping my arms around his neck, the package with my panties in it pressed against his back.

He deepened the kiss and need flooded me. I needed him, and I needed his tongue, and I needed that part of him that stirred and hardened against my belly. He pulled me so tight to him it was as if we became one flesh and I felt his heart beat against my breasts and it was racing every bit as fast as my own. Our breath quickened and I felt woozy, so grateful for his rough grip on me, knowing he wouldn’t let me fall.

But suddenly, he released me, and I did teeter, but he steadied me, though keeping me at arms length. “Did I do something wrong?” I asked, chagrined.

His dark eyes narrowed at me. “I thought you were the virtuous girl next door.” Though his words sounded angry, his tone made them sound sexy, and I immediately wanted to throw myself on his mercy and tell him I’d be whoever he wanted me to be. “That wasn’t the way a sweet, good girl kisses.” Disapproval flickered between his brows and I was desperate to change his mind, to show him that I was exactly who he thought I was, that I’d do anything to please him.

He brought his mouth so close to my ear I could feel his breath ruffle my skin as he whispered, “But you’re clearly a panty slut. And that means you need to be punished. Come to my house in thirty minutes and I’ll show you what happens to sluts who post online ads and sexy pictures to sell their panties to dangerous men with their dangerous fetishes.”

I took the chance of his proximity to press my breasts against him again, they felt so cold when he’d drawn away, and all I wanted was his warmth on my body, his arms around my waist, pulling me tight to him, his cock--oh yes, his cock--filling up my inexperienced, hungry, desperate pussy that had never craved anything before, and now was practically begging me to chase after him and beg him to take me there in the library parking lot. The library parking lot! It wasn’t lost on me how desperate that made me, how crazy with lust, but even though I searched for it, I found absolutely no interest in being (or perhaps, even ability to be) the sane, sensible girl I’d been yesterday.

And with that he whirled on his heel and left me standing in front of the library, overcome with lust and need, and a mixture of dread and desire for what ever what about to happen to me next.

You know how you were always warned against getting into vans with strangers, or about going into strangers’ homes, or about ever doing anything that might be even the slightest bit interesting just in case it might be dangerous?

I swallowed all of my trepidation as I stood on Mr Barrows’ doorstep, finger poised inches from the bell. Brian had left me here in a huff, pissed I didn’t have his $25 yet. And to be honest, I was quite sure that I wouldn’t have it, not today at least. Though I’d creamed my ivory panties when Mr. Barrows had kissed me--and I was still wet and overwhelmed with desire--so I knew they’d sell, even if I wound up sacrificing the red lace thong to Mr. Barrows as a peace offering.

I stood on the stoop of the conventional three bedroom, two bath track home. Its brick facade and tidy front walk and white shutters all belied what was about to happen inside--I hoped. Mr. Barrows hadn’t insisted I come to his home so he could sit me sternly on the couch and lecture me, had he?

Not that I’d mind being scolded by him, but I did want so much more than just harsh words. I smoothed my dress again, this time, allowing my fingers to ease the wrap neckline just so that the lace edge of my red bra barely edged the pink wrap dress fabric.

I rang the bell before I could talk myself out of it and he called out “Come in” like it was any other day and I’d just stopped by to borrow a cup of sugar. I pushed into the house. “Lock the door, please” he called, though I wasn’t sure from where. It was eerie, his disembodied voice commanding me to do things, but I did exactly as I was told.

“Mr. Barrows?” I called from the tidy living room, with it’s standard ivory couch and love seat, the coffee table placed just so, with those large coffee table books everyone always has but no  one ever reads. I stepped closer to the table, waiting for further instructions, and allowed myself a quick glance at the titles on the table.

I gasped when I read the words emblazoned across the two covers on top: “How to Properly Punish Your Slut” one read with a dramatic picture of a whip; and the other read “Punishing and Training the Inexperienced Virgin.”

I reached for the later on impulse, but drew my fingers quickly away as if the cover were hot. I wanted to know more, but I wanted to know it from Mr. Barrows. I wanted my punishment to come from his hands, not from a book.

All my life, so much of what I knew and experienced and learned had come from books. Standing there in my neighbor’s tidy living room, barely able to move because I was so overcome with need and desire and lust that burrowed deep inside me, I was tired of books. I never wanted to learn from books what I could learn from experience ever again, but especially this. Especially the way it would feel when Mr. Barrows punished me for being his panty-selling slut.

Still no instructions had come, so I ventured deeper into the house, down the short hallway into the tidy kitchen with its white cabinets and smooth granite counter tops. There was a glass teakettle on the stove, but no Mr. Barrows in the kitchen. A bedroom, then? “Hello?” I said, but still there was no response. “I’ve brought your panties,” my voice was soft and questioning, hoping that would get him to give me my next direction.

Excitement rose inside of me and my curiosity grew. Where was he? It had been nearly impossible to ignore the painful desire that had crashed through me as soon as Mr. Barrows left me in front of the library, especially as it grew from the steady vibration of the car during the ride over here. I’d nearly touched myself to relieve the pressure in the car, there sitting beside pimple-faced Brian, so desperate I was for relief.

In fact, I was so desperate I’d even considered begging Brian to take care of me, even though the thought of his touching me after the way Mr. Barrows had awoken me felt a little like trading a luxury car for a jalopy, and so I’d quashed the urge.

Still, Mr. Barrows didn’t come for me. I rubbed myself against the edge of his kitchen table for a moment, but it only intensified my desires, and I was sure Mr. Barrows knew exactly where I was and what I was doing somehow, so I stopped, embarrassed, and desperate to find him.

I slowly stepped down the long hall, the hardwood floors creaking beneath my feet giving rise to a delicious chill up my spine. It felt like a terrifying scene in a horror movie, the young, inexperienced college co-ed creeping through an empty house, looking for a man who was waiting only to punish her.

I poked my head first into the tiny guest bedroom with its floral-everything from wallpaper to comforter over the large, welcoming bed and then into the master bedroom which was all dark wood and dark fabric and dark walls and no Mr. Barrows. Where was he?

Taking a deep breath, I poked my head into the last room and there he was, standing in the middle of the room, his beautiful, broad back to me, rolling up his sleeves over strong forearms. Watching him standing there, I couldn’t help but think of how long I’d known him and what came to mind first was how heartbroken he’d been when he’d been widowed. My mother had sent me over once a week with a big bowl of chicken soup. He’d always invited me in and offered me tea and we’d sit in his living room, on his ivory couches. He never used to have the books I’d seen today on his coffee table and I wondered idly how I might have responded if he had. He used to ask me about my life and my friends, always being polite but not seeming overly interested. He’d been sweet, and I’d trusted him. I’d felt safe in Mr. Barrows’ living room.

It was that feeling of safety that swept me up now, for somewhere deep inside I knew that though what was about to happen might be fraught with pain and punishment, I would never be in any danger.

I cleared my throat, but he didn’t turn to me. “Mr. Barrows?” I croaked, hesitant as delicious fear pricked over my body. He looked like he was preparing for something, but what.

At that, at last, he turned toward me, his jaw set, his dark eyes fierce and unrelenting. He stepped to the side and gestured to the table that he’d blocked from my view. It looked like a massage table. He patted the vinyl top.

“Come in,” he commanded.