Your Silk Robe Neighbour

The invitation is casual, but her eyes aren’t. You’re walking up your shared driveway when her screen door opens. “Hey there, neighbour. You look like you’ve had a day.” Linda leans in the doorway, a glass of something amber in her hand. Her silk robe is the colour of claret, tied loosely. It slides off one smooth, freckled shoulder as she speaks. “Care to join me for a real drink? I promise I won’t bite.” She smiles, a knowing curve of her lips. “Unless you want me to.”

You follow her into the living room, the air smelling of her perfume and old books. She sinks into the deep cushions of her couch, robe parting to reveal a generous thigh. She pats the space beside her. “Sit. Tell me what a handsome man like you does all day to look so tired.” She pours you a whiskey, her fingers brushing yours as she hands over the glass.

You talk about work, the mundane details. She listens, but her gaze is on your mouth, then drops to your hands. “You have strong hands,” she says, interrupting you. She reaches out and takes one of yours, turning it over, tracing a line on your palm with a fingertip.

“I like a man who knows how to use them.” Her robe has opened further. You can see the soft swell of her breasts, the lace edge of her bra.

The silence stretches, thick with intention. She doesn’t fill it. She just watches you, a small smile playing on her lips, letting you look your fill. Then she leans forward, placing her glass on the table. The movement makes the robe gape completely. “You know,” she says, her voice low, “I stopped waiting for gentlemen to make the first move around the time disco died. Life’s too short for waiting.”

Her hand comes up to your cheek, warm and sure. She guides your face toward hers. The kiss isn’t tentative. It’s deep and experienced, her tongue finding yours immediately. She tastes like whiskey and mint. A soft sound escapes her throat as she shifts her body, pressing the full, soft weight of her breasts against your chest. Her other hand finds your thigh, squeezing.

She breaks the kiss, breathing a little harder. “Stand up,” she whispers. You do. She stays seated, looking up at you. With deliberate slowness, she unties the belt of her robe and lets it fall open. She’s wearing only that lace bra and matching panties, her body lush and beautiful.

“See something you like?” she asks, her voice pure confidence. Her hands go to her own breasts, cupping them through the lace. “I know I do.”

You drop to your knees on the carpet between her legs. She lets out a pleased sigh. Your mouth finds the inside of her thigh, kissing up towards the lace. She hooks her thumbs in the sides of her panties and slides them down, helping you.

“Yes,” she breathes, spreading her legs wider. Her pussy is full, glistening. You don’t hesitate. You press your mouth to her, and her head falls back against the couch with a thud. “Oh, god, right there. Your tongue… yes.”

She comes with a sharp cry, her hips bucking against your face, her hands tangled in your hair, holding you right where she wants you. She doesn’t let you pull away until the last tremor passes. Then she tugs you up by your shirt. “My turn,” she says, her voice husky.

Her hands are at your belt, then your zipper. She frees your cock, hard and aching. She looks at it, then up at you. “Beautiful.”

She doesn’t use her mouth. Instead, she guides you onto the couch, straddling you. She lowers herself slowly, taking every inch of you inside her wet heat. She lets out a long, satisfied groan. “Fuck, that’s good.” She sets a rhythm, rolling her hips, her full breasts swaying.

She leans down to kiss you, her nipples brushing your chest. “You feel even better than I imagined,” she whispers against your lips.

Her pace increases, her body moving with a confidence that drives you wild. One of her hands grips your shoulder, the other reaches between her own legs, rubbing her clit as she rides you. “Come on, handsome,” she urges, her breath hot in your ear.

“Let me feel it. Fill me up.” The sight of her, the feel of her, the raw command in her voice pushes you over the edge.

You pulse inside her, and she moans, grinding down onto you, milking every last drop. She collapses forward, her sweaty body pressed to yours, her face buried in your neck. You can feel her heart pounding against your chest. For a long moment, you just breathe together in the quiet room.

Eventually, she pushes herself up, smiling down at you. She doesn’t get off you, just settles her weight more comfortably. She traces a finger along your jawline. “Well,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “That was a far better way to end the day than watching the news, don’t you think?” She glances toward the window, where the evening sky is deepening to indigo. “I think you should stay for dinner. I make a mean lasagna.”