Edna was obsessed with the weirdos next door, a slab of a man and his lanky wife. She kept her computer on a small table in front of her window hoping to disguise her habit of staring into their house.
On more than one occasion, she had seen the lanky woman standing naked in front of their open refrigerator drinking maple syrup straight from the Mrs. Butterworth’s bottle. Even when the bottle was full, the lanky woman held it vertically to her mouth, tilting her head back as far as possible. Edna wished she had binoculars to better see the woman’s throat constrict with each swallow, but she didn’t dare let on she was watching. Sometimes the woman’s lips failed to keep the seal, her tongue failed to corral the flow, but still she drank even while syrup leaked from the corner of her mouth.
The second time Edna saw this happen, she knew the path the syrup would take. She watched the thick bronze crawl down the woman’s chin and neck, where it gained micro speed before worming over her collar bone. As the sweetness reached the lanky woman’s bare chest, Edna said, “Why are you so thirsty?” But of course the woman couldn’t hear her.
Edna worried about what would happen if the slab of a man caught her watching. Sometimes she kept her hand in her panties, thinking if her fingers were moist the moment he saw her looking, that might ease the consequences.
In her fantasies of being discovered he always opened his window—whichever one he was at when he saw her peering—and headed her way. If it was a second-floor window, she imagined he would jump down without hesitating and land upright on his feet, his legs bending to absorb the plunge. Sometimes in her fantasy this was a super hero landing, other times it was more of a Halloween serial killer landing. Both excited her. He was mountainous, nude from the waist down, frightening. His penis head hung below the hem of his clean white t-shirt, and by the time he crossed the brittle grass of their shared side yard, it would be erect.
He would open her window easily, even if it was locked, and climb in. Instead of speaking, he would pull her fingers from her pussy and bring them to his nose and tongue. Then he’d lift her up to his cock and hook inside, opening her wider than she thought possible, her legs dangling around his hips. He’d fuck her standing that way, granite stretching her vagina walls, blunt in her belly, jolting her entire being. The friction of wiry hair at her clit would send tremors through her arms and calves. His hands would clutch under her, pulling her cheeks apart, teasing her ass with a fingertip until even her anus puckered to be filled. All the while, he’d shove into her cunt. Quenching her with every broad stab. Again. And again.
With her chin and eyes bouncing at his shoulder, his cock deep in her, on the brink of coming, she’d stare across the side yard. His lanky wife would stand at their kitchen window watching them, pawing at her own vulva, breasts smeared with syrup, nipples smudging the glass.
Edna played out this fantasy of the punishment (reward) each day when she watched their house. Especially when she thought the man might be watching, she circled the mouth of her parched cunt until her fingers pruned.
On the first day of Spring, she tied a mint green ribbon around a bottle of Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup. As she walked across the brittle grass to leave it on their doorstep, she whispered, barely moving her lips, “Fill me. Fill me. Fill me.” She was so thirsty.
After that, they kept their shutters closed.
This is a repost from March 2016.