The Neighbor's Skirt

"Even Mickey enjoys the opera, don't ya, boy?" Mickey's father asked.

"Of course, pa." He replied and then chomped on a forkful of mashed potatoes. Mickey Jenkins did enjoy the opera, but what he looked forward to the most was the formality of the affair. Wearing a tuxedo made him feel mature, a younger version of his dashing father. But the most important part of the dress-up game was the women's opera dresses. The opera was a congregation site for elegant women in elegant fashions. Linda Wallace, who sat next to him at the table, was their queen.

"We're gonna get there early, right pa?" he asked.

"Sure, son. That's why we came here for dinner at 4:30," said his father.

"My, such enthusiasm for the opera," commented Mrs. Wallace.

In reality, it was his enthusiasm for the theater lobby that drove Mickey's punctuality. He loved waiting in the lobby, being surrounded by women dressed to the nines, watching all these beauties mill about with their dates before the theater doors opened.

"It's good to see that some kids can still enjoy good music, and that Mickey is one of them," Mrs. Wallace said as she reached around Mickey's shoulder, squeezed him, and pecked his cheek. He nearly melted in his seat -- Mrs. Wallace had kissed him!

Mickey dressed up in his tuxedo for his parents, but most of all for Mrs. Wallace. When he had finished dressing, he would stand in front of his mirror and practice his lines. "After you, Mrs. Wallace." "Right this way, Mrs. Wallace." "My, you look stunning tonight, Mrs. Wallace." "Why, I never knew that. You're such a cultured woman, Mrs. Wallace."

She didn't know it, but she wasn't just her husband's date when they went out to the opera with the Jenkinses. Mickey would always sit between his parents and the Wallaces so he could talk to Linda. When the theater doors opened, he would walk behind her, holding his arm out, crooked, as if she were accompanying him. If the Wallaces' car arrived behind them, he would open her door and help her from her seat. He did it just to feel her hand in his and to hear her say, "Oh, what a gentleman you are."

Mickey knew it was wrong to covet a married woman, but it wasn't hurting anyone. It was just a harmless little game, a way for him to have some fun now and then. It's not as if Mrs. Wallace actually had feelings for him. And it's not as if Mr. Wallace was going anywhere.

"Yes, isn't it nice?" Mickey's mother said. "The opera is musically enriching, especially for a boy that's Mickey's age. His friends probably all listen to that dreadful Elvis Presley. Isn't he just terrible?"

"He is a rather..." Mrs. Wallace paused and emphasized her next word, "lewd fellow. What with his hips shaking all around."

She threw her arms up in the air and imitated Elvis' gyrations. Her chair scraped against the floor from her movements, pushing it closer to Mickey.

Mickey was entranced by the sight of Mrs. Wallace. Her evening gown was in stark contrast to his mother's demure attire. Mrs. Wallace's fiery red gown sported a plunging scooped neckline. Her undergarments pressed her bosom up and together, taking full advantage of the gown's cut. It reminded Mickey of the pictures he had seen of women in Victorian times. Unlike the Victorian gowns, however, hers clung to her body all the way down to the knees, where it opened into a mermaid bottom.

Mrs. Wallace's hip brushed against Mickey's. He peered down and admired her pelvis as it shook, tightly wrapped in red fabric. His eyes traveled upward back to her chest. Having her arms in the air made her breasts jut out while the gyration caused them to wobble back and forth.

"Don't even make fun of the way he dances, Linda," Mrs. Jenkins said sternly. "It's disgusting."

"You let your wife act like that in polite society?" Mr. Jenkins said with a smile.

"Oh, this house is far from polite society, Tom," Mr. Wallace replied. Everyone broke out laughing except for Mickey. Not only was he unsure what was funny about the joke, he was still too wrapped up in perusing Mrs. Wallace.

Mrs. Wallace, still cracking up, slapped her thigh and then rubbed her gloved hand along it. Because she had scooted her seat so close to Mickey, the back of her hand was pressing against his thigh as well.

"Come on, Mick, wasn't that a riot?" asked Mrs. Wallace, turning her head to face Mickey and planting her hand on his thigh.

"Uh, yeah," he smiled and forced a laugh. It didn't convince the others.

"He'll understand what I mean when he has his own house," Mr. Wallace quipped. The table collectively chuckled except, once again, Mickey. Not only did he feel out of the loop, Mrs. Wallace's hand was now rubbing up and down his thigh. Her touch felt warm and loving, yet somehow a little too playful. Having her caress his leg like this was giving him what his Sunday school teacher called "naughty thoughts."

He began to panic as he felt a stirring in his pants. No, don't do that here, he thought, it'll be so embarrassing. But his penis was not obeying, and it grew to half its full size. He gave a little sigh of relief when it stopped before it made an obvious bulge in his pants.

"Say, I love what you've done with your hair, Linda," said Mrs. Jenkins. "It makes you look like Audrey Hepburn."

"Oh, you're too kind. Now if I looked like Audrey Hepburn, I'd be the one married to the big-shot businessman running for Congress!" Mrs. Wallace joked, referring to Mr. Jenkins' recent announcement to seek political office.

This time only Mrs. Wallace and Mr. Jenkins laughed. Mr. Wallace and Mrs. Jenkins wore rather sour expressions. Mrs. Wallace giggled and rubbed Mickey's thigh again as she had before. However, her motion was far more vigorous, and far closer to his crotch this time. He seized as he felt himself swell even more. She doesn't realize what she's doing to me, thought Mickey, but how can I tell her to take her hand off me and still be polite?

"Excuse me, I need to use the little boys' room," said Mr. Jenkins. "And I'm afraid if you two keep me in stitches any longer, I won't make it there."

The two men continued laughing. "Hold on, Tom." Mr. Wallace took a breath. "The sink in our downstairs bathroom is broken. Let me show you where the other one is."

Mr. Jenkins got up from his seat and said, "No, don't burden yourself. Don't want you hurting your hip any more than it already is."

"It's quite all right. In fact, I think I've got the same problem you do," said Mr. Wallace, grabbing his cane. "Might as well show you the way."

The two walked down the hallway. "Be careful on the stairs, darling," called Mrs. Wallace in the direction of the hall. She turned back to face the table. "Poor dear, but he'll get better soon enough."

"Maybe it's not Audrey Hepburn, but you do remind me of someone," said Mrs. Jenkins.

"It's impolite to take back a complement, Lor," said Mrs. Wallace. "I hope your mother doesn't do that to you, huh Mickey?"

She patted his thigh, her hand coming down just so that her fingertips came to rest in the crease between his legs and his testicles.

"N-no," he stuttered, his nerves aroused by where her hand crept.

"Oh, I just meant that maybe there was a more...accurate comparison I could have made," said Mrs. Jenkins.

"Well, your husband sometimes looks at me as if I'm Audrey Hepburn," said Mrs. Wallace.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I shouldn't say that. He's much more fond of that secretary of his, Dana. You know her? She tells me, 'Tom is so nice, he always compliments me on how I dress.' And 'I just love Tom, he gave me a massage today when I told him my back hurt.'"

"Are you insinuating something about my husband?" Mrs. Jenkins leaned on the table.

"Are things being insinuated about me at this table?" said Mr. Jenkins, appearing in the doorway and walking toward his seat.

"I was just telling your wife how well you treat your secretary," said Mrs. Wallace.

"Oh, yes. I love Dana. Always punctual, always well-dressed, and always a help around the office."

Everyone was silent as Mrs. Jenkins leered across the table until Mrs. Wallace spoke up: "Say, Mickey, why don't you try some of this, it's very good." She held her wine glass up to his lips.

"Linda, don't do that," admonished Mrs. Jenkins.

"Oh, it's fine. You're eighteen now, aren't you Mickey?"

"Uh-huh," his answer reverberated into the wine glass, which Mrs. Wallace had now tilted to enclose his lips.

"That's old enough to drink in this state. And it isn't any different than what he gets at Sunday Mass anyway." She tilted the glass further. It certainly smelled different than the Eucharistic wine, thought Mickey. He let the liquid wash into his mouth, politely accepting Mrs. Wallace's offer. Tasted different than his church's wine too, very bitter. A bit of a lightheaded feeling washed over him as he swallowed.

"Here, you can keep this, I'll pour myself another glass." She put the glass in front of him and grabbed the bottle of wine. The clacking of Mr. Wallace's cane came from the hallway.

"Hey, guess who made it back without breaking his other hip?" Chuckles came from everyone but Mickey and his mother. Mrs. Jenkins looked as if she had just chewed on a lemon. Mickey was busy pondering how to keep Mrs. Wallace's hand from traveling any further.

"Anyway, getting back to the opera, I think Mickey likes it so much because he admires the singers. He sings himself, in the school choir," said Mr. Jenkins.

"Oh, that's nice. What part do you sing?" Mrs. Wallace turned to him and smiled, squeezing his thigh again.

"Sopran--" he started his answer as her hand crept onto his crotch, grabbing his scrotum. "Oh!"

"Wonderful! I imagine it's..." she paused and now squeezed his testicles instead of his thigh, "very hard."

"Huh?" Oh no, her hand's slipped, thought Mickey.

"To sing those really high parts." She scrunched her hand, forcing his jewels together. Mrs. Wallace will be embarrassed if she sees the accident she's made, he thought. It would be impolite if he didn't move her hand away.

"Yeah, it is." He was a bit scared of touching her, though, wondering what might happen. Some more wine might help. He took another gulp from the glass.

"Do you sing at other schools, go on the road?" she asked.

"No." He lifted one leg and used his hand to try to nudge her hand back to his thigh.

"So when's the next concert? Maybe I could come." He froze for a moment and imagined Mrs. Wallace standing in his audience, standing, applauding, shouting "Bravo, Mickey! Bravo!"

He smiled at the though, and then realized that his lack of attention had allowed her hand to slip upward right onto his penis. Her thumb ran straight up the shaft and he shuddered. "Chr-Christmas."

Oh God, he thought, this can't be an accident. She doesn't like me, she likes me likes me. She likes me in that romantic way. And she's being very sultry about it. This wasn't right, it wasn't right at all. His little demon was jumping for joy, excited that she didn't just like him as a friend, but that she wanted to make love to him. His little angel told him to slap her hand away.

"And what are you going to sing this year?" Her hand was now wrapped around the bulge in his pants, caressing him.

"The usual stuff." He took another gulp of wine. "You know, 'Jingle Bells.'"

She stroked him without reserve. He kept going: "'Silent Night,' 'Winter Wonderland,' 'White Christmas,'" With every song he named, her hand sped up.

"Uh, and the other ones, what were they now...?" he trailed off.

"Are you all right? You look a little bit pale, honey," said his mother.

"Yeah, just, uh, tryin' to think," he said. He tried to pry her hand away from his crotch again, but it just felt too good and he gave up without a fight. Drops of fluid leaked into his pants. "'Drummer Boy,' and uh..."

"You don't look so well, honey," his mother said.

"Oh, he's fine, he's probably just feeling the wine hit him," said his father.

His throat began to dry out and he tried to swallow, but he couldn't. Mrs. Wallace was making him feel even better through his pants than he ever had without them on. He throbbed in her hand -- he would spill his seed soon if this didn't stop.

"'O Come, All Ye Faithful! That was the last one," he pronounced loudly.

"That's a lot of songs. Sounds like you must be practicing all the time." Mrs. Wallace pressed on. Mickey couldn't take much more, and he wasn't about to let himself go right at the table, in front of everyone. He could never live that down.

"Yeah, uh, I gotta go to the bathroom, pardon me." He stuffed his hands in his pockets and ran into the hallway. Mrs. Wallace watched him dash off. She reached over to the bureau behind her and picked up a pack of smokes and her cigarette holder, putting the roll of tobacco in place.

"Well, I better check on the souffle that I've got going in the kitchen," she said, getting up to go through the hallway herself.

"And I better check on Mickey. He looked a little sick. And I don't think he knows where the bathroom is," said Mrs. Jenkins.

"I think it's best to leave him be," said Mrs. Wallace, lighting her cigarette. "Boys his age usually like their privacy."

"You don't even have a boy his age, so--"

"Smoke, Mrs. Jenkins?" Mrs. Wallace cut her off.

"Fine." Mrs. Jenkins pulled a cigarette from the box, sighing as if she had just unwrapped a lump of coal on Christmas morning.

Meanwhile, Mickey was sitting on the toilet in the upstairs bathroom, willing his erection away. "What are you doing to me, Mrs. Wallace?" he shook his head. He ran cold water and splashed it on his face. He peered down at his problem, then unzipped his pants and lowered them. "You're going to get some cold water too unless you calm down."

Mrs. Wallace glanced at the souffle for a second. What she really wanted to check on was her back-up china set. She pulled out the case and clicked it open, withdrawing an envelope. She still didn't quite believe the money inside was real. But her boss had definitely given it to her when she said she knew Mr. Jenkins. She thumbed through the hundreds as she recalled what he had said.

"Tom Jenkins isn't the guy we want on the Republican ticket for congressman. He's gonna crush our guy, Jim Turnbull. You know, the one who promised our company a little favorable legislation if we donated to his campaign? If you know Jenkins so well, you're the perfect person to mess with his campaign. I mean really make him look bad, like sex scandal bad. I can give you some advanced payment if you have any, uh, doubts about this."

What an easy fortune this was.

When Mickey had finally quelled his swelling, he walked back downstairs. As he walked into the kitchen, a gloved arm wrapped around his waist. It was Mrs. Wallace.

"Mickey, I need to speak with you," she said, holding him from behind.

"W-what's going on, Mrs. Wallace?"

"You see, I need you to do something for me. Something that my husband can't do right now because of his injury," she whispered in his ear, pressing into his back.

"What do you mean?" he shivered in pleasure despite his nervousness, feeling privileged to be held close by Mrs. Wallace.

"I need you to cum for me." Her other hand wrapped around his arms and chest to hold him in place while the first started pulling his shirt out of his pants.

"C-cum?"

"Yeah, blow your load, shoot jism, ejaculate. Come on, you know what I'm talking about." He was taken aback by her words.

"Oh, gee, that's, uh, that's not right, Mrs. Wallace." Despite his moral objection, his swelling had returned at full force. How could it not? His fantasy woman was hugging him tight, undressing him, pressing her breasts to his back, while whispering to him how she needed his seed.

"You act like a girl's never touched you before." She blew a puff of smoke toward his nose. The smell of tobacco shot straight into his nostrils.

"No, that's not true. I kissed Mary Lane at the homecoming dance once!"

"I mean down here, Mickey." Her hand moved down and fondled his bulge.

"Well, no, of course not," he said, gritting his teeth. "Father James said that spilling your seed outside of a woman is wrong, and spilling it inside is wrong unless you're married."

"Really, Mickey? I don't believe in that. Sex is something everyone should enjoy -- your body is ready for it when you turn thirteen or fourteen, not whenever you get married. Now don't tell me you don't even masturbate."

"No, I don't," he replied.

His shirt was now loose, and her hand worked its way up, unbuttoning it. Her hand stopped around halfway up, then moved beneath his shirt. The material of her black opera glove caressed his stomach. "A young boy like you who's not getting any. I don't think anyone has that much self-control."

"Okay, okay. So I have to do it sometimes."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," she said as she unbuckled his belt. "This is 1962, Mickey, not the Victorian times."

The room seemed to spin. It was the fault of Mrs. Wallace and her wine. He knew he should have tried to stop her right there, but he just couldn't. He had once had a dream that Mrs. Wallace was naked and she made love to him. When he woke up, he had no choice but to masturbate. How could he stop that dream from happening when he had wanted it to come true for so long. He watched helplessly as she unbuttoned his pants and then unzipped them. She yanked his pants down violently, then grabbed his erection through his briefs. As she moved her hand up and down the tent in his underwear, a wet spot appeared at the tip.

"My, you are ripe for the pickin'," she said, releasing another puff of smoke. He grunted and shook in her arms. She released him and walked to the counter, pulling her cigarette from the holder and placing it in an ashtray. She moved back to face him. He blushed all over, from his face right down to his shoulders. His desire was standing in front of him, about to give him what he wanted for so long, but he felt so exposed standing there with his pants around his ankles and his erection straining against his briefs.

"When was the last time you masturbated?" she asked, hooking her fingers around the waistband of his briefs and snapping it against his skin.

He stammered, stalling, hoping she wouldn't mind if he didn't answer. She glared up at him as if she were going to hand him to the wolves if he didn't deliver. "Um, uh, l-last time we went to the opera. When you wore that strapless dress. I just couldn't help myself."

"Yeah, that was a sexy one," she said as she dropped to her knees. She tugged his briefs down to where his pants lay. Her hand worked its way up his thigh and grabbed his scrotum. He convulsed as her other hand ran towards his penis, encircling it.

"You're quivering like jelly, hold still. I'm just going to give you a little handjob, nothing to be afraid of." As her hand moved up his shaft, he realized he had no choice. It was the most incredible feeling he had experienced and there was no way he could stop it now.

"No," he panted.

"Shh. It'll be okay. Just think of it like masturbating, except I'm doing it for you. No difference." But there was a difference. She was a married woman, doing things to him she should only be doing to her husband. He tried to force the guilt from his mind by staring at Mrs. Wallace, taking her in.

The material of the opera gloves felt funny, but pleasurable on his penis and testicles. From this vantage point, he could see even further down her dress, getting an incredible view of her cleavage. Everything seemed to spin now except for him and Mrs. Wallace. He began to lose track of everything but the feelings in his body.

Everything was going white, melting away. He was in a dream. A dream with Mrs. Wallace, who made him feel better than he could have believed was possible. Why hadn't he given in sooner? It was wonderful. All his fears were gone and it was just him and Mrs. Wallace, in their own little heaven. His body screamed with pleasure and his hips began to buck in her hands. Their bodies came into harmony as she rubbed and he thrust.