My Precious Neighbor Ch. 3

Trying not to sound quivery, which I was, I asked, "Have you gotten the mistaken impression that there is something wrong with you?" She kept looking at the ground. "You are a sweet, intelligent, friendly and very desirable woman." Before I finished saying the word, 'Woman,' her eyes were locked to mine, almost as if she were in doubt that anyone could find her desirable. So I went on with, "In fact, Nancy, desirable is too polite and generalized a word. You are a sexy woman. The way you talk so softly, smile so readily, walk so undulatingly, and fiddle with the pocket of your dress so enticingly." A whole lot of things happened during my short speech. Nancy was taken aback by my openness, although after all of our many talks I can't imagine that she would be surprised at anything I might say at any given time. And her eyes were drilling holes in mine to see if I really meant what I was saying or just trying to make her feel good. Her hand stopped twiddling with her breast pocket button, started again, stopped again, and finally she dropped her arms to her sides, but promptly began to twist the sides of her skirt in nervous fingers. But the topper was that I could swear that her nipples swelled and pushed enough against her bra and dress that I could see the reaction. Believe me when I say that I wanted to be right about that part.

As if confirming my observations, Nancy looked down at her breasts and said, "I'm not used to hearing words like that and I'm afraid that I'm reacting poorly to hearing them."

"Reacting poorly, my ass!" I thought to myself, but didn't say aloud. Okay, Tim, time to redirect the focus away from her nipples a bit. "So I was right, and you don't think of yourself as desirable."

She looked behind her at the street as if she was sure every neighbor was looking at her, so I said, "No one can see the front of you except me, Nancy."

Looking back down at the ground Nancy finally replied, "Well, what else am I supposed to think after all this time? After all, it's been . . . ages since . . . we haven't exactly had much time . . . do you really think I'm attractive?" The pleading in her eyes was evident now because the look was accompanied by tears welling up.

"Nancy," I began, "I didn't say attractive, I said desirable. My gaze can be attracted to a Rolls Royce going by on the street, but when I see a beautiful woman who captures my gaze and makes my juices churn, I desire her."

Now here was an escape point for her, again. She could go into the house and close the door to cover her emotions. Instead she simply said, "I need a tissue," and walked past me toward her back door, then continued with, "I'll be right back." So I followed her.

When Nancy came back to her door I was standing just outside on the porch. She pushed the screen door open and although I held it open, I didn't move back to let her out. So she stayed just inside the door. "I'm afraid that I've made you uncomfortable, Nancy, and I'm sorry."

"No. No you haven't made me uncomfortable. But, well, sort of, I guess. Yes. But it's okay. I liked what you said. It's just that, well, I'm flustered, I guess. But it's okay, Tim. I'll be okay." With saying that and, I guess, resolving to stay in her house since I wasn't moving back to let her out, she crossed her arms across her chest again. Within less that a minute her right hand was again fiddling with the button of the breast pocket of her dress.

Part of the plan was to be in exactly this position at about this point because now she was totally unobservable to anyone in the whole world but me. The security type screen door blocked any view of her from over her back wall, while our garages and shared wall blocked the view from the yards behind my house, and the street was out of site to both of us. My hope was that, at least subconsciously, she realized that fact. She had to. It was part of the plan.

"So, Nancy, how often is it that you react so poorly, in your view, but which is so nice for my viewing?"

"You mean because I got tears in my eyes?"

"No, Nancy, I mean the other reaction," and I looked down to her breasts quite obviously. Immediately her fingers moved from the pocket fiddling to her left nipple, as if to check, and when she realized what she was doing she quickly moved her fingers away again. But it was too late. Her nipples were definitely showing again. Yes! So I took my first real risk of the day, and said, "That reaction, Nancy," and nodded toward her chest.

She looked down at herself for a moment, the effect seemed further enhanced, and she mumbled, "I've gotten out of the habit of having anyone notice things like that anymore."

"Trust me when I tell you that I'm noticing. Actually you can also trust me when I say that I like what I'm noticing. And I really like what I'm thinking." That got her looking back at me in a hurry. No words from her, but I clearly felt that she wanted me to explain further. Oh, well. In for a penny, in for a pound (that saying must have originated in England, I guess).

"I would like to see you touch your nipples and make them really stand out so I can see them clearly."

Not a word from Nancy. Just her eyes locked to mine. Then, after about two minutes of frozen tableau, she uncrossed her arms, moved a hand to each breast and, with her thumbs and index fingers, she began pinching her nipples. With out moving a muscle, so as not to break the spell, I leaned slightly closer and stared at her hands. I was acutely aware that her eyes were drilling into mine to see if I was sincere, but I kept my eyes on her increasingly hardening nipples. After a time she slightly changed the position of her hands so that her palms were cupping and pushing up and molding the bottoms of her breasts while her fingers continued to manipulating her nipples. Sort of like she was enjoying the sensations she was creating in herself. I certainly hoped it was that. But the important thing was that she was doing as I asked. She was playing with her nipples for me. Maybe for her, too, but clearly because I had asked her to do it. She was, in a word, complying. Or compliant. There's two types of compliant. The compliancy she was used to was destructive over the long haul. The kind of compliancy I was trying to elicit would benefit her in spades, and also be of benefit to me. The most critical step in the plan was accomplished. What wonders lay ahead. That was not meant to be a pun.