”Always nice to catch a glimpse of the manly neighbour,” said Linda, looking up at me as I was standing on her ladder in my soccer shorts on a hot summer’s day, fixing a ceiling lamp.
I had no hand available to check on my shorts, so I just asked her if there really were any glimpses to be had.
”Not yet,” she said with a mysterious smile, and wafted off, barefoot and in her silk negligée, to make us two martinis as I put the lamp cover back on and descended the ladder. Glimpses! Not that I’d really mind, in her case. I pushed the thought aside.
”So,” she said, handing me my martini as we sat on the couch, ”that’s quite a bulge you’ve got there, I’ll say.” Again, I looked down at my shorts. ”No, silly, under your shirt!” she laughed. ”Have you been working out?” I gave a relieved little laugh, almost complimenting her that I liked the bulge under her dark green dragon embroidered negligée, too.
She was a typical Stockholm cougar type. Divorce millionaire who had come to live in my village in the North to enjoy her life, whereas I was just a sawmill guy who liked American pickup trucks and knew his DIY stuff.
Well, what could I say? I had indeed been working out.
We clinked glasses. She pulled her feet up onto the couch, resting them against my leg. She had that typical, Swedish film star aura to her, including the refined accent. ”I like it when there is a bit of muscle tone,” she said, looking at my arms and brushing her imposing mane of blond hair to the side. ”Not too much though. Just enough to give it a bit of… a look.” She leaned in closer, which provided me with a nice glimpse of her cleavage. Pretending to be looking at my lower arms, but I could feel her look elsewhere very clearly.
”There we go,” she proclaimed happily, ”now there’s a bulge.”
This time, we both thought about the same bulge. And she was right, my shorts were not containing my anatomy’s antics very well.
”I like clean-shaven testicles,” she said, leaning forward to put one hand on my upper thigh.
”How did you know…?” I asked.
”Haha!” she laughed, ”so you are clean-shaven. I figured there was a fifty-fifty chance. Glad we brought it up.” And we had clearly brought it up, all the way. Just one little tug at the seam of my shorts with her slender fingers made my penis spring up at her in full glory. She welcomed it with a smile.
”Oh,” she said, touching the underside with the back of one of her painted fingernails, ”that really is a big one. And a really naked, two-toned one. Circumcised, like in America. You probably grew up there?” I was amazed she could tell just from that. And it was true, I had grown up in Wisconsin.