Sean or Shaun? To be completely honest I have no idea. I've only heard his name spoken and try as I might I can't distinguish the difference between the 'ea' and 'hau' sounds. I've decided to go with Sean to save on letters, their supply isn't inexhaustible after all, and I'm a bit worried about running out of u's. I'd look a bit of a fool if we got to the end of the story and I found myself reduced to writing 'cm' and 'fck'. So Sean it is.

Okay, so I know what you are thinking: What about Melissa? What has happened to Melissa? The last story was Melissa Part 1 and now you're talking about Sean, where the fuck did Melissa Part 2 go?

Well, the truth is that Melissa Part 2 gets rather dark. We could all do with a little light relief and if there is one thing Sean knows how to do better than anything else it is a little light self relief. 

Sean is a hand shandy merchant. I can still recall the first time I found him manspreading on his sofa, unbuttoned, unzipped, fist closed about his manhood, jerking that stiff muscle until, willing or perhaps unwilling, it spewed its glorious seed in a steady if somewhat uninspiring stream across his squeezing fingers. 

He has a perfectly respectable penis. A nice handful, just enough thickness to make a lady lick her lips, probably about seven inches in length and very nicely proportioned, no unsightly thick veins, a delicate shrubbery tickling at its base, head smooth and gleaming as it disappears and reappears within his clutching palm. 

Now, I must admit that I've never got up close and personal with this pretty member. That ours is a long-distance relationship but I've frequently daydreamed about how snugly that blood swollen meat would fit within my own gushing sex or how I might scream in blissful abandon as it skewered by tight, pulsing dark star or even how delightful it would be to have that salty ooze dribble into my drooling mouth as I suckled its tangy mass. 

Apologies reader, but I got myself a little bit overheated there and no amount of vigorous fanning was going to resolve the issue. But I've attended to the problem now and I'll do my best to make sure such unprofessional silliness doesn't happen again. Now, where was I?  Oh yes, Sean's pussy dampening cock. 

The first time I spied him I was totally entranced, the second was yummy, the third quite satisfactory, but as I'm sure you'll understand, familiarity does breed contempt and it did seem that I could barely take an innocent peek with my binoculars out of my window without finding his dicklet waggling in my face. It didn't matter what time of day or night it was, every time I swung my twin lenses anti-clockwise there was Sean beating out another demitasse of boy cum. 

Besides there is something a little odd and decidedly unerotic in his self-abuse; always in the same place, the same position, eyes staring almost unseeingly before him, his arm and hand pistoning in a relentless almost mechanical motion. Sometimes it seems to hurt; I'm certain that I've detected dewdrops forming at the corner of an eye and once I was certain that his cheeks were tear-stained.

And his technique leaves much to be desired, how wonderful it would be to see his delicious muscle straining, the cum risen to fill its length, precum oozing from his slit, twitching wildly unattended until a solitary finger glides along its underside teasing as it empties itself of all its yumminess in endless, helpless pulses. Mmm. 

But no, all we get is metronomic hand shanking. How selfish. 

Now I don't want you to think that Sean is some sad, loser type. He isn't. He's a lad about town, perfectly attractive in a manual tradesman sort of way. His hands may be a tad callused but his buns and package are always enticingly displayed. He favours classic shirting and seems to have an inexhaustible supply of new bright white trainers. He's charming enough in an 'I like to have a kick around with the guys on a Sunday morning' sort of way and I just know that Mummy and Daddy would have been much happier if, twenty years ago, I'd brought him home rather than the assorted wasters I inflicted on them. 

I'd go as far as to say that he's a bit of a player. Back in those long lost days of last Summer, when this omnishambles of a government briefly allowed us something approaching a normal life, I frequently found him entertaining a variety of young and not so young ladies at the pubs and bars scattered throughout our town. And all of those women seemed quite happy to be clinging to his arm, or fondling his arse cheeks or simply listening intently, with a smile and an occasional laugh, to whatever pearls of conversation he blessed them with.

In fact, I noted more than one or two were so happy that they'd quite willingly totter back to his place under the cover of darkness when only the most attentive prying eyes were watching and making notes. A few were even observed the following morning making their walk of shame; too tight dresses clinging to their unclean flesh and wobbling unconvincingly on spindle heels that must have seemed a good idea 12 or so hours earlier. 

Which brings me to Celia. 

A couple of weeks ago Celia and I were all wrapped up against the cold having a socially distanced catch up on a park bench when Sean happened by.  We had the obligatory five-minute chat of inquiry and platitude before he wandered onward, but no sooner had he disappeared from view than Celia pointed her index finger skyward before gradually curling it in on itself.

I gave her my quizzical look. 

She nodded. 

"Really?" 

"Uh-huh." 

If there are three things Celia loves more than anything else in this world it is some slanderous gossip, an attentive ear and the sound of her own voice, so rather than repeat her word for word I'll give you the edited highlights. 

Celia's niece, Stephanie, happened to hook up with Sean back in the Summer, she'd had a thing about him since school and was more than willing to make up for lost time. The evening was progressing like a comic strip in 'Jackie' and Stephanie's pussy was purring at the overdue pounding it was expecting until in the flushed heat of yet another amorous embrace it became obvious that Sean's pencil was running on unleaded.

Now Stephanie is no quitter and is actually a bit of a dirty bitch if truth be told, certainly, according to Celia, she gave it her all; some sensitive manual handling, the soft wetness of her well snogged lips, a stroking introduction into her still sodden snatch, a fleshy massage between her fulsome breasts, and even an offer to allow Sean's pink worm to bury itself in the dark passage between her spread and wiggling buttocks.

Nothing. Nada. Niet. And she was persistent, all night, returning, again and again, lapping his balls, teasing his nipples, burying his face in her cunt, and grinding herself to orgasm on his lacklustre tongue, fingering his arse as she suckled. She tried palm slapping, blowing gently, tongue tip teasing, hand corkscrewing, nails scraping, nibbling his neck, tonguing his ear, biting hard enough to leave red teeth marks on his flesh, yet no matter what she tried the response was always the same; marshmallow cock. 

Obviously, Stephanie's self-esteem was a bit battered by this experience so she sought comfort in understanding. That is what girlfriends are for. So you can imagine her surprise to discover that nearly all her friend group had been there before her; same bed, same sheets, same failure in the stiff cock department. In fact, it seemed that our Sean was developing quite a reputation amongst the weekend barfly tarts and good time girls for his lacklustre performances. 

As Celia yabbers on I let my mind drift. What was the focus of Sean's thousand-yard stare? I'd always assumed a wall-mounted TV screen. And what does he watch? Porn I supposed, but what type? Anal? Lesbian? Gay? Interracial? Bukkake? Gang bangs? Orgys? Public Humiliation? The choices seemed endless. Ohhh and did sheep catch Covid? If so would we be able to buy lambswool jumpers in the future? And was Celia ever likely to stop chattering so I could return to the coziness of home? 

From my 'Room With A View' I have about a 140-degree arc of vision but it is a single fixed viewpoint and only provides small windows into the lives acted out before me. I could crane my neck or adjust my position until the cows came home but I was never going to be able to see what was playing on Sean's TV. It was a problem of angles and not even one that Pythagoras was likely to solve. What I really required was a different viewpoint. 

I considered new technology, drones, or hidden cameras beaming pictures to my laptop, but I am a bit of a technophobe and the whole idea felt somewhat tacky and possibly morally reprehensible. Besides, I've never been much of one for screen porn when the real thing is only a sneak and peek away. 

I'd scouted out the lie of the land. I'd have to do it in daylight. I couldn't run the risk of the curtains being closed. I'd be vulnerable and displayed skulking beneath windows, up to no good. Yet, thanks to Her Majesty's Government, there were fewer watching eyes to spy on my misdemeanour and in these days of social distancing, as long as I stayed two metres away from every other being no one would pay much attention. In fact, I could probably plonk myself down on any of the park benches, spread my thighs wide, and masturbate myself to endless orgasms with barely a tut or raised eyebrow. 

I settled in to wait for Sean, to wait for the urge to consume him, for him to flop down, pull out his noble eminence and give the bishop a good bashing. I waited days; keyed up, frustrated, on edge; desperate in my desire for knowledge. And then, last Wednesday, I was sprinting down my stairs, shrugging on my coat and slamming out of my back door. 

My return home was more sedate, considered, meandering. I circumnavigated the park twice, chin down, tongue pushed against my teeth, hunkered down in my wool coat, hands buried deep in its satiny pockets (though they're probably polyester... checks coat; definitely polyester), lost in contemplation, chewing and nibbling mentally and physically, fingers rummaging and stroking my house keys and mobile, attempting and failing to find understanding. 

I made a cup of tea. Cut myself a piece of fruit cake. Curled myself up in my favourite armchair and phoned Celia. 

Now I may have been somewhat economical with the truth, may of emphasised that I was just passing by, just happened to glance in the window, got transfixed, stuttered to a standstill as the slideshow flitted before my eyes. The same woman over and over, a gap between her always smiling front teeth, her waved unstyled mousey hair, her cellulite thighs and cankles, her flouncy hippyesque frocks, and the slight remains of pox marks on her face. I may not have mentioned that I viewed every picture, larger than life, beaming down at Sean as he fisted his battered cock to yet another pained orgasm. But I told her enough and when finally I'd run out of words and spluttered myself into silence she said:

"Oh, that would be Heather." 

"Heather?" 

"She died." 

And that, dear reader, is pretty much that. I'm sorry. I feel that I owe you an apology. That wasn't really quite the tale of light relief I was expecting and I can't help but notice that there wasn't really any sex either for you to enjoy. I guess that sometimes things go that way, but I promise that when we return with Melissa Part 2 I will make amends. We'll start with sex, have a very brief narrative interlude, and then it will just be sex, sex, sex all the way to the final denouement. Besides, I've saved up a whole heap of u's just begging to be used. Cross my tiny tits and hope to die.