Neighbourhood Mom

A brief tale of erotic horror. It doesn't end well for Our Hero, so if that's not your schtick, read elsewhere.

---

"You *do* have the key." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes, Jan. I've got the damn key. Hang on." I dug around in my pants pockets, then my jacket, then inside my jacket, then:

"aHA!" I crowed as I produced a single bronze key from my shirt pocket. Grinning at my wife, Janice, I slid it into the deadbolt, and unlocked the door. "Milady," I said mockingly as the door swung open. Within, the hardwood floors gleamed as we stepped inside.

"Jesus," Janice breathed as we walked through the empty house. "I still can't believe it, really. What a deal!"

I shrugged as we went from room to room. "Look at that counter - do you think it's real marble?"

"That's what the agent said." I slid my hand down the slick polished surface of the island in the middle of the kitchen. Stainless steel appliances gleamed in every corner while our shoes tapped on the tiled floor.

"There's gotta be something wrong with it," she said, shaking her head.

"Like it's built over an indian burial ground or someth- wow!" We passed through the sunroom, where an infinity pool lay silent and empty and the floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over an expansive yard. "The agent said that the lady had to get rid of it fast, and I guess she did."

"At that price, we were lucky to get it at all."

"No kidding. We got twice the house for half the price." I ribbed Jan in the side. "How's about we go on up to the bedrooms and see-"

*DINGDONGDINGDONGDINGDONGADINGDONG*

"-if we can change that doorbell." I pulled a face. The bell sang its song again, and we looked at each other. "After you," I gestured towards the front of the house.

"Welcome to the neighbourhood!" Enthused the woman on the other side of the door as we opened it. She was short, no taller than 5"3, at least half a foot shorter than my willowy wife, and wore a bright red, flared sundress with white polka dots. Her frosted hair, so bright in the direct sunlight that I couldn't tell if it was white or merely platinum blonde, tumbled down over her shoulder in light waves. She reminded me strongly of Morgan Fairchild, only her face didn't seem frozen with botox as she smiled. Vivid green eyes smiled with her.

"Hello!" She said, proffering a large Tupperware container with a tan lid.

"Hi," we said in unison, then gave each other a look.

"I'm Regina. Regina Matronalis. I'm your next door neighbour, but you can call me Gina." She gestured with her head at a bright-yellow bungalow on the next lot over. "I saw the moving truck and I thought I'd come right over and drop off a little housewarming treat. I hope I'm not interrupting anything?"

"No! No, come right in," Jan said, waving on our neighbour, and we parted to let her in. Regina passed between us; a narrow white belt was wrapped around her, emphasizing her wasp-waist. The flared skirt of her dress *swished* as she walked, the hem skirting below her knees, but revealing a set of surprisingly firm calves perched atop a pair of gleaming white pumps with stiletto heels. Not bad for a woman who looked like she might be on the wrong side of 55. "Right through here. It can be the first thing in our kitchen!"

"Oh I know where the kitchen is, sweetheart." Regina said, mildly. "I was good friends with the previous owners, Nicholas and Holly."

"Really?" We said in unison, suddenly intrigued as we followed this stranger into our own kitchen. "Do you know what happened? Why they had to sell the place?"

"Tragic, really." The platinum curls shook as she shook her head. "Nicholas simply up and vanished one day. No note, no trace. As if the air swallowed him up. Holly was devastated; she held on for a year, but I guess she just couldn't keep the place with all the memories." Gina placed the tupperware on the kitchen island. "I'm sorry dears, I didn't catch your names?"

"Oh, shit. I'm Marcus, and this is my wife Janice. I write, she has a real job pushing papers. We're the MacNichols."

"Lovely to meet you, Marcus," Gina held out a hand, and I shook it. Her fingers were warm, and lingered in my palm a few moments longer than they had to. Those kelly-green stared straight into mine, and I felt as though I were being appraised. "And you Janice," they shook hands. "And these," she pried open the lid of the container, which popped and suddenly a warm, cinnamony scent filled the kitchen. "Are my one-of-a-kind, secret recipe, life-changing, Housewarming Cookies. I'm the neighbourhood mom, and it's my job to keep the treats flowing."

I peered inside, where a couple dozen cookies lay neatly stacked. They didn't appear particularly life changing, though the chocolate chips looked good. The smell, however, made my mouth water.

"Well, who could resist a pitch like that?" We reached in and each pulled one out. I bit into it and my mouth came to life with taste, the warm sweet cinnamon laid over something else my tongue couldn't identify but filled it. My face felt flushed as I chewed and swallowed. I took another, bigger, bite, eating the rest of the cookie. "Oh my gofsh!" I ejaculated, crumbs spraying. "Gina, thefshe are fantashtic!" Somehow, I felt more awake, more excited. It was like the spice in the cookie had cleared out the front end of my consciousness.

"Yeah, they're pretty good," Jan said without much enthusiasm as she swallowed her first bite, laying the cookie on the counter. My hand snapped out and snatched it up. Gina laid her hand, soft and warm, atop mine.

"Enjoy the cookies, dears." She said, quietly. "I'll leave you to it. I'm sure you two have a lot of work to get to."

"These are amazing!" I said, shoving Jan's discarded cookie in my mouth. "You don't like fthem?"

"No," she said, emphatically. "I'm going to go wash my mouth out, then we're going to unload the truck."

"More for me!" I shouted after her as she retreated to the bathroom. I snatched another cookie. How could she not *like* these?

---

All told, there were thirty-six cookies in the box. They didn't quite last through the week, even with just me eating them. The first half were gone in a day or so, and once I realized how quickly they were vanishing, I started to ration them. Somehow, waiting a couple of hours between cookies made them taste even *better*, and I found myself spending a *lot* of time thinking about the next opportunity I'd have to get a cookie, and since I was home by myself almost every day, that added up to a lot of thinking.

Nonetheless, they couldn't last forever, and by the end of the week I found myself standing in the kitchen, looking forlornly at the empty container, and running my finger around the sides to catch any stray crumbs that remained. Idly, I wondered what would happen if I licked it; would there be any traces to pick up or-

*DINGDONGDINGDONGDINGDONGADINGDONG*

"Good morning, Marcus honey!" Gina said as I opened the door. "You don't mind if I come in, do you?" She was wearing a knee-length, sleeveless pencil dress in a green floral print that matched her eyes with a similarly-coloured kerchief keeping her hair back. The dress fabric skimmed closely over her curves, which were surprisingly trim for a woman her age, exaggerating and showing off that spectacularly slender waist again. Although it was buttoned up to her neck, her bust swelled the front of the dress impressively. Opaque black hose hissed as she strode past me into the house, mirror-black pumps clicking on the hardwood. I thought for a moment about protesting the damage to our new floors, but then I saw the plastic container she held cradled in her arms.

"Not at all!" I said, suddenly excited. Like a puppy, I followed Gina into the kitchen. I could smell that subtle, under-the-cinnamon aroma as I trailed after her, and my mouth started to water.

"I thought perhaps you two were finished with the cookies, and I could get my container back," she said as she walked into the kitchen. "Ah! There it is!" Gina laid down the new box and peered into the old. "I see you two sweethearts enjoyed them?"

"Um, well-" I began. "*I* did, anyway. I don't think Jan liked them very much."

"Oh what a shame," Gina said, clucking her tongue. "I suppose that means you won't want-"

"More cookies?" I asked eagerly. She laughed, and I could see her breasts shift slightly in her dress.

"Don't be greedy," she said, gently remonstrating me. "These are muffins. My Settle-In muffins."

"Oh," I was suddenly downcast.

"But they're made with my special secret ingredient," Gina's nose wrinkled as she gave me a conspiratorial wink. "But I'd hate to think they're not welcome here. If Janice doesn't like them, then maybe I should-"

"No!" I said, more emphatically than I'd intended. "They're welcome, they're welcome. *I* want them!"

Gina chewed one surprisingly plump lip thoughtfully. "I *could*," she began, "but I really don't want your wife to think I'm dumping all this terrible food off at her house." Her tongue traced a circuit around her lips and I found myself watching it, slightly dazed and wanting only to rip open the container she'd brought in. "But I *hate* to disappoint such a nice young man as yourself. I'll tell you what -- if you can keep it our little secret, if you can make sure to hide them from Janice, then I'll keep you supplied with treats for as long as you like."

"Uh," I began. "I'm not really sure how comfortable I am with-"

"Oh it'll be easy!" Gina suggested, cracking open the top of the container and letting out more of that heady, spicy aroma. "A young, *modern* woman like Janice probably doesn't even know her way around the kitchen, does she? Not like some old fashioned homebody like myself. I bet you could stash these here easy and she'll never know!"

"You're not wrong," I said, uncertainly. I peered into the container, where a dozen (a *dozen*!) muffins waited, with the promise of more (as many as I wanted!). "Okay, you've got a deal."

"A secret, you mean," she giggled. "We've got a secret. Just a little white one."

"Right, right we've got a secret," I agreed. Gina reached into the tupperware and pulled out one of the muffins. Her fingernails were long but well-kept, and painted kelly green. I plucked it from her fingers and bit into it; I stifled a tiny moan as the flavour flooded my mouth, waking up heretofore dead tastebuds. "Mmmmm," I said, closing my eyes.

"Just a little white one," Gina repeated. Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed my cheek. "After all, the neighbourhood mom has to take care of her special boys, doesn't she?" That sounded a bit odd, but I could get weird about it later. Right now, I was too busy overwhelming my senses with flavour. "Same time next week?" She asked, picking up the empty box.

"Itsh a date!" I said, mouth full of muffin.

"Good boy," the neighbour said, a warm smile crossing her features. Had her mouth always looked so luscious? I swallowed my mouthful and took another bite, feeling my cheeks getting flushed. "Eat up, honey." She patted my cheek. "There's more where that came from." And then she was gone, stalking out the front door on her heels. I polished off the muffin, and reached in for a second.

I wasn't until I bit into the second that I noticed I was sporting a semi-hardon.

---

Time passed, and with it a steady flow of baked goods through our kitchen. Gina was right; it was easy to keep them a secret from Jan. I kept the containers tucked away in the back of the cupboard where the pots lived; she never found them, and every Thursday morning like clockwork, our neighbour appeared with another.

Cupcakes, cookies, muffins -- even a pie, once.

"How *are* things, Marcus?" Gina asked as I cut myself a slice. "Is Janice well? I see her so rarely." A tall cork-heeled wedge sandal dangled from one foot as she sat on one of the stools around the kitchen island; a red gingham strap arched across her toes, matching the sleeveless blouse she was wearing -- she'd left a couple of buttons open to reveal a surprisingly deep cleavage in the summer heat. Her capris were a dark indigo and appeared to be painted on, showing off the finely-turned curves of her calves and ankles, as well as the broad sweep of her hips. It was the most skin I'd ever seen her showing off, and it marked first time I noticed just how pale she was; not merely white but a porcelain pale that was practically translucent. At the same time, it appeared shockingly smooth, devoid of varicose veins or the usual spotting I would have expected from a woman of her apparent age: somehow it was like undisturbed milk.

"Things are okay, I guess." I said, lifting the slice out onto a plate. It was still warm and steaming, as if it had just come off Gina's windowsill.

"Just okay?" She pouted, her bottom lip looking surprisingly full this morning. Probably just the pink lipgloss she'd applied earlier. "Don't forget the cream, dear."

I spooned a dollop of her homemade cream on to the plate. It was slightly runny in the heat, but somehow looked divine. "Yeah, well." I took up a forkful. "Everybody's got problems, you know?" I slid the fork into my mouth; the cream as cool and slightly viscous and set off the warmth of the pie wonderfully, and I closed my eyes to better savour the it. When I opened them again after swallowing, I found Gina staring at me intently. I felt the colour rising in my face as the taste of the pie filling lingered on my tongue for a moment, making it tingle. "Are you sure you don't want any? I feel like a pig, eating it all by myself."

"Oh no, honey. I have to watch my figure, you know." She ran a hand down her side, resting on her rounded hip. Her figure didn't seem to need any watching, but I had to drag my eyes up out of the depths of her cleavage. I shifted uncomfortably and looked down at my pie. "What kind of problems? You can tell me, Marcus." She laid one warm hand on top of mine and squeezed, reassuringly.

"Well," I said, taking another bite. "Just, um, bedroom stuff. You know, nothing serious. Just, things have been slowing down a bit lately." Which was true, as far as it went. If anything, I'd been super-eager of late, waking up each morning with a huge hard-on that didn't seem to go down appreciably for hours, but Jan kept begging off. "She says my breath is foul," I complained. "That makes it hard to, you know-" I made a helpless gesture with the fork, then took another bite. "I don't know what it is, I'm brushing my teeth three-four times a day." I licked my fork clean.

Gina's kelly-green eyes sparked in the sun as it streamed in through the kitchen window. "You have a little something, dear. Right here." Her tongue peeked out of her mouth to swipe at the corner; I followed suit. "Whatever it is, I'm sure it'll sort itself out, dear."

"I hope so," I said, through a full mouth. "We're not even in our thirties yet. It's way too soon to stop having sex, you know?"

"I understand," she said. "Everybody has needs." Gina patted my free hand as I swallowed the last bite of the slice I'd cut. "Anyway, I must be getting back. Same time next week?" Her breasts jiggled underneath her blouse as she jumped down from the stool.

"Hell-"

"Language, Marcus." She admonished with a finger. Suddenly cowed, I shrank a little.

"Heck yeah," I enthused.

"Good," Gina scooped her empty container up under her arm, and strode towards the kitchen door. As she retreated, I took the time to unabashedly watch the syncopated motion of her hips and rounded behind as they sashayed out of my kitchen in her skintight pants; at the door, she paused, and turned. "Don't forget to eat up all that cream," she instructed. "Marcus, is there something on my pants?" She reached down to brush one prominent globe.

Suddenly embarrassed at being caught out staring at my neighbour, I stammered out a reply. "N-no. Nothing. I thought there was, but it must have been a trick of the light." Underneath the counter, I slid my hand away from my needy cock, suddenly rock hard in my pants.

"Of course," Gina said, smiling. "Same time next week?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," I said, red in the face.

"I know you wouldn't, darling." Then she was gone.

---

It was around that time the dreams started. Not always the same dream, but close enough that the differences got blurry when I tried to recall them.

They always started at my house. Not the new one I bought with Jan, but my childhood home, my parents' house. I know because they began with me staring at the cracked chrome bumper that rimmed our kitchen table, a relic from one grandparent or another.

But my parents' house never smelled so good. My own mother, no deft hand in the kitchen herself, had never been much of a baker, and only did so for birthdays, usually to disastrous results. As such, the kind of warm, delicious, comforting aroma that filled and surrounded me was alien to my childhood, but not to my dreams. So I sat there, inhaling and relishing it and letting the warmth suffuse through my body.

I felt hands on my shoulders, and then nails scratching down over my chest -- had I been wearing shirt before? I couldn't remember.

"*Breathe*," a familiar female voice whispered in my ear. "It feels so good to just relax and *breathe*, doesn't it?"

"Mhm," I agreed, a beatific smile spreading across my face while I filled my lungs.

"Let it fill you," the voice breathed. "Let the bad air out...let the good air in. It feels so good to just let everything go and let the smells of mother's kitchen fill you, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," I said, relaxing in my chair as the perfumed air filled me up with warmth.

Soft fingers stroked down. "Bad air out." Hard nails scored tingling trails upwards. "Good air in." Fingertips traced across my stomach. "Out." Scratching across the trail of pubic hair leading downwards into my pants. "In." Skin sliding over my bare thighs (had I been wearing pants before?). "Out." Nails tickled up the length of my hardening length. "In." Fingers wrapped around my shaft and stroked downwards, slowly. "Out." Then up. "In."

I looked down in my lap as ghostly-pale hands worked my manhood, which had swollen to a size I'd never seen before.

"It feels so good to let out all the bad," the voice whispered. "And let in all the good."

"So good," I agreed, happy to let the hands take control of my member.

"Would you like a treat, Marcus honey?" The hands on my shaft felt like a continuous warm tube, gently massaging and pulling on my meat.

"Yes please." A plate, piled high with steaming cookies appeared on the table.

"Now be careful dear, they're hot." Looking over my left shoulder, I saw Gina standing there, wearing a crisp white apron; crimson lettering across the front read 'MOTHER KNOWS BEST.' Her stiletto heels were the same colour, as were her lips and fingernails -- and they all glistened wetly in the light. She smiled at me, and the hands wrapped around my shaft squeezed and corkscrewed around. "Go ahead," she said. "Try them. They're baked fresh, just for you." I watched as she turned around to close the oven; her back was bare, nothing but an expanse of creamery-smooth, white skin, broken only by the apron's ties, knotted in twin bows at the nape of her neck and above the firm, muscular globes of her ass. One of the hands on my cock began rubbing furiously at the head as I stared at her, reaching blindly for a cookie. She bent at the waist to shut the oven door, and I watched as all the muscles in her legs bunched and sculpted themselves and if I craned my neck *just* so, I could almost see...

"What about me?" Jan whined. Reluctantly, I tore my eyes away from Gina to look over my right shoulder, where my wife was standing, holding a plate similar to the one on the table. She was also wearing an apron, stained and dingy grey and bearing the legend 'WHAT ABOUT WIFEY'? The ghostly hands slid away from my cock, and I was suddenly aware of a different smell. Jan laid her plate on the table in front of me, and I could see that the cookies on it had succumbed to mold and corruption. Instinctively, my nose wrinkled. "I'm your wife, Marcus. Try one of mine, first." I could feel my cock shrinking, shrivelling up.