Not yet!

The car keeps rolling as you stand there, frozen in place. Maybe they saw you? Maybe not? The tingle that dances up your spine as you start moving again doesn’t really hate either option, though. As you reach the road, you listen carefully for any more interruptions. Glancing side to side, all you can see is the red dots of brake lights turning out of sight far down the street.

As you spring across the pavement, the tension inside you begins to boil. Your back yard was dark, massive, easy to get lost in. You could walk behind so many houses and through their own lawns without even a chance of being seen. After all, the houses near you were all crammed together so tightly that it would be hard to adequately space out the gates and fences, ugh, just way too much work to the people who built up the land in the first place. But across the street, as you vaulted a short fence to disappear into the small, wooded area on the other side, you could see the older houses. The ones that had been there for a generation or three, they stood at least two stories unlike your modest single, lawns kept up meticulously to insane HOA standards, and so many barriers to plan around. Whether it was a curmudgeonly old man with a privacy fence, some pretentious one percenter with a mcmansion and spiked, metal gates, or just the waist-level, wood-and-wire models, there were far more things that could go wrong in the old neighborhood.

Which is, mind, why you’d been trying to get there. After all, how exciting is somewhere you’re sure no one’s going to catch you? Half the fun of evading capture was the risk of it in the first place. And there was definitely risk here.

The approach was the most obnoxious part. You crouch, eyeing the quiet, suburban streets for any sign of life. The abundance of street lights makes getting to the relative cover of the back yards a daunting prospect. Someone opens their door at the wrong time, that could be it. The thought rings in your head as you break into a run from the cover of trees and bushes, feet hitting the pavement hard. It hurts a little, running barefoot at these speeds, but the rush it gives you is well worth it. The little, sharp reminders you’re alive and present and no one can take that away from you excite you as you pant, reaching the side of a reasonably-appointed brick house. You haul yourself over the waist-high fence easily, carrying over with your momentum and coming to a stop as quietly as you can now that the night has wrapped back around you.

You can see Bruce Daylor glancing around through the back window to his house. The middle-aged man was always suits and even tones when you’d seen him. Big involvement in the neighborhood HOA. You looked him over appraisingly as he went back to whatever he’d been doing before he heard you. If he noticed, which you’re sure he didn’t, he was too distracted by whatever he was setting up on his kitchen table. He’s not out of shape … you’d fuck him, given how long it’s been. Can’t say he’s your type for dating, but …

“Oh, Bruce, naughty boy!” you whisper to yourself as you stand up on your tiptoes to get a good look at his evening activity of choice. Definitely not your type. You’re not opposed to a little weed now and again, but the lines of white powder suggested someone was longing for the late 80’s business life. You grin to yourself as he leans over and snorts one, shaking his head after and purposely opening and closing his eyes as he processes the rush. God, and he just chokes that down all day … or maybe he doesn’t and his office is livelier than you imagined. You’re tempted to stick around as he chooses to make use of his alertness by turning on some porn, also incredibly 80’s in style (Jesus, is that a VHS player?), but given his compromised judgement, you slip back down as he furiously takes off his pants, getting in a small fight with the left leg.

It takes a lot to suppress a giggle at the thought of bound-up Mr. Daylor losing a fight to a pair of pants or snorting cocaine like movie exec trying to think up the idea for the next Gremlins movie. Unfortunately, thinking on that pulled your attention a bit too much as you climbed the fence next door. You freeze on top of the much taller, sturdier barrier looking down. You’re not sure if the dog looking back up at you is friendly, honestly. You’ve never been much of a dog person. They were cute, but you didn’t really have time for more than your two girls. The block-headed dog’s thin tail wagged back and forth excitedly, mouth open and panting. God, risk getting mauled by a dog or wait until he starts barking?

‘This can’t be the right decision,’ you slam into your own head as you drop down in front of him. He runs up to you and licks your face, evidently appreciating the company. As your eyes following a rope leash from his collar, this is less the kind of discovery you like to make. You make a note to tell someone the … you peer at the house and try to make out any details. The Winstons? Yeah, that seems about right. A note to tell someone they’re leaving this sweet man on a lead all night. Looking around, you don’t even see a water bowl, and it’s not exactly brisk during the day.

As you rub his head, a terrible idea comes into your mind. It’s … such a bad fucking idea. But you can feel your whole body screaming for you to do it. It’s sexy, yeah, but it’s also the right thing to do. They’re neglecting their dog. A little risk like breaking and entering while engaging in indecent exposure seems small next to that. Not to mention that your crimes are a lot hotter than theirs. If you can get into their house, get … oh, Jonas, the name tag says Jonas, get Jonas some water, and make sure he’s taken care of until morning when you can make sure someone with actual rights to can resolve this situation, all without anyone catching you … ‘Sure, entirely altruistic,’ you tell yourself. ‘Nothing to do with how wet the idea of breaking into these dicks’ house is getting me. Nope. I’m a saint.’

You move slowly towards the house, Jonas making a move to immediately follow you. You turn back and motion up with your hand. He sits quickly, staring straight ahead. ‘Jesus, and they just leave you out here …’ you think venomously about the Winstons. As you approach their back door, you slowly peek your head up, lifting the blinds on the door window with your fingertip. From here, you can see Mr. Winston passed out on the couch, a news channel playing on mute. No sign of his wife, though. Very carefully, you test the door handle, which slides uncontested in your hand. As you creep inside the house, gently closing the door behind you, the thrill is electric. God, he’s … ten feet away? Fifteen, maybe? You have to be very, very careful.

Jonas may be sweet, but you silently thank everything he’s a crap guard dog as you stand, delicately balancing with your hands on the kitchen counter. It helps when you almost stumble, but your fingers dig down and keep you steady. The hinges on the cabinet doors are old, forcing you to open them just the tiniest bit and try to make out what you’re seeing inside. It’s not until the fourth cabinet you actually find the bowls. Something ceramic is probably a good idea. You’d go metal, but they don’t seem to have any, and you’re sure Jonas is bored enough to chew right up anything plastic. Which you could give a shit about for preserving it, but it’d hardly be good on his stomach.

‘This house is way too nice for this shit …’ You have to move dirty dishes stacked in the sink aside to get the bowl in range of the faucet. Even then, you’re kind of amazed the water seems to be clear. Do they take care of anything around here?

You’re shaken out of your angry and critical thoughts when you hear the unmistakable squeak of a person’s weight pushing into a step. ‘Well, there’s Mrs. Winston,’ you think, not without a little flutter of panic. The bowl’s about half-full, and you can hear a second, a third, a fourth step as she makes her way downstairs. Biting your lip and bouncing slightly, anxious to meet your goal, you’re sure the last step you just heard sounded different. Then light padding. You crouch and rush to the door as fast as you can, quickly hopping outside through the slimmest crack you can manage. While you normally love your curvy ass and chest, the uncomfortable squeezing of them makes it a bit harder to appreciate in the moment.

Making your way back into Jonas’ radius, you put the bowl down on the other side of his tether from the house. You’re sure he can find his way to it in the dark, and you’d really rather not the Winstons notice anything’s amiss and take it away from him. You don’t know WHY they’d do that, but you’re also not sure why they’d leave this sweet baby out here or … leave … their door … unlocked …

Your head spins around as you notice you didn’t shut the back door. Given your current position, if Mrs. Winston was headed to the kitchen, there’s no way she can miss you crouched like a night lizard and stark naked in her backyard. You hastily move back towards the door, but as you reach it, you see the shadow of one of them falling over the threshold. And you notice the shadow indicate they’re turning their head towards you …

Before they can complete the arc, mercifully at the far end of their vision at that angle, you slam the door. You hear an earsplitting scream you guess is probably Mrs. Winston reacting to her door trying to attack her. While the scrambling and swearing that follows is probably her husband dealing with a rude awakening, fuck if you’re sticking around to find out. By the time you can hear her have words clear enough to scream “THERE’S A PROWLER IN THE YARD!”, you’re already clearing the other side of the fence. It’s tall and you’re short, but adrenaline is a hell of a thing, and you really don’t want to go to jail for trying to help a dog. Just seems like a stupid thing to be locked up for.

Your heart is hammering in your chest as you streak right by the next house on the side to get to the next street. Yeah, technically, it’s more exposed, but you’re not going to get good distance by leaping over fences all night. A wicked smile spreads across your face as you see some lights near the house you’re fleeing come on. Your powerful legs carry you fast enough to be turning into an alley by the time anyone can clear their door, sprinting through an unsecured gate and vaulting over the fence at the back of the yard into more tree cover. It promises scratches and bruises, but as your feet ache, your breasts heave uncomfortably, and branches nick your skin, you can’t stop grinning. Beating them just feels too good.

The path back home is easier the long way, cutting through some fields next to the highway a few blocks over and following the south signs back until you can line up a straight shot through the foliage back to your front porch. Your underwear hangs out of your bag, stuffed in roughly at some point to avoid getting some of your favorite lingerie shredded or, worse, left behind. You consider stopping to take care of the furious urges pacing in circles around your clit, begging for your attention, but you’re pretty sure you heard sirens a few minutes ago. There’ll be plenty of time to whack it once you’re inside and safe.

As you cross an old, dirt road you’ve never seen anyone go on, making your way to the last field before you can circle back, lights suddenly flash on in front of you. It’d be nice if it were headlights, but looking up, you can see it’s a flashlight, completely blinding you to anything but vague shapes. The car behind them blocks off access back to the highway, though, and you can tell by the bumps on top of it that it’s a patrol car. Aw, fuck, that means it’s the cops.