Three women

“I’ll get it!” I yell, heading to the door. I open it to find three of our neighbors standing on the step.

First in is Lauren Sanders. Mrs. Sanders is five-foot-nothing and built like the gymnast she is. She has pale skin, deep blue eyes and high cheekbones in a small, oval face, and thick night-black hair. She likes wearing her hair long, down to the small of her back, but it interferes with her workouts—she’s only ever grown it out that I know of during her pregnancies. Usually she wears it shoulder-length, and often bound in a ponytail (though it’s loose right now).

Her ass is high and incredibly tight; her legs are long for her height, slim and very strong. Her breasts are small enough that she doesn’t need a bra, and except when she’s exercising, she never wears one. This makes some of the other women in the neighborhood unhappy, but Mrs. Sanders doesn’t care. She’s an absolute firecracker; she can light up a room without even trying, but you wouldn’t want to be on her bad side. There are whispers around the neighborhood that she has an extremely high sex drive.

“Happy birthday, Chris!” she says in her lilting voice. She grabs my head and pulls me down for a kiss—on the lips, no less! but lightly—then hands me a small gift bag with a card.

“Thanks, Mrs. Sanders,” I say, blushing.

“My pleasure,” she replies with a sly grin.

Behind her is Noelle Madrigal. From her name you’d think she’s French, but somehow she’s all Irish. Mrs. Madrigal is tall, taller than me in bare feet, with the classic hourglass figure of a pinup model. One of the times I watched her kids, after they went to bed, I went exploring a bit. I found one of her bras and looked at the tag—it said 34DDD. She has hips to match, and a narrower waist. She has long, wavy red hair, bright green eyes in a heart-shaped face, and fair, freckled skin. Her husband died in a car crash a few months ago, and she’s just starting to get out again. Some of our neighbors have been wondering how she would handle being alone; in her case, they knew for sure that she has a very high sex drive, because she’d talked about how glad she was that her husband could satisfy her. (No, I don’t get included in those sorts of conversations; but my mom and her friends don’t talk very quietly, either.)

Mrs. Madrigal pulls me close and gives me a long hug and a kiss on the side of my face. “Happy birthday, Chris!” she says in her throaty purr. She hands me a card and grins.

“Thanks, Mrs. Madrigal,” I say; my blush hasn’t faded.

She smiles. “Please, you’re becoming a man. Call me Noelle.”

“I’ll try to remember, Mrs.—Noelle.”

“Good,” she says with an odd smile, then sweeps past me to greet my mother.

Last up is Amanda Reynolds. She’s a friend of mom’s from her book group, and she can make any room happier just by walking into it. “Irrepressible” is the right word for her; she’s vivacious and funny and always sees the good in things. She has a bubbly personality, and is one of those rare women who’s honestly sweet without being at all cloying or feeling even the least bit fake. She has a great zest for life. Mr. Reynolds must be a very lucky man, I think, because she has to be a lot of fun in bed.

She has the body for it, too, in my opinion. She’s a head shorter than me with large blue eyes, long light-brown hair which she wears in a ponytail, and full, sensual lips. She always wears loose tops—a grey blouse, today—but they don’t hide her large breasts, even if she thinks they do. Her slender legs look great in tight black slacks, and I bet her shapely ass looks even better.

“Hi, Chris!” she says, smiling happily as she hands me a small gift. “Happy birthday!” She gives me a big hug and lets it linger; the feeling of her full breasts pressing against my chest deepens my blush.

“Th-thanks, Mrs. Reynolds,” I stammer, feeling self-conscious.

“Chris, it’s Amanda,” she says, giving me a push on the chest and a mock glare. “‘Mrs. Reynolds’ reminds me how old I’ve gotten.”

This has become a ritual between us over the last year and more. “You’re not old, Amanda,” I assure her. “You’re just the right age.”

“Yeah, right, Chris,” she laughs as she moves past me into the house. “I’m old enough for you to know better,” she says in a teasing tone, completing our ritual.

I sneak a peek at her departing form before shutting the door. I was right—her ass looks absolutely spectacular in those slacks. I follow our guests into the living room, where Amanda joins a conversation between Mrs. Sanders and my mother. The energy between those three women, who enjoy each other very much, just crackles. Mrs. Madrigal is in another part of the room talking with Mrs. Jensen and Mrs. Davis. So much sex appeal in one spot—the mind boggles.