Welcome to The Neighbourhood

Story by roxas

Dudes! It's been absolutely AGES since I made my last post - I've been ridiculously busy with uni and other projects of mine, so I haven't had as much free time as I'd like. As a result, I'm re-posting these set of stories that i wrote months ago, with a brand new chapter(chapter 4)!

the story goes on = ]

The sun was high in the sky.

The wind blew gently through the sycamore trees, playfully ruffling their leaves as it swept through the idyllic suburb neighbourhood look-alike. To the casual observer.

The houses are all perfectly aligned and immaculate, so pristine in condition that the word “dollhouse” springs to mind. It was a Saturday morning, so people are out and about digging in their gardens and flowerbeds, while others mow their lawns and wash their cars, while children play in the empty lanes with their water pistols and hula hoops. It was one of many perfect Saturday mornings…. To the casual observer.

All this and many more thoughts whizzed around in the mind of nineteen year old Charlotte Bree as she stared out her bedroom window. She was an African girl- or so she was told by her foster mother, Helen. Lottie, as her friends called her, couldn’t remember much of her childhood; she was so, so young when she was brought to this place….. she remembered flashing lights- voices.

Wind.

Noise.

And the beautiful woman. With her beautiful braided hair. In that beautiful aeroplane, flying over a beautiful ocean, illuminated by a beautiful gibbous moon.

And till this day it remained one of Lottie’s most treasured memories. It was later on, upon self-examination, that Lottie realized that the mystery woman was the pilot of that plane…. And might very well have been her real mother.

But it didn’t matter all that much, because Lottie found an excellent mother in Helen; thought that might not have been the case four years back when she was fifteen. For some reason, they had never connected before then- Lottie knew that was her fault. She had never felt like doing it. Until the day she had come running in from “school” embarrassed beyond anything that she had been caught while…. During….. even now, the memory brought on an almost painful stab of shame, causing her to involuntarily wince. Even stronger than the humiliation of that singular school event, was a wrenching feeling of nostalgia and arousal at the memory of what had happened as the fifteen year old girl she used to be, cried her eyes out into her pillow. At the memory of Helen, her estranged foster mother, silently sliding beside her adopted daughter and firmly wrapping her soft, warm arms around charlotte, spooning the fifteen year old girl who had been caught skipping class to masturbate in the school bathrooms by an instructor earlier that day. Helen had been notified by the school faculty and was immediately sympathetic- she still remembered what it was like to be a teenager, with their uncontrollable emotions, physical changes, as well as physical urges. Charlotte still remembered the feel of those welcome arms circling around her, holding her close. The feel of Helen’s oh so soft breasts pressed against her back. The maddening heat from Helen’s body and thighs, clothed as she was in jeans and a sweater, making charlotte’s heartbeat skyrocket.

As charlotte allowed her thoughts to linger upon this particularly pleasurable memory, she let her hands gently cup her breasts, squeezing, then letting go, caressing her deep caramel body again and again. Then she decided to get down to business, letting her hands slide down her slim waist, thumbs hooking around the straps of her lace panties, pulling them down over her bountiful hips; hips for which African women are sought after by men and which women wish to possess. Charlotte was not the most patient of people in matters like these- her hands sought out the focal point of her desire. The one place, at the centre of her, where she was most needy. The special part of her, that was of great importance in many other ways, all forgotten in the heat those moments. The reason She, and all the others like Her, were in this “perfect” suburbia. Charlotte’s eyebrows slowly knotted together, just before a small smile came across her face. Her breathing became stronger and Her skin prickled, nerves danced with joy, sending pleasure all over her body as she finally closed her right hand over her hard, erect phallus.

Then she started pumping.

Hard.

The house was quiet. All that could be heard was the gentle creak of aged wood, as the late Saturday afternoon breeze made its way through the open back door of the kitchen, all round the main house. The cross ventilation was near perfect, and if one closes their eyes, with a seashell to one ear… they could almost hear the crashing of ocean waves on some remote beach.

This building, however, was more than just a simple construct of cement, metal, plastic and wood. In this house was an acc

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