Summary of this Story:

I worked my front yard on Maplewood Drive, prepping the lawn for winter, when Penny Lane from across the street called me over. She’s the stunning young wife of old Charlie Lane, the limping banker with the pristine Mercury Turnpike Cruiser. Petite, with mist-blue eyes and sun-glistened ponytail, she flirted boldly while I hauled topsoil bags to her flowerbeds. On her porch, her bare thigh pressed warm against mine as we shared Mexican Coca-Colas. I confessed my broken heart tattoo from catching my ex-wife in bed, vowing never to touch a married woman. She squeezed my hand, whispering girls like sex too. Later, Charlie offered me cash to manage his Oak Cliff rentals, his whiskey sharp on my tongue, while Penny’s radiant smile hinted at deeper tensions pulling at my resolve.

Here is your Story: Feeling Penny’s Thigh Press in the Heat

Penny Lane

A Novelette

By LewdLuke

There beneath the blue suburban skies, Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes.

Those lines from an old Beatles song fit my situation pretty damn well. If you don’t know the tune, look it up. Penny Lane, by the Beatles. Listen and read the lyrics. Makes the story better.

Let me tell you about Penny Lane. She’s the pinnacle of the creator’s handiwork. Most beautiful young woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. I’d guess her blood mixes Northern and Eastern European stock, with a dash of Polynesian. Grew up in Hawaii. Her mom’s family planted roots there after World War Two ended.

Her eyes hold that blue from mist over a high mountain lake at autumn dawn. Skin fair, smooth, no marks. Hair’s got a natural curl, warm shade between rich brown and black. She wears it in a high ponytail down to mid-back most days. Sunlight picks out the highlights, makes them glisten. A man feels lucky catching one of her sweet smiles. Lush lips frame straight white teeth. Eyes tilt just a touch in her face, hint at that exotic streak. Dimpled cheeks, turned-up nose finish it off.

Body’s perfectly proportioned, toned just right. Small. Petite fits. No more than five-foot-one. Doesn’t top 110 pounds. Cute well-shaped ass. Perky tits nature built to snag any guy’s stare. Can’t look at her without dirty thoughts kicking in, that tingle starting up. She’s one beautiful woman.

Name’s Logan Reilly. Folks came from Ireland during the Great Potato Famine, late 1840s. Irish poured in, got no welcome. Hard labor, slave wages only. Stuck around for the Civil War. Quit laying track, turned American. I’m a fireman with Dallas Fire-Rescue. Sounds risky, thrilling. Truth? Mostly maintain and polish gear. Fine by me. Love keeping the fire engine spotless. Clean machine.

Live in the house I grew up in on Maplewood Drive. Left at eighteen for college, dropped out second semester. Sick of it. Odd jobs till twenty-one, then Fire Department. Found home there. Dad died in a wreck when I was twenty-seven. Mom hung on three more years in the big old place. Remarried a church deacon with cash. They took off on long honeymoon. She kept in touch, but I didn’t see her for near a year. Called, said they’d only visit Dallas till she needed a nursing home. Early fifties, good health. Gave me the house. Moved back, did paperwork next time she passed through.

Penny and her husband live diagonal across the street. One house up on the corner. He’s twice her age, easy. Lived there my whole life. Penny’s new. Met her after I returned. She welcomed me first, blackberry cobbler in hand. Said Mom told her it’s my favorite. Personality makes friendship easy. Knew him forever as Mr. Lane. Lived solo in block’s biggest house, money to burn. Banker with the motorcar. Everyone had cars. His stood out. Huge Mercury Turnpike Cruiser, late ’50s model. Always pristine. Still his daily ride.

Kids laughed behind his back. Old injury gave him a limp. Never wore a raincoat. Funny watching him hustle in downpours, get soaked anyway.

Thursday, mid-October. My thing with the Lanes shifted. Known Penny a year. Worked my front yard, prepping lawn for winter. She tended flowerbeds across the street. We waved. Knew Mr. Lane was at work. Tempted to cross over. She always warms me up inside. Waited though. Knew she’d come to me. Offer a Coke, maybe wine. More time together. Right on cue. Twenty minutes later, she’s at my elbow.

“Hey, Stud Muffin. Got a few minutes? Need help from a friend.”

“Think I can squeeze in time for a pretty girl. This once.”

Banter’s turned flirty when alone. Friends from jump, closer last year. “How can I help?”

“Ten bags topsoil in the garage. Too heavy for me. Use those muscles, move ’em to flowerbeds.”

Crossed street, down house side to back garage. Let her lead by steps. She struts, adds wiggle. Knows I’m eyeing her ass. Tingles hit. She does it on purpose. Works every time. Hide it when I can. Alone, out of sight, she touches. I like that. Sparks fly sometimes.

Bags weighed a hundred pounds each. No shit she couldn’t lift. Used her garden wheelbarrow. Two at a time. Emptied as I went. She raked piles smooth. Done in under an hour.

Penny stretches, arms high, back arched. No bra, as usual. Nipples poke shirt fabric. Relaxes, pulls rag from hip pocket, wipes sweat off face, arms. My God, temptation beyond reason.

“Break time. Shade on my porch, Coke?”

Sweetest smile. “You talked me into it, silver-tongued devil.”

Porch Talk

Up porch steps, she sits on top one. I grab two Mexican Coca-Colas from inside. Cane sugar, glass bottles. Beat corn-syrup cans or plastic. Sat beside her. Thigh presses mine right off.

Quiet spell. Then, “Friends, Logan?”

“Count you as one. Hope it’s mutual.”

“Think I’m attractive?”

Laugh. “Every guy’s ever met you does. Might be planet’s most beautiful.”

Chuckled. “Top three, sure.”

Giggle. “Competition?”

“Mom’s beautiful even now. Your age? Equal or better.”

“Know her. Beauty’s in beholder’s eye. Can’t compete. You love her. Me? Just friend. Unfair.”

Pause. “Other rival?”

“Ex-wife. Pretty, your age.”

“Never seen her. Picture?”

Laugh. “Pocket’s got Queen portrait.” Wallet out, hand it over.

“Still love her?”

“Bit. Don’t like her much.”

Giggle. “Prettier than her. Second place. Maybe tied first.” “Blood off fangs, horns sprouting?” Handed back.

Turned it over. “See ’em now. No reason to carry.” Pocket, not wallet.

“Asked Mom why divorced. Wouldn’t say. Won’t pry. Talk if you want.” Breath. “Personal chat okay?”

Sip Coke. “Guess. How personal?”

“Personal. Not scary.” Looks up. “Why no hit on me?”

Smile. “Want proposition?”

“Not answering. Worldly guy. Girls like proper proposition. Serious now. Need to know why.”

Quiet. She went on. “Tease, flirt alone. See effect sometimes. Others? Nada. Thought gay. Then nurse by roundabout in your bed. Two others too.”

Deep breath. “Why no hit?”

“Married, Penny.”

Silence stretches. “Really? That simple? Doesn’t stop most. Husband’s turning eighty.”

“Show tattoos. Answer what Mom wouldn’t.” Shirt up, left pec bare. Point over heart. “See?”

She touches. Static snaps. Odd for warm day. Dry air. Adrenaline hits.

“Two tiny tats. Red heart, cracked. Hourglass.”

“Broken heart. Time to heal. Wife broke it.”

Deep breath, shirt down. “Fishing trip with buddy. Boat wrecked early. Home Saturday midnight, not Sunday. Found wife, lover in our bed. Truth? Affair since before me. On-off through two-year marriage. Devastated. Pain indescribable.”

Hesitate. “Won’t hurt like that. Never touch man’s wife. Even eighty.”

She takes hand. “Divorce quick Texas-style. No kids, no support. No alimony. Community property: my truck with payments, her paid-off older car. Gave her furniture. Split blanket.”

“Feel your pain. Nurse ease it?”

“Over. Friends-with-benefits. Fine till she wanted more. Ended. One girl one-night. Other like nurse, month max. Single now. Stay that way. They eased while lasted. Love sex.”

Smile, squeeze hand. Leans, whispers. “Girls like sex too, Mr. Reilly.” Sits straight, finishes drink.

“Open house at station Saturday. Hoped for your tour. Missed. Talked you after.”

“Worried we’re close?”

Giggle. “Nah. Said your family nicest block old days. Impressed by firefighters’ responsibility. Honorable job.”

“Glad he approves.”

“He’ll offer job soon. Favor: listen, think it over.”

“Love fire gig. Not quitting.”

“Just listen. Won’t ask quit.”

“Okay, for you. No commitment.”

Smile. “Good enough.” Pause. “Tools away, clean up before man home.” Stands, looks down. Kisses fingertips, presses shirt over tats. Meaning clear. Sparks again.

“Help tools?”

Giggle. “Nah. Sit, watch me cross street, Stud Muffin.” Giggle. Down steps, across. Extra wiggle, swagger. Old work clothes or not, sight to see.

Penny Lane in my ears and eyes. Enjoyed every step.

Figured Mr. Lane call that night. Nada. Curiosity built. What’d he want? Bathed, light meal. Hour news. Bed. Seven-thirty station next, twenty-four on, forty-eight off. Good deal. Time off.

Shift done, home eight-thirty Saturday. No call. Thought on it at work. Curiosity peaked. House chores morning. Ham-cheese sandwiches lunch. Phone rings mid-bite.

“Hello.”

Surprised. “Logan, Charlie Lane.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Lane. Penny said you’d call. What can I do?”

Warm chuckle. “Call me Charlie now. Not kid anymore. Mister ages me casual.”

“Charlie it is.”

The Offer

“Business proposition, good for us both. Whiskey tonight, discuss? If convenient.”

“Like good whiskey rare. Why not now, done?”

Chuckle. “Bad at phone deals. Need eye contact, gauge words. Humor me. Across street.”

Laugh. “Fair. Not against walk. Time?”

“Pre-dinner. Taking Penny out. Five?”

“Works.”

“Thanks. See you.” Goodbye.

Five sharp, porch. Jeans, riding boots, long-sleeve flannel. Should’ve grabbed jacket. Cooler than thought. Old oak doors, doorknocker. Three raps.

Penny opens instant. Radiant smile. “Favorite broken-hearted fireman with hourglass.” Tugs foyer, shuts door. Arms lock mine, tiptoes, cheek kiss.

“What’s this?”

Giggle. “Excited. Man of house making offer can’t refuse. Hope so.” Bats eyes, floor glance. “He’s in den. Walk this way.”

She led down the hall, heels clicking on hardwood. Charlie rose from his leather chair, glass in hand. Poured whiskey neat from crystal decanter on sideboard. Mercury Turnpike Cruiser keys sat beside it, chrome glinting.

Charlie handed me a tumbler, the whiskey’s sharp bite hitting my nose before I even sipped. Ice clinked in his glass as he eased back into the chair, limp more noticeable up close in the dim lamplight. “Sit, Logan. Let’s cut to it.” Penny hovered by the doorway, twisting a silver bracelet on her wrist, her ponytail swinging once. He laid out the deal: steady gig managing his rental properties around Oak Cliff, twenty bucks an hour cash, flexible hours around my shifts. No more busting ass for the department’s scraps. “You’re solid, kid. Family man at heart.” I nodded, glass halfway to my lips. The Turnpike Cruiser keys caught the light again. Thought of Penny’s fingertip kiss on my shirt. Drank deep. Mercury chrome gleamed steady on the sideboard.