Neighbors with Benefits
A satirical erotic fantasy in two chapters, for adult masturbators.
by Richard Lovel – Copyright 2025 – All rights reserved
Wherein Peter gains a new neighbor. He learns she is a personal performance coach offering web-based services to remote male clients. He assists her in setting up a home-office A/V studio, and in gratitude she applies her coaching skills to Peter’s personal issue of sexual performance. Their relationship produces mutually gratifying benefits.
Chapter 1 – The New Neighbor
Peter began another ordinary morning: sitting at his living room workstation and dividing his attention between remote work duties and the erect phallus jutting from the loose fly of his briefs. The rhythm of repetitive coding tasks intermingled with the other rhythm, the one that had obsessed him since puberty, and he settled into his usual paronymic conjunction of working and wanking, surrendering to the trance-state in which CRON jobs and Github merges blurred seamlessly with warm, mindless edging of his lubricated penis.
In the four years since he’d started working from home, he lived in this cycle of comfort and shame. Even as he scrolled through PRs, his left hand dropped, idly tickling the tumescence he’d maintained since before logging onto Slack that morning. He wondered, not for the first time, if anyone on his team could tell by his keystrokes when he was typing with one hand and jerking off with the other. Maybe the project lead from Oslo, that cold Valkyrie with a sixth sense for any weakness, already suspected. The possibility was mortifying and perversely arousing.
So when the loud crash of a large truck outside jolted him from his autoerotic fugue, his first response was a cold flash of panic. He yanked his hand free, wiped it hastily on his cum rag, and hunched toward the window, blood throbbing in his ears.
A moving truck loomed large across the street, back doors swung open, revealing a cavernous space packed with boxes waiting to be unloaded. A woman was directing the two burly movers. She was tall, with an abundant, junoesque figure, barely contained in loose gym shorts and tank top. Her dark hair was gathered in a messy bun, several strands escaping to fall across broad, suntanned shoulders. She was at least forty, possibly older; her arms looked strong and maternal, and her legs, though thick, were shapely and athletic as she jogged up and down the moving ramp, barking orders and gesturing.
Peter stared fixedly at the woman’s large breasts as they swayed and bobbed in her exertions, and resumed stroking himself, charged with a voyeuristic thrill. What would she think if she knew he was masturbating to her? With a thrill of the taboo, he pushed the tip of his penis through the lower gaps in the blinds, thrusting in copulatory mimicry while he stroked.
Suddenly she turned toward his direction, and made direct eye contact, and gave a brisk, ironic little salute. Peter froze, eyes wide. His hand clamped around his erection in a death grip, terrified that she had seen him. He staggered backward, nearly tripping and collapsing onto the couch, panting, his cock instantly softening with the aftershock.
But curiosity—and the unsatisfied ache in his genitals—soon overcame his embarrassment. He waited, counting off a full minute to ensure the moment had passed, then tiptoed back to the window, ducking behind the curtain and peeking through the slats with only one cautious eye.
The movers were inside, leaving the woman alone with a stack of boxes. Peter watched as she tackled the largest, a battered wardrobe carton nearly as tall as her. Struggling visibly, she hoisted it, took a few awkward steps, and almost reached the walkway before her knee buckled, sending the box crashing. It burst open, spilling tangled wires, microphones, a studio ring light, and several digital cameras. Her frustrated shout of “FUCKING HELL!” was audible through the glass. She squatted to gather up the contents, her tank top slipping to reveal a generous expanse of her bosoms.
Peter’s natural instinc to stay hidden warred with the urge to see her up close. By offering help, he would have a legitimate reason to approach her, even if she declined. Quickly, he tucked his still-throbbing member back into his underwear, dressed hurriedly, and crossed the street.
The woman turned, and up close her presence was even more commanding. Large brown eyes met his with immediate warmth, and her black hair fell in soft waves around a face both mature and lively.
“Excuse me,” he said, his voice quieter than intended. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Are you OK? I’m—uh, just over there.” I’m Peter …”
“… Stroker, right?” she says, and grins. “That’s what the mailbox says. I saw you watching my circus act. I’m Mandy. Just moving in, obviously. Mandy Motherwell.” She reached out her hand, and Peter, quickly rubbing his palm on his jeans to remove any remaining trace of Albolene, shook it.
As Peter bent down to gather the scattered electronics, he hesitated before speaking. “You have quite a bit of A/V equipment here,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “If you need help setting it up, I… I’m pretty familiar with that kind of stuff.”
“Oh my God, would you? A guardian angel in the form of a neighbor,” Mandy said, her smile genuine. “There are about six more boxes of equipment, and the setup is… well, complicated.”
For the next hour, Peter and Mandy worked with a focused intensity, connecting cables, microphones, monitors and mounting the cameras. As they worked, Peter sneaked glances at the way her tank top hugged her curves. Adjusting the equipment, she leaned over him, her breasts brushing against his shoulder. “The light should be angled like this.” As she leaned over, her tank top shifted and revealed the deep shadow created by her cleavage.”How do I look?”
“The lighting is… effective,” he stammered, his eyes darting downwards as he shifted his body to obscure the visible evidence of his arousal. “This is professional-grade stuff. Multiple cameras, condenser mic, key lighting. Are you doing podcast work?”
“Something like that. One-on-one coaching sessions, very… personalized content.” She did not elaborate.
“Almost done,” Peter murmured, stretching to connect an HDMI cable to the wall-mounted monitor. He inadvertently showcased the bulge straining against the fabric of his jeans. When he turned back, he caught Mandy’s gaze fixed squarely on his crotch before she lifted her eyes to meet his, a teasing smile at the corners of her mouth. A wave of heat rushed to Peter’s cheeks, like an awkward teenager caught with a boner in class.
A final test of the system, and all was go. “This is incredible, Peter,” Mandy said with genuine appreciation. “You’ve saved me days of frustration. Would you stay for a drink? I’d love to thank you properly for all this help.”
~~~ Stories ~~~
Mandy fetched a beer for him and a glass of wine for herself and guided him into the living room. Peter sat on the edge of the sofa, gripping his beer bottle with both hands. Mandy relaxed into an armchair opposite him, and he tried to ignore the casual way she crossed her legs.
“So,” she said, taking a sip of wine. “I can’t thank you enough for the technical rescue. A good image is essential for my work.”
“What stuff do you do? Are you an influencer”, grateful for a neutral topic.
Mandy’s lips curved into a smile that suggested private amusement. “In a way. I’m a personal performance coach. I offer highly individualized services to select clients.”
“Performance coaching,” Peter repeated. “Like… for executives?”
“Some clients are executives, yes. But my approach isn’t about corporate achievement. I help people connect with their authentic desires and find fulfillment in areas where they feel… inadequate.” Peter nodded as though he understood, though her phrasing remained frustratingly vague. He took a long sip of beer.
““So What’s your story, Peter Stroker?” she asks, smiling into her glass.”What do you do when you’re not rescuing damsels from their technical distress?”
“IT support for a healthcare company,” he answered. “Nothing exciting. Troubleshooting networks, maintaining servers. I work from home most days.”
“Ah, so you’re just across the street during the day?” Mandy seemed pleased by this information. “Do you live with roommates? Partner?”
Peter’s throat tightened. Personal questions always made him feel exposed, as though a wrong answer might reveal some fundamental deficiency in his character.
“No, just me,” he said, rotating the beer bottle between his palms. “I’ve lived there about three years.”
“Just you, Peter? No girlfriend who’ll be wondering where you disappeared to this afternoon?”
He cleared his throat, a nervous habit from childhood that resurfaced in moments of stress. “No. No girlfriend.”
“Recent breakup?” Mandy’s question was gentle, almost maternal in its concern.
“No, not recently,” Peter said, his eyes fixed on the beer bottle label, which he had begun to pick at with his thumbnail. “Not… ever, actually.” The silence stretched until he felt compelled to fill it.
“I mean, I’ve dated. Sort of. A few times in college.” The explanation sounded pathetic even to his own ears.
Mandy didn’t immediately respond, and when Peter risked a glance up, he found her watching him with an expression of thoughtful interest rather than the pity or judgment he’d expected.
“When you say ‘never,’ do you mean you’ve never had a serious relationship, or…?” She left the question open-ended.
“I’ve never—” he started, then stopped. “My experience with women is very limited. Extremely limited.” Realizing he had said too much, Peter felt heat creeping up his neck and into his face.
Mandy took a slow sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving his face. “Limited in a physical way, you mean?”
Peter was stunned at first by the directness of the question. Yet what would have felt intrusive coming from anyone else. drew him out. He responded to Mandy’s warm and gentle tone. “I… No. Not really. I mean, not… in a proper sense.”
“I understand. Many men struggle with intimacy, especially in a culture that expects them to be naturally confident and experienced.” Her response contained no mockery, no embarrassment on his behalf. Peter felt something loosen slightly.
“It’s not something I’ve talked about,” he said, glancing up briefly before his eyes skittered away again. “Ever.”
“I appreciate your honesty,” Mandy said. She leaned forward, mirroring his posture. “In my line of work, I’ve found that many people carry shame around their desires and experiences—or lack thereof. It’s such unnecessary suffering.” Peter nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
“May I ask how old you are, Peter?”
“Twenty-five. I know that’s… I know most people by now have…”
“There’s no timeline you’re required to follow,” Mandy interrupted gently. “Each person’s journey is unique.”
Mandy stayed calm and steady. She maintained easy eye contact, even when Peter struggled to do the same. As a result, he found himself sharing more and more. “If you don’t mind my asking,” Peter said, finally looking up with genuine curiosity, “what does a personal performance coach do for clients who… who struggle with the kinds of things I mentioned?”
“I create safe spaces for exploration and growth. I guide them through exercises designed to build confidence and release shame. I witness their vulnerability without judgment.” She took another sip of wine, then added, “But every client’s needs are different. The approach is always tailored to the individual.”
Peter nodded again, processing her words. There was something both comforting and unsettling about the way she spoke—clinical yet intimate, professional yet personal. “I should probably go,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I’ve taken up enough of your moving day.”
“Actually,” Mandy said, putting down her wine glass, “if you’re not in a hurry, could you help with one more thing? I have a remote session with a new client in fifteen minutes. Could you stay to ensure the equipment works? You set it up, so you’d spot any issues quickly. Plus, it’ll give you a better idea of what I do.”
Peter hesitated only briefly before agreeing. “Sure, I can do that.”
“Perfect,” Mandy said, standing. “Let me just freshen up before the call.”
As she exited the room, Peter let out a deep breath and attempted to digest the discussion they had just shared. In an unexpected turn, he had revealed things to this woman that he had never spoken of to anyone before. It was almost like talking to the therapist he had seen, unsuccessfully, a year ago. Instead of pulling away, she received his confessions with calm professionalism. He grabbed his beer and finished it off, pondering the type of performance coaching session he was about to observe.
~~~ Personal Coaching ~~~
Mandy returned wearing a silky blue blouse that covered more of her than the tank top had, yet was more frankly sensual. She had applied a touch of makeup and brushed her hair, subtle changes that transformed her from new neighbor to polished professional. Peter sat where she directed him, in a chair positioned well out of the camera’s frame but with a clear view of Mandy as she settled into her studio chair.
“You’ll be completely off screen. Just let me know if you notice any technical issues.”
A gentle chime sounded, indicating an incoming call. Mandy slipped on the wireless headset, checked her appearance one last time, and took a deep breath. Peter observed the transformation with fascination. Her posture straightened, her expression softened into a welcoming smile, and an aura of calm authority settled over her. When she spoke again, her voice had deepened slightly, becoming more melodic and controlled. Peter couldn’t see or hear the client on the other end, only Mandy’s side of the conversation.
“Hello, David. It’s so good to meet you today.” Her greeting was warm, intimate without being overly familiar. “Yes, I received your email. I appreciate your honesty about your concerns.”
Peter shifted in his chair, suddenly feeling like an intruder. Whatever coaching this was, it clearly involved personal matters.
“Let’s start by acknowledging your feelings,” Mandy continued. “What you’re experiencing is completely natural. Many men struggle with accepting their authentic desires.”
She paused, listening to the unseen client. Her expression remained attentive and compassionate. “The shame you described isn’t serving you, David. It’s an unnecessary barrier between you and fulfillment.”
Peter found himself leaning forward slightly, drawn in by the soothing authority in Mandy’s voice. There was something hypnotic about her careful pacing and deliberate word choice.
“Personal needs aren’t something to apologize for,” she said, her tone warming further. “Especially when they harm no one and bring you genuine pleasure.” Another pause as she listened, nodding slightly. “What if we reframe this? Instead of seeing your desires as a weakness, what if they’re simply part of your unique sexual identity?”
Peter’s ears perked up at the word “sexual.” The conversation was taking a direction he hadn’t anticipated. Was Mandy some kind of sex therapist? Peter swallowed hard.
“Embracing your authentic desires is the path to true satisfaction,” she continued. “When you allow yourself to fully experience pleasure without judgment, you’re honoring your deepest self.”
Her voice had taken on a rhythmic quality, almost like a guided meditation. Peter found himself breathing in time with her speech patterns.
“For now, I want you to practice self-acceptance. When those critical thoughts arise, gently acknowledge them and let them pass. For our next session, I want you to create a comfortable, private space where you can fully relax. Have your supplies ready—tissues, the special lubricating cream I recommended – Albolene, remember? and the other items we discussed.”
The context of the conversation was becoming clearer. Though still wrapped in professional language, the reference to Albolene could mean only one thing.
She smiled at something the client said. “Yes, loose clothing, and a soft towel underneath is always a good idea. Comfort is essential for the experience we’re creating.”
Mandy shifted slightly in her chair, leaning forward to deepen her cleavgage, and slightly opening her legs. The movement was subtle but deliberate, “Today we have only gotten acquainted. Our next session will be much deeper, and I promise you, it will be completely satisfying.”
She glanced at her watch, then returned her attention to the screen. “We will close now, but I want you to remember: there’s nothing wrong with needing guidance and witness for your most personal moments. Everyone deserves to be seen.”
After a few more exchanges of pleasantries and confirmation of their next appointment, Mandy ended the call and stood up.
“Well? How did the technical side hold up?”
Peter blinked, momentarily disoriented by being addressed directly.
“Fine. Everything worked perfectly.
“Excellent, The way you set this up is going to make my work so much more effective.”
Peter stood as well, hands automatically returning to his pockets. “So you’re some kind of… therapist?”
Mandy’s lips curved into that same private smile he’d noticed earlier. “Not officially, no. I do have a degree in psychology, but I don’t have clinical credentials. I’m more of a guide for specific needs that traditional therapy doesn’t address adequately.” There was an awkward pause as Peter tried to process her vague explanation against the context of the session he’d just witnessed.
“Thank you again for your help today, Peter. Both with the equipment and for staying to make sure everything ran smoothly. I’d like to repay your kindness.”
“That’s not necessary,” Peter said quickly.
“Regardless,” Mandy asserted. “I plan to relax by my pool tomorrow afternoon. I need to maintain my tan, which is one of the reasons I picked this house. Would you like to come over? Perhaps around two?”
Thoughts of Mandy lounging in the sun flooded his mind, quickly followed by worries over how he would look in shorts. “I wouldn’t want to impose on your relaxation time,” he said.
“It’s not an imposition. I like having company, and we can keep chatting. More about my job, and more about you. Just enter through the back gate; I’ll leave it unlocked.” As Mandy walked him out. On the porch, she touched his arm lightly. “Oh, by the way—check out my website. It will give you a better understanding about my work. It’s called ‘Joy For Boys.’ One word. Not spelled the way it sounds.”
As Peter crossed the street to his house, he reflected on the unusual afternoon. The discussion of his inexperience, the suggestive coaching session he’d overheard, the pool invitation, and now this website with its odd name all hinted at a deeper complexity to Mandy Motherwell’s “personal performance coaching.” Peter headed to his computer, filled with curiosity about “Joy For Boys”.
~~~ Joy for Boys ~~~
The search bar blinked at him, patient and empty. “Joy For Boys,” Mandy had said, with that slight smile that suggested layers of meaning. Peter typed the words, hit enter, and found himself looking at results for children’s toys and religious youth programs. Not what Mandy had in mind, he was certain. Drumming his fingers on the desk, replaying Mandy’s words in his head.’Joy For Boys.’ One word. Not spelled the way it sounds.
Was this a test? Maybe “Joy” wasn’t meant to be taken literally. Maybe it was an acronym or a play on words. Peter was no neophyte in the dark corners of the web or the labyrinth of porn sites, with their transgressive linguistic patterns and coded languages. He knew the way rogue minds twist the wholesome into the illicit wit a mix of leetspeak, homophonic substitution, eye dialect, and phonetic spelling. Instinctively, he tried the domain name: JOI4BOIZ.COM.
A sleek, professionally crafted website materialized on his screen, its elegant typography proclaimed “Journey Of Insight,” accompanied by the tagline “Everyone deserves to be seen.” A striking, high-resolution photograph of Mandy, poised gracefully in a form-fitting evening gown that accentuated the voluptuous curve of her breasts. Her expression radiated warmth and authority, one eyebrow arched playfully while her lips curled into that same knowing smile she had offered Peter during their earlier conversation about her work.
Joy for Boys. Journey Of Insight. JOI. The acronym clicked into place, and with it, what Mandy actually did for a living — Jack-Off-Instruction — watching men masturbate. She guided them through it. She witnessed their most private moments and, encouraged and directed them. The site included no explicit imagery—just Mandy in elegant, fully clothed poses—but the implications of her words, combined with his memory of her physical presence, were more arousing than any pornography he had ever viewed. Peter’s hand moved to his crotch, pressing the erection that had formed as he read.
He clicked “About JOI” and read: “Welcome to JOI4BOIZ. My name is Mandy Motherwell, and I provide specialized personal coaching for men seeking a unique form of intimate guidance and witnessing. Many men grapple with the shame tied to their inherent desires for self-pleasure. Conventional relationships frequently overlook these needs, leaving men feeling inadequate, frustrated, or unfulfilled. Society conditions us to regard masturbation as a mere stand-in for ‘real’ sex—something to be concealed and hurried through.”
He unzipped his pants and reached inside, his eyes still fixed on Mandy’s image. He begain stroking his penis and her confident smile seemed to look directly at him, as though she knew exactly what he was doing and approved. The thought sent another surge of arousal through him.
“However, for some men masturbation is more than just a substitute; it embodies their authentic sexual identity. My role is to help you embrace that identity, offering the feminine presence and guidance that transforms solitary pleasure into a shared intimate experience. My services create a safe, judgment-free environment where your masturbatory identity can be witnessed, affirmed, and celebrated.”
Peter’s breath caught. Masturbatory identity. Shame. Inadequate. Frustrated. Safe. Witnessed. Affirmed. She knew. She understood.
“If you’re reading this, you probably already understand what the acronym JOI means: Jack-Off-Instruction. I’ll use this graphic term, even though it might be considered vulgar or derogatory, because it likely resonates with you. Perhaps you have tried JOI before on other sites, and found it disappointing. I promise you not just manual gratification but a profound and transformational experience.”
He hand moved faster as he imagined being one of her clients. Does she remain clothed, as in these photos, or does she reveal more during private sessions? Does she draw it out in excruciatingly prolonged edging?
“As your personal Jack-Off-Instruction coach, I offer structured guidance customized to meet your individual requirements. Whether you seek nurturing encouragement, playful teasing, or firm direction, my approach centers on your needs and growth. Through our sessions, you’ll learn to fully embrace your masturbatory orientation, developing a healthier relationship with your sexual self.”
Mandy’s use of clinical, therapeutic jargon to communicate unmistakable sexual implications was driving Peter to the limits of arousal. He clicked back to the homepage, to the largest image of Mandy in the evening gown. Her eyes seemed to hold his, knowing and inviting. He zoomed in on her face, those full lips curved in that knowing smile. Even in fantasy, she was in control. She never undressed, nor did she need to. All she had to do was watch, to offer the steady, unshockable attention that turned Peter’s private humiliation into something intensely erotic.
The Point of No Return came faster than he expected, and as he felt the first throb of ejaculatory inevitability, he leaned closer to the monitor, focusing on Mandy’s smile, the promise beneath it. He pictured her sitting across from him, arms folded, patient, watching his face as he came, pulsing hard in his hand, a silent convulsion that left him panting, sticky, and spent.
As the waves of pleasure subsided, Peter slumped back in his chair, a complex mix of emotions washing over him. And a strange sense of possibility—that perhaps he had stumbled across someone who might understand the very aspects of himself he had always hidden.
Continued in Chapter 2
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PeterFiles: Neighbors with Benefits | by Richard Lovel | Copyright 2025 | All rights reserved
RL-2025-06-22