June 15, 2016
His reflection in the window watched him watching her. He stepped back into shadow beneath a tree and his image faded and disappeared.
She closed her bedroom door and locked it, paused for a moment, her hand against it. She turned and looked out the window.
Directly at him.
Again, as the nights before, he wondered, half-hoping, Does she see me? Does she know I’m here?
She stepped slowly, a ballerina’s thoughtful, seeking steps, as she unbuttoned first the top button of her white collared school shirt, then the second button, exposing the long line of her neck, the ridges of her throat, the sweet hollow between them, a hollow he longed to touch, to smell.
She slipped off her shoes with a casual lift of the heel, flick of the toe, lay her sole on the curved edge of the bedcover, her leg arching long toward her body beneath the pleat of her black skirt. She bent at the waist, reached to touch the smooth of the top of her foot. Looking out the window at me? she drew her hands slowly up her leg, over the firm bulge of her calf, the turn of her knee, her hand spreading to touch her thigh, to drink it all at once, then disappear beneath her skirt, shifting it slightly to reveal a deeper line, a curve of buttock, then pushing forward, pushing her stocking, her white sheer stocking, down over her thigh, over the bend of her knee, over the bulge of her calf, bunched tight, pushing over the heel, down the point of her foot. Then straightening, drawing her foot to the carpet, letting her rolled stocking unravel and drop to the ground, looking out.
He groaned involuntarily as she lifted the other leg. Suddenly aware of the pulsing heat, the tight against his zipper, he felt his cheeks red hot and glanced furtive left and right, sinking deeper into the night beneath the dark of the tree.
She turned away, her back to him, tugged her shirt out, let it drape over her, scooping down over the back of her skirt, then up below the hip. Her back to him, she set a hand on each hip, hooked her thumbs inside her waistband. Looking back over her shoulder, biting her lip in a way that slowed his breath, she tilted her hips from side to side, rocking them, pushing her knees, alternating, forward, then back, slipping her skirt over her hips, over her butt, across the backs of her knees, then dropped them to the floor in a heap, his eyes following them down, then following back up the long smooth of her skin as she lifted first one leg, then the other, stepping out of the circle of the skirt.
Her back still to him, looking again over her shoulder, her dark hair stroked behind one ear, slipping across her shoulders, he saw her working her hands over her shirt buttons, working slowly down, down, then shrugging the shirt to expose one shoulder, then the other, an expanse of back, the valley of her spine, the invagination of her waist, the swell of her hips, then dropped to the floor, angels wings, her pale pink panties, the black strap of her brassiere.
She turned, faced full to the window, one knee bent slightly, one foot slightly before the other, staring, staring.
Emboldened by the night, by the stare, by the ache in his pants, he stared back, deep into her eyes.
She took one slow, deliberate step forward.
Another slow step, threw her head back, staring down her nose at him, her hair flung behind.
She stood before the window, stood strong, determined, staring. He pulled his shoes and socks off, hopping on one foot, nearly falling as the fabric of his sock stretched and tugged at his leg.
She pushed the curtains wider, wider.
He undid his belt, the buckle clinking in the night, shucked his shorts in a soft thump.
She drew her hands to the center of her chest, to the clasp of her bra.
He pulled his shirt over his head, tossed it to the side.
She twisted her hands, opposite.
He stepped into the light, his white boxer shorts tented, his scrawny chest bare, his nipples cold and hard, though the breeze was warm. As he did so, she opened her bra wide, flung her arms wide, then behind her, letting her bra fall down them.
In that instant, he saw her breasts, pushed forward against the arch of her back, full and high, the areolae large, larger than he expected, the nipples erect.
In that instant, he orgasmed, hot wet staining his shorts, hot waves pulsing his body.
In that instant, she saw him and screamed, covered her breasts, shriveled her body against his stare, ran back, receding from the window.
In that instant, hot shame pulsed with the orgasm. He curled his body, covering the stain at his center, his cheeks flushed again. Still covering his stain with one hand, he gathered his clothes in a jumble and scuttled back into the darkness to hide himself.
© 2016 Kevin Aldrich