Eye of the Beholder Ch. 02

Sex can be a hunger, a point subtly made by my sub-conscious as I licked my lips watching Sharon stroke herself. I had learned her name from the mailbox at the end of the drive. For weeks now, I had spent part of every evening nestled in the lilac bushes outside the window watching this exquisite beauty make love to herself. What began as a chance occurance had become almost an obsession. It was as if I was involved in a torrid and consuming affair, but not like any I would have imagined.

Just now, she was standing nude in front of the mirror, massaging her breasts seductively. I had discovered this to be a nightly part of her ritual: she'd turn side to side, cooly appraising herself in the mirror, cupping her tits in her hands, sometimes tweaking them to make the nipples stand up, then rubbing down across her belly to her hips, like she was smoothing some invisible dress.

I didn't understand her. She was so incredibly beautiful, but she never seemed to go out. Weekdays, weekends, it made no difference. In the past two weeks, there was only one night she hadn't been here, last night, but that missing night had piqued my appetite immensely. I found myself thinking "Come on, get to it", when only nights ago I would have been happy to consider this the main course.

Finally, she picked up her towel and headed back to the bathroom. I walked quickly around to the back of the house, that sheltered spot that had come to feel like a second home. About the third night I had found a fairly large, round slice from a tree trunk sitting on the tiny porch outside of the kitchen door. It looked like it might have been used as an impromptu footstool. If I moved it over by the bathroom window, I could stand on it so that the light shining out of the bathroom window didn't illuminate me, but I could look directly down into the bathtub. I was happy that the weather had warmed, since it meant that she bathed with the frosted glass window slid open, but it also meant that I had to be even quieter. I moved the trunk while the running bath water covered up the noise.

Sharon slipped into the water, dipping down so nothing but her head was above the surface, her hair draped over the back of the tub out of the way. Slowly, she pushed herself back up until her breasts had just broken the water line.

There's something seductive about wet skin. Maybe it's a tactile memory, the sensous feeling as hand glides effortlessly over body, slipping over curves, sliding into nooks. As the water ran in trickles down her breasts to her nipples, I imagined myself a drop of that water, caressing with my whole body as her contours pulled me along.

Her hands were now caressing her own contours, washing herself, but without the semi-conscious perfunctoriness of "just a bath". I had begun to wonder if she ever touched herself without caressing. Her hands washed their way down to the auburn curls then over the shaved lips of her pussy. Apparently they didn't meet with her approval. She reached over to a small table, squirted a small splash of blue gel onto her hand, and began to massage it to a lather on her pussy, sensually, as ever. I couldn't help wondering who she was shaving for, an absent boyfriend? I had decided it was just as likely to be for herself.

This was wonderful. In order to lather and shave, she had placed a leg over the side of the tub, rocking her pelvis up out of the water and right toward my vantage point. I had never seen her do this before, and my excitement was building. There was that picturebook pussy, peeping hide and seek from under the lather. It was like a miniature striptease, each stroke of the razor revealing a little more of the treasure beneath.

She was excruciatingly slow about it, pausing after each stroke to run a finger judicially over the area she had just shaved, lingering with the motion, occasionally taking a side trip over her clitoris. By the time she had finished, her eyes had taken on a slight glaze, her mouth barely open, the tempo of her breathing beginning to rise.

She reached out with her foot and turned on the water, adjusting the temperature with her toes, then flipped a valve on the faucet. A swirl of water beneath the surface told me there was a shower attachment down there somewhere, and she fished for it as she rubbed her hand one more time over her cunt-lips and clit. Pulling the shower head out of the water, she directed the stream between her legs, first just washing off the remaining soap, then laying her head back, obviously enjoying the feeling of the spray playing over her clit. Her breathing seemed to have taken on that tell-tale catch of arousal, a slight shudder on the inhale.

She used two fingers to spread back the lips of her pussy, laying herself open to the spray, moving it slowly up and down, turning it, directing it to just the spot, arching now to meet it. Her breathing was quick, shallow, her face flushed with excitement. I had been masturbating as I watched, but I had to stop to prevent myself from cumming.

I loved to watch her enjoying herself, teasing then pleasing, her intensity ebbing and flowing. She was doing the same thing I was, bringing herself right to the edge, then pulling back. The thought came to me that many people making love to each other were not as much in sync as we were on opposite sides of this window.

Just as I thought she couldn't hold off her orgasm much longer, and I was sure I couldn't, she reached out a toe to shut off the spray, then sat up, turned off the water and pulled the plug. She stepped out of the tub, casting a quick glance in the mirror as she did. Looking into the mirror, it seemed that our eyes met briefly, and a fleeting, almost-smile kissed her lips. I froze, but she simply picked up her towel and walked from the bathroom.

The bedroom light clicked on as I quietly moved the wood block back to the porch, then turned to take up my post at the bedroom window. Suddenly, the blinds flew up, shocking me to the core, stopping me in my tracks while my mind jumped, trying to decide whether I needed to do something, but she just opened the window, then lowered the blinds to about a foot from the bottom sill.

I melted into the lilacs as she crossed and picked up the cream, and something else; her book I thought, but as she crossed to the couch under the window, I saw the book still laying open on the table. I had wondered what it was, but the back cover was always toward me when she was reading it. Tonight, it apparently didn't matter.

She lowered herself onto the couch, but this time she rolled onto her stomach, keeping her knees under her so her ass and that gloriously perfect pussy stuck up into the air, reaching just over the top of the couch back, not more than a foot from the window screen. A finger full of cream drifted up to begin teasing her cunt, slipping and dipping with an easy rhythm.

I was delirious. This was too good to be true. As she softly stroked her clitoris, her face down on the couch where she couldn't possibly see me, I leaned forward as far as I dared, watching that finger I wished was mine sliding deep into her cunt, then pulling out to tease its way over her clit, then back into her depths. The smell of her drifted to me through the screen, intoxicating and maddening, so close, and yet a world away. I inhaled deeply, slowly, taking in as much of her as I could, my eyes focused all the while on the intricate dance of her fingers.

She was rocking with passion now, her rhythm steady. Without missing a beat, her free hand produced its secret, the thing she had chosen over the book: a vibrator, sleek and silver. She dipped it slowly into her pussy, and I heard her soft sigh, realizing that she would be able to hear me as easily. It added a tension that heightened the intensity.

Finally, she turned on the vibrator, its gentle hum changing as she stroked it in and out of her enveloping folds. HMMMMMMMmmmmm...down her slit, slowly parting the lips...hmmmmmmmmm...deep inside, searching, probing, holding... hmmmMMMMMMMM...up and out, moving to circle slowly around her clit, up one side and down the other...HMMMMMmmmmm...inside again with a soft, wet sound.

She repeated this several times, each trip around the clit a little slower, a bit less regular. She was gasping now, her other hand taking over on her clit as the vibrator dipped once more into her cunt, emerged dripping, then began a long, slow entry up her ass. She had to arch her back to reach, bringing her pussy even closer to me, fingers flying, while all the while, the vibrator disappeared inch by inch into her. The aroma of her hit me again and I almost swooned, my ejaculation crashing over me in waves, doubling me over just as the cries of her orgasm reached my ears. She bucked and arched erratically, her pussy almost brushing the screen, inches from my face. I had a nearly irresistable urge to reach out and lick it through the screen, had it been possible, but the thought of messing this up was inconceivable.

As the throes and throbs of my orgasm subsided, so did hers, her body sinking slowly to the couch, her breathing returning to regular with a long, soft sigh. The smell of her pervaded my senses, mingling with the lilacs. To this day, I can't smell lilacs without smelling her as well.

To Be Continued...