Claire's Belly

I remember the first time I saw her naked.

It was my usual late night ritual. Shower, head to my bedroom at the other end of the hall, curl up in bed, grab a vibrator, come my brains out, crawl back out of bed in pursuit of a nightcap.

Walk to the kitchen at the other side of the house, either in a thin satin bathrobe or nothing at all.

It depends on how good I feel about my body on that particular night (45 years old, and plenty to go around) and how confident I am that I won't be seen.

I live with my college student son. His college girlfriend basically lives with us. It's not so bad. It keeps him from being miserable, which in turn keeps him from making me miserable. So I tolerate it.

I just have to tune out the sound of them fucking, which travels easily down the hall and through walls. It used to mortify me. Now, I just want them to keep it to a dull roar so I can sleep.

His father's been out of the picture for a long time. (No serious partners since then. Don't want 'em. Don't need 'em.) Most middle-aged women might not be happy with an adult kid in the house.

I feel that way about him sometimes. But, on occasion, it's also nice.

That night, I felt good. I was feeling myself. I didn't even mind the glimpse of my abundant nude glory in the ornate mirror near the foyer. My grandmother's, which I got when she passed.

My kitchen is big. That's the tradeoff for not having a proper dining room. I was sitting at the table, sipping a glass of bourbon--neat, this evening--when she passed by at the end of the T-shaped corridor.

She was small, but toned. One of those obnoxiously fit people, born with a permanent six pack. Cute little tits with dark little nipples. The sweat on her bare skin made her look like oiled bronze.

Headed to the bathroom, no doubt. Maybe for a post-coital pee, and if so, she's a smart girl. She was visible to me for less than a second.

She never turned her head, or she would have seen me there, sitting in the dark with my drink, also naked. Big tits, big belly, big bush, big everything.

A few minutes later, she passed by the other way. Again, it was for less than a second, and again, she didn't see me.

This time, I knew to expect her. I watched her more closely, fascinated by the sight of her. I thought to myself that my schmuck of a son was definitely fucking above his grade level.

He'd always been an oversized t-shirt and jeans guy. Probably never would have washed his bedsheets without me telling him. Somehow, this chiseled young thing permitted him to put his penis inside her.

I don't know what she would have done if she'd seen me there--also naked, staring at her body, with no way to conceal my own. Maybe it would have been bad. Or maybe it wouldn't. I don't know.

A few moments later, I heard my son's bedroom door click shut. I finished my drink, got up, poured another, and sat down again.

Those images, those symmetrical freeze-frames of her body, composed in the proscenium arch of the hallway, were lodged at the forefront of my brain.

A while later, a little bit drunk, I went back to bed and masturbated again.

This time, I used the magic wand, not knowing or caring if its powerful buzz could be heard through the shared wall of the bedrooms. I passed out on soaked bedding, in a haze of alcohol and orgasm.

That was the first night that I couldn't get her out of my mind.

***

It's a little twisted--I'm not about to pretend it's not--but I came up with a reliable method for predicting when Claire (that's her name) would perform one of her little walk-on appearances.

I'd overhear them fucking. I always would. I'd wait for the sound to stop, then take my position in the kitchen. I'd listen for the distinctive click of the door opening, and wait.

After 15 or 20 seconds, sure enough, there she was.

As soon as I had it figured out, I never missed a chance. This was quickly becoming the most indulgent part of my otherwise monklike existence of avoiding temptations that I couldn't control.

Initially, I did my best to stay hidden. I'd put on a dark tank top and bike shorts, peer around the corner, and beat a hasty retreat if I so much as imagined her breathing in my direction.

But, over time, I grew bolder, maybe even a little foolish.

I sat in my favorite chair, sometimes with a drink, as I had that first night. Eventually, I stopped bothering with clothes. On one occasion, I even had the lights on in the kitchen. She never looked.

She must have been really fucked out to be walking around in my house with zero clothes and one hundred percent tunnel vision. I sometimes thought about saying her name out loud, just to see if she'd react.

Every night, she'd walk by, bare as the day she was born. I'd commit her image to memory. Then I'd go back to bed and play with myself.

I don't know what it was. I'd had no history with other women, aside from appreciating the ones who were obviously hot. I'd certainly never been this preoccupied with one of them.

But, after that first night, Claire was a constant presence in my fantasies.

I couldn't even specifically say what she would be doing in these fantasies. It was abstract. As long as I could picture her, exactly as she was in the hall, I was on the express train to cum station.

One thing I was particularly fixated on was her abs. Those perfectly defined, ever-present staggered rectangles that descended from her tiny breasts to her bald pubis. I badly wanted to touch them.

After a couple weeks of this, it occurred to me that this was getting unhealthy. We'd be having breakfast, the three of us, and her naked body would intrude into my mind. It was hard to hold a conversation.

I swore off these late night interludes. I started having my nightcaps in my bedroom, did my level best to ignore the click of the door, the almost silent padding of bare feet to the bathroom and back.

Then, one day, my son received a letter that his fellowship was approved and that he would be doing research in Japan for a year. I was, of course, as proud as a mother could possibly be.

He asked me, with her out of the room, if I'd be okay with her staying at our place, as she'd already mostly been doing anyway.

He explained that she'd been renting a room in house full of other renters, and that our house had become a refuge from the chaos. He added that she would be willing to pay the same rent to stay with me.

I tried to think of a reason to say no. But the only one that kept coming to mind was that I couldn't stop thinking about her, that being alone with her night after night for a year might drive me mad.

I agreed to it.

***

For maybe a month, life passed by without incident. My son was living in Tokyo--"Shinjuku," he would insist, during many a late night phone call--and Claire had taken up residence in his bedroom.

For the most part, she was a phantom. We'd cross paths occasionally, but she went out a lot. She seemed to be using my house mostly for sleep and the occasional hot meal.

If she was sleeping around, I never caught wind of it from overhearing her phone conversations. I did gather that she'd been using her body as a petri dish for just about every club drug under the sun.

I wasn't about to judge her, being someone with a largely bourbon-based metabolism myself. You're only young once.

Otherwise, I rarely saw her. I certainly never saw her naked, never saw the shining musculature of her belly, which I'd so often imagined following from top to bottom with the lightest touch of my fingers.

Would she be ticklish? Would she shiver with delight? Would it raise gooseflesh on her skin, harden her nipples into little dark fingertips? I would never know. I could never now.

With my son gone, there was no longer any sex to be had for her in the house. Catching my little glimpses of her on the way to the bathroom was also quite out of the picture.

One night, I was masturbating. The magic wand again, significantly enough. While in media res, I thought I heard a gentle knocking on the wall near my head. A few minutes later, a more strident pounding.

I'd lived in dorms when I was her age. I knew the significance of the knocking. She was tactfully letting me know that I was being too loud, and she was kind enough to minimize the embarrassment to us both.

For whatever reason, I didn't click off the vibrator.

In fact, I felt even more turned on. I finished up, bringing myself to a positively wonderful squirting orgasm that left my thighs wet and trembling. Then, pretty much immediately, I started again.

I couldn't believe how much better it made it, knowing that she was listening to me.

And yes, I am a squirter, and I never masturbate--no matter how drunk, or how high--without laying out one of my trusty moisture-proof throw blankets. It's as necessary as my collection of vibrators.

After a couple more orgasms, I clicked off the vibe, rolled up the blanket, and laid it carefully on the floor near my dirty laundry. I curled up in bed and dozed off, pleasant in my damp afterglow.

Claire could hear me. I could pretend I couldn't hear her. I was in heaven.

At least, for a little while.

***

One morning, I was having coffee. I was in my pajamas--not the bathrobe, mind you, but a matronly set of flannels--when she joined me in the kitchen. She wore a big t-shirt, and that's all I could tell.

I offered her some coffee from the fresh pot, and she accepted. I asked her if she wanted milk or sugar, and she said no to both. A woman after my own heart.

She said, "Can I ask you something?"

I said, "Sure, anything."

"Do you have to... you know..."

"No, I don't know."

"Be so loud?"

"What do you mean?"

I knew exactly what she meant.

She looked a little embarrassed. "I can hear you. I can hear the vibrator."

"Oh. Sorry."

"I just thought you should know."

"I'll try to be a little quieter from now on."

She didn't say anything. We both stood by the counter and sipped our coffee.

My mug was shaped like a cartoon unicorn. Hers was a big one that said "Grant me the coffee to change what I can, and the whiskey to accept what I can't." I have absolutely no memory of acquiring either one.

I have no idea why, but I blurted out, "I never hear you."

She said, "I do my best to do it quietly. It's more polite."

How fascinating.

***

One day, she was doing laundry. I let her use my machines. As far as I was concerned, the rent she paid was easy money, so I didn't mind letting her treat the house as her own.

She pulled my throw blanket out of the dryer. I'd forgotten I'd left it in there. She had a puzzled look on her face.

"This is yours, right?" she said.

"Yeah," I said, across the kitchen from the entry to the laundry room. I was sitting at the table with my reading glasses on, working my way through operating reports for work. Bullshit, most of it.

"Okay," she said.

I imagined her asking, "What is it?" She clearly wanted to know.

I said, unbidden, "It's a moisture-proof throw blanket."

"Like for old people?" she called back, half-busied with her hands buried in the clothes she was transferring to the dryer.

Bitch.

"No," I said, screwing up my courage. "For sexual purposes."

"Oh."

I silently begged her to ask further questions, but she didn't.

So I volunteered.

"It's comfy, and it repels fluids, so you can just do what you need to and toss it in the hamper without sleeping on a wet spot."

For a second, she didn't say anything.

Then, from the depths of the laundry, I heard her say, "You mean like when a guy... you know?"

I smiled. "Anybody. If you're someone with a vulva and you get a little extra messy during sex, it helps for that, too."

"Are you talking about squirting?"

"Yes."

Whatever it was about that subject, it must have worked around her defenses. She stopped with the laundry and stood there in the doorless entryway, facing me.

For just a second, as she turned, the billowing thin white fabric of her t-shirt clung to her belly, and I saw it, almost as clearly as if she'd been nude. Then the shirt caught up with her and it was gone.

She said, "Squirting's not for real, right?"

I put down the stack of paper-clipped pages I'd been reading.

"What do you mean?" I said.

As someone who's squirted for most of her life, I always felt complicated feelings whenever I overheard it being discussed by normies and skeptics. I felt like I had to defend my corner.

She said, "Well, it's just pee, isn't it?"

I said, "No, it isn't."

She said nothing. I immediately started to wonder if it was something in my tone.

I added, "It has pee in it. But it isn't just pee, and squirting isn't the same thing as peeing."

I worried that I'd embarrassed her. Instead, she just looked interested.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't know."

"Maybe you'll find out sometime," I said.

Fuck. I shouldn't have said that.

She didn't say anything. After a moment of awkward eye contact, she went back to her laundry.

I made it weird.

And I might have wrecked the rest of the year, most of which was still to come.

***

One night, I did hear her.

I know for a fact that she has a rabbit vibe. I don't know what else. Maybe that's the only one. She'd left it out on the side table one day, and I'd spotted it while passing by the open bedroom door.

This particular night, she'd closed the door, but it didn't latch. I could hear her talking on the phone, or maybe to her webcam. And I heard the distinct clicking and gear shifting of the rabbit.

I've gotten pretty good at compartmentalizing my son's sex life. I find myself able to be happy for him without it making my skin crawl.

I'm glad he can get it in. And I'm glad he's able to keep the sexual side of his relationship with Claire going even when they were half a world apart.

Listening to her pleasure herself while having phone sex, being turned on by her heavy breathing, her indistinct dirty talk, was a new thing I had to compartmentalize.

I don't know if I could count the number of orgasms I'd had with this girl on my mind, even if I'd had a gun to my head. Yet, it occurred to me, I'd never once thought about fucking her.

I just found that having her so close, knowing what she looked like under those oversize t-shirts, knowing what she sounded like when she came, put me in a supremely horny mood almost all the time.

If I ever actually did so much as touch her--or, god help me, if I put my hand on her abs--my cunt would probably explode.

I was having to run my throw blanket through the laundry more often, so I ordered a second one. The day it came, she'd been the one to answer the door.

I was working at the kitchen table. When she brought it into me and I saw the label on the box, I thought she'd be embarrassed, but she wasn't.

As she handed it over, I thought I caught her, just for a moment, giving me a naughty smile, smoldering eyes.

I thought I caught her flirting with me.

***

Over time, she got more careless.

It started out as little things that most people probably wouldn't devote more than a moment's attention to. Like forgetting to grab her underthings from the dryer, or from off the drying rack.

She wore boy short panties and sports bras, almost invariably. Sometimes I'd find little bike shorts. Nothing feminine of any kind in her collection.

The impulse crossed my mind to steal them on more than one occasion, and I would have done it if I hadn't been paranoid that my obsession would be found out and her time here would instantly end.

By probably about six months in, she was forgetting to close her bedroom door when she wasn't home. I didn't dare go in and rummage around, but I always looked.

It was never anything I was surprised to see. She wasn't messy, but she wasn't very tidy, either. She'd leave clothes on the floor. Her rabbit vibe had become a constant presence on her night stand.

It felt strangely sexy, having this secret access to her intimate space while she wasn't in it, her private sanctuary, to be able to look upon her things without any worry of anyone looking back at me.

But it was precisely because it held that kind of power for me that I also felt the need to respect it. I would never look for longer than anyone might plausibly look if they just happened to be passing by.

One day, I saw the corner of something poking out from under the comforter, which I knew was the corner of a waterproof throw blanket like the ones I used. There was no mistaking it for anything else.

I checked my sex toy cabinet. (Yes, I have a whole cabinet, floor to ceiling--like I said, no partners, so I'd found other ways to satisfy my many curiosities.) I also checked the laundry room.

One of my throw blankets was right where I expected to find it, rolled up on a shelf next to a half-empty box of baby wipes.

The other was nowhere else to be found. The bitch had definitely taken it.

I took a quick glance around my room for signs of intrusion, but I quickly realized it was absurd. In general, she was pretty respectful towards me. It was doubtful that she'd come in without my permission.

Plus, I wasn't exactly Sherlock Holmes, and my room was no more neat and tidy than hers. I'd never be able to spot an item out of place, since a lot of my items were out of place all the time.

She'd stolen it from the dryer. She must have.

And, maybe against my better judgment, I was going ask her why.

***

I didn't confront her right away.

Actually, I didn't really confront her at all. I think people think I'm tough, and I'm capable of remarkable acts of toughness. But, at the end of the day, I'm a coward like everyone else.

With that in mind, about a week passed by, along with many chances to raise the issue.

Finally, on a morning when I knew she had nowhere to be, I struck.

She was sitting down with toast at the breakfast table. I knew I had her there for at least a few minutes. I was sitting across from her, pretending to be engrossed in coffee and my phone.

"Hey," I said, not looking at her, "you remember that waterproof throw blanket? The one that was in the box you brought in?"

"Yeah," she said, swallowing a mouthful of food. "It's in my room. Sorry I didn't ask first. I can go get it if you want."

Okay.

That took less interrogation than I expected. Still, I wasn't ready to let go of this rare opportunity.

"Kind of an odd thing to take by mistake," I said.

I was curious, and I was trying to get her to explain herself without asking her anything too forward. I was trying to feel her out.

Honestly, I was just trying to get her to tell me some horny shit. A terrible fucking idea, but I couldn't help myself.

Then I heard her put down her toast, felt her look at me.

She said, "Actually, can I tell you something? It might be a little TMI."

I glanced at her, keeping it nonchalant, keeping it neutral.

I was trying not to squirm from how wet I suddenly felt.

"You can tell me anything," I said.

"I was thinking about what you'd said, about... you know. Squirting. And there've been a couple times when I've been... you know."

"No, I don't know."

"Close to finishing."

"To orgasm?"

"Yeah."

She didn't seem embarrassed, not exactly.

It wasn't that she seemed like she felt it was shameful and inappropriate to talk about sex. It was more like she'd never been invited to speak to anyone this way, and she wasn't sure how to do it.

I wasn't exactly accustomed to it, either. But I was horny, and that gave me the remarkable power to pretend I was detached, that I was merely offering her the benefit of my experience.

She'd gone quiet. No harm in encouraging her.

I said, "You were close to orgasm, and then what?"

"I felt like I might... do it. You know. Squirt."