tagErotic CouplingsHotter After Dark

Hotter After Dark

bykrystal_mears©

-1-

It was late—late enough for to Patrick feel confident he had the room to himself. Again, he found himself staring out the tiny window with its dismal view of the blank brick dining commons next door. With a wistful sigh, he lowered the blinds and crawled into his bunk.

Lying there that first night in college, it was crazy to think how much one summer could change everything. He'd walked across the stage at his graduation, sat out his prom playing video games with his buddies, and started his summer job as a mere boy. As he lay there, surveying his war wounds in which he took a pride no one else could ever really understand, he closed his eyes to relive the chain of events that had made him a man. Soon he felt a familiar stirring in his shorts.

The night it all started was beyond hot. The air had that heavy, beef stew texture that hung to clothes and flesh long after you stepped inside out of the murk. He'd taken a long, lukewarm shower to cut the shellac of sweat he'd accumulated since that morning. It was a Saturday in late June, Patrick remembered that much. His parents were sound asleep at the far end of the hall, his sister's scraping snores spilling out into the hallway, making him chuckle as he made his way to his room and closed the door. Having plans before he went to bed that involved some pilfered Lubriderm and a certain frequented website, he turned the lock and checked the knob before letting his towel slip away and taking a seat at his desk.

He was already semi-hard—eight hours of staring at Katie Ashford's ass in her black miniskirt had him primed and ready to go. He'd barely been able to keep himself from slipping into the bathroom to rub one out when she'd had to bend over and clean up a drink spill near the end of service. He knew he'd never get the courage to talk to her. Besides...he liked to watch. His dad said that was what his generation did best—watch, stare, imagine actual sensations and experiences.

All he knew about sex he knew from porn, all he knew about pleasure was courtesy of his own right hand (well, and that ill-fated experiment with the heirloom tomato his dumbass cousin Clive had suggested.) He assured himself for the thousandth time that things would be different in college. Little did he know, he wouldn't have to wait that long.

On that first night, he was in such a hurry to get down to business that despite his careful precautions with the door, he forgot his window was wide open. To be fair, no one had lived in the house next door since the Robertsons moved out when he was in eighth grade. There had been a real estate sign on the lawn for what seemed like years.

So he was quite startled to discover, as he began scanning through the MILF videos on his favorite porn site, hard-on in hand, the light flicking on in the window directly across from his. He practically fell out of his chair when he turned to find not only was someone there, but they were right in the window. Furthermore, that someone was naked. A woman.

A hot naked woman!

"Hooooly fuck, no way..." he whispered aloud, frozen in disbelief.

She'd left the blinds low enough that he could not see her face—she was only visible from the shoulders down. But what a vision she was, a sensuous silhouette etching itself forever into his eyeballs, the dark dots of her nipples and navel, her pubic hair visible only in the moonlight filtering through the limbs of the oak in the narrow gap between their houses. Her hands explored her jaw-dropping form, seeming to savor their scooping, squeezing investigation of her breasts, their course down her belly, lower.

Patrick shut his computer and crawled toward the window, peeking over the sill. He pinched his eyelids shut, shook his head. To his delight, when he opened them, she was still there.

He gasped as she waved, then pressed her hand to the glass. Before he knew what was happening, he was pressing his hand to the glass of his own window, the wordless communication from this mesmerizing figure making his palm buzz. He imagined he could feel the warm softness of her skin instead of the cool, hard, indifferent glass between them.

She gestured for him to step into the light. He'd killed his overhead light, but his desk lamp was on. He hesitated a moment, glancing at his door. Reassuring himself that it was firmly locked and that everyone else was asleep anyway, he stood and moved in front of the window, exposing himself to her. His boner ached with desperation for release. His mind spun—he didn't know what to do next even though he knew exactly what he wished he could do.

She let her hand drift back down her body toward the darker area between her thighs. He squinted, trying to make out the details of her fingers as they began to move among the blackness there, her legs parting slightly as her hand disappeared between, reappeared. He watched her stroke her pussy for a moment, unable to breathe or break the trance, hardly able to believe this was actually happening. Before he knew it, his loose fist had found his throbbing cock again. He began to stroke it in the same patient, lazy rhythm with which she rubbed the swollen, wet lips he knew hid behind that dark triangle of hair. He tried to imagine her smell, her taste, the feel of her lower belly against the belly of his dick as he dragged it down to do the job to which her fingers so diligently attended. Her other hand twisted at her nipples, fondling the lovely curvature of each low, plump breast, which appeared indigo in the moonlight. If he squinted hard enough, he could swear he saw goosebumps.

One hand wandered up out of sight, while the other continued to press into what he assumed was her clit, rubbing in wide, slow circles. He was jerking faster now, releasing tiny grunts of bated breath every few seconds. He could feel the sweat forming on his brow and chest as the tingling turned to a steady, rising buzz in his rod. His hand slid down the glass with a low whine as he lurched forward. He hadn't really planned it, but he didn't know what else to do—he let fly all over the window. It sounded like the beginnings of a rain storm as he spattered the panes with swipes and splotches of jizz. She was still rubbing herself, her hips now moving in rhythm with her speeding strokes. She dropped the blind but continued her vigorous efforts as a shapely black shadow.

Patrick backed toward the pile of laundry in his room, used an old pair of basketball shorts to clean his window, unable to take his eyes off the one across the way. He pulled his boxers on and fell onto his bed, still staring at the vague shadow moving behind the blinds. He watched as it leaned forward, shifted, as an arm shot to the wall to support it as it bucked through an apparent orgasm. She lingered a moment, heaving. Then she pressed her hand to the window again, like a driver expressing gratitude, and disappeared. A few seconds later the light went out. He laid awake a long time that night, staring out at the window next door, convinced that someone else was doing the same.

-2-

When he woke up, he was half-certain it had been a dream. There was no way that had really happened. He was able to tell himself that was all it was—an especially vivid dream, sure—until he stood back at his own window and realized he'd missed a spot when he cleaned up the night before. In the glaring morning light, he could even see the smudge where her hand had been pressed to the window across the way.

He told no one of the previous night's encounter. This was partially because he doubted anyone would believe him. Despite the evidence on both windows, he could hardly believe it himself. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. He hadn't even realized someone was living at that house. Surely he'd have noticed if a girl that hot had moved in. Then again, he had been busy with work, helping his dad fix the car he'd be driving to college in a couple months, trying to get in one last summer of socializing with his buddies before they went their separate ways. He guessed it was possible he could have missed her, no matter how sexy she was. But it still didn't make sense that no one in his family mentioned new neighbors. His mom was in the running for biggest gossip in town and she hadn't said a thing. This was, as his friend Matt would say, "rather curious."

The other reason he didn't want to tell anyone was that he somehow sensed if he talked about it, it would never happen again. Like acknowledging that it was real would break whatever transfixing spell had materialized between their two houses—between their two bodies—that night. Plus, he worried if it got back to his parents, they might freak out and call the cops on his new friend. He had no idea how old she was, but even though he was legally an adult, he had a feeling his mom wouldn't see it that way.

Besides, as much as he hated the thought, it might never happen again. Maybe it was an accident, she hadn't noticed him when she'd started, and she'd chosen to roll with it once she saw him seeing her. Maybe he'd freaked her out by beating off to her. Then again, that seemed to be what she wanted—she'd even waited until he splashed his load on the window before she closed hers. She'd watched him finish. He sensed this was not a time to be reactionary; better to keep a lid on it and see what happened next. Maybe nothing would, though he had a sneaking sense that wasn't the case.

Four nights later, Patrick was sitting on the edge of his bed, tossing a guitar pick idly back and forth, staring out at the blind across the way. This was now a nightly custom. The previous three nights, by about 1 a.m. he'd accepted defeat and beat off the old-fashioned way before slumping into bed in disappointment, dozing off to dreams of faceless women with flawless bodies writhing, some in silhouette, some in full flesh, closer, closer, until he could almost, but never quite, reach out and touch them.

Despite the prodigious rate of masturbation of a guy his age, he even had his first wet dream that week, and its star was Window Girl. His Red Sox clock ticked midnight. He was scheduled for the breakfast shift at the restaurant, and knew he'd hate himself if he didn't call it a night soon.

He'd just reached to his desk and killed his lamp when the light across the way flicked on. He sprang to his feet, peering through the shadows of his room. He could hardly believe it. Though he'd rubbed one out not an hour earlier, he already felt a hopeful twitch in his boxer shorts. He stumbled to the window, not daring to breathe.

The blind shook. Rose. There she was. He couldn't fight off the goofy grin that overtook his face as he waved. Something was different this time. She had something with her.

She bent forward, dangling her breasts, squeezing at them with her hands. What was she holding? She pressed her left hand to the window, and Patrick followed suit. The light in her room seemed to have dimmed, and he squinted to see her, trying to keep himself from starting in too early on the diving board between his legs.

She held up the other hand. He could see a cord running from it and out of sight. A second light sprang to life, nearly popping his eyes from his skull.

She had positioned a lamp on the floor between her legs. She'd removed the shade so it acted like a spotlight, casting her unbelievable body in sumptuous amber light. She stood with one hand on her hip, sassy and completely in control. He could see that she had a tan, the soft texture of her skin, the wrinkles in her wide areolae as her breasts pinched up in full arousal.

She had done some landscaping, he saw—her mound was no longer thick with a pillow of black bristles but trimmed down to a short, neat heart-shape, the flesh around it still lily white. He could just make out the lips of her opening, the focus of his every other thought since that first night. She wasn't ripped—her belly was flat but looked soft and inviting. Her thighs were the longest, smoothest things he'd ever seen. She had deep clavicles which cast enticing shadows along her throat. These moved in the light as she swallowed, a detail that would still get him hard thirty, even fifty years later. He'd give anything to feel that throat—inside or out. He was thankful she gave him a moment to take it all in, as it was an image he never wanted to forget.

Then she got down to business, running both hands from her hips to her pussy, parting the top of the lips in an upside-down peace sign and then drawing the palm-side of her fingers up and around the stark pink bud that winked its glistening excitement. Patrick teased his balls, which felt ready to explode, fondling their pouch and then up to his shaft, hoping he could give her a bit of a show in return.

Then something happened that blew his mind to smithereens. He knew his face melted and he could even see her shaking with laughter at his reaction. She reached up and lowered the blind a little more, then took a small step back, still diddling herself, and lifted one foot up onto the windowsill, leaning back to give him a full view of her engorged pink cunt, its weeping lips seeming to glimmer in the light below. When she drew her hand up to her mound, he could follow the line of her opening all the way back to her asshole, and even see the twin globes of her ample bottom, which he instantly longed to rake his teeth along. He could taste the salty skin of her neck, her chest, feel the firm resistance of her nipple between his lips, the scalding gasp as he slid his dick along her soaking entrance, the moment of sheer ecstasy as he slid every inch home, filling her all the way to his balls...

A small choking sound escaped him and then he was cumming, spraying the window with seemingly endless ivory ropes. He staggered, catching himself with both hands on the window frame. He wished he had more cum to offer, that his refractory period would disappear, that he could be hard again and stroking himself while she watched, as he continued to watch her fingers spin in wide, fast circles, her other hand reaching around behind her and spreading her damp, inviting lips as she slowed, then jolted once, twice, six times in all, every muscle in her body seeming to contract with each overwhelming pulse of her orgasm.

He watched her draw her fingers back up her body, leaving a luminous trail of pussy juice up past her bellybutton, between her breasts. He couldn't look away. She seemed to give him a final moment to savor the view and then the lights died and the blind dropped.

He tumbled onto his bed, cock ticking back to its normal shape, trying to catch his breath. So it was all real—she was real! He got one of those ideas most common among guys his age, the kind that instantly seems like the most genius thing ever to pass through one's head.

He rolled back to his still-unsteady feet, racing around the room for boxers, shorts, a t-shirt. Then he was hurrying down the stairs as quickly as could while still being reasonably quiet. He was across the landing and out the front door faster than he could ever remember, tumbling as much as running across the porch and down the steps. He just had time to see his sister's marching band baton before it bit into the toes of one foot and swung to take out the ankle of the other. He turned the fall into a sloppy combat-roll, stumbling to the sidewalk and around to the hedge-lined front of the house next door.

The lights were off—in fact, he chuckled to himself as he observed that save a few front porch lights, his entire street was dark. An unseasonably cool breeze rustled through, sending shivers down his neck despite the fact that he was sweating and panting.

He wiped his face with his shirt, took a moment a collect himself, and strode up the walkway to the front door. He stood on the dark porch, feeling suddenly vulnerable. The landscaping was overgrown and gnarled, giving the property the impression of existing in the middle of the woods instead of a quaint New England suburb. It seemed he had stumbled into a different dimension—the "Twilight Zone" music nagged at his mind as he closed his eyes and knocked. Waited. Figuring the first one was maybe a little timid, he gathered himself up and knocked again, loud and steady this time. He made himself count to thirty before he knocked a third time.

The hissing of leaves in the tree between his room and hers was the only sound except his own pulse echoing from his throat to his eardrums. He began to feel like an idiot. He'd probably just missed her. He vowed revenge on his sister's wayward toys, which were surely to blame for his arriving seconds too late to catch her.

"Fuck it." He said, and tried the knob.

Locked. Of course.

Accepting that he'd probably had his excitement for the night, he turned to leave but found his curiosity would not allow him to give up just yet. He made his way around the house, trying to peer through the windows. Most were covered, and it was too dark to make much out through the few that weren't.

He made his way around back. The lawn here was even more overgrown than the front. Wading through it, he was able to make out a second awning, a back door. He tried it. Also locked. There were about six inches between the far side of the house and the Marricotts' picket fence. He doubted anyone could fit back there.

He was about to say the hell it and go home when a glint of metal caught his eye from the far corner of the yard. The previous owners had left some stuff back here—yard tools, a graveyard of ceramic plant pots, a warped picnic table, a filthy canoe the moonlight suggested had once been red. He was surprised none of it had been stolen. As he approached, he recognized the shape that had caught his attention.

"No way. No fucking way!" He whispered as his fingers softly thumped down the rungs of an aluminum ladder.

He hefted it over to the side of the house. It was tall and unwieldy, making him regret giving up sports to start his band freshman year. With great effort, he propped it beside her window and climbed up. Once again, it was too dark to see. He tried knocking on the glass. No response. The window itself was locked, as were the others on that side of the house. He wasn't surprised but he was disappointed all the same. He was pretty sure the houses were close enough that someone would have to be in his bedroom to see him, yet he felt uneasy, exposed. When he thought about it, he supposed he was acting kind of nuts.

Now that he actually paused a beat, he realized something else that confused him but nonetheless had a definite feel of certainty—she was gone. She wasn't in there anymore. It wasn't someone who lived there. It was someone who was sneaking in. He felt sure of it.

The house was still abandoned. But who? Why? And how the hell was she getting in? The ladder was rusted and he'd had to tear it free from a network of vines. No one had used it in some time. All doors and windows seemed to be locked. The unsettling thought crossed his mind that his new friend might be some kind of ghost—though frankly, she was too hot for him to care if she was. Ghost, alien, Yankees fan—no matter what kind of creature she was, as long as she looked and acted the way she had been, he was willing to look past it.

If she was a ghost, he wondered if the big reveal would be at the end of the summer, she'd lift up the blind to reveal she didn't have a head! His next thought was that such a ghost would offer some intriguing opportunities for deep throating.

As he replaced the ladder, questions continued from all corners of his mind. Who was she? Was she from around here? Did she do this with other guys? Either way, why him? Could she be someone he knew? These questions plagued him until he finally drifted off in deep, dreamless sleep.

-3-

He had to wait a full week before she reappeared. Then, the time after that, only a few days. Then she was there every night for three nights straight—he was exhausted by the end of that stretch. Sometimes she stuck around long enough for each of them to get off several times. He'd taken to writing notes in Sharpie on printer paper, making requests. By August, he'd seen her use three different dildos on herself. One of them had a suction cup, and she'd affixed to the window and had sex with it. He'd cum so hard that time, watching her lips stretch and squeeze along the long purple phallus, he was pretty sure he blacked out for a few seconds.

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bykrystal_mears© 1 comments/ 16693 views/ 9 favorites

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