Top Floor Balcony

Top Floor Balcony

It is really quite strange when you catch a friend during an intimate moment; not a lover, but a friend whom you have know long enough for them to be a part of your regular life.

Nor am I talking about flatmates, possibly caught by surprise coming naked out of the bathroom late at night, thinking the dash nude back to their room would not be encountered due to the hour – no, this is more the chance glimpse through a part open bedroom door, seeing them busy on the bed, or catching a flatmate's friend drunkenly frigging herself on the couch for him, just as you come in later than expected from your own night out.

The incident that I have in mind was all of the above, and of course far more – why would I be telling you otherwise?

Aviva had tended bar at my local for a year or so before leaving the job and town to follow a post-grad degree; but now she was back, still elfin-ethereal and willow thin, fluid vibrancy was in her every movement – a truly unique beauty with body and mind fully tempered by self assurance and readiness for life.

I'd been to her new place just the once since her return, a month or so ago when I'd seen her struggling on the street and offered to help with the awkward load of grocery. Hers was a fine place on the top floor and surprisingly quiet at the back despite the nearby traffic and pedestrian bustle upon three sides – it was the way the town could be behind the high facades, where hidden residential projects had grown and filled out the hollow bits. Entering their domain was literally akin to stepping into another part of the world – it did not feel connected. Her flat had the added advantage of looking out over the river at the rear, so it had no neighbours staring straight back at the balcony-terrace, which also was conveniently screened off at both sides.

I mention my having been to the apartment, as its terrace's seclusion is an integral part behind the why of what happened, did so. With nothing taller to the rear to overlook her privacy, Aviva often took the opportunity to sunbathe nude, which explained her deep and recently smooth tan, with her loose shirt hanging and hinting tantalisingly at no bikini lines each time she leant forward... but I digress. She told me about this penchant for nude sunbathing that day, adding in a mischievously off-hand way, that she'd become used to it whilst out in the countryside's seclusion during her preparation for the final year's thesis – it was a picture that quite caught my imagination.

The only thing that stopped her doing so in this new place, was the tall multi-storey car park's top level, its blank-wall looming across from the street's end conveniently blocked the rest of the town from peering into the back of her shared apartment. Yet its blind brick was not the problem, its top floor was, being of the open variety, and anyone up there could definitely see into her haven.

She apparently changed her mind on that score I have since learned, seemingly upon my casual advice of the time, when I'd pointed out that on such hot days the whole open air level was abad place to leave any vehicle, even a motorbike - making an unbearable blast-furnace of its interior or saddle for the returning occupant if left for anything more than ten minutes; and as no one ever managed a short trip into the city, it would remain mostly deserted during the long days of summer heat.

I knew this for certain as that top level had provided me with a personal chill out spot for some time now, its location having the added attraction of built in and exceptionally fine views out across the small city and across the bay to the hills across its waters. That deserted place was a splendidly quiet spot, and so convenient for a bit of peaceful, recreational smoking. It was also somewhere no one would think of looking, including those in authority who periodically frowned upon such activity – most people rarely look higher than the shop façias in towns, and that included Aviva I learned on a June afternoon two days ago, when I got to inadvertently witness her intimate moment.

From that high vantage point, I had been relaxing awhile, revelling in my freedom from the crowds in town and focusing vaguely upon those stately slopes of pale, shadow-blue hills lightly framing the bay's furthest shore. Having finished my smoke and reached the level of subsequent calm needed to face going back down into the morass of people, I moved on around the protective wall, needing first a brief moment of scanning across the town, to let it bring me gradually back into connection with its physical actuality – a preparation of sorts before re-entering the rude flow of ruder people – go straight down there after contemplating the wide and openly peaceful spaces, then you'd be dangerously open and vulnerable to all sorts of shit.

Looking out over the rooftops and church spires, it occurred to me about then that I could also test my supposition of a month earlier, to see if the car park would indeed look down onto that secluded balcony, unimpeded.

Head angling down and forward over the wide parapet, following the weight of my gaze, I saw her move; slightly weed-fuddled thoughts and brain caught up with what the eyes were already registering and equally slowly trying to alert my mind to... the fact that I was seeing her naked down there upon a recliner, calmly reading a book – even at thirty or more metres distance, she was in perfect view.

Perception and its order of flow jumbled and jostled in my mind, leading it across the full two seconds it took me to completely slot the situation into place – my mind did not need to be told what it was seeing, somehow having already sensed and grasped the situation fully, so it was now doing the equivalent of just sitting back and enjoying what my eyes were telling it.

Ahead of this, a twitch of an erection heralded perception at another level, feeling it swelling so smooth and freely in advance of my glacial thoughts' slide into place – perhaps my nose had caught a subtle up-draught, something with a hint of her body-scent, or more perhaps...

I shook my head at the flight of fantasy, its flashed ideas dominating my mind in that brief interlude.Like sure she's been touching herself out there on the balcony – c'mon, nudity is one thing, but opening yourself to the greater world like that...? Out in the countryside maybe, but I doubt she'd be so comfortable doing anything like that, not here.

Shaking my head to clear the distracting images from their tenuous toeholds, I smiled ruefully and looked back down again, telling my imagination to behave itself.

So there she was, lain upon her belly and slightly glistening in the sun, her smooth and round ass looking back up at me, gaze drawn to it and further to the divine angle formed by her relaxation-parted legs. From that angle and distance I could see nothing of her dark pubic hairs, but my imagination furnished the perception of her heat-swollen lips as they'd be, just visible through them. None of me was complaining about the actual lack however, I had more than enough to enjoy before me as it was.

In relationship to the buildings' odd juxtaposition, her angle was facing slightly away from me, back into the apartment's cave seen through the open patio doors; it gave me a beautiful three-quarters and lightly downwards projected view across her body propped up there casually upon her elbows as she read. Her firm and compact breasts unfortunately were also hidden mostly from view by the positioning of her back and nearer arm; but my mind's eye once more, even if it was on parole for its insidious thoughts, imagined being able to see them elevated and free from the recliner upon which she comfortably lay, and so I nodded to myself slowly -beautiful...

This appreciation of Aviva's unawareness, I found was still not spoiled by the lack of any direct stimuli from her Venus mound or perfect breasts – to the contrary, I contented myself with happily focusing upon her curve of hips, the long flow and smooth line of her thighs, the arch of her back reared up gently as a Cobra's in curiosity. Gaze reaching her long neck I smiled in full satisfaction, with her hair being tied up away from the tanning-oil, it exposed the arched and swan-like curve of concentration in its pose, while she followed the book's lines held in her hands. Certainly it was an entrancing sight, but that could equally have been just the weed talking in its usual whispers to me.

Then she shifted position, rolling her body up and boldly frontal toward me, long fingers distractedly scratching at an itch just under her right breast as she continued to read – my mind provided the reason as being an irksome trickle of sweat, having dried out in accelerated evaporation as it progressed down across her sun-heated skin.

The moment of full exposure was brief before she'd settled back down again onto her front, leaving me just the captured image in my head to review – her broad hips, each swelling in an alluring and surprisingly full curve for such a slender frame; between them the dark pubic hairs a mere sketch that emerged delicately out from between her thighs, the line highlighting hermons veneris'scurve delightfully, before drawing the eye up further and onto the ripple of her tight stomach, suggesting it continue to take in the rest of her slender torso.

Ah... the supple joint of that slender waist, her angle of upper body all sleek and fine, moulded and compact – breasts become focal and hanging free...

Even from that distance I could see her nipples were indeed swollen and lush from the heat, or had my senses truly picked up on the airborne aftermath of pheromones discharged by earlier excitement, maybe from what she was reading, or had been doing to herself before my arrival at this part of the parapet.

I had no idea what she was reading, but whatever was in control of my mind definitely liked that particular idea the most.

Perhaps the internal censor of decency inside would have succeeded in nudging me into withdrawing about then, I'm sure it would have won through the fog if I hadn't seen her right hand leave the book, then slide down under her body at that precise moment – it was no repeat itch she was sending it to see to this time, at least not the same kind of itch coming from a trickle of perspiration.

As her hand extended all the way down to between her legs, it seemed as if she was reading my mind and liking the idea too. I even saw her full lips curve and lift into a slight smile.

It only took a few light movements thereafter, the slight up and down twitch building in her hips, therefore filling my mind fully with every detail needed – I could almost sense the fingers sliding up and down, purposeful but languorous between her imagination moistened lips, my own hearing clearly the subtle rasp of trimmed pubic hairs against the cup of her palm; the base of her index finger slowly tapping against her clitoris in slow rhythm as the tip crooked and teased in light penetration between her lips.

I looked on for a few seconds of total absorption, awed and completely unable to stop myself, a slow groan quietly exhaling from deep within as I watched her masturbating – like I said at the beginning, it is a very strange moment when catching a friend in such an intimate portrayal as this – and under those circumstances, different protocols most definitely apply.

In one way I did not feel turned on quite the same as I might whilst watching another woman play with herself, either on film, in a picture or lain out in the room beside me – this felt very different, somehow even more exciting than with any other live performance I'd seen so far; one where I knew shortly my lips would be teasing the same ones her fingers were exploring, then sinking my hardness smoothly between them after coaxing several more orgasms from her with my tongue.

With this taboo element of watching a friend chasing my thoughts around inside a fogged but fascinated head, I decided that now was definitely the time to leave her to it and so forcibly prepared to pull back – I had enough images of her play all clearly burned into my retinas, ensuring copious bouts of squirting of my own once back home – and that was where I'd be heading, directly.

Then as if conspiring to keep me rooted, Aviva rolled over smoothly onto her back, hand still between her legs while she drew them up, gracefully parting both thighs wide in a single and elegant unfolding movement that held me fascinated. Her other arm swung the book around up above her, so she could continue reading and masturbate more easily.

Now this wasdefinitely the point at which I should have left, even if it would be with a very pained smile full of regret – yet I just couldn't leave, not now, not with such elegance to be admired and the promise of more yet to be revealed.

Oh how I do love the summer sun. The thought stretched out and settled over me in absolution as I watched her, hand now arched upwards lightly above her pubis, the supple fingers splayed in support, flexing the middle-finger's long tip in delicate circles over her exposed clitoris. After a moment more of this fine torture, the hand began sliding with deep, slow and easy strokes down over the curve, massaging herself lightly with all four fingers together, drawing them up high until her hand steepled then sliding them low again in easy, rhythmic motion.

She is as refined in her self-play, as she is with every other daily movement. But by what I was absorbing of the way she was touching herself, it definitely seemed that this too was an everyday movement, and that left me with a sudden and sharp pang in my chest, a strong reaction full of longing and regret simply for having missed out on seeing her do this before.

All those amassed hours spent alone – from the summer mornings lain in bed, greeting the breeze coming through an open window with a naked body all charging up for a new day, legs parted directly into that cooling flow – or the winter evenings tucked up warm and cosy on the sofa, the flushed cheeks coming from what her fingers were quietly doing between her thighs, and not from the heat.

A woman's most intimate moments, could teach more about her in a few brief minutes than hours of talk would properly reveal – it is why when I watch a woman who wants to show me herself masturbating, that I prefer she consider herself as being alone – to touch herself as if I were not there.

It rarely works as intended of course, as more often they assume I'm talking of some voyeuristic fantasy or need within me, so they act up to the moment of knowingly having a hidden audience – sometimes they do manage to forget this briefly, and those moments are what I'm talking about – a show of pure self, a rare gem that delights in a special way.

This all stems from my having been disappointed often enough in the past, after meeting wonderful ladies who have all the individuality-hallmarks of character combined with the looks and thoughts that make them truly attractive and beautifully unique; then for me to loose all interest after seeing them writhing like bad porn actresses for me during that most intimate of displays, which should be as personal and individual as they are.

It is my conundrum, I admit - but rarely have I seen a woman so in-tune with herself and her needs, so confident in how she shows her love for herself, that she will show that also when masturbating for another; keeping it personal rather than delivering a show fuelled by the suspected expectations of others.

Most of those I have seen, do seem to react that way unfortunately, needing almost to hurt them self it would seem, frigging sensitive flesh furiously to the tune of my presumed needs. Thinking perhaps it is deliciously slutty and therefore assuming this will be more appreciated – I do not know, except that that sort of approach turns me off very quickly, there seems to be no respect for them self in such a performance.

Perhaps I am too sensitive and something of a slave to my pretensions of inner-refinement, therefore it is unfair of me to expect delicacy in something so carnal and hormonally driven... yet I have seen numerous clips of subtle, beautifully absorbed and sweet masturbation techniques, of women who satisfy themselves thoroughly, armed only with a light finger – I feel I know it all well enough to differentiate the truth from when someone is acting at playing the truth.

Perhaps what this means is my need to find someone who is, and can be confident enough to remain herself in all that she does – a natural lady for our current times.

The Internet of course has been my salve since this realisation, for at least that way I have quite safely been able to vet my choices by seeing quite quickly how any one woman pleases herself whilst pleasing me – I get to see her style, or lack of it, all before any emotional attachment might have made a painful hash of things when face to face – but that is all it could ever be, physical distance being the key problem with such contact or connections – ruled along with everything else in life by an equation - the proportion of satisfaction being directly equal to the square root of the distance involved.

But enough of such introspection, for now I know that there is hope, although a tricky slope awaits me if I am to seriously contemplate what my mind is now suggesting – I would need to switch Aviva's perception of me around in her mind, opening the suggestion to an existence of more possibilities between us – I would need to woo her, and that thought alone made me smile – this was more than a mission.

As if in support, my erection liked the sound of where that thought was going, and my mind remained gently abuzz with the possibilities while I continued to absorb her delightful performance, marvelling at her subtle movements with unhurried and sensual fingers that slid in familiar ease over her skin; breathing still slow and voluptuous, light and catching as occasional ripples of convulsion lifted her body slightly upwards, the language of her muscles telling me of the gradually building orgasm.

The book slid in a compliantly graceful fall from fingers gone distracted, and she added them to the moment, first paying attention to her breasts' needs, applying subtle moisture from her mouth, drawing it lazily and sensuously around the nipples – if I'd thought they were erect before, I was amazed by how proud they now stood, looking almost painfully suffused and so very dark between her lightly massaging fingers and thumb.

She must be incredibly sensitive. With the thought's arrival, my gaze flicked swiftly to where her other hand continued its hypnotic movements up and down in slow passes alongside her clitoris – it too was very erect, stood out quite clearly between her opened lips as her finger switched to work its touch on the other side, both finger and pale nub now glistening lightly.

Something else was very sensitive and erect – although not so pale yet definitely glistening – behind the parapet my hand slowly stroked down the length of my trapped erection, giving me shivers of pleasure as reward for my own reciprocal and light touch.

Leaving the breasts her other hand moved down over her skin, raising goose-bumps across mine as her hand slid with slow feeling down over her side, stoking along her hip to thigh and then back down its inner slope, joining the first in moving harmoniously between her legs.

Fingers spreading ready lips with slow ease, she inserted two of them, angling their approach low and bending the fingers back upwards to begin sliding them carefully in and out. Her body arched up in a slow convulsion, their crooked path and length moving the backs of them easily across her p-spot, while her fingertips slid in repetition over her inner g-spot.