Confession is, they say, good for the soul. I rather think that my little story will prove that it is not just the soul that can benefit.
Last spring I spent a fortnight with my sister back home in Wales. Although Gwen is only five years older than me I'm often taken for her daughter rather than her sister. I would love to able to say that this is because I look so much younger than my fifty-five years, but in truth it is more of a case of Gwen looking much older that her sixty years. Fortunately, my sister takes this in good part and puts it down to the fact that she has stayed at home in the hills while I've enjoyed the youth-giving properties of a life in London.
On the journey back to my apartment in Kingston-upon-Thames I mused on her words. London is indeed an invigorating place for those with a mind, but I had never been that type of person. Since George died some ten years ago, I had kept myself to myself and my socialising had been limited to the occasional celebration at work and the odd visit to an opera. Life for me in London had been, in short, rather dull.
I was in a reflective mood as much because of my sister's words as the fact that a new neighbour had moved into the apartment opposite mine on the day I had left for Wales. The apartments are built in an H-block formation with one property on each branch of the H, meaning that pairs of apartments faced each other. There was a space of some six feet between the kitchen windows of opposing apartments, so even standing at the back of the living room behind the kitchen you were no more than twenty feet from the next property.
The rooms were light and airy and I had grown used to the place opposite being empty. With no curtains or blinds in the empty place, I had enjoyed sunlight all day long, and, since I was on the sixth floor, complete privacy. Not only would a new neighbour threaten these pleasure, I had noticed that it was a younger man – thirty maybe – and was concerned that he might enjoy loud music or parties.
My fears proved mercifully groundless. His apartment was free of curtains and far more importantly, free of loud music or partygoers. In the first week after my holiday, I saw the young man, Jonathan, moving through his rooms a couple of times, and was delighted to see that he wore a smart suit every morning before setting off for what I presumed to be his work at eight o'clock sharp. The one evening I saw him at home, he was busy in his kitchen preparing his supper, dressed smartly but casually. We exchanged a wave across the divide and went happily about our business.
By the time summer rolled around I had met Jonathan a few times – in the lift, at the local convenience store, and on the landing – and he seemed a very pleasant young man. He was polite in an unforced way, had a ready smile, and he had even offered his assistance should I ever find myself in need. Much like myself, his days seemed to be regulated by the clock – leaving at eight every morning and returning around nine each night – and even his weekends followed a pattern of a late start Saturday, and Sundays out and about all day. The eight o'clock departure every morning was a blessing for me since it reminded me that I had to be out of the door myself in a couple of minutes – something that I mentioned to Jonathan and which he found amusing.
He was, in virtually all respects, the perfect neighbour. My only tiny problem with Jonathan was his striking resemblance to my late husband in his youth. Like George, Jonathan was tall and slender, although he seemed well-muscled. And like George, he had that shade of black hair that could look almost blue in certain lights. In all honesty, it was more a case of missing the more youthful 'me' that troubled me, since I had allowed the weight to creep on a little in the years following George's passing. I had thought that George would understand in the circumstances, but occasionally I would spot Jonathan strolling around his living room or kitchen and for the briefest of seconds I would think that it was George there, and that I should have made more of an effort... Foolish, perhaps, but true.
However, it was another rather remarkable coincidence that brought me to my confession.
In early July the company I worked for underwent a takeover and I found myself with shorter working hours – a later start each day, earlier finishes and no work at all on Tuesdays. The first Monday I found myself awake and sipping at my morning cup of tea before I even realised that I could have spent another hour in bed. I was just about to fetch the vacuum and fill a few minutes with some quite unnecessary cleaning when I saw Jonathan dash into his kitchen. It was a little after eight by now, and he was obviously late for work – something of a first – and didn't notice my wave. I smiled as he grabbed his iron and proceeded to slip off the wrinkled shirt that he'd thrown on, run the barely warm iron over its front, back and sleeves, and then slip it back on.
It was only after he'd left that I felt the tiniest pang of guilt, realising that I had rather enjoyed seeing his bare chest and the glimpse of a private moment in his life. I told myself not to be so silly and put it out of my mind.
The next day I found myself up and sipping tea once more and cursed myself for a fool even louder than the previous day – since, as it was Tuesday, I was not even going to work at all! Out came the vacuum and off I went to begin filling my newly freed-up time. A little while later I looked at the clock and saw that it was nearly nine. I hadn't heard Jonathan leave and assumed that he must have departed while I was busy with the Hoover – which is, I suppose, one of the reasons that what came next was quite such a surprise.
I went through to the kitchen and knelt down to fetch a new duster from under the sink. As I was bent over I heard a click and then the sound of voices, quickly realising it was a TV. Since the only one I could ever hear, and even then only quietly, was Jonathan's. I stood up ready to offer a smile and a wave, and hoping that he was merely taking a well-earned day off, and didn't have a cold or something like that.
As soon as I saw him, my smile froze. Jonathan was standing in his living room, not fifteen feet away from me, staring down at the news on his TV, his back three-quarters turned towards me. Around his shoulders was a large bath-towel and as I watched, he sort of shrugged it higher and began rubbing at his damp hair. My breath caught in my throat as the movement lifted the towel high enough so that I could see his naked bottom, the muscles jumping and twitching as he dried his hair.
For the first time in a decade I felt a surge of heat within me accompanied first by guilt and then by panic that he would turn and see me watching him.
Shock, they say, makes you do the strangest things, and that morning I reacted completely out of character. Instead of dashing off and leaving Jonathan to his ablutions, I stepped backwards into my living room and off to one side of the doorway from where I could still view the scene in his living room, but couldn't be easily seen myself. Guilt had been pushed firmly to one side as my suddenly excited brain rationalised my behaviour in any way that it could – as long as he couldn't see me, no one would get embarrassed or hurt; it was just a harmless one-off experience and I should make the most of it; it was something that my body needed after so long without any excitement and sometimes the body had to rule the head.
However I explained it to myself, I knew one thing very clearly – that I was shockingly, incredibly, and wonderfully turned on. As Jonathan rubbed at his hair I began to wonder what he would do next. Would he tie the towel around his waist and head back to his bedroom or bathroom? Would he back out of the living room with his eyes still glued to the TV? Or would he... my heart was pounding in my chest now... would he turn around so that I could see his nakedness in all its glory?
I tried to make myself as small as possible and as still as possible, and waited for what seemed an eternity. At one point he made to turn away from the TV but then turned back before I could see more than I already viewed, the frustration making me smother a whimper. After ten years my juices were well and truly flowing again, enough to make me aware of a damp patch spreading in my panties. The excitement was so out of proportion and yet so demanding that I knew that I would have to relieve the pressure within me before many minutes passed – and yet dare not move for fear of missing anything.
Just as the pressure become intolerable, Jonathan threw the towel to one side and leant forward, switching off the TV. There was a moment's hesitation and then it finally happened. He turned and strolled into the kitchen, his cock and balls in plain view, swinging tantalisingly before him. He was big, a little bigger than George even, and just so perfectly proportioned. I had been clenching and unclenching my pelvic muscles as I stood waiting and now that my patience had been so wonderfully rewarded, they began to spasm without my control. Before I knew what was happening, I was on the verge of an orgasm.
I felt trapped – if I moved he might see the movement and know I had been watching him, if I didn't then I was going to climax and he would be sure to hear me...
I was saved by his telephone and as he dashed into his living room to answer it, I swung myself away from the doorway and far out of sight. I knelt on the sheepskin rug and slid my fingers down my panties and into my soaking pussy, the very first touch bringing me to climax. It was an extraordinarily intense sensation, not unlike a dam bursting – which, given the state of my underwear, was an appropriate expression.
I was feeling things that had long been forgotten – excitement, lust, naughtiness, and most importantly, I felt like a complete woman again.
It was this last factor that shaped my decisions over the next little while, and, if that sounds like a lame excuse to you, then you have obviously never felt like I had in the years leading up to that morning. I can't explain it any other way except to say that it was as if part of my very reason for living had been absent – and until I felt that surge of lust and excitement, I hadn't even realised it was missing.
When my mind settled back to something like rational thought, I took myself off for a shower, dressed in fresh clothes, and headed back to the kitchen making as much noise as possible to want Jonathan of my approach should he still be naked. Oh yes, and I was trying very hard not to picture that particular scene. My early warning system proved unnecessary, as Jonathan was dressed in a t-short and jeans, sat at his kitchen counter and sorting through his mail.
Somehow I managed to feign surprise at seeing him, and we exchanged pleasantries across the divide between our kitchens. I learnt that he was taking a week's leave and was intending to "do nothing but relax", and that the previous day he had been called into work despite this. I had the devil's own job trying to keep my mind on the conversation, rather than picturing three more mornings with the possibility of seeing my neighbour after his shower. I rather pointedly did not mention that I no longer left for work a couple of minutes after him...
One's conscience can be a useful tool, but for the remainder of that Tuesday mine was only good for arguing with. By the time I went to bed – and remembered to set my alarm clock for the usual time – I had reached an agreement with it whereby I would wait around the next morning until I had seen Jonathan. If he was fully dressed, then that would be an end to any deliberate act on my part, but if he were not, then I would stay out of sight, watch him and enjoy the view, just once more. Sleep was hard to come by.
I was awake before the alarm and in position ridiculously early. I told myself that this was just a sensible move because, one way or another, this would be the last time I would spy – there I said it – on Jonathan deliberately.
It was gone half past eight before I heard the distant sound of Jonathan's shower starting to run and I was doubly glad. For a start he would think that I was at work by now, and secondly – he was taking a shower just like the day before... If I had thought my excitement was extreme on the Tuesday it was as nothing to the way I was feeling right then. When the shower fell silent, I thought my heart was going to hammer its way out of my chest.
As silly as it sounds, I had not dared move from my vantage point after I had took up position, and I was still wearing my night-dress. With nothing underneath the old cotton, the temptation to let my hands stray to my already damp pussy was devilishly strong – but the thought of my neighbour hearing me crying out or moaning if things went too far stayed my hand.
After what seemed like an eternity, but was in al probability only ten seconds or so, I could see Jonathan's shadow growing larger on his living room floor as he approached. Would he be dressed already? Surely he hadn't had enough time to dry off and dress after turning off the shower? Or would he maybe be wearing a robe?
As he stepped into the room and into my line of sight, I thought I was going to pass out with delight and excitement. Jonathan was naked once more, his body covered in glimmering droplets of water. My eyes were drawn to the matted, damp thatch of hair around his cock and I sent up a prayer of thanks for such a wonderful view.
Like the previous day, he had a towel with him and he started to dry his hair in front of the TV. As his muscles quivered, I allowed myself the tiniest stroke, a promise of what was to come once the show was over. I had dreamt about this all night long, and now that it was here it was just so damned wonderful. Or at least, that's what I thought up until the point when Jonathan finished drying his hair.
At first he just draped the towel over his shoulder and ran his fingers through his hair until it had settled a little. Then he reached behind him with one hand and let the towel slip down until his other hand caught it. He started to dry his back by moving the towel from side to side, first his shoulders then lower. As he started to dry his bottom, he let go of the towel with one hand and briskly rubbed the towel down the backs of his legs, bending a little and affording me a view that had my heart hammering at my ribcage again.
Jonathan switched the towel to the front of his legs and then up to his chest before finally rewarding me as he lowered it over his groin and began to rub himself dry with long, slow strokes. The thought of his hands and the towel moving over his cock had me biting my lip to stop any sound escaping. It took me a little while to realise that he was being extremely thorough, and when I finally did I allowed myself a stroke or two, unconsciously mimicking Jonathan's movements.
The warmth from my groin was beginning to spread throughout my body and I didn't think it could feel any better than this. Until Jonathan turned away from the TV.
My eyes almost popped out of my head when he threw the towel away. Standing side on to me I could see that his cock had enjoyed the drying almost as much as I had. It was standing proud, its weight preventing it from appearing fully erect. It was magnificent. My eyes were locked there and I felt the blood rushing through my veins, realising too late to do anything to stop it that I was on the verge of orgasm. My hand had stayed, unnoticed, at my pussy and I was rubbing the tip of my middle finger furiously across my clitoris. I just couldn't stop and with Jonathan's proud cock just a few feet away from me, in full, glorious view, the shudders started to course through me.
I moaned through my lips, clamping my free hand over my mouth, as the first wave crashed over me, my whole torso shuddering with pleasure, my knees threatening to buckle. I gave in to the inevitable and the orgasm swept through me, pulsing waves of euphoria through my mind and body.
It was a timeless thing, an intense and pure sensation, a succession of peaks that seemed to last a lifetime. Even as the aftershocks rattled my body, sending muscles jumping and twitching, I realised that the perspective of my view had altered. Jonathan's glorious erection was now pointed accusingly at me.
I had no idea whether I had made a lot of noise, but obviously something had drawn Jonathan's attention. He was peering curiously into my apartment, but didn't appear to have made out my quivering form in the deep shadows beside the kitchen door. I stood as still as my body would allow, quieting my breathing, trying even to still my heart for fear that he would hear the beats of my post-orgasmic recovery. The second his head turned away, I dived back into the safety of my living room and tip-toed through to my bed.
I spent an hour there, wondering what to do. I wasn't sure that he had seen me – thought that he hadn't, in fact – but now that I had derived so much pleasure from my spying, I had pangs of guilt that threatened to make me yell out loud. Worse, I was ashamed. Not ashamed for my body's reaction, not even for the pleasure my mind felt. It was more... I felt guilty for having invaded Jonathan's privacy and had deliberately set out to do so for my own pleasure.
I had been raised in a very religious family, as so many of us were in the hills back then, and I knew that I should atone for what I had done.
Of course, I couldn't just provide him with a show in return for his – after all, what joy would he get out of seeing a woman almost twice his age and running to fat? No – the only thing that I could do would be to confess to him – that, at the very least, I had seen him naked and watched for a while. It would be humiliating in the extreme, but it was fitting, and it was proper. It was also nerve-wracking beyond words.
I showered and dressed, and raided the larder for my emergency bottle of whisky. Once I was sure that Jonathan was now fully dressed, and that I was slightly anaesthetised, I said a short prayer and took the deepest of deep breaths. Chastising myself for a fool, I left my apartment and made the short walk around the corner to Jonathan's front door – a short walk that seemed to take an eternity.
Before I could lose my nerve, or the whisky could wear off, I knocked twice. Jonathan opened it quickly and smiled at me.
"Glynnis! This is a nice surprise. What can I do for you?"
I ploughed in before my legs took me running in the opposite direction, "Jonathan, I'm truly sorry, but I've done something unforgivable."
"I'm sure I would have heard if you'd been murdering someone next door. Surely it can't be as bad as your face says?"
"It is. Well, maybe not as bad as murder, but it is an unforgivable intrusion."
"I doubt that-"
"Please, Jonathan, let me get this over with." When he shrugged and nodded, I stumbled on, "I was... that is... I didn't go to work today. Well obviously, since it's midday and I'm home, but what I mean to say is, I was here all morning. That is, I was here this morning and specifically I was here when you came out of the shower... when you were drying yourself off in the living room. I mean, I saw you then and didn't stop watching right away. Well, at all, really-"
"Oh Glynnis! I'm sorry! I had no idea you were home otherwise I wouldn't have dreamed of standing there like that."
My eyes opened wide – what on earth was he doing apologising? "No, Jonathan, you have nothing at all to apologise for."
"I don't understand."
"Jonathan..." The confusion seemed to lend me some sot of control and I started again, "I was standing there watching you this morning and it was very wrong of me. I'm sure if you'd seen me you would have covered up and since you didn't know I was there at all anyway, then you've nothing to blame yourself for in the least. What I'm trying to apologise for is that I stood there watching you and didn't let on that I was at home because... well, because I enjoyed it! There, I've said it! I am so very sorry-"