Boy Next Door

Chapter One-2

I sleep in just my panties usually – another act of rebellion against my fundamentalist parents, who every Christmas buy me the dowdiest and most unattractive nightgowns and housecoats you can imagine. Now wearing just those panties (strictly cotton and utilitarian, I don’t even own any sexy underwear) and my bra, I forced myself to parade around in full view of the windows, tantalizing the little spy and drawing out the suspense even further. I sprinkled some flakes into the twenty-gallon aquarium and dallied there watching all the little tetras, barbs, mollies and other tropical fish chase around after them. Then I shut off the tank light and yawned as if exhausted, stretching and swaying and working the kinks out of tired muscles. I noticed that my anger and embarrassment had eased. I was actually enjoying this little performance, smirking inside as I imagined Brian’s frustration waiting for me to take off my bra. At last I casually turned my back to the windows and did so, fumbling interminably with the little hooks. Shrugging free of this at last, I tossed it with my other discarded clothes and stretched and swayed some more. Then still being careful to show him only my backside I moved slowly to the bed. I turned back the covers, plumped the pillows and doused the lights, grinning at Brian’s consternation as I at last slipped into bed without showing him anything.

Lying there in the dark I actually giggled to myself. Poor Brian: no show to jerk off to tonight! Unfortunately I was now too keyed up to sleep. I just laid there marveling at myself.

Not only had I finally taken some steps to address the situation, but I’d actually gotten a kick out of it! Maybe the spice this was bringing to my dreary life was a good thing. Picturing that handsome young stud grinding his teeth in frustration, his no doubt impressive c**k going from eager anticipation to wilting disappointment made me grin with sadistic vindication. I caught my fingers tracing circles over the big bulbs of my n*****s, which tingled responsively.

Well why the hell not? I was safe in the dark now, under the covers with no one to see. And I was never going to get to sleep without working off some of my excitement first. I eased one hand down and slipped it inside my panties.

Even though I know it’s ridiculous, I’m still plagued by feelings of guilt whenever I pleasure myself. I was raised to think m**********n was the worst kind of sin after all. My mother even instructed me to clear myself of all ‘impure’ thoughts when inserting a tampon, to dwell on menstruation as the curse of Eve and not a perfectly normal waste removal function. This time, however, these thoughts passed off easily. I found the gasping place quickly, and had no need of the vibrator I keep hidden in my underwear drawer as if it really was the tool of Satan my church claims it to be. I had no need of my usual fantasies either, though as the pleasure built and built I indulged them anyway. Finally I had a name and a face to put on the anonymous male I chastised in my mind, punishing him as I’d so often been beaten myself growing up.

Spare the rod and spoil the boy! It was sneaking, young Brian I saw bent over my lap and being spanked. Pants and underwear pulled down to his ankles, his naughty voyeur’s c**k hard and throbbing uselessly against my own hot crotch, he was weeping and sniveling contritely as I smacked his ass cherry-red. Bad, shameful, spying little s**t; this is what you get for peeping! I ought to cut that naughty thing right off you!

My climax arrived much more quickly than usual, and for once I didn’t unconsciously stifle my cries out of misguided shame. Finally, my shudders subsided, and I settled limply into the bed. As my breathing slowed and I slipped toward sleep at last I felt an unfamiliar smile curving my lips. Yes, amazingly this situation was providing me with a delightful bit of spice to go with all my embarrassment and outrage.

For the next few days I continued this way. Rather than bathe in the tub I used the enclosed shower stall next to it. If Brian was up in the tree watching, he would get only a brief glimpse of me stepping in and out. I began retiring earlier, moving about the bedroom or sitting up on top of the covers reading in my bra and panties for long stretches before contriving to drop the former with my back to him before slipping under the covers. I even began exercising before bed: doing toe touches, deep knee bends and other, more suggestive body mechanics right in front of the biggest window in my underwear. Tickled at the thought of my frustrated audience, I found myself more and more aroused by this game. I was actually discovering a streak of sadistic exhibitionism in me. Though I remained dreadfully embarrassed by my breasts, I began to let him get fleeting glimpses of these – enough to tease and briefly titillate, but not to fixate upon. And all the time (but especially while m**********g and fantasizing about spanking him in the dark afterwards) I wondered what Brian saw in me to keep him so obsessed.

Was it just the opportunity I represented? Was it the thrill of voyeurism itself, and he would shamelessly ogle any woman this way? Or was there truly something he found attractive about me? I badly wanted to question him about this. After all, he was the only man to ever see me naked besides my husband, and Jim hardly qualifies. I’ve even chosen female doctors all my life. Could there really be something about me to interest and even arouse a man? The more curious I became the more my nascent exhibitionism grew.

I began letting Brian see more and more of me: full on views of my breasts again and even my naked waist and groin. In the process I became ever less embarrassed and more turned on. Perhaps it was then I began imagining scenarios whereby I might turn the situation to my advantage. My embarrassment giving way daily to excitement at the thought of this sinful young stud spying on me (and likely jerking off while he did it); I finally decided to join willingly in with our long-time, long-distance dalliance. I would quit just teasing him and begin putting on a proper show again. In fact, I would do everything I could to drive him out of his little mind, and revel in the fact that we were m**********g over each other, and that this time I was the one with the secret knowledge. And at the same time I would begin plotting a trap for him. Brian needed to be punished. And I had long unmet needs of my own.

Claire

So here I am. I watched from the darkened guest bedroom until my secret admirer gained the tree house. Then I slipped out, passed into the bathroom and took care of business there. Now it’s show time at last.

Plucking a bottle of baby oil from the medicine cabinet I exit the bathroom and enter stage left, my heart absolutely hammering.

On one level I can’t believe I’m doing this: shy little Baptist girl raised to be painfully modest, convinced since girlhood of my utter undesirability and taught that any s****l pleasure at all was sinful, but especially outside the bounds of strictly procreative marital relations. Guilt and shame as reflexive as breathing have me blushing furiously at what I intend. At the same time I’m almost giddy with daring and burning with arousal, determined to put on a supremely seductive show and draw my spying young stud inescapably into an obsession-trap that will open whole new worlds of previously undreamed-of fulfillment to me. Shutting off the bathroom lights, I pause to use the rheostat to dim those in the bedroom romantically. This is the beginning of a ritual I’m sure Brian is familiar with, the steps which I always take when in a particularly sexy mood and planning a veritable orgy of onanism rather than just a quick easing of need. Let him know what’s coming and enjoy the gradual build-up of suspense…

First I prepare the bed, turning back the covers and plumping up a number of pillows against the headboard. Dropping the bottle of baby oil next to these, I go from there to the nearby dresser. From my underwear drawer I get my vibrator and toss it next to the baby oil, followed by a towel. Then I dig out a bag containing over a dozen little votive candles and a lighter and begin arranging the atmosphere to my liking.

Usually I scatter the candles artfully around the room. This time however I place most of them on top of the headboard, to ensure that my body will be brightly lit as I play. Once these are burning I put the last few on the dresser and stereo, light them up and load the disc changer with Al Green CDs. His music is always essential to a sexy mood. At last I dim the lights even more, so the candle glow dominates. Then I stroll slowly over to the big picture window.

This too is part of my usual ritual. The darkness outside and the candlelight behind me combine to turn this wide stretch of glass into a mirror. I like to watch myself as both a rebellion against my upbringing and a kind of therapy, fighting back against what I know is an unhealthily low level of self-esteem.

Between the fact it’s midnight and there are no houses on the back side of ours, I’d never worried about being seen as I’d stripped for myself, never dreaming that the tree house at the rear of the next yard might be harboring a spying little jerk-off. Now that I know I’m actually trembling with that heady mixture of excitement, arousal, daring and embarrassment. Still I smile at my reflection, trying desperately to believe that what I see could be considered attractive by a man. Taking a deep breath, I run my hands through my hair a few times. Then swaying seductively from side-to-side I begin to slowly unbutton my shirt.

Dancing in place to the music I do a strip-tease, enticing my teenage audience exactly as I knew I’d be accused of doing if I ever went public. I don’t care though. If the accusation is inevitable, why not earn it? And of course, I have no intention of taking my grievance pubic anyway. I’ll get my payback in private. Watching myself shimmy and sway, bump and grind and vamp and slowly strip to the music, I feel a wanton joy rise. For a sheltered Baptist girl I have some pretty good moves. I hope Brian’s enjoying the show. But of course, he hasn’t seen anything yet, no matter how many years he’s been spying on me. Naked at last, I continue to dance, caressing myself all over.

I’m trying to take pride in my body despite over a decade of reflexive shame. My arms and legs aren’t wimpy and skinny, I tell myself; they’re slim and nicely shaped. Likewise my belly is beautifully slender, if not hard and defined, and my hips pleasantly curvy if not hourglass or even lyre-like. I suddenly wish my bush was at least trimmed if not shaved completely away, which I understand is the fashion these days. At least that’s what the ladies’ magazines say. Right away I decide to do this tomorrow – in the tub where Brian can watch me. Emboldened by this determination, I at last bring myself to confront my breasts.

I still hate them. There’s no denying that. The n*****s are so freakishly huge! Nevertheless I cup and caress them, and even squeeze those big bulbs until I gasp with the mixed pain and pleasure this brings. Then I have to stop however. I don’t want to draw attention to them, either Brian’s or my own. I’m trying to entice the young man with whatever limited charms I may have, not repel him with my flaws. And I don’t want to spoil my mood of giddy abandon. At last I do a slow turn and dance my way over to the bed. It’s time for the main event.