Boy Next Door

Chapter One-3

Striving for gracefulness, I drape myself over this and roll and writhe around until I’m lying in the middle, my upper half supported by the pile of pillows I’ve prepared. Again I caress myself all over, taking my time and enjoying the smooth springiness of my skin and the whispery friction of my hands sliding over it. Drawing up my knees, I let my legs fall open wide, exposing every bit of myself, even though my p***y is usually almost as great a source of embarrassment as my breasts.

This is another thing I was ridiculed mercilessly about. Most of the other girls (oh hell, all of them) betrayed nothing but a demure little slit down there under normal circumstances. But for some reason I have big flappy inner lips that protrude through the outer ones at all times. They dangle right down half an inch or so, and even the hood of my clit juts out grossly exposed. But perhaps this could actually be a benefit here. I don’t know how powerful my sneaky little spy’s binoculars are. Maybe having abnormally large genitals will make it easier for him to see them. And who knows, maybe where the girls in the locker room considered this gross (and my mother some kind of stigma requiring extra severe repression of my sexuality) guys might find it a turn-on. Silently I question Brian about this.

Can you see my p***y adequately, you dirty little sneak? Do you like it, or does it gross you out? How would you like to be the first one to penetrate it? I’m still a virgin, you know. How about you? Perhaps we should get together on fixing that…

I smolder at my reflection in sultry invitation, somehow knowing that through that glass (and a magnifying lens or two) I’m also looking my hunky young yard boy right in the eye. Slowly I stroke my inner thighs, wishing again that I cared more about fashion, or had had the foresight to do anything I could to make myself more enticing down there before embarking on this adventure. At least the hair of my crotch is blonde too, and not particularly thick or anything. Nevertheless I suddenly feel uncomfortably self-conscious again. Maybe the girls and even my mother were right, and my p***y is even more off-putting than my n*****s. I close my legs and pick up that body of baby oil.

Slowly I drizzle some on my palm. Then I begin to spread it over me everywhere, loving the slipperiness as I work it in. I take a good while and use most of the bottle doing this, and by the time I reach my v****a I’m slick and gleaming everywhere. Wet now inside too, I spread myself out again, not just my legs but my big flappy labia too, letting Brian see all the way inside me. Why not? Panting and flushed and churning with mixed emotions but oh-so horny too, I finally give in to my intolerable need and start fingering myself. The vibrator will be brought into play soon enough…

Brian

I can’t believe what I’m seeing!

After nearly a week of the worst luck imaginable, my lovely neighbor is finally putting on a show for me again. And what a show! Mrs. Andrews has never got it on like this before! She must be really inspired tonight. Loathe as I am to miss even a second of her playing with herself, and though I know it’s almost surely unnecessary, I have to pull my eyes from the binoculars quickly (these are set up on a tripod, to spare my arms and make sure they stay trained on the right place) to flash a quick glance at the digital video camera that’s attached to my telescope. Yes, the ‘record’ light is still on; no glitches to worry about. I’m getting every incredible instant of this. And no night vision addition is necessary this time either, nor am I being tormented by any under-the-covers tease! She’s doing it all right out in the open – which thanks to that big window, the configuration of our houses and yards and my ‘astronomy’ equipment might as well be right next to me. Heart pounding and my madly erect c**k throbbing in tandem with it, I hurriedly look back through the binoculars.

My pajama top is unbuttoned and the bottoms around my ankles as I sit comfortably in a folding camp chair. The walls of the tree house are papered with posters of the moon, the planets, distant galaxies and nebulae and other iconic images captured by the Hubble Space Telescope. My parents actually think my hobby is astronomy, viewing the ‘wonders of God’s created universe’. This makes a perfect excuse to stay up late, keep using the tree house and collecting all kinds of top-quality optical equipment. Little do they know all the presents they’ve bought me over the years were for studying wonders much closer to hand…

I had to buy the night vision stuff myself, but it was well worth it. The last few days I’ve been getting almost nothing from the only heavenly body I’m really interested in, not until the lights were out at least. But now all that’s changed, and oh boy how it’s changed! From dancing and stripping like never before to oiling herself up all over, Mrs. Andrews has now splayed herself out almost as if she knows she’s the star of her own private play – and of my extensive collection of home movies – and is really going to town on herself.

Though her wonderfully unique p***y is exposed like I’ve rarely seen it – two fingers spreading those big lips wide and lifting up to un-hood the clit her other index finger is toying with – my gaze is drawn back again and again to her incredible breasts. These were the first I’d ever seen, and they remain just as fascinating as and even more powerfully erotic to me than they did at thirteen. The way that sheen of oil makes them gleam in the candlelight as they jiggle with her movements has me moaning uncontrollably. God I hope she makes oiling herself up like that a regular thing from now on! This is even better than seeing them wet and soapy in the bath!

Oh, this is the most extraordinary woman in the entire world! I don’t mean the most beautiful of course. Certainly she’s pretty enough, though she seems not to know or care – she never wears make-up or lingerie or expensive clothes for example. And her body is slender and lovely as well, though of course, there are plenty of girls right here in town who are far more stacked, absolute knockouts. I’ve even dated a few of them. Still, even without those amazing breasts Mrs. Andrews is eminently desirable. For the life of me I can’t understand why her i***t husband doesn’t sleep with her – unless maybe he’s queer or even more of a religious loony than my parents and everyone else in this town. I’m not complaining a bit however.

The last thing I want to see through my telescope is Jim Andrews’ hairy ass walking in front of the windows, or pumping up and down as he luckily f***s my dream woman. The first would revolt me and the second make me crazy with jealousy. I’m in love with the lady after all or at least obsessed with her. She has such a blissfully unknowing hold on me that I’ve never been able to get serious about any girl my own age no matter how attractive. I know that’s stupid, but I just can’t help myself. Ever since my first glimpse of those incredible n*****s I’ve been completely unable to get them out of my mind. It seems I’ve spent my entire teenage years spying on them, and whenever I get to second base with a girl the contrast between what I have and what I want always ruins it for me.

Mrs. Andrews’ n*****s are even more unbelievably unique than her v****a. I’ve been all over the internet looking at porn from every imaginable source, and seen nothing like them anywhere. To start with, they are not brown or even red but the loveliest shade of pink you can imagine. The only thing that comes close is a kind of flower I saw last year outside the courthouse that my mother identified as a ‘pink shira hydrangea’.

If it wouldn’t make me suspect I’d cultivate a whole garden of these just to dote on and smell and endlessly finger the velvety petals as a kind of woeful approximation. But of course, nothing could possibly measure up to that exquisite reality. The size and shape of those jutting bulbs are just too mouthwatering to be believed. I swear they are as big and round as ripe peaches, easily making up half of each curvy, perfectly symmetrical breast.

The thought of sucking on these, of rubbing my d**k or face against them or even just getting to briefly touch them makes me ache with a longing so fierce I want to cry or scream or beat my head against a wall. And it’s all so hopelessly in vain.

Mrs. Andrews is married, even if her i***t husband (who could kiss and lick and play with those wondrous things to his heart’s content if he wanted to) never bothers to touch her. Plus she’s at least five years older than me, probably more like seven or eight, and doubtless still considers me just a kid. I can tell this just from the precious little interaction we get to share. She’s always polite and friendly and nice, but I’ll never be more than the boy next door who mows their lawn and bags the leaves to her. Yet still I almost die every time she brings me out a glass of lemonade, points out something in particular that needs to be done or finally pays me when I can’t dawdle anymore and have to finish up.

If she knew about the way I’ve been spying on her all these years she’d never forgive me. Still I can’t stop doing it, and can’t imagine leaving here to go to college after this last upcoming year of high school. It’s like I’m addicted to watching her.

This is not just the only way I’ll ever get to keep looking at those amazing n*****s. It’s the only way I can feel close to her, the only kind of s****l relationship we can share, even if it’s ridiculously one-sided. It’s the only real source of fulfillment open to me. I don’t think I’ve ever m*********d once without fantasizing about her, and usually while watching her, either in real time like now or on one of my hundreds of video files. And here she is, the sublime housewife of my dreams putting on the most amazingly arousing show for me yet. So as always I tell my guilty conscience to take a hike and lean breathlessly into the binoculars, m**********g as she does likewise on her candlelit king-size.

Breasts jiggling ceaselessly, she fingers herself ever more vigorously. Her mouth hangs open, no doubt panting and moaning and crying out. What I wouldn’t give to be able to plant a hidden microphone and transmitter in there, to hear every gasp and groan and breathy little cry!

Usually she has her eyes closed or at least heavily lidded. But tonight Mrs. Andrews’ gaze bores straight into me, sultry and inviting as though she knows I’m watching her every move. Of course, I’m sure she’s just staring at her reflection in the window, getting off on the sight of herself playing the same way she obviously likes to watch herself dance and strip. Still the sensation is madly alluring.

I grip myself a little tighter and slightly increase the speed of my stroking. I want to time it so that I only come when she does. And I want it to be on her last, best orgasm. When Mrs. Andrews sets up with candles and dances first like this she can keep going for an hour or more, climaxing any number of times. After I blow my own load the guilt invariably returns, somewhat spoiling the rest of the show. And she hasn’t even picked up her dildo yet. So even when my beloved begins humping upward with her crotch, attacking herself with a frenzy and finally begins obviously screaming in climax – those eyes glaring almost accusingly into mine the entire time – I somehow restrain myself from likewise beating madly. Still an uncontrollable moan escapes me, my c**k pulses urgently in my hand and my balls tingle with demand. I’m so right to withhold however. After humping and thrashing interminably and at last relaxing, Mrs. Andrews picks up the towel next to her and carefully dries her hands with it. Then she grins so mischievously at me as she picks up her dildo at last that once again I get the unsettling impression that she’s aware of me.