Boy Next Door

Chapter One-4

That can’t be possible however.

Not only have I been exceedingly careful all these years, but there’s no way that a shy, retiring Christian lady like her could know about my spying and not be horrified. Still my heart pounds unsettlingly with an additional frisson of fear as I watch her lick the end of that dildo, her hot gaze meeting my breathlessly expectant one. Though I can’t hear the buzzing, this big fake p***s is obviously a vibrator too, because as usual Mrs. Andrews proceeds to employ just that wetted head to pleasure her clit to another hip-bucking climax before she even gets around to penetrating herself.

Then she does; oh bless her, she does! Lifting her legs out straight to the sides and spreading them as shamelessly wide as I’ve ever seen her, she eases that vibrator into herself and starts sliding it in and out. Little by little she works the whole thing in, avidly watching herself the entire time. Finally, she begins thrusting feverishly with it. Oh, I can see absolutely everything, even the way sweat darkens her hair at the temples and beads on her oiled-up body.

I’m sweating heavily myself, panting right along with her. Self control abandoned, I find I’m jerking my c**k to the same rhythm she uses plunging that vibrator into her p***y, fantasizing that the one is in place of the other and we’re truly together on this. At last Mrs. Andrews casts her head back, breaking our salacious if one-sided eye contact and writhing in ecstasy as she so urgently pleasures herself. Bucking on the bed and impaling herself mercilessly, she’s such a vision of lovely erotic abandon that I could surely get rich peddling the video I’m making even now. Of course, that idea is beyond heretical. This beauty belongs solely to me, and I’m already richer than any man in existence having this secret access to her. When she begins climaxing again I have to let go of my d**k entirely and grind my teeth in incipient madness to keep from joining her in orgasm. Once again it’s the right call however.

Twice more Mrs. Andrews pleasures herself to a thrashing, screaming peak before her next especially slow, languorous build-up indicates the grand finale is beginning. By this point I’m almost as sweaty and disheveled as she is; this has been a marathon session like no other. My erection is so adamant with need I can barely dare to stroke it as her incredible t**s begin jiggling once again with the gradually increasing fervency of her thrusting.

As always I find it nearly impossible to tear my eyes away from these. Slumped half upright on a pile of pillows as she is, Mrs. Andrews’ breasts both jut beautifully forward and slope sexily down and then up. Dominated by those incomparable pink n*****s, they gleam and dance in the candlelight in a way that makes me utterly disregard the wide split of her legs, the way her big p***y lips stretch around the c**k plunging in and out of her and even the fire in her eyes as she gazes demandingly at me through the window.

Later I will replay the recording I’m making in slow motion over and over again, obsessing on every little jiggle, every nuance of light and shadow. For now, however, I’m mesmerized, pressing my eyes so tight to the binoculars I’m liable to have a raccoon bruise come morning. Still she works herself more urgently, building toward that ultimate orgasm, and at last I take myself completely in hand and start jerking properly.

Again I match my matchless neighbor stroke for stoke. Panting and moaning in concert fifty yards apart we share a swiftly climbing crescendo.

My balls are tingling again with anticipation; the moment of stolen fulfillment I live for is rapidly approaching. Then at last lovely Mrs. Andrews is bucking uncontrollably and crying out in the most extravagant throe I’ve ever witnessed. Stabbing herself relentlessly with that lucky piece of rubber or plastic she writhes and shudders and screams so piercingly I fancy I can actually hear her all the way over here. In response my own crisis comes upon me. To the frantic beating of my fist my spunk comes pumping out, spurting all over the place as I groan and squirm in my chair for a good twenty seconds at least. But at last not a drop is left to be milked from me, and I sag back from the binoculars in exhaustion.

Gradually sanity returns, bringing its usual twinge of guilt and shame over my behavior. I can only slump there panting and murmur useless apologies to the woman I crave so much and continue to so terribly wrong. Finally, the lights next door dim and go out. Ashamed and relieved both, I mop up my mess, fix my pajamas and then tidy up the tree house. And touched by guilt and remorse though I am, I can’t help but exult in what an unprecedented show that was.

Carefully I detach the camera from the telescope. I’ve now got the best movie ever to upload to my collection before at last going back to bed.