Exposure

‘He’s just getting ready for bed. He won’t –’

But she stopped then because he presented himself in front of the window and waved. He grinned and her heart lurched and her cunt went hot and liquid. By God, he was beautiful.

Again shirtless, she imagined he’d been doing moving-in chores in the August heat all day. That he’d been sweaty and tired and grateful to get into his air-conditioned house and take his shirt off.

Her tongue went dry as he popped the button fly on his jeans and tugged them down.

And there was that cock again. Big, hard, long, in his tan hand as he kept his eyes pinned to her and started to jerk.

‘Sweet Jesus. I am mentally deranged,’ she whispered. But she watched anyway, an audible soft pop coming from her lips as her mouth sprang open.

Because, for one instant, he took the tip of his member and slid it along the glass. She could see his skin flatten to the window and she shivered despite the perfect temperature in her home.

He froze, his cock in hand, his eyes on her and pointed.

‘Me?’ she said aloud.

He nodded as if he heard her, but most likely he’d simply seen her mouth move. He pointed again and she considered it. Would she? Could she?

It wasn’t as if he was going to touch her or even kiss her! It wasn’t as if they were going to fuck.

She untied her robe before she could change her mind and tonight she had nothing under it but a pair of panties. She pushed those down, glad that the layout of the street meant that no other neighbours had a clear view of her window or his.

A blessing because you have lost your mind …

But, even as that went through her head, she pinched her nipples. Being on display was an entirely new feeling. There was something both fantastic and raunchy about it – a heady combination.

She pinched and pinched and, when he jerked his erection hard and nodded, she smoothed her hands down over the ridges of her ribs, over the small swell of her belly, over her neatly trimmed mound and then she touched herself.

He grinned, shut his eyes to show bliss and continued to stroke himself, pausing every few moments to press a thumb to the tip of his cock. She pictured the split there, the small drop of fluid that came with arousal. She pictured sucking him into her mouth and rolling her lips and her tongue over the flared smooth tip of his cock.

Gina drove her fingers deep in her cunt, flexing them greedily and pinching her nipple fiercely. The visions of sucking him off were fuelling her fantasy, fuelling her need.

She inched closer to the window and so did he. He was so tan, so gorgeous – a bronze young god. Much like a statue. Or a wet dream.

She thrust her three fingers deep, her hips banging forward so it ground her clit to the palm of her hand. Pleasure blossomed in her womb and her cunt, and she put her head to the window glass for a moment so that he could see that she was overcome.

She looked up to see him grinning as his hand flew with a desperate tempo up and down his shaft. He pressed a hand to the window and continued to work himself. Even from the distance she could see the tension in his jaw and the tightness in his belly and, when she came in a slow wet slide of spasms, she pressed her hand to the warm window and nodded, nodded, nodded to him with the pleasure of her release. She was done for. He’d done her in again.

He waited for her to glance up and then, with a toss of his head, gave in to his own orgasm, again splashing the window with his come, looking gorgeous and primitive in his abandon.

‘Wow,’ she whispered.

Her body let off small ticks and pops of pleasure as her body came down off the orgasm high. He smiled at her and waved and then turned from the window.

* * *

Summer was dying, she could see it. She turned over the browned plants that couldn’t be saved and buried them in the earth to help fertilise it. Her legs ached from squatting but she felt good. Stuart had been like a new suitor and they were going out to dinner to celebrate their dirty-dirty sex as he called it.

She hummed to herself and nearly sat down on her ass in the mud with surprise when he said, ‘Afternoon, missus,’ over the fence.

‘Rick,’ she said with a secret smile. She felt calm around him now. Not bored, just calm. He still made her pulse thump erratically and her body respond in very sensual ways. ‘How are you?’

‘Pulling out today,’ he said. ‘School awaits. Just wanted to say bye to my favourite neighbour.’

Her stomach tingled and she fought to ignore it.

‘Bye, Rick.’ OK, so she felt a bit of sadness in her belly, but she knew it wouldn’t last. The fuel for her sexual fire. ‘Be safe and have fun.’

‘Oh, I will. I’m looking forward to this year.’

‘Make the most of it.’

‘I always try to make the most of every opportunity.’ The secret meaning in his words was clear to her.

When she looked up at him, those grey-green eyes were amused. ‘That’s a good character trait.’

Somewhere a car horn beeped and he turned and waved. ‘My friend’s getting antsy. Have a good rest of your summer, missus.’

He winked at her and she blushed. She blushed!

‘And maybe I’ll see you at winter break, you know, around.’

Like in the window …

She almost laughed. Well, hell, she’d forgotten about breaks. And visits. And all that. Her fire wasn’t gone after all.

‘Maybe you will,’ she said and waved as he turned away from the fence.

Winter wasn’t really so far off.

Thief

Charlotte Stein

The first time I watch, I don’t mean to. It’s an accident, like reading a letter that’s not intended for you or going down a road you weren’t supposed to. I’m going down this road, and, though it’s clearly marked watching your flatmate masturbate, I don’t turn around and walk the other way.

I stay like this instead. Poised in his closet, the laundry mistake still in my hand. Everything in me saying leave leave leave, despite one very real and very unavoidable problem.

It’s too late, now.

It was too late thirty seconds ago. Too late after ten. The moment I stepped into his closet and searched for a place to put his T-shirt, my time was up. Because, apparently, Drew isn’t the sort to wait around for a while before taking all of his clothes off.

He takes them off the minute his bedroom door is shut. And, when I turn around, that’s the first thing I see through the slats in the closet door: my cool, collected, unfathomable flatmate Drew, without anything on.

Though, really, I know that’s not the right way to put it. Without anything on is the manner in which people describe their elderly relatives, just before they help them into the bathtub. It’s almost a joke punchline; it’s without a hint of anything sexual.

Whereas this thing in front of me – this thing I can see so clearly in spite of the stripes of wood over this bit or that – it’s so … fleshy. It’s so real somehow, as though all the other naked bodies I’ve seen in my short life were fakes.