I'm watching you through your window. I know I shouldn't, I know it's beyond wrong, it's downright creepy. A young girl, spying on the professor as he turns on his computer...I planned just to catch a glimpse, to see what you looked like so I could have an image of who was telling me what and how to do naughty, bad things to myself. As usual, I wanted more. I wanted to hear your voice so I could listen to you telling me to do naughty and bad things to myself with as much possible reality. I justify myself 'he's seen me, why shouldn't I see him?' Well, how about the fact that I sent him a picture and he has no idea that I'm crawling around in the grass trying to cop a cheap look like boys crashing a slumber party. Maybe I should just call him, let him know I'm in town to visit my cousins. I should've let him know I was coming, I mean, I hate my cousins; maybe he would've offered to put me up. Nah, he has phone issues...but which is worse, really? I lost myself briefly in the struggle in my mind when suddenly I can make out that you're checking your email.
I crane my neck, hoping for something saucy. Nothing. Just Dave, corresponding with people like he does everyday. What was I thinking? It's not like he spends his time awaiting the next steamy letter so he can jerk off in front of his computer. For Christ's sake, he's an adult, not a perverted 30-year-old woman peeping through a window. Feeling shamed, I turn to walk away...of course, I trip on a root in the ground I hadn't seen and fall head first into the grass. I get up, feeling sorry for myself when I look inside and recognize a familiar bright pink bra dancing on your monitor.
I watch you; you look as if you're studying a statistics table for a minute-intense and with precision. I watch as you take your right index finger and bring it to the monitor, lightly tracing the outside of my virtual nipples. As if in a mirror, I mimic your movements. Instead of fantasizing what it would feel like for you to caress my nipples, I'm watching you do it, all the while growing hotter and moister between my quivering legs. I examine you. Tall, very tall and big. Bigness so good that only you could be self-conscious of it. You untuck your shirt and unbutton just the top button of your pants. You close out my picture and open an email. From the length of the letter I can only assume it's from me. You smile a little, the kind of smile one gets when they're endeared or touched by words. I can see you wonder if you understand this woman at all. Bump that thought and keep reading. I can tell your eyelids are heavy and my breathing becomes more intense as I look down and notice the obvious bulge coming through your underwear. Oh, all I want to do is stroke that hard cock and take it into my mouth gently, sucking and nibbling you to ecstasy.
But I'm out here, feeling my nipples swell and poke, straining to be freed and fondled. You remove your underwear and sit in your chair, cock throbbing, at its peak of hardness, sort of leaning to its left side...waiting. I'm sweating now and have forgotten all my inhibitions of being so wrong and dirty and invasive of your private moment. I'm just about to slide my hand down my panties when I bite the bullet. What do I really have to lose? Well, a lot, starting with self-respect and ending with a clean police record, but I'm not thinking that clearly. I walk around to your front door, not bothering to button the first four buttons of my shirt, leaving my cleavage and much of my bra boldly exposed. I knock lightly. Please feet, run run run...stay stay stay....run, you must run, Alexandra, this is ridiculous. What on earth am I doing? What kind of a perv...
"Hello?" You say in a soft voice, with more than a trace of a delicious Texan accent.
"Hi Dave, I..." I look down, wanting to disappear.
"I know who you are...what are you doing here? How did you..." You stop yourself as though you really don't want the answer. Good thing, cause I don't wanna give it. I've come this far; I'm going all the way. I look up at you, strangely, you don't look confused. Your pants are back on, though they've been thrown on hastily and half your shirt is untucked, zipper halfway down. I walk by you into the room with your computer, as though I alone created the blueprint of your house.
"How did you know where..." you ask, somewhat flushed, concerned, intrigued.
"Sit down Dave. I have something to confess to you." Having lost any grasp on the situation, you sit. You're looking at me much the way my dog does when he's not sure if I'm leaving or about to give him a treat, a mix of confusion, anxiety and pending pleasure.
"Dave, I was watching you. I was watching you outline my nipples on the screen and I started doing it to myself. Dave, I feel so foolish I...." my eyes well up and one single tear takes the long road down my face, over my nose, dripping onto my shaking lips. You swallow hard, obviously feeling invaded but the naughtiness of it all has clearly turned you on.
