Sex can be a hunger, a point subtly made by my sub-conscious as I licked my lips watching Sharon stroke herself. I had learned her name from the mailbox at the end of the drive. For weeks now, I had spent part of every evening nestled in the lilac bushes outside the window watching this exquisite beauty make love to herself. What began as a chance occurance had become almost an obsession. It was as if I was involved in a torrid and consuming affair, but not like any I would have imagined.
Just now, she was standing nude in front of the mirror, massaging her breasts seductively. I had discovered this to be a nightly part of her ritual: she'd turn side to side, cooly appraising herself in the mirror, cupping her tits in her hands, sometimes tweaking them to make the nipples stand up, then rubbing down across her belly to her hips, like she was smoothing some invisible dress.
I didn't understand her. She was so incredibly beautiful, but she never seemed to go out. Weekdays, weekends, it made no difference. In the past two weeks, there was only one night she hadn't been here, last night, but that missing night had piqued my appetite immensely. I found myself thinking "Come on, get to it", when only nights ago I would have been happy to consider this the main course.
Finally, she picked up her towel and headed back to the bathroom. I walked quickly around to the back of the house, that sheltered spot that had come to feel like a second home. About the third night I had found a fairly large, round slice from a tree trunk sitting on the tiny porch outside of the kitchen door. It looked like it might have been used as an impromptu footstool. If I moved it over by the bathroom window, I could stand on it so that the light shining out of the bathroom window didn't illuminate me, but I could look directly down into the bathtub. I was happy that the weather had warmed, since it meant that she bathed with the frosted glass window slid open, but it also meant that I had to be even quieter. I moved the trunk while the running bath water covered up the noise.
Sharon slipped into the water, dipping down so nothing but her head was above the surface, her hair draped over the back of the tub out of the way. Slowly, she pushed herself back up until her breasts had just broken the water line.
There's something seductive about wet skin. Maybe it's a tactile memory, the sensous feeling as hand glides effortlessly over body, slipping over curves, sliding into nooks. As the water ran in trickles down her breasts to her nipples, I imagined myself a drop of that water, caressing with my whole body as her contours pulled me along.
Her hands were now caressing her own contours, washing herself, but without the semi-conscious perfunctoriness of "just a bath". I had begun to wonder if she ever touched herself without caressing. Her hands washed their way down to the auburn curls then over the shaved lips of her pussy. Apparently they didn't meet with her approval. She reached over to a small table, squirted a small splash of blue gel onto her hand, and began to massage it to a lather on her pussy, sensually, as ever. I couldn't help wondering who she was shaving for, an absent boyfriend? I had decided it was just as likely to be for herself.
