I started this months ago in a flurry, then as usually happens lost interest and moved onto other fragments of stories.. Recently I discovered it afresh and I've been obsessed by it ever since, re-writing the original idea, hopefully improving it into the dirty little story you see before you. Any feedback good or bad is welcome and gratefully received.
Hope you like it, have fun.
Kowalski.
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Part 1.
The microwave bleep, bleep, bleeps, telling Helen her lasagna is ready. Lost in her own thoughts, she fails to register the noise at first.
Sitting on the sofa in her small living room, still wearing the uniform of her work, a navy skirt and white blouse, her legs tucked up beneath herself, Helen is feeling familiar desires growing. Her mouth is dry, with lips sore from her near constant nervous biting over the last couple of days.
It's nearly always the same. She puts it off and puts it off, denying her feelings. Lying to herself that this time she can resist, yet at the same time making her plans, arranging her quiet night in, trying to ensure there are no distractions.
Her attention is on the well thumbed yellow telephone directory sitting on her coffee table, beside a half finished cup of tea, long cold.
How long has it been since the last time? A month? She doesn't know exactly but it feels like an age. The intense shame she feels after each time has faded, as always gradually outshone by the bright urge to do it again.
Tonight the urge is bright indeed, stronger than ever in fact. All day in her office she's been distracted, fidgety and horny as hell, barely producing any work at all. A male colleague even asked her if she was all right. Ha!
How she longed to tell the truth.
Just looking at the directory when she's in this kind of mood makes her panties wet. In the past, the thought was enough, for years it'd been a favourite fantasy of hers. She'd been slightly drunk the night fantasy became reality, even putting the wine bottle to good use. Seven shame filled months had followed before she did it again, stone cold sober, yet high as a kite and without chemical help. From then on the floodgates had opened, once she even did it twice in one night.
Helen reaches forward and hefts the heavy book from the table, sitting it on her lap. To have the book in her hands sends giddy little ripples through her.
She wants to touch herself as she starts to flick randomly through the pages, just the thought of pulling her panties to one side and doing it makes her want it even more. It's a delicious feedback loop, but an urge she manages to ignore, for now at least.
Her exploration of the directory is meandering, with no initial focus. However, after a couple of minutes of flicking through the entire book, as it always does, a letter comes to the forefront of her mind. Immediately, yet for no real reason that Helen can think of, it seems right.
Tonight it seems, will be brought to you by the letter C.
Her initial decision made she remembers the lasagna, life intruding on her dirty little game. She doesn't fight it, after all she's starving, but more than that she likes to draw the game out, almost teasing herself, letting the anticipation bubble and swell, until it becomes a red mass of delicious need, burning her from the inside out.
Due to the wait the lasagna had stopped steaming before she withdrew it from the microwave. 'A Healthy Meal For One', that's what it says on the box.
She sits down at the tiny, barely big enough for two, table in the kitchen, tidily set with her knife, fork and a small glass of water. A forkful of lasagna passes between her lips, her tongue seeking the sensations it can offer her. However, unsurprisingly, it's bland, her mouth hardly notices its presence. Largely ,this is down to the uninspired and low calorie recipe, but also because her mind is focused almost entirely elsewhere in her body, in all truth it could have been 'The Ultimate Lasagna
tm
' and yet Helen would likely still have been oblivious.
After several more disinterested mouthfuls she looks up and across to the kitchen window, and sees that the blinds are open, the wet winter darkness pressing against the glass. The surrounding houses are packed in close, several of her neighbours could well be able to see her sitting at the table, under the harsh fluorescent light of the kitchen, all they need to do is glance in the right direction.
An extra little frisson of excitement itching within causes Helen to put aside the half eaten lasagna. It's nearly time to make her next choice, but it need not be rushed, she has all the time in the world. Of more importance is the growing tension between her legs. It would be so simple to scratch that itch, to turn it into warm glowing pleasure with a finger or two.
But what if someone was watching? She dwells on that thought.
What if someone was watching?
Would they know what she was doing? Would they see the movements of her hand and guess correctly? What would they do if they did? Desire gnaws at her insides, her pussy clenching around an object that isn't there.
She's very wet, and getting wetter, she doesn't have to touch herself to know it, besides, someone might be watching though the rain spattered windows.
Someone might be watching
. Almost of their own accord her legs open until the navy skirt stops their outward motion. It would be so easy to push a hand between her thighs and touch herself. She moans at the naughtiness of the thought and the way it makes her insides quiver.
She wants to, oh God how she wants to, but she knows the neighbours well, a lot of them she regards as friends, if they saw and new what she was doing? Just at the thought of it a hot flush of shame colours her cheeks, but with the shame comes a strengthening of the heat between her legs, a sickening wave of need spreading out from under her increasingly wet panties.
Her hands disappear beneath the table, sliding flat over her lap, fingertips finding the hemline of her skirt. She shouldn't, she knows she shouldn't, but the feelings are so strong tonight, her body craves the adrenaline of something new.
She hitches it up, closing her legs to ease its journey up her toned, heavy thighs. Until it's as high as it will go, bunched up against her curvy hips and the chair she sits upon.
Heart pounding, she slowly opens her legs, exposing her white cotton panties to anyone who may be watching, cloaked in the darkness beyond.
With one hand resting flat on the table she closes her eyes, letting her mind wander. Immediately she sees a man, illuminated by the light from the kitchen. He's standing just outside the window, hair plastered flat and lank against his forehead, rain dripping down his impassive face. He's perhaps in his fifties, well built, dressed in a dark suit, tie and white shirt. He's looking in, watching.
Helen spreads her legs even wider, until they can go no further, hip joints screaming in protest. She touches herself, sighing as she brushes the damp front of her panties with delicate fingertips.
She feels little sharp points of stubble poking through the cotton, she always keeps herself trimmed neatly and very short, but rarely shaves completely unless a partner requests it. She likes the prickly feel of her stubble, likes the sensations it gives her.
With a deliberate lack of haste she hooks a couple of fingers beneath the damp material and pulls it to one side, exposing her vivid pussy to hungry eyes both imagined and maybe real.
The man at the window, he looks in, his gaze angled down beneath the table, between her thighs, zeroing in on her flushed, slightly parted lips. He licks his lips and looks up, making strong eye contact, his hand rising to take the door handle. When he speaks his voice is smooth and ocean deep.
"You have a beautiful cunt. If you'll let me, I'd like to taste it."
Without waiting for her reply he twists the door handle, opening the door and stepping calmly inside.
She opens her eyes, gasping, all watchers banished into their dark hiding places of the night. She's desperate to plunge her fingers inside herself, to feel her slick muscular walls gripping them tight. She's ready for the next stage, wants it badly now, this fun new game can wait, growing darkly in her fantasies for another time.
With more than a little reluctance she covers herself up again and makes her way back to her living room, picking up the directory.
Her floor is covered in a cheap grey carpet that she inherited from the flat's previous owner. She cannot afford to replace it but instead bought a white rug to place in the center of it. She kneels down on the rug now, it feels soft and luxurious underneath her.
The directory gets placed, as always, just in front of her knees. She leans forward, her back arched, and places her palms down on the thick tome, her eyes closed, focussing and savouring every second of the build up.
Without opening her eyes she takes her hands from the book and straightens up. As she does so she slides her hands up her thighs, taking her skirt up with them again, exposing, milky skin and eventually the soft lower curves of her rump until her fingers find the elastic of her knickers.
She eases them down, pulling them off the damp flesh to which they stick, tugging them down until they hang taut, just above her knees. Soon her skirt follows, undone, and allowed to slide down her thighs, to cover her knees.
Her pussy revels in its new found extra freedom, it begs to be touched, Helen finds herself almost overcome by its silent yet powerful siren song. A single rivulet of her sex juice dribbles onto her thigh, tickling her sensitive skin as it begins its slow decent. Soon there will be more.
She resists the urges, feeding off the sweet tension in her body, almost giddy with it, and leans forward to open the directory.
