Jenny Jenny

My family and I live in a nice little three bedroom house, built during our town's post-WWII housing boom. Long before Karen and I bought it the basement was finished off as a separate apartment, so we rent it out.

If you've ever owned a rental property you already know that it's bad enough to have a deadbeat tenant at all, much less one living right under your own ass -- but in our case it's worse. He's my wife's nephew. All baggy jeans and no respect, thumping crap rap up through our floor at all hours while months behind on his rent. We would have evicted him long ago, but about then he moved his girlfriend Jenny in to help with the rent. We liked her well enough, to the extent that we knew her at all, so Karen and I decided to give it another try. This was maybe a year and a half ago. The rent situation improved somewhat after that, but never to our total satisfaction -- it was still behind by a few months, but they stayed steadily so and Jenny gave sincere promises to catch up.

Jenny probably does not turn the head of

every

male she passes, but I'm sure it's a high percentage. She's twenty now, with chestnut hair to the middle of her back, a very cute upturned nose and smoldering brown eyes that could melt butter from ten feet away. She's been with the deadbeat since they were fourteen, and she's blossomed quite nicely... in fact, Jenny is one reason that tight jeans coming back into style has been a

very

good thing. In other words, she's plenty hot -- much more so than your average twenty-year-old woman. But Natalie Portman, for example, wouldn't lose any sleep over her.

Until Jenny moved in downstairs we only saw her when the deadbeat brought her to family gatherings, usually on a holiday. We don't see much more of her now, because they tend to keep to themselves. That is, we

weren't

seeing much more of her, but... well, I won't get ahead of the story.

Being a writer carries with it a variety of curses, one of which is the tendency to keep late hours. Especially during the summer, when it's often too hot to sleep. I was working on my fourth novel one Saturday night this past summer when, yet again, I hit the dreaded wall of frustration commonly referred to as "writer's block".

At this point you should know that we are a family of nudists, which explains why I was sitting on a towel and working in my skin. My wife and I tried some time ago to gradually introduce Jenny and the deadbeat to our casual nudity about the house, but we met with something less than success. They chose instead to give us the sort of arm's-length politeness one would usually extend to a cadre of likable, non-dangerous weirdoes within one's extended family... and we resolved to having our nude sunbathing restricted to our club in the mountains.

On that particular night Karen and the kids were asleep, and I was resisting the temptation to fuck off on the internet rather than writing my current novel. I decided instead to have a short outing in the moonlit back yard. I donned my favorite football jersey, one which drapes low enough to cover the vitals, allowing me to wear it and nothing else. So long as I remain upright, that is; if I have to bend over for any reason my cover, if you will, is blown.

After grabbing twelve ounces of Mexico's finest export -- a frosty bottle of Corona -- I killed the back yard floodlights and exited the patio doors into the night. First off, I checked to see which cars were out back in the little parking area off the alley and behind the garage. Jenny's car was there but the deadbeat's was not. My first thought was,

damn -- I'll have to be on the lookout for his coming home and entering through the back gate

. Then I remembered that he was supposed to be off camping with his buddies, something which I knew Jenny detested. So she was home, and the deadbeat was elsewhere. Nothing remarkable about that, and since I knew that she was highly unlikely to go anywhere at that time of night, I could -- as I often did when I could get away with it -- safely peel off the jersey and enjoy the warm breeze on my skin.

I was relaxing comfortably on a chaise lounge and entertaining a pleasant memory of the previous fall, when Karen and I came home from an evening of brewpub ale and oysters on the half-shell. We had managed to return unnoticed by the babysitter, and we were both screamingly horny. (For the record, oysters are not an "aphrodisiac"

per se

-- but they are definitely a performance enhancing substance!) So with the patio doors open, and only the screen and dining area between us and the babysitter on the couch giggling at "Saturday Night Live", Karen and I took a chance and fucked each other cross-eyed right there on the back lawn. One of our better sessions, and we got away with it clean. I glanced down and only then noticed that I was absently stroking my half-erect cock at the thought. A very pleasant memory, indeed...

A few moments later I sat up to take a swig of my beer, when I heard a strange noise come from the direction of the driveway. Since the driveway was visible from our street, I put the jersey back on before going to investigate. Because it's a rather old place the garage is detached and behind it, served from the street by a rather long driveway running straight down the side of the house. Looking out onto it are the windows of our bath and two of the bedrooms. Looking up from the basement, however, are the windows of their bedroom, kitchen and living room -- the last being directly below our bedroom.

As I made my way silently down the drive, the noise I'd heard was coming into closer focus and seemed to emanate from their open kitchen window. As I crouched down, I was able to make out the unmistakable sounds of cheesy music and staged sex.

Good God

, I thought,

she's watching a porn movie!

Small as the apartment is, I wasn't surprised that the sound from the TV made its way from the living room, around the corner into the kitchen and out the window -- but Jenny would have been very surprised at who was hearing it!

The next window down, closest to the street, was the living room -- and the temptation to look was overwhelming. From where I stood I could see, to my relief, that the window itself was closed; to my disappointment, so were the mini-blinds. But a hunch made me go have a closer look. Sure enough, no one had ever taught this girl which way to flip horizontal window blinds! I'm sure they looked private enough on the inside, closed most of the way and pointed toward the floor. But from my perspective, three feet above the window and looking downward at a forty-five degree angle, I had a nearly unobstructed view of the living room below. Two couches, one on the far wall and one to the left; TV and stereo on the right. On the screen, a blonde nurse was giving salacious head to a patient on a gurney who obviously was not there for male enhancement surgery; Jenny was nowhere to be seen.

After a bit I was about to return to the backyard, thinking that Jenny was probably ignoring the movie from elsewhere in the apartment and silently cursing my luck. But a split second before I would have looked away she appeared in the living room wearing a black t-shirt and white cotton bikini panties.

She had carried her own bottle of Corona into the room with her, and raised it to her lips. After taking a swallow she began to lick the mouth and neck of the bottle, emulating what she was seeing on the screen. I felt myself stiffening at the sight, and my heart imitated a jackhammer inside my chest. I remember thinking, what the hell am I doing? I'm not a goddam peeping Tom! That thought stayed with me as I took one last look (yeah, right) at the taut white cotton material covering her mound. It lasted with me long into the next ten minutes of self-imposed exile that followed my tearing my gaze from the window and forcefully stumbling my uncooperative legs back to the chaise in the back yard.

I sat down on the chaise, breathing heavily, and it took every one of those ten minutes to slow my respiration down. Never mind my pulse; had an EKG been done on me at that moment, the paramedics would have called for back-up. And even as I was telling myself that I was not a pervert... I knew with a terrible certainty that I would be going back for another look. How could I not?

It seemed that Jenny hadn't moved at all while I was in back, except that now she was rubbing her pussy through her panties with the beer bottle. A glance to the right told me that the porn scene had shifted to the nurse banging a different patient while another nurse watched, getting herself off with her fingers. Jenny seemed to enjoy this; she was watching intently and grinding against the beer bottle. I thought to myself, it won't be long now. As if on cue she took a swig from the bottle and set it on the table, pulled the hem of the t-shirt up to expose her midriff and began tracing her fingers in lazy, teasing circles on the skin of her taut belly, barely touching the waistband of her panties.

On the screen, the second nurse was now between the patient's legs, licking his balls as the first rode him with wild abandon. This was apparently to Jenny's liking, because just then she stood and wriggled out of her panties, exposing her closely trimmed pussy to my hungry view. Then she lifted the t-shirt over her head and tossed it aside. Gloriously nude before my eyes, she was truly a vision of young beauty and desire. Her pert, apple-sized breasts were capped by two pretty pink confections that my tongue longed to taste. As she reclined on the couch once again, I noticed -- and then promptly forgot about -- my aching, leaking erection. Time for that down the road, I decided... for the moment, I concentrated on burning into my memory every detail of what I was seeing, for later playback. Repeated playback, in fact.

Evidently Jenny had already given herself enough foreplay, because she immediately flung her right leg up onto the couch and began to work her pearl with abandon. This gave me a visual angle directly between her long legs; had her fingers not been in the way, she could have winked at me with her wetness. I would have had to be her gynecologist to get a better view.

Once again, my pulse reached dangerous levels for a man of thirty-nine. Mostly because my major erotic weakness is watching a lady pleasure herself. I have often been blessed in knowing ladies who are in touch with their exhibitionistic side, and many of them enjoyed indulging my voyeuristic tendencies. This is a diplomatic way of saying that I’ve seen quite a few women get themselves off, in a variety of ways. But never had I seen what Jenny was doing -- she played her clit in a counter-clockwise motion. Right-handed. Most unusual.

In no time at all, I could see that she was getting close to coming. Her fingers were a blur of auto-erotic urgency. Suddenly she stopped and bolted from the couch toward the bedroom. Startled, I wondered whether she had seen me through the window (which should have been impossible), or had just decided to relocate to her bed (which would have been hugely disappointing). But in a little less than a minute, she returned with her favorite toy.

Looking through those damned slats, I couldn't tell much about it other than that it was blue and of average size -- no Thermos-sized monstrosities for this girl, I noticed approvingly. In nothing flat she resumed her position on the sofa, her crotch seemingly aimed at my eyes, and slid most of it into her glistening pussy. I let out an extremely quiet moan. It continued this way, her fucking herself and me watching intently, for several minutes. Eventually I couldn't take it anymore, and I began to stroke myself under the football jersey while praying that no one would come walking or driving down my street. I really hate having to go dry, but the show that Jenny was putting on had my cock absolutely dripping with more than enough pre-come to do the job.

It was a good thing that I had waited as long as I did; I was about to go off like a Roman candle! Luck was with me; just then Jenny really began to buck her pelvis up and down, and for the first time I could hear her moans over the forgotten cheesy porn soundtrack. That really fueled my fire -- as I stroked myself furiously, she was getting louder and higher in pitch. As we approached our weirdly-shared orgasms, the last guilty thought to skip like a rock across the puddle that was now my brain registered:

I'm going to have to tell Karen about this.

No stopping us now; as I watched and heard Jenny go over the top, bucking and thrashing on the couch from her self-administered fucking I came as well, in huge spasms of ecstasy, my cock shooting copious amounts of my seed in long arcs out onto the cement of the driveway. More than I had probably produced since I was teenager. My knees were wobbly and my head felt as though it was full of ginger ale. It was far and away the best orgasm I ever gave myself... although I certainly had Jenny's help to thank for it.

When I opened my eyes again Jenny was nowhere to be seen. I straightened up, dropped the football jersey back into place and quickly made my way back into the house, forgetting the Corona on the patio table. After cleaning up a bit, I did two quick shots of bourbon and then looked in on my beautiful, sleeping wife. And thought to myself...

oh, boy...what will Karen make of this?

To be continued...