Pamela 1

Across the street lives a young university student named Pamela.

When she graduated from high school, I took some photographs of her for her parents and friends. Even then she was pretty; but, now, several years later, she's grown even more beautiful. And yet, she also seems to have grown more haughty, very rarely talking to me any more.

Even so, I've found myself thinking about her, occasionally desiring her, and wondering what she dos with herself when she's alone.

In this fantasy, I glance out the window late one evening to notice that she's come home in her car. With the lights off in my bedroom, I peek through the slats of the blinds and watch her as she gets out of the car. She's about five-foot-ten, slendour but nicely developed, with long auburn hair and hazel eyes. With a spring in her step, she bounds up the front steps, unlocks her front door and goes in, closing it behind her.

A strange thought comes to me. I lick my lips, wondering if I should follow through with the idea that has come into my head.

I glance up and down the street. It's dark and the street seems pretty deserted.

I quickly move from the window, put on my black jogging outfit and sneakers. I grab my camera and load a very fast film into it, check, then double-check my settings.

Moments later, I walk out the front door and non-chalantly cross the street, head up the driveway to Pamela's house, then around to the back.

I'm pretty familiar with the layout of her house. Two lights are on---one for her bedroom, the other for the bathroom. However, the windows high enough up that I can't see through either of them.

Checking out the yard, I notice an oil barrel that Pamela uses to put things on when she has a barbeque. I roll it as quietly as possible so it rests up-ended on the ground between the two windows. I climb up.

As my head nears the windows, I heard the rushing sound of the shower.

My breathing is already heavy and I feel my heart hammering heavily against my chest. I try to calm my trembling body as I slowly and carefully peek through the bathroom window.

My legs turn to jelly, my knees are weak, my forehead breaks out in a sweat, and my cock swells within my jeans.

For there---her delightfully-naked body glistening wet and enveloped by light clouds of steam---there is Pamela.

My eyes widen as if attempting to take in more of the view than is already available to them. Standing beneath the streams of water, her head back, her long hair flowing down her back, her beautiful almond-shaped breasts straining upwards, Pamela runs her hands through her hair, working up a lather.

I remember my camera, bring it up and aim it through the window. The shutter clicks, and I think it is too noisy, but I know Pamela won't hear it anyways.

I gaze down her slendour body, my eyes sweeping over the gentle curves of her breasts and abdomen, the Y-shaped shaven intersection of her legs and pubic area.

My cock aches terribly and strains to be free from the confinement of my jeans. I unzip myself, reach in and release my manhood. It throbs with desire, but I dare not touch it. Not yet.

Pamela rinses her hair, washes the last of the soap from her body, turns, reaches down and turns of the water revealing the thin crack of her buttocks for a quick moment. Then the shower curtain is pulled aside and she steps out, reching for a large towel. She begins drying herself, rubbing her nakedness vigourously, drying beneath her breasts a few times, then carefully between her legs. She seems to stop there for a moment, then finishes her legs.

She hangs up the towel and pads out of the bathroom.

I switch to the bedroom window. Pamela enters, now giving me a full-frontal view of her wonderful form. I quickly raise the camera again and take another shot, hoping beyond hope that the pictures will turn out.

Pamela goes to her stereo, turns on some pulsing music of some sort, then stands in front of a full-length mirror. She looks at herself, then, in time to the music, watches herself as she begins to gyrate her body in time to the beat.

I lift the camera again, begin taking more shots. Looks like she's pretending to be some sort of exotic dancer. But the erotic way in which she's dancing for herself, just makes my cock that much harder, and I feel it bouncing slightly with every pulse of blood through the shaft.

Now Pamela's begun to do more than just gyrate, for her hands have begun to caress her body, rubbing across her breasts and nipples, then sliding down her belly.

I moan and continue clicking the camera with one hand while my other hand wraps itself around my cock. For Pamela's hand has gone between her legs, its fingers searching out and massaging her clit, rubbing back and forth as she continues to sway her body.

I rub my cock back and forth slowly and gently because I know if I go any faster or harder, I'm going to explode quicker than i want.

But it looks like Pamela's already nearing that stage, too, for her head has gone back, her mouth is open, her eyes are closed, her fingers work faster, thrusting back and forth across her clit. She falls backwards onto the bed, spreading her legs wide and rubbing more vigourously.

I can't help myself. I start to copy her movements, stroking my cock in time with her fingers. Then, above the music, I hear her loud moans and gasps, and her body twists and turns on the bed as she cums. Then I, too, feel the warmth rising through me and I slowly my pumping just slightly, taking longer strokes upon the length of my cock, then I stifle my own groans as my cum spurts in long thin streams onto the wall of the house.

A few minuts later, I am back in my house, my mind still swimming with the images of Pamela in the bedroom, hoping that, perhaps one day, I will watch her again, and hoping against hope that we might even cum together...