I don't know what made me look up that first night. I never had before. Every night at exactly seven thirty I walked the same streets, music in my ears, eyes fixed straight ahead. Maybe it was a flash of movement. Maybe a subconscious tug of my attention. But I did look, glancing right at the house I was passing. It was a cute little brownstone, not much different than the others along this street packed in like anchovies. The curtains were thrown open, and I could see what looked like a living room through the sole first floor window.
A woman passed by it, running a brush through her long hair. She was gorgeous, olive toned skin, hair the color of a raven's wing, a sharp face that made her look both elegant and serious. I don't know how long I stood there on the sidewalk transfixed, watching her move around the room, before finally shaking myself from my trance. Tucking my head down, I moved on, finishing my walk quicker than usual.
The next two nights passed without incident. The curtains were closed both nights, and I scolded myself for even glancing at them. The third night they were open again, and the woman was moving around the living room. From what I could see, she wore a pair of skinny jeans and a tank top, highlighting her curvy body. Her hands curled around the bottom of her tank top, and before I could comprehend what was happening, she'd whipped it up and over her head, dropping it on the floor.
My cheeks heated up bright red at the sight of her clad in only a black bra. I tucked my head down again and hurried on, feeling like a pervert for watching her through her window. The sight of her was burned into my mind though. For a couple of days I changed my normal walking path, but I eventually returned, missing the comfort of my routine.
I just barely managed to ignore the window for about a week. Eventually my eyes found my way there, as if something was drawing me towards it. She was there again, dancing around the room. I removed my headphones and could faintly hear music playing from behind her door. That wasn't what caught my attention though. She was dancing around in just a matching black bra and panties. Her heavy breasts were just barely contained as she moved, and as she spun I could see her panties highlighted the luscious curve of her ass.
For a brief moment I stopped breathing. She was gorgeous. The sight of her scantily clad, dancing around in front of an open window with not a care in the world, made me shift uncomfortably, my panties getting damp. It wasn't just that she was beautiful. It was the way she moved, both entrancing and free. She started to turn towards the window and my eyes widened with fear that she might catch me watching. I shoved my headphones back on and hurried away.
That night I came to the memory of her, and I found myself wishing I knew her name so I could moan it as I reached my peak. Immediately afterwards I felt ashamed, like I was taking advantage of her, intruding on her privacy. I rolled over and knocked my head against the mattress a few times, trying to shake the image of her from my mind.
It didn't work, and like an addict I found myself glancing at her window again. She was much closer this time, leaning against the window, a book in her hand. I had to guess she had a window seat there and was catching the last rays of sun before the city sank into darkness. This close I could see her better, her full lips, the long curve of her throat. Every time I saw her she looked different. The first time serious and sharp. Then bright and playful while she danced. This time she looked gentle, sweet, peaceful.
She turned slightly and I jumped, prepared to hurry away again. All she did was prop her foot up on the windowsill, exposing the long smooth length of her leg. I wanted to stroke that leg, wanted it wrapped around me. Realizing the direction my thoughts had taken, I left, more turned on than I'd ever been. And that was just from the sight of her. I wondered what it would be like to talk to her? To be close to her? To touch her?
I shuddered in bed that night, resisting the desire to touch myself. It felt wrong and right at the same time. Maybe it was because I was pent up. Because I hadn't actually had sex in a long time. The next night was a Friday, and I let my friend cajole me into coming out with her, breaking my pattern. Deviating always made me anxious, but I forced it from my mind, trying to enjoy my night out with her. She kept directing my attention towards pretty women, a few of them eyeing me back, but all I could see were those smooth curves, that sharp face, those full lips.
I left early, depressed and angry at myself. I couldn't believe I was so attracted to a woman I hadn't even met, to the point that I couldn't be interested in people directly in front of me. The next night found me back there again. She was back in the windowsill, without the book this time. Instead it looked like she was painting her toenails. I wondered what color it was. I couldn't tell from here. She set the nail polish down and stretched her arms over her head, the baggy t-shirt she wore rising up and revealing a tantalizing strip of flesh between the hem and her panties. I wanted to touch it, taste her skin.
Again I saw her start to turn, to look out the window, and I hurried on. My guilt grew, and I decided to officially change my walking path. It took some time to get used to, but I eventually settled into the new pattern. Eventually the woman started to fade from my head, just as I'd wanted her to. That's what I told myself, and I was sticking to it.
At exactly seven thirty, a little over two weeks after changing my path, I started out on my walk. Distracted by my music, lost in thought, I didn't realize until it was too late that I'd taken my old path. Heart thundering in my chest, I glanced over. It was her window. My feet had unwittingly taken me to her window.
She sat on the windowsill again in just a bra, her eyes closed, head leaning against the glass. I thought she was asleep at first, until I saw movement between her legs. Her lips opened in what looked like a gasp, and my face turned bright red when I realized what she was doing. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be watching this. Why would she do this in front of a window? Did she not worry about people watching her?
One of her hands came up, tugging down the cups of her bra to reveal her full breasts, peaked with large dark nipples. Her fingers tweaked and played with them until they were hard. It took everything I had not to stroke my own breasts along with her. Her lips opened again, long eyelashes fluttering against her cheek. I could see the movement between her legs quicken and her chest shook as her breaths deepened.
Her head fell back and her body arched, and I realized I was watching her cum. It was beautiful, the look on her face, the way her hair clung to her skin, the trembling of her limbs I could see even from here. Her eyes flicked open and I jumped, turning back the way I came and heading directly home. I stripped the moment I was through the door and landed in bed, fingering myself until I came with the memory of her behind my eyes.
I was distracted all the next day at work, wondering about what I'd seen. Why had she been doing that while sitting in front of her window, blinds thrown wide open. Did she want people to see her? Was she one of those people who enjoyed having people watch her playing with herself? I couldn't deny that I enjoyed it, even if I did feel like I was invading her privacy.
I decided to walk past there again that night, unable to deny my curiosity. Would her curtains be closed, or would she be perched in the window once again, unaware that anybody could see her in her most private moments. Part of me didn't want to go back, uncertain what I would find, if tonight was the night I would be caught. At seven thirty I still found myself leaving my apartment, my habit too long standing to break. I found my way to her window at the same time I always did.
