Youre Finally Peeking In My Window

I like knowing that lads are watching.

Knowing that YOU would be watching, young man, I selected suntan pantyhose and a flirty skirt, a stiff pleated microskirt -- one even too short to be worn by cheerleaders -- and THEY wear panties. You never could resist girls with short skirts, could you, so I'll give you lots and lots of upskirt views. That and my twirly spins should be enough to keep you obsessed with me. The hemline doesn't quite cover my bum, and I haven't even begun to prompt it to creep higher. Skirts always seem to do this whilst cute lads are watching.

But I have more in store for you.

Completing my outfit, the tied-off halter barely covers the top of my nipples. The open cleavage feeds those boyish fantasies. Your preference is for womanly boobs, isn't it, and the bigger the better. They capture your eyeballs and fill your trousers. Breast enhancement surgery has that effect on you. My boobs are extra-large, firm and round. I did it just for you, love. I rub my hands over them, biting my lower lip whilst looking straight in your direction.

How freely I can touch my sexy body. You wish that your hands were doing the touching. Is there anywhere on my body that you wouldn't touch? I know where you'd start. You'd kiss them too. Fleshy smooches quickly turning to open mouth sucking. You'd devour them, in vain trying to fit one of them in your mouth.

No need to wear a bra, not for our private performance anyway. I keep rubbing. They're glorious, aren't they? The nipples are hardening, and almost peeking back at you, only partially covered. Boys your age can't look away. YOU sure can't look away, and given the opportunity, you'd definitely devour them. You love me that much. But they're way too big to fit in your mouth.

Today, however, I only have an audience of one, just you, and I'm determined to give you a show nonetheless -- starting with seductive stretches, bending over straight-legged at the waist. Depending on the position I face, you're treated to a teasy, jiggly down-blouse view, or maybe more upskirt views. Standing on my tip toes and not knowing which is more effective, I give you both.

Over and over again.

Periodically I look doe-eyed towards the window and suggestively purse my lips, just as I do whilst I'm in the grocery store, and I see an attractive lad. No cucumbers to publicly fondle today, however, or bananas to slowly rub my index finger over -- to purportedly test their firmness. Both saucy actions elicit a flirty pucker, then a sustained glance his direction, only breaking off the soul-searching eye contact when I'm confident that a wanking session is in the bag.

Do the clickity-clack of my high heels on the floor as I walk away add to his predicament? Perhaps he caught the scent of my perfume as I passed by, or maybe the bright red lipstick fed his imagination.

I can get any lad to love me, but right now, you're my only voyeur, the only lad I truly want. It's just the two of us, love, me in the lighted window and you in the darkness, watching me. I know who you are -- you're the captain of the football team. A big strong boy that the girls your age all idolize.

Oopsie -- did my hand catch the hemline of the microskirt? My pantyhose-covered bum is facing your direction, fully exposed, so I rub it too, then I turn my head to flash you a smile. The stiff skirt remains turned upward and I have no intention to fix it. My hands continue running up and down my ass and thighs, again and again. I could rub them all night, and oh how you wish that these were your hands doing the rubbing. I keep smiling your direction and add a saucy wink.

This is a good time to touch my toes, then back to rubbing my ass and thighs, although what I really want to rub is my pussy. But I restrain myself.

I pretend to start removing my top, and in the process, display even more cleavage. I rub my enormous boobs once again which are now almost completely slipped out of the top. I play with the nipples, looking straight your direction, then readjust the top. Aroused, they protrude through the fabric.

The unbroken eye contact must be driving you barmy. At this point I'm pretty stimulated myself, but I'm not ready to give it up to you.

The chair is strategically placed in full view of the window, where I cross my legs and put on the tallest pair of high heels I own. Bright red strappy things, I run my hands over their pointy heels -- obvious phallic symbols that women like me routinely step on throughout the course of our day. I run my hands up and down my legs, then clutch my breasts -- tightly lifted so high that they practically spill out of the top once again.

But not quite.

Between the face lift, the tummy tuck, and breast enhancement -- it's only the latter that draws in lads your age. Like two plump melons on a hot summer day, there isn't a lad alive who doesn't drool at the prospect of sucking them. Leaning forward, they're now pressed up against my knees.

When I give a toned-down performance at a shopping mall or on a park bench, I wear large dark sunglasses and a much longer skirt, starting with innocent ankle rolls, only letting the hemline begin its slow and mischievous creep upward, over my knee and then to reveal an inch or so of my thigh, once I've established my target audience and I know that I have his attention.

Athletic young men who ignore ugly-duckling girls their own age. But eventually those girls grow up and get boob jobs. Extra-large ones that the lads love.

Right now, it's just you and me. Let's go another five minutes, shall we? That should be sufficient time for you to finish what you're working on. It's all for me, isn't it? Finally, you acknowledge me, captain of the football team. I idolized you, you know, and now here you are with your trousers at your ankles, idolizing me.

I knew that one day you'd love me. Or that someone just like you would love me.

Will you catch tomorrow's performance? A shiny form-fitting dancer's outfit that turns transparent whilst wet. No bra and no panties. I'll bring a spray bottle too, love -- you bring you, trousers at the ankles. Is it a date, I mean, another date? What is this now, our fourth? If we keep this up, we'll be going steady, or maybe, we already are. I mean, we ARE...and that's that.

You and I are a couple but I'm not quite ready to give it up to you. I'm getting closer, and I know that you love me. You're the only boy I ever wanted, and now you're all mine.