Watching Aphrodite

Since I was 13 years old, the girl next door gave me fits. She was 2 years older than me, tall like her father, lean, athletic, but with all the right curves. She was on the high-school volleyball team, and jogged, and ran, and swam. Her hair was shorter when she was 15, but now, five years later, it was down to her waist, raven black. Her face was heart-shaped with that perfect little nose that everyone complains about Hollywood glamorizing; a cupid-bow mouth that always managed a warm smile, and bright blue eyes.

She made me ache.

And it wasn’t just her body. She was beautiful, friendly, outgoing…She always said hi to me, always treated me like a friend, always flashed me that smile that made me want to taste her lips and see if she tasted as good as she looked. The way she moved was…dynamic. Just watching her made me feel alive. I loved to hear her laugh, to see her happy. I loved the way she stood when she was happy—her back straight and royal, her face alight with energy, all her weight on one leg, the other lifted teasingly off the ground just a little.

It didn’t matter what she wore—Shorts, that showed off the soft muscular curves of her legs, tight jeans that highlighted the shape of her hips and butt, tee-shirt, sweat-shirt, blouse, or something more revealing; Sometimes, if she wore shorts or pants, I could see the top of her thong peeking out over the hem. Sandals, pumps, tennis-shoes, boots, Somehow all managed to accentuate her elegant shape. She always wore the same color of nail-polish, on her fingernails and her toe-nails.

Every little detail.

And when she wore a swim-suit, it would keep me up nights. The one time I saw her in a black leotard and panty-hose, I had to go inside and…take matters into my own hands. Sometimes I would catch glimpses of her in a sarong. What drove me crazy about the sarong was that I knew

exactly

how to take it off. I always wondered what she wore under it: panties? A swimsuit? Nothing?

Some summers she would sun-bathe in her back yard. She would come out in a towel, or a sarong, or a robe. Just seeing her remove it, whatever it was, was enough to set me aflame, even knowing she always had something on under it. It was the act of undressing.

I’d see her read, lying on her stomach on her bed by her window, her legs kicked up behind her. I’d see her sitting at her computer, stretching after a long day of homework.

But she was unapproachable. At school, there were few brave enough to ask her out. She spurned all of them. But she was kind, caring. She always loaned me a pen when I needed it, or gave me paper. I’d hear her laugh at something someone said, her girlfriends, or a friendly guy. I never had the courage to try to make friends with her, but on all the occasions we had to interact—which were quite a few considering we were neighbors—she treated me like a friend.

I made a little more progress for myself the week she sprained her ankle. My heart did flips when I saw her on crutches. My beauty was injured! She came in from the cold that morning, before school started, in her usual jeans and tucked in tee-shirt, leaning on wooden crutches, on her left foot a tennis-shoe, and on her right nothing but an Ace bandage, accentuating the curves of her foot like everything else she ever wore, and showing her pink nail-polish.

That week, I got closer to her than I ever did until later, by carrying her book-bag for her. She seemed relieved to have the help, and told me I was sweet. So went with her as she hobbled from class to class, answered friendly inquiries about her ankle—

“How’d you do that?” “Oh, playing volleyball. I landed on it wrong.” “Ouch. That sucks.” “Yeah…” “So how long are you on crutches?” “The doctor says another week at least.” “Ohh. Okay.”

We talked a little. She always remembered me kindly after that. It was something of a disappointment to me when she came to school without her crutches. It meant I had no further excuse to talk to her.

Her existence made me hurt. I spent a year and a half longing, aching to see her naked, imagining her showering, or changing clothes, or even just sleeping in the nude. When I finally got my wish, it was like a religious experience.

I used to follow her into the woods behind our house. That’s where she went jogging, I presume because there she could be alone.

Ours was hot territory. She would always work up a sweat on the jog. It glistened on her skin in the sunlight that filtered through the leaves. She wore short shorts, tennis-shoes, and a sports bra—little else. That sports bra looked so soft, stretched tight over her firm breasts. On some days, her nipples tried to poke through. The whole set-up made me want to touch them with the open palm of my hand, to feel them, to honor them with gentle massaging. I dreamed about it at night. She made me feel good with a smile, with a look, with a laugh. I wanted that for myself, and I wanted to make her feel good with a touch. I wanted her to feel the relief of my longing. I wanted her to feel loved

This all started when I found where she went when she went jogging in the woods. There was a little waterfall down into a clear pool that emptied into a creek. I waited, up in that tree, motionless for her every afternoon the summer she turned 17.

She jogged up to that pool, glistening with sweat, sat down on a log, and I watched amazed as she unlaced her left shoe.

Oh, that was how it started. One shoe. Then, one sock, revealing her perfectly formed foot and pink nail-polish. She flexed her toes, and her ankle, rolling it a little, rubbing her instep, and the ball of her foot.

Then, the other shoe, and its sock.

And then, she looked around furtively, and crossed her arms over her chest. I couldn’t believe my eyes when her fingertips flexed under the hem of the sports bra and lifted, slowly, revealing the soft white flesh of her breasts.

I was in awe. They were perfect. There was just the faintest sheen of sweat on them, and her tiny nipples stood out just a little, reflexively tense at the touch of the air, and the caress of my unknown gaze.

And then, her thumbs into the hem of her shorts. Down they came, slowly, revealing a pair of thong panties that matched the sports bra.

And then she removed them as well.

There she stood, naked in all her glory; she was relaxed, confident, strong as she had always been. Here, she was queen, and the world was hers. My eyes could not resist focusing on the curve of her buttocks, or her breasts, or the mystery contained within the soft silky tuft between her legs. I wanted to cup my hand over it, to squeeze it like a peach, pet it like a kitten, all while drinking love from her mouth in soft moans.

Into the pool. My imagination cavorted there with her. For that afternoon, she was mine alone. For that afternoon we were married, and we shared her world.

She never knew.

I spent many hot nights of passion with her she never knew about. Once I had seen her, I wanted more. I waited at that pool, and she did come back some-times. All the while, I planned, set up, worked, and schemed. I saw her sleep. I saw her lounge. I saw her shower. I saw her change clothes. I saw her examine herself in front of her mirror. I sympathized from my hiding heart when she was sick, wishing I could hold her, make her feel better. I learned the songs she sang when she was alone. I saw her in her greatest strength, greatest weakness, Happiest, saddest, most confident, and most afraid. I saw her laugh. I saw her cry.

I was sixteen when she went off to college. That night I drank much of the Bailey’s my mother kept in the fridge. I pined for her—my imagination, while good, was not as good as she was. How I wished for her.

I watched for her at family gatherings: Thanksgiving, Christmas, the summer, Easter—I was disappointed, time after time, not to see her. I kept my ears open though, and was grateful every day I didn’t hear that she had a boyfriend, or a fiancé. Apparently, she was staying as unapproachable in college as she was in high-school. Still…I longed to see her again.

And then, the summer she would have turned 20—I was 18—I happened to be outside raking the leaves in the 110 degree heat when a car pulled up outside her house. I had to look twice to believe it.

She hadn’t changed at all. Suddenly, all the longing and wanting came back to me as if I were dying of thirst and had suddenly seen a fountain. I watched with soaring heart as she stepped out of the car—first with her left leg, still in her pink nail-polish under her tan pumps, then her right; She wore a tight gray cotton halter-top, and I could tell by the shape of the confining fabric that she wore nothing under it. I could see the tiny bumps of her nipples, awake and ready. Her hair was up in a pony tail, her face as bright and happy as ever. She wore a pair of blue-jean shorts—I looked and was not disappointed—a white thong showing over the hem.

She stood for a moment, surveying the land she was queen of. Confidence radiated from her. She saw me, and her face brightened. She waved.

“Hey, Doug!”

I blushed. “Hey Sarah. How are you?”

“I’m great. You?”

“Couldn’t be better!” I said, very much truthfully.

She gave me a warm smile that brought more memories crashing back down on me, and went inside.

That afternoon, I couldn’t wait to get way from the family. I waited in the tree by the pond, hoping against hope. I knew it was a long shot. Even worse was the knowledge that I was missing out on seeing her shower, or something equally exquisite. Still, this seemed right. Almost ritualistic. This was where I lost my virginity, emotionally, this was where I would wait for her.

At about one in the afternoon, as the heat of the day was coming to its worst, my ears perked up.

What I heard was not jogging, but walking.

She had not showered, not changed clothes, she had just come to this pool. I watched as she sat down, and pulled off her left pump, pampering her left foot with a tender massage.

Then her right.

And then, I watched with ecstasy, my war-horse charging against the reins, pulsing with anticipatory pressure, as she peeled away her shirt.

She undid her shorts, and slid them off, standing for a moment in nothing but her thong. She stood proud, tall, like a queen, her eyes closed, her chest heaving with breath, feeling the cool breeze that gentled the woods today. She was humming one of her favorite songs.

Oh the anticipation was terrible. I wanted her to peel her panties off. It had been so long….

And then, she did. I groaned inside as she turned away. As her panties came down, the full bright moon of her perfect butt was presented to me. She stood that way for a moment, facing away from me.

And then, in a self-indulgent moment, she caressed her breasts, down her sides, and down her hips to her thighs. When her hands came up, they pressed her buttocks gently. She stretched, her arms up high, over her head, and she turned around.

Her eyes were closed. She was enjoying a moment of pure, physical freedom. Her nipples looked like tiny nubs of pink stone. My eyes went to her soft woman-hood, and I could not help but love what I saw.

She had shaved. I saw a slightly pinker tinge to the soft flesh there, and an inviting cleft that I longed to explore, with my fingers, or my tongue, or my manhood.

She waded out into the water, slowly. I watched as she dove under, and came back up, dripping, covered in a sheen of water that made her look all the more beautiful. Finally, I could stand it no longer. I climbed down.

She stopped, freezing, her back to me, when she heard rustling. She turned quickly, standing there in the water, only her legs below the mid-thigh concealed by the water—everything else on display for me. Her face was shocked, a little afraid.

My voice almost broke. I had to force the words out coherently. “Hey, Sarah.”

One arm covered her breasts, and the other hand went to her delicate rose petals. “Doug. What are you doing here?”

“I came for you.” I pulled off my shirt and began to wade out to her, feeling the water soak into my pants. I kicked my shoes off, somewhere in the murky depths of the water.

She backed away from me apprehensively. I had to admit, it turned me on. She stumbled, and flailed her arms to regain her balance, which gave me one more view, up close, of the treasures of all the world.

“What do you want.” She said, tensely.

“I want to show you that I love you.”

She cocked her head to one side. “What?”

“I love you, Sarah.”

She took a deep breath, a little tense fear under her voice. “Please, Doug, think about what you’re doing…”

I shook my head. “I’m not going to do anything you don’t want.” I said, truthfully, “I want you to want me as much as I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you. I’ve ached for you for 4 years. I’ve been watching you for two and a half. I’ve seen you like this, in all your natural beauty, so many times that I feel I know your body as well as my own. I can make you feel the love I feel. I can give you the sweet dreams I’ve had.”

She stared at me.

“I’ve gone out on a limb here.” I said. “Right now I am at your mercy. You know about me. I can’t ever watch you again. I’ve given up my view of heaven in hopes of even the possibility of a taste. If you send me away, you’ll take away the greatest joy of my life—you. Let me share that joy with you. Let me show you how I feel.”

She shook her head. I could see her thinking about it. As much a question as a statement, she whimpered “You…you’re insane.”

“Yes.” I said, “I saw the greatest beauty in all the world, and I haven’t been the same since.” I smiled, blushing a little at the situation.

She sighed in relief, seemingly satisfied that I wasn’t going to rape her. I almost felt ashamed, scaring her like this. I had dared to come into her private space, to see what she had shown no man yet.

“You’ve…watched me for two and a half years?”

“Yeah.” I nodded.

She looked away, plainly confused. “I can’t fathom that. Why?”

“Because I love you.” I said, plainly. “I always have. You—you’re perfect. You’re so strong, and powerful, and yet so sweet and gentle. Every time I see you I’m reminded of what’s right in the world. Every time I see you, you smile at me. You give a little of your joy, your warmth.”

She looked at me as if trying to understand.

“I don’t have much to offer you. But I swear I’ll give you what I do have if you want it. If you want me to, I’ll walk away now, I’ll leave you be. But you know me. You know I care about you, and you know I’ll do everything I can to make you happy. Just give me a chance.”

She looked at me seriously. “What would you do if you had the chance?”

“I’d make love to you. I’d give you all the magic you ever gave me, All the love, all the goodness, all the sweetness, kindness, and gentleness.”

She stood up straight and proud. She acceded her power, Aphrodite naked on a throne of the sea, and looked down on me, the worthless knave begging for indulgence. “And what if I don’t want you to make love to me?”

“Then I walk away.”

She stared at me. Her shoulders relaxed a little. She nodded. I was now her loyal subject.

I offered my hand, and gently, she accepted, reaching out with the hand she had been using to cover her naked womanhood. I pulled her into an embrace, moaning at the feel of her skin against mine. Her voice joined mine. My hands—ohhh my hands caressed the wet skin of her back. If they had had lips they would have kissed her at every turn. They were happy. I felt the soft mounds of her breasts press into my chest, I felt her nipples poke me. Her arms wrapped around me. She gave me a tight squeeze in the embrace. I stroked her long wet black hair.

Gently, I pulled back, looking into her eyes. I could feel her shivering.

“Cold?”

“Nervous.” She answered, her voice quavering a little. “I’m…I’ve never…done this before.”

I sighed. “Oh honey…” I caressed the side of her face, and kissed her, deeply, passionately. Our tongues embraced and made love to each other. Her breath tasted like strawberries.

My hands felt the exquisite softness of her buttocks, the luxury of her thighs. My lips tasted hers, her cheeks, her neck, down her throat to her chest, which heaved with hard breath and rumbled with soft moans. My hands traveled up her soft thighs, her sides, and molded to her breasts with greedy passion. My lips tasted the skin there. I let my tongue tease her nipple, my lips massaged it, and then, like eve in the Garden of Eden, I took the fruit into my mouth, and savored its warm softness.

“So beautiful…” I said, “So strong…I’ve always loved you…”

Not to be left out, her other breast yearned for attention. My hand caressed it, my fingertips teased at her nipple. She moaned.

“I see you out here, bathing, and here you are a queen….Here I see you as you should be seen…strong…confident….independent…”

And then her hands found my jeans. She undressed me there in the water, slipping one of her legs between mine, and one of mine between hers, intertwining us. My pants drifted away, and I was now as naked as she was. Against my thigh I could feel the warmth of her inviting softness. The feel of the skin of her thighs against mine was heavenly, more so the feel of her hip against my now painfully hard member. I wanted to rub against her—just a little was all it would take—but no. I had to save it for her.

But she was grinding against me, her muscles tensing with expectation. She wanted satisfaction. I kissed my way up her chest, up her neck, over her chin, at the same time as I slid my hand, down, down, down, and my lips reached hers at the same time as my hand found her soft cleft.

It surprised her. She opened her mouth in a musical moan, seemingly unaware of my kisses, only aware of my gently squeezing hand. I kissed her open mouth tenderly, letting my tongue taste her voice like nectar.

But my hand…Ohhhhhh…There is no comparison. The softness between her legs, her skin was like silk. As I squeezed, my fingers sunk in a little…I had found the doors of her temple, and my fingertips felt the hot passionate fires inside.

Her arms embraced me tighter. Her kisses came faster, more insistent. Her whimpers gave way to words. “ooooh Doug….Oh Doug…”

I guided her backward to the bank of the pool and laid her down gently. With my hands I guided her legs apart, and eased myself on top of her. She pulled me down to her, and we kissed, as I found her warm well with my hot shaft.

The feeling of her flesh around mine as we kissed, as we embraced on the grassy mud, cannot be described. She was hot, she was tight, and she was so wet. I felt her contractions; it only added to my own. She screamed as the waves of hot ecstasy wracked her body, holding me tighter, enveloping my mouth in hers. As her body erupted in the flames of my love, she moaned one long, slightly rhythmic moan. I was aflame in the heat of the moment, blazing, burning. With great relief, I emptied my passions into her. Her muscles tensed, pressing me into her, crushing her breasts against my chest, crushing my legs in hers.

And then, it was over. Silence. I don’t know how long we lay there, motionless, our hearts beating against each other, me still inside her, feeling her content warmth.

I rose up just a little, propping myself up over her, to look at her face. She had her eyes closed, her mouth open just a little, her breasts rising and falling with slow, even breaths. Her arms were flung up over her head; she looked so peaceful, so relaxed, almost asleep.

I couldn’t resist. My hands found their way to her arms. I caressed them, down the length of her arms up over her head, until I found her hands and our fingers inter-twined. She stirred in her rest. I bent down, and kissed her. She moaned softly.