Mid-morning on a warm, sunny Saturday. Anna stood at her kitchen sink, dabbing washing-up liquid on a chocolate stain on one of her daughters' blouses. A metallic rattle and scraping made her look up and out of the open window in front of her. Through the wrought-iron gates of the adjacent house she saw her neighbour unfolding and positioning a sun lounger on the patio. As she stood gently massaging the viscous yellow liquid into the material, she watched the neighbour pull the outsized tee-shirt she was wearing up over her head. A wry smile flickered on Anna's face, her husband would have enjoyed that: under the t-shirt the neighbour was wearing a white bikini, well cut and obviously expensive. Lightly tanned already, her figure was arresting: taller than average, slim, yet with undeniably feminine hips and bust, and what Anna would describe as dancer's legs. Obviously fit, thought Anna, who didn't recall noticing the neighbour's figure when she had arrived; on the two occasions they had spoken - briefly - Anna had been concentrating on loading her daughters into the car for school, and the neighbour had been wearing baggy dungarees and jumper. The neighbour had only moved in on Wednesday; pleasantries had been exchanged along with vague invitations to come round for coffee. Now, with her husband and daughters visiting grandparents for the weekend - ostensibly to give Anna time to complete her teacher's chores of marking and planning - and her neighbour's appearance to prick her conscience, Anna resolved to make good the invitation.
The neighbour - Anna struggled to remember her name: Mary? Marie! - sat down on the lounger, leaned back and opened a paperback. Her head was now hidden by the corner of her house. Anna stuffed the blouse into the washing machine under the worktop then went upstairs for the linen basket from her bedroom. She returned five minutes later, tipped the basket of clothes onto the floor and began pulling out those she required to stuff into the machine. As she rose to close the machine's door she glanced out of the window again, just as Marie arched her back, reached her hands round underneath and behind her to undo the bikini top. Dropping it to the ground beside the lounger, she picked up a bottle of sun oil, flipped the lid and trickled the amber fluid down her breastbone and over her breasts. Fascinated, Anna stood still and silent, watching as Marie smoothed the oil over her full, prominent breasts. Sitting up - Anna drew back reflexively further from the window, a quickening pulse of nervous guilt - Marie poured a trail of liquid down her legs and smoothed an oily sheen over each in turn. She wiped her hands on the discarded t-shirt, picked up the book and lay back to resume reading. Anna stood staring at her for a moment, then went back upstairs to her room, the washing unstarted and temporarily forgotten.
In her room, she paused, then rummaged in her dressing table drawer for her own bikini, undressed and stood for a moment surveying her body in the full-length mirror: not bad, fit enough after two children she thought, but a twinge of envy as she realised that it had never been as good as Marie's. Ah well, her husband liked it. She pulled on the bikini and went downstairs again. Irresistibly, she was drawn to the kitchen, tip-toeing to her vantage point by the window - God, this is silly, she thought, what am I doing? Marie was still reading the book, held in her left hand. Her right rested on her belly and, as Anna watched, Marie slid it slowly up her chest and began to caress her right breast, gently squeezing it's oiled fullness through her grasp and pinching her nipple erect. Anna's attention on the tableau before her was total, all else forgotten as Marie's right hand slid deliberately down her belly and under the waistband of her bikini. She's going to! thought Anna. Stretching the taught white material, her hand curved round her mons as her fingers sought her vulva.
Mesmerised, her mouth and throat suddenly dry, her body hot and tense, Anna's hands gripped the edge of the kitchen worktop. After a few moments, Marie withdrew her hand, lifted her bottom off the lounger and pulled down the bikini one-handed - what is she reading? thought Anna - before pulling it off over her feet. Marie flexed her knees wide apart with her legs flat on the lounger and the soles of her feet touching, and her right hand went back to its masturbatory task. After a few moments, the book dropped to the ground as all her attention went to her pleasure, her left hand caressing her breasts, her right arm now tense as her fingers rubbed quickly, building up to orgasm, her body rigid, chest and neck flushed and her back arcing. Anna could hear Marie's quick gasps as her orgasm overwhelmed her, her left hand clutching her left breast tightly, with the fingertip and thumb pinching and pulling at the nipple. Her fingers slowed their tempo as her orgasm subsided, gently running her fingers along and round her vulva. For a few moments she lay almost still, just her left hand idly caressing her breast, then she began to sit up. Anna, panicked, dropped to the floor, below the level of the window and crawled out of the kitchen on her hands and knees.
Only when she reached the bottom of the stairs did she stand and walk shakily up to her room. Standing before the mirror again for a moment, she took off the bikini and sat down on the edge of the bed. She knew she was aroused, but was shocked at how wet she was. Sitting with her knees wide apart, leaning forward to look down at herself, she ran her fingertips over and between the puffy folds of her vulva, drawing the warm, sticky wetness up to her firm clitoris. Lying back, her feet still on the floor, she closed her eyes and pictured the scene she had just witnessed as she masturbated. Briefly she paused the rubbing of her clitoris to slide two fingers down and into herself, hooking them round under her pubis and gently rubbing with her fingertips before drawing them out to be sucked and licked, inhaling the sweet musky odour, then resumed her masturbation. Her orgasm came quickly, her thighs pressing tightly together against her still busy hand. Dear God but that was good! she thought.
She lay, drained, for a few minutes as the glow subsided, then got up and caught sight of her flushed face, neck and chest in the mirror. Guilty thoughts: how can I face her? Should I tell her I saw (no,
watched
!)? What if she does it again, Steve or the children might see! Does she know we can see across her patio? Why did I get so turned on? Why did I watch like that? The answer to this last came to her as quickly as the question: because I could! She smiled and went to the loo for a pee.
She splashed her face with cold water, dried herself and brushed her hair vigorously. Calmed, she put the bikini back on and went downstairs again. The neighbour's patio was deserted, Marie presumably gone inside. Vaguely disappointed, Anna remembered her forgotten washing. The clattery clicking of the machine's control knob as she twisted it to the programme irritated her. However, the gurgling of the filling water and the slow, rhythmic, alternating rotation of the machine's drum as it slopped the clothes into submersion was somehow comforting. She stood in front of it for a moment, leaning one-handed on the worktop, day-dreaming of the past events.
Later, after a lunch of cheese and tomato sandwich and a coffee whilst watching the news, she put on shorts and t-shirt and, with a deep, calming breath, Anna went round to Marie's front door. The door opened on Marie, now dressed in the tee shirt and bikini, a quick and pleasant smile and cheery 'Hi, come in' as she stepped back, arm sweeping in invitation. Anna went through to the kitchen as Marie followed. The kettle began to boil and Anna accepted Marie's offer of a cup of coffee. As Marie poured, Anna noted Marie's kitchen window: frosted glass! She suppressed a smile and took the proffered cup.
'Thanks. I just popped round to see how you were settling in.'
'Oh fine, thanks. Come on, let's go outside, it's too nice to stand in here.'
Images crowded in on her as they stepped out into the brightness and Marie offered her the lounger, sitting herself cross-legged on the patio. They chatted about the house, the previous owners, the community, other trivia. Marie was sharp and witty, listened attentively; Anna was impressed and amused, talked animatedly. The coffee finished, Anna, suddenly inwardly nervous again, broached the original purpose of her visit.
'My husband's away with the girls for the weekend ... if you're not doing anything tonight, would you like to come round for dinner with me?'
'Oh, well, no, I'm not doing anything. Yes, that would be nice, thanks. What time?'
'Mm, seven?'
'Fine. Black tie?' with an impish grin.
'Strictly casual! How do you like your ferret cooked?'
They laughed, and Anna returned to her house, closing the door to lean back against it momentarily, feeling the coolness of the glass against her back. The rest of the afternoon passed in tidying, washing, a trip to the supermarket for salad and booze, preparing the meal. Marie did not reappear, despite Anna's frequent (hopeful?) glances through the kitchen window. Seven approached. Showered, hair washed and dried, worn loose and fluffy, Anna stood by her wardrobe and mirror, bottom lip bit in silent consideration as she held up one combination of clothes after another against herself in the mirror. She settled on a soft, grey, calf-length halter dress and white sandals. Demure but interesting, as Steve would say, and she knew the interesting bit was because she was bra-less and the thin, soft material clung to her boobs and her – as now - knickerless bottom. The bell rang as she fixed her earrings, and she skipped down the stairs to open the door. Marie came in, passing Anna with a 'Hi!' and thrusting a bottle of wine into her hand, leaving her in a wake of exquisite perfume to close the door as she walked into the living room. Anna briefly glimpsed a long wrap-around skirt and a sleeve-less silk top.
'Come in' Anna called faintly after her, flustered by the suddenness of Marie's entry. Marie reappeared in the lounge doorway, grinning broadly, 'Sorry, I hate those awkward moments when you arrive at someone's house and everyone stands around in the hall while the wife tries to start to chat and the husband's trying to rip everyone's coats from their backs in an effort to appear welcoming, all the while looking at the wine you've brought thinking 'Dear God! What's this piss?' and saying "Oh, wonderful - you needn't have!". So now I never wear a coat and zoom right in. Force of habit! Still, some of the husbands just carry on and try to get your frock onto their coat-hook.' She stopped, suddenly aware of Anna's bemused expression. 'Oh, I'm sorry, I sound like that twit in Monty Python!'
