em>Editor's note: this story contains scenes of incest or incest content.
*****
There's a MILF lives next door to me. I am a 20 year-old just about to start university, by the name of Mark Johnson. I finished grammar school at just 17 with A levels and a scholarship and a university acceptance, but felt too young and immature to go that September. My birthday is in August so I would have been just 18, and I just didn't feel I was ready to leave home. Instead I did a third year in the Sixth form, which took me to approaching my 19th birthday. A 6-3 year means you cover much of your first year university syllabus but in the school methods you are used to with teachers you are used to. It's supposed to give you a flying start at university and time to adapt to the change in teaching methods from classroom to lecture room. After that, I worked for two years as a building site laborer which developed a good tan and muscles. So now I am coming up 21 and ready to face the big wide world on my own.
But back to the MILF. Her name is Mrs. Julie Thompson, except Mr. Thompson had long fled the scene with some nymphomaniac, according to local gossip. Mrs. Thompson keeps herself fit, but never seems to have any regular male friends or visitors. Rumor has it she enjoys a couple of cruises a year, which is where perhaps she indulged herself, and that she had sold his business and was financially well set. The point, though, is that Mr. Thompson was my mother's cousin. We say was, because no-one has heard from him in years, so he could be dead and buried for all Mum knows. Anyway, at the start of my last pre-university summer, I was not doing much site work, as I wanted a long rest and relaxation period. and to enjoy the sun, before all the studying started up. I had a good sum of money already put by for Uni, and my Dad's old car.
One warm day in early May I happened to look out of my window towards Mrs. Thompson's and there she was, swimming in her pool. Her shoulder length dark hair was not under a cap, and clung to her skull as she swam. Now I had seen her swimming occasionally previously, normally in very conservative swimsuits, but never had I seen her in a bikini before. On the basis that the price of a bikini is inversely proportional to the amount of fabric it took to make it - and I am good at Maths - the size of this bikini made it one of the most expensive ever made. Mrs. Thompson was full-breasted, as in much more so than Mum, and Mum's bra, I know for a fact, is 36D, and she was full-hipped as one might expect from a mother of two - neither of which was still at home. Her waist was pretty trim, judging from the difference between it and her hips. Knowing her eldest daughter was 25 and married, I figured Mrs. Thompson was fifty-ish at least. That made her a few years older than my Mum, but they were good friends, age difference and defunct husbands notwithstanding. My Mum is on her own too. My Dad, Jack, died around the time I left grammar school, another good reason to defer university for a while. Mum was still an attractive woman with a good figure and short, curly blond hair. Another MILF, actually.
Anyway, I watched Mrs. Thompson swim for the whole time from first seeing her to when she went indoors. Must have been at least half an hour. Minutes after she disappeared, my phone rang. I looked. Oh, my God, it was the MILF. She had my number from me doing some work for her in the garden over the previous two years.
"So, are you going to watch me swim every morning?"
"Er, I mean, er, I dunno, I mean, I just happened to see you for a moment."
"A moment that lasted half an hour, it would appear. Perhaps I had better start expecting you to watch me every morning, around the same time your Mum leaves. Is that why you're brave enough to watch me? Mum's at work?"
She put the phone down.
I was confused. Did she not appreciate being watched? Was I being told not to watch? But if that was the case, why tell me she swam at the same time every day? She had swum breaststroke and backstroke, so giving me a full look at exactly how much fabric was contained in the black bikini, and how much of her was not contained in it, so why tell me when she swam if she didn't want me to watch? Because of easing back on the hours laboring, it was only recently I started being at home after Mum left for the Doctor's office where she worked. Prior to today, I had no idea Mrs. T. was a regular swimmer at that time in a morning. I had only caught her on the occasional weekend previously.
Then, it dawned on me. She did want me to watch. She wanted me to know when to watch, and she wanted me to know that she would expect me after Mum had gone to work. And she knew I was home for the summer and not out working. And the summer was just starting. Some days, I'm Duh!
That first Mrs. T. bikini day was a Monday in early May. Tuesday she was out there, diving in about two minutes after the garage doors closed behind Mum's departing car. Today's bikini was the same size as the previous one - so far as I could tell - but a bright turquoise color. I stood at my window in my briefs, although with the height of the window, I would have just looked shirtless to her. She didn't acknowledge my presence. No waves or shouts or anything, just length after length, some breaststroke, some backstroke. I didn't do anything while she swam, but when she went indoors, I dropped on to my bed, shed the briefs and released the enormous hard-on I had acquired.
I had just come when my phone buzzed for a text.
"Did you relieve the pressure?"
I waited, then typed "What do you mean?" Even though I knew exactly what she meant.
A pause.
"Did you relieve the pressure of enjoying watching me?"
"Yes"
"Got another new bikini for tomorrow."
There was no need to respond to that, and she didn't send any more texts that morning. Only a mere 23 hours and a few minutes to go, not that anyone was counting, right?
Wednesday, she wore a white bikini. This time, I was naked but managed to not play with myself until she went indoors. Not playing for all that time was a big challenge, because whatever material this bikini was made from went totally translucent when wet. I could clearly see the two dark brown areas that were her areolas. And the small black triangle that was her pubic hair. This morning, she seemed to be concentrating on her back stroke, while I was concentrating on that dark triangle. I stood there, as still as one of those human statues on Las Ramblas in Barcelona.
Sure enough, soon after my internal pressures were alleviated, my phone buzzed.
"Did you like the new outfit?"
"Yes, my favorite so far"
"Couldn't tell, as there was no reaction to it."
"You mean you want to see my reaction."
"Why not? Encouragement is good."
A totally proper and correct conversation, but both of us knew what she was asking.
Thursday, the white bikini was back, and she dived in and then surfaced on her back. Today, she didn't do much swimming. She lay in the water floating as much as possible, with the two dark circles and the even darker triangle clearly visible. She was clearly giving me a show. I made sure she could see that I was responding to her very obvious temptations. I deposited a good-sized load into the wad of tissue I had pre-prepared.
The phone buzzed.
"I like a man who follows instructions."
Short and sweet. I didn't reply, figuring I was again following instructions.
Friday she wore the turquoise bikini that was not at all transparent. Nevertheless, I stroked myself to a climax, timing it for just as she got out of the pool. As I came, she reached behind her back and undid the bikini top, holding it in her right hand as it went back down by her side. Her full creamy-white breasts with those big dark areolas were suddenly there for me to stare at. As I stopped stroking, she squeezed and jiggled both breasts, then went indoors.
There was no text for quite a while. I was cleaned up and dressed by the time it came through.
"Did you enjoy the view?"
"Very much, Had a very good reaction."
"I saw."
"I take it you have relieved your pressures too? The cause of the delay."
