I freely admit that I am something of a voyeur. Most men are hard wired to notice anything even slightly sexual, and I am no exception. Whenever I see an attractive girl, dressed alluringly, I cannot help but admire her and allow my mind to wander. I start to imagine what might be under her dress, her skirt, her blouse. Is she aware? Does she realise the effect she's having?
Harmless enough you may think, and I am probably one of millions of men who enjoy this, less than totally innocent, pleasure. What is it about a glimpse of underwear, as a puff of wind lifts a light summer dress, revealing a quick flash of knickers, or even a thong?
Usually less is revealed than on any beach, but there's something much more erotic about an unintentional flash of knickers than a full on view of even the skimpiest bikini. One is a display, the other an accidental revelation of something really quite intimate.
The variations are endless from industrial strength bras, to unfettered breasts. Totally un erotic pants, as in Bridget Jones' diary, through to virtually nothing, via my favourite garment, French knickers.
I think the reason French knickers are so high on my fetish list may be something to do with past experiences. As a young man I had a French girl friend, who habitually wore them. Long before she ever consented to full penetrative sex, she would allow me to slip my hand inside them and touch her slippery, secret, place; or foufune as she used to call it.
I rather liked the expression and use it to this day, usually shortened to fouf, I believe it is French for kitty. It's one of those words I feel comfortable using, in company, when pussy seems a bit gauche and cunt is just not acceptable.
On particularly hot encounters she would remove her lovely silk French knickers and wrap them around my rampant cock, then edge me towards orgasm.
Somehow she knew exactly when I was about to reach the point of no return and would stop her gentle stroking just in time, only to start again as soon as the crisis had passed. Several journeys to the edge of the sexual abyss would be followed by an accelerated charge to the finishing post and the inevitable explosive orgasm, which seemed to cause her considerable amusement.
There was something amazingly erotic about the sensation of having silk knickers rubbed up and down your cock, with the sole intention of making you cum, particularly while being allowed to play gently with her firm young breasts or her surprisingly slippery fouf.
I should know, I've shot my load into more pairs of silk French knickers than I care to remember. Actually that bit's not true, I really do care to remember, the sensations, and the memories, were totally marvellous, certainly if the force of the ejaculations was any indicator. After several edges, particularly when she hadn't got my cock completely covered, she would take me all the way, and I sometimes shot my load right up to the head board. That usually produced squeals of delight from her and a massive feeling of bliss to me.
Eventually she allowed full penetrative sex and got incredibly turned on if we did it while she was still wearing her knickers. There was something rather special about allowing my cock to find its own way up the leg of her knickers to the moist haven of her highly aroused fouf. The thought still turns me on even though we went our separate ways decades ago.
However, back to the present. The other day I was having a light lunch at one of my favourite beach bars, and watching the scantily clad girls go by in their lightweight summer clothes. The front row of tables on the promenade were in the bright sunshine and I relaxed allowing the cerebral cinema full rein.
There were the short shorts, with that crease of buttock cheek showing below each leg. What a great fashion trend! The tight white blouses revealing exactly the sort of bra the owner was wearing, and, if really lucky, a glimpse of areolae or stiff nipple erected by the fresh autumn breeze.
Then the day turned from good to perfect. A young lady (well they are all young to me these days) went by in the skimpiest, most diaphanous summer dress ever. The sun shone from behind her making it quite obvious that she wore only two items of clothing, the very short, almost transparent, dress and the most minuscule pair of panties.
She stopped a few yards in front of my table and turned around several times, as if undecided about something. These involuntary twirls revealed not only the briefness of her panties but also the fact that her full young breasts were bouncing freely under the thin material.
This short clip of 'voyeur's delight,' fabulous as it was, was about to get even better. Her indecision came to an end, and she headed to the table a short distance away from mine. She settled into a chair, with her back to the sun, and ordered a coffee.
She was now directly in my line of sight to the beach, and I had every excuse to size her up without being too obvious. Probably about mid to late thirties, long red hair to her shoulders, and a rather wicked smile, complete with dimples, which revealed itself while she chatted on her mobile phone.
I couldn't help but notice that the way she sat was, to say the least, immodest. I am sure her mother would not have approved! She sat, knees apart under the table, allowing the thin material of her dress to rise up sufficiently to reveal those skimpy panties.
With the layout of the bar, I was the only person able to see under her table, and thus the only person to benefit from the display. Since she was directly in my line of sight, every time I looked up I could take in a view of that wonderful divide between her firm young thighs, without being too obvious.
The old cerebral cinema kicked in and I sat enjoying a wonderful fantasy about what might be concealed by her panties. Clearly she had a well maintained pussy, that much was obvious from the skimpiness of her rather alluring underwear, if indeed such a tiny scrap of cloth qualifies as underwear.
Not a stray pubic hair in sight. Was she just tidy? Or if that scrap of cloth were not there, would I be looking at the parting lips of a fully waxed pussy? With her legs splayed like that the view would have been spectacular. Oh the joys of being a dirty old man!
At some stage I must have been ogling for a little too long, because she caught my eye before I had time to avert my gaze. I looked away far too quickly, thus almost admitting my guilt.
This was so embarrassing. Here I was, a man of advancing years, probably older than her father, caught red handed checking out her underwear. She in turn, brought her knees together in a much more modest pose. Oh shit!
She took a pen from her bag and wrote something on a card before looking straight at me, catching my eye, smiling and spreading her knees once again for just a couple of seconds before paying for her coffee.
Was she just humouring an old man; having a laugh? I didn't know, nor did I care, because she had at least taken my embarrassment away. She had deliberately showed me her panties and so I smiled back.
As she left she placed a card beside my coffee cup and set off down the promenade. I took the card with some trepidation and read it, half expecting some admonishment for my unseemly behaviour. It simply said.
'Tomorrow?'
I puzzled over this for some time, thinking of all the possible interpretations, and finally came to the conclusion that the only possible interpretation was, was I going to be here tomorrow?
Having reached that conclusion I was then faced with the conundrum of why? Was I in for a nasty shock from her burly boy friend? Or whatever? The more I thought about it, the less threatening it became, after all she smiled at me and brazenly parted her thighs.
