She Wants You To Cum For Her

By | December 15, 2010

I waited for her car to pass me at the traffic island. Her right of way. Me waiting. Giving me the chance to look at her and imagine what was to come.

I could see it in the way that her eyes were focused not on the car in front, but slightly beyond. It was as if her soul was trying to arrive home before her body so she could indulge herself to the full when she arrived.

As she drove past I knew, she needed to be ready for him …

Her flat was built amongst others on a side of a gently sloping hill. It meant that she was overlooked by those apartments in blocks further up the gradient. She glanced at her watch and saw she had time for a quick shower.

Ten minutes later she was rubbing soap into her limbs. She was not in the flush of youth anymore, but forty wasn’t old and she tried to look after herself. Boyfriends had come and gone, leaving her feeling that relationships weren’t for her. A couple of engagements, to the wrong men. Better to find out before you walked down the aisle, she consoled herself.

She tried not to think about it too much these days. She wasn’t actively on the lookout for a partner. On-line shopping for sex toys meant orgasms were only a few clicks away and the odd dirty movie helped that sort of release along. Sad? Some might think so but not her. She’d been lucky, never had a man treat her really badly, but then never had one treat her that well either.

Expending all that effort for a mediocre relationship seemed pointless and, well, she’d found a new game now.

The water cascaded down her body following her flowing form, full and curvy. Shower gel foamed and slid over her skin. Her finger followed her contours, neck shoulders arms, breasts. Nipples erect and grateful for the gentle squeeze she gave each one. Her palms slid over her stomach and down to her pussy moist with its own anticipation from within.

Her fingers probed her lips, parting and caressing them, enjoying the warmth and lubrication of the water. Finding her sensitive clitoris, two fingers enclosed and teased it. She thought of what was to come and brought herself to the point of release under the warm torrent from the showerhead. She stopped short, wanting to save herself for him.

Skin moist and perfumed, hair sticking to her neck she briefly dried herself and slipped into a towelling robe. She enjoyed being slightly moist, a diaphanous cloak of humidity. She’d have another shower later so her hair was left in damp dreadlocks across her back.

The curtains in the lounge were open, the wide floor to ceiling window. Looking out onto an inky blackness, punctuated by the lights from the other apartment windows opposite. All those windows obscured by blinds or curtains. Except one.

When she stepped into the room she was picked out in the ambient light filtering in from outside. All he could see from his curtain-less vantage point was an indistinct shape moving around in the blackness. She turned on the lamp. Its bulb was hidden in a large diffusing shade, suspended from an overarching arm. It created a bubble of glowing light that enveloped her and the leather recliner couch.

She could no longer see out of the window, but knew he was there, knew he could see in. That was their connection, a tunnel of photons reaching out between them. She smiled as she reclined on the couch.

She parted the robe to expose her breasts and the landing strip of hair leading to her pussy. She imagined him standing there, cock already in hand probably, stroking and fondling his throbbing member.

With that thought her hand drove to her crotch with un-ladylike haste, one finger dipping into the honeyed opening and spreading the slippery liquid around her sex in a series of long slow circles. When she was glistening with her wetness more fingers joined the slowly intensifying assault on her pussy.

He was watching intently. He had considered binoculars, but handling them while masturbating would have been impractical and that would have put him in the room with her. That’s not what he wanted, he was a watcher, a voyeur, the delicious decadence of observation without the complications of commitment.

Her form was generous but firm, he imagined taking hold of her and pulling her skin to skin. When he did that with his young bride he sometimes felt she might snap. She was twig-thin, able to wear any size 6 and look like she’d just stepped off a runway, but he was finding that despite being pleasing on the eye she had limited appeal in the bedroom.

His wife didn’t matter now, his attention focused on the hard, pulsing cock in his hands and the voluptuous figure indulging in a masturbatory repose in the window across from him. He could see her hands on pussy and breast, almost smell her aroma as she became wetter.

He began to seep pre-cum and with a flick of the wrist spread it across his purple head. She began to contort, back arching from the thundering orgasm that gripped and controlled her.

She loved this new discovery, her exhibitionist streak and with every new voyeur the orgasms became more intense. Her anticipation of the next “show” had begun to distract her during the daylight hours, always waiting for the next contact from her growing group of male admirers in the apartment block opposite.

Her thighs were slick with her climax, her moans turning into screams as she convulsed, fingers buried deep in her pussy. Seeing here rapture he sprayed his sticky white lust across the single pane of glass in the window in front of him.

He watched the light go out, cloaking her again in oily darkness. For a moment he watched his own semen begin it’s slow crawl to the bottom of the window and wondered when it would be his turn to watch her again.