Neighbor

She moved into the house next door last month, and since then, you’ve had no peace. She’s not a girl any longer; there is maturity about her—the way she walks, talks, dresses, smiles. She’s like ripe, juicy fruit, and you want that juice all over you. You want to be covered in that juice, to drown in it, drink it, suck it, lick it. You can’t sleep at night thinking about how she would feel. You don’t really know yet what you are fantasizing about. It’s all theoretical still, which doesn’t make it any less desirable.

It’s mid-July, hot as hell, which doesn’t make things easier for you. You keep glancing down at your neighbor’s backyard, hoping, praying, begging God, the Universe, or whoever might listen, to see her. God, the Universe, or whoever listens, don’t really disappoint. She’s outside a lot, scantily dressed as a rule. You secretly hope that she knows you are watching and isn’t wearing much, particularly for this reason, but if we must be absolutely logical here, she’s probably walking around half-naked because it is hot, and has no idea you are spying on her.

You thank the gods for the heat, for those flowy, bright sundresses that she’s wearing, with nothing underneath. She’s obviously not the most modest woman in the universe. Oh, those dresses and the way they caress her skin with every movement. You think this is the way to touch a woman, the way wind touches her, the way silk flows down her bod. How you would love to wrap yourself around her the way fabric does, become one with her.

You've lost weight because you forget to eat, and when you do force a spoonful of something tasteless down your throat, it brings no joy. You want her tongue forced down your throat, you want to suck on her fingers and toes, her nipples, you want to bury your face between her ass cheeks, you want to gorge yourself on her pussy . Oh, dear lord, how can you care about breakfast if there she is, sitting on the porch, in a light pink dress that is barely hiding her tits. She’s drinking coffee, black as night. Of course it’s black, for some reason you can’t imagine her adding anything to delude the bitterness of it. You imagine the way her mouth would taste if you kissed her now. As her hands move up and down lifting and lowering the mug, her tits with dark nipples heave slightly, and you imagine what it would be like to bury your face between them. That must be divine. You could probably live there.

Someone calls for you. You pretend not to hear for as long as you can, then finally must go downstairs, leaving the magnificent sight of your neighbor in all of her morning glory.

You spend the rest of July like this, desperate, hungry, permanently hard. Your dick hurts from jerking off. You can barely look people in the eyes out of fear that they might somehow guess your dirty thoughts.

You endure this delicious torture almost till the end of summer. The last week of August, Universe or God or whoever sends out rewards or punishments to horny men from this to that end of the world awards you another delicious view.

You see your flowery, delicious neighbor walking through the forest. She likes walking in the forest at dawn or dusk. The evening is fresh, delicious; it smells of late flowers and ripe apples. The mosquitoes are finally gone, and everything is filled with farewell magnificence and inevitable sadness of summer that must soon die, which makes the hot days and nights even more enjoyable.

She walks barefoot, her feet drowning in the ocean of green grass. There was so much rain this year that everything stays green and juicy, unlike previous years when the heat would cause almost every root and blade of grass to wither and dry. She’s wearing a blue flowery dress, very light and thin; sunshine shines right through it, and you can see the outline of her luscious, delicious desirable body underneath the fabric of that dress.

You stay far behind. You don’t want her to see you. You don’t want to talk to her. You fear words would betray the endless, bottomless desire that you feel for her. This would make you too awkward and ashamed.

She walks off the path at some point. There is a river among the trees, in the distance. You’ve seen her tanning naked there a few times, swimming naked. Her body, pale at the beginning of the summer, has turned a shade of brown by now. For hours, you watched her lying on her back or stomach, her chest moving up and down, her tits like two steep hills above the valley of her flat stomach. Then she’d turn over, letting the sun caress her perfect round ass. How many times you imagined the delicious glory of grabbing handfuls of that ass, tasting her, eating her, devouring her, making her wet, making her juices flow, mix with the water of the river. The thought would make you so horny and hard that you absolutely had to jerk off right there and then, in the bushes, watching her.

She walks to the river this time again. It’s afternoon, not enough sunshine for tanning. Sometimes she goes to the river to just sit there, all dressed and proper. But no, no, this time she only wants to take a piss, looks around to make sure nobody is watching. You hide. You’ve been doing this long enough; you’ve honed your skills; you could be a professional spy at this point. She lifts her flowery dress, spreads her legs and squats, no panties of course. You wonder at this point if she has any panties at all. You are close enough to see her naked ass, her bare feet, and the stream of her golden piss pouring from between her pink pussy lips. She pisses and pisses, a damn waterfall leaks out of her. What wouldn’t you give to just lie there, between her spread legs, and drown yourself in her piss.

She looks around again, wipes her pussy with a few leaves, then walks away, and you remain hidden from view by the shrub. She smiles. Maybe she smiled at you. Maybe she knew you were here all along.