In the Neighbourhood

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Chapter 38: At the Window

Stan squinted through his window, bringing his face too close and leaving a fog. With his free hand he lifted his thumb and wiped the condensation away. With the other he stroked his cock, idly, just to make sure it stayed hard.

He had been playing this game for a few days now, and he was getting good at it. Between nine and ten, Marie would climb the stairs. Stan would wait a minute, if he could, then slip out the back. He’d only been held up once, the night Jason was sick and Stan gallantly stayed up with him.

He’d look out for Darrell, then climb up the tree and nip over to the little roof outside the bathroom window. He knew now that as long as he stayed close to the house, he was invisible; it was just too dark.

Then he’d wait. Lisa and Keith didn’t have a set schedule; sometimes Lisa would come in first, sometimes Keith; sometimes they’d shower, sometimes they wouldn’t. The one constant—the reason Stan kept coming back—was that Lisa always undressed in the bathroom. Whatever else happened, he would get to see those big, glorious tits and the orange lick of flame that hid her cock-hungry pussy.

They kept the laundry hamper in the bathroom, so night after night she’d pull off her clothes, drop them in the hamper (or beside it—she wasn’t a neat freak like Marie), undo her bra (she had three that he’d seen so far, wire-reinforced to restrain those huge, soft breasts), and slip off her panties. Usually she carried a nightie or oversized t-shirt and put it on right away.

One night she walked in, already nude, and spent a wonderful ten minutes—or ten hours, Stan soon lost track of the time—examining her skin all over in the mirror. Another night was even better: right after she took her bra off, Keith came into the bathroom and played with her tits while he stood behind her and mumbled in her ear. On both of these nights, Stan came right away, then watched every movement until the show was over.

As soon as Lisa left the bathroom, Stan would hang-drop off the roof and almost sprint home. If Marie asked where he was, he would say he’d gone for a walk, but so far she had never asked. The night Keith had been fondling Lisa, Stan jumped into bed when he got home and fucked Marie without even saying anything, just giving it to her, hard and fast. She seemed to enjoy it, at least.

Stan hadn’t seen Darrell at all, and didn’t care. Darrell hadn’t ratted him out to Keith, which meant he was all talk. Besides, it wouldn’t matter soon.

That night, after he and Marie had fucked, she leaned her head on her hand and talked, playing with the light, downy hair on his chest, running her fingers through it and curling it around them.

“I think we should look at other places to live,” she’d said, all serious.

“Because if we lived on the other side of the city, I’d be able to commute to Halton district schools, and they have more openings these days,” she said.

“We’ve never really finished the basement”—that was just a jab at him, since no one expected her to lift a finger to finish the basement—”and we could move to a house more suited to your studio,” she said.

“I’ve looked at a few listings, and the prices were pretty good,” she said.

Stan knew that meant increasing the mortgage, getting all the utilities dealt with, getting his whole studio packed up, money for moving, repairs to the house, getting the kids transferred to new schools—

But Marie had a look that he’d seen before. This was going to happen. Fighting her on it would be painful and pointless. Best to swim with the tide; if the idea withered and died, then he’d have avoided a huge but meaningless fight. If it actually happened, and they moved, then every little problem and complaint and aggravation would be her fault, not his—he’d done everything she’d asked.

“Okay,” he said.

Now they were about to put a conditional offer on a house. They hadn’t even figured out what to list theirs at. Things were changing, wheels were turning. By Christmas, a new neighbourhood, a new house. New everything.

The light came on, throwing a warm ray toward him. He knew that on this side of the window, the light didn’t hit him directly. The other side of the window was the dangerous side. As long as he stayed a few inches to this side of the frame, he remained invisible.

It was as though the builder of this house had designed it just for him, him and Lisa. Would anyone else figure it all out, go to the trouble of figuring out this whole spying thing? Unlikely. He had the perfect setup. The perfect subject, too—this would all have been meaningless if it were Darrell’s saggy pig of a wife on the other side of the glass. No, this little flawless crystal of desire and fulfillment was perfect, as though ordained from above.

One week to negotiate the purchase. Three months on the conditional agreement. For sale sign up next week. You could almost start counting off the days already.

She was peeing. Stan stopped watching for the moment; he hated seeing her on the toilet, or anyone else. Marie had broken through this wall when she was pregnant with Nancy, their first. He’d be taking a shower and she’d rush in, apologizing, to pee because the uterus the bladder pressure blah blah blah. Marie kept it up, even now, oblivious to Stan’s clear signs that he didn’t want her to be present when he was using the can, and didn’t want to be in the room when she was.

The faint sound of rushing water brought him back to Lisa. She was in sweat pants and a t-shirt, and pulled the t-shirt off just as Stan peered through the glass. A new bra tonight, a grey athletic one. The was shapeless on her, pushing her boobs together into one big mess. It was too tight, too, just like all her other bras.

Stan’s pulse raced as she faced him, faced the window full on, to take the bra off. It stretched mightily, straining to hold back the tide of flesh; then one flopped out, then the other, ad Stan could almost feel the vibrations as they landed against her.

Even better, Lisa sighed and rubbed them lightly with her hands. Better to use a warm, wet tongue, Stan thought. I know just what you need.

He was too entranced to notice the heat of his own flesh, growing and hardening and filling his hand. He stroked it only a little, though, feeling—knowing, he was sure—that Lisa had more in store for him tonight.

Sure enough, she dropped her jogging pants and white cotton panties—yes, she really did wear those things, but he could put up with one flaw, couldn’t he?—on the floor and leaned over to start the shower. This was always prime viewing, the play of shadows behind and around her breasts, the nipples twinkling, the flesh of her backside stretching into one long, smooth curve from her thigh to her shoulder.

Lisa remembered the clothes she had tossed aside and bent to retrieve them. Stan watched closely and saw just a hint, just the merest glimpse of her thick, luscious lips, the faint suggestion of that tuft of sweet, downy, fiery-red hair. His hand moved faster.

Now she got into the shower, spreading her legs to show him her waiting cunt as she stepped over the wall of the tub. Her swinging tits, swaying red hair, the suddenly exposed cleft of her pussy—it was almost too much. He forced himself to slow down.

Besides, he had to shift around a bit. Since Lisa was in the shower, she wouldn’t be able to see hi,. He could go to the other side of the window and find just the right angle.

Lisa was either carefree or lazy, but whatever the reason she didn’t pull the shower curtain completely shut. Maybe she liked a little bit of fresh air stealing in with her. Maybe it was an invitation—I know you’re watching. I’m waiting for you.

Probably not. But it meant that from where he now crouched, Stan could see Lisa’s body, the water splashing and running across her smooth pale skin, the big bathroom mirror.

First she soaped up her tits. She always started there, running her slick, lathered hands under and between and around them, leaving a coating of white soapy foam.

Then her hips, her waist, her back, as far as she could reach. And her pubes, some care there to—

His cock boiled and raged in his hand. Was she—was she—Stan watched closely, to be sure it wasn’t just the angle, just a trick of the light.

No, she was really getting herself off. One knee bent, one hand working at her groin.

Then the shower head, switched to the massage setting. Spray everywhere. One foot on the top of the tub wall. Spreading herself to receive the hot, steamy jet—

Stan’s cum spilled out, coating his hand, all four fingers, and more, one spurt landing on the window frame, the next dangling, hanging from him, another, another, taking his breath from him as each pulse passed through his body and out into the night air.

But he didn’t take his eyes off Lisa. She frowned, gritted her teeth—was this it?—her tits squashed between her arms, one vibrating with a rare fury, the other gripping the flesh of her thigh so tightly that—

Yes, she was coming too, with him. Stan pulled a couple more times, squeezed another few drops of jizz out, thinking of her, how she would let him rub it on her, on her lips, tasting him just as he would kneel down and taste her...

He dropped to his knees. What to do with his hand? There was nothing up here to wipe it on, just asphalt shingles and flaking paint.

There was time. Maybe days, maybe months. In the meantime, Lisa, her exquisite body in all its wet, horny sexuality, was there for him to watch, to dream about. All his.

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