Neighbourhood Watch

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A Womans

Neighbourhood Watch I get genetics; I really do. Mendel, Paley, Darwin, X and Y chromosomes, DNA, the Human Genome Project, protein molecules that combine and define who and what we are; I accept and understand it all. What I can’t comprehend, however, is how I’ve ended up being 5ft 1″, with pallid skin, Coppertone hair and breasts that would shame a male weightlifter. How can I possibly be the pinnacle of human evolution? How can this body be seen as an intelligent design? In truth there is much I love about who I am. I adore being petite and positively bristle with envy if I meet someone slighter than myself. I have come to embrace being ‘ginger’, wear my hair as a badge of pride and regret that as I’ve grown older it doesn’t have the same vibrant hue it had in my youth; but the one thing I remain unable to love is the insignificant mounds of flesh that grace my chest. I suffer from breast envy. Take me to a swimming pool and I submerge my body beneath the water, hide my loosely fitting bikini top out of sight and with just my head left to reveal my existence, my eyes dart back and forth lusting after the full cleavages and water splattered orbs of flesh that strain at every swimsuit demanding release. What can these women have done in a previous life to deserve such succulent, gorgeous breasts? And what dark sins must I have committed in mine? I have a book; ‘The Big Book of Breasts’ and as accurate as the title is, it should really be called ‘The Big Book of Big Breasts’. Page after page of glossy photographs celebrating the sheer beauty of the female form; page after page of impressively voluptuous women; page after page of cleavages that I could press my head between and lick their sternum whilst they suffocate me with their flesh; page after page of huge stiff nipples that I could take in my small mouth and suckle as they quiver and bounce beneath my attentions; page after page of soft, yielding breasts that I want to caress, lick, bite and dribble across with my eager and demanding mouth. I am trying to choose the pair I like the most. I open its heavy cover and slowly peruse each picture. I run my fingers across the photographs and imagine the feel of their skin; I stare deep into their faces and as my tongue slides across my dry lips I try to decide who is my favourite today. Increasingly I am drawn towards the back of the book. Here the models reveal more than just breasts; here they are scantily clad to reveal tantalising glimpses of hair covered pubic mounds and the gentle shapes of swollen vaginas. As I turn the pages they are revealed in all their womanly glory, like Venus departing the waves; softly haired mounds contrasting darkly with creamy flesh, the gentle curve of a thigh sliding silently upward to meet puffed up labia and what, in my imagination at least, are parted, wet, pink pussies just aching for the touch of my tongue. I haven’t drooled over them yet but it has been an effort and I dare not touch myself as I browse wide-eyed and breathless for that would mean acknowledging a desire I can still deny; but even worse than the myriad of beauties contained within my book is the temptation of the real. She is my neighbour; lives in the house next door to mine, has done for the past six months and she is everything I could wish to be. Tall and slender with dark features and flowing hair that cascades across her shoulders, full lips and pools of eyes framed by thick luscious lashes that you could lose yourself in. She must be ten years my junior, full of the confidence of youth, unbroken by the disappointments of life and whilst Bostancı Escort I move through my days with lowered eyes eager to pass unnoticed by the world, she stands tall, shoulders flung back with her eyes flashing about her demanding attention. I think she is Polish or Czech or Slovakian or … see although we are neighbours, we have never spoken and whilst I am sure that she is friendly enough, I am just not very good with strangers. So we live side by side yet do not speak and though I know her laugh I don’t know her name. The heat is sultry; one of those rare days where you can see the air shimmering above the tarmac, where treetop leaves stand untroubled by the slightest breath of wind, sound is deadened in the heat and the chirrup of insects and twittering of birds is half-hearted. Everything is caked in dust and the paving stones, brickwork and the sun lounger I’ve been reclining on scald my skin. I am trying to sunbathe but can feel my skin starting to itch. My face feels overheated and the crease beneath my breasts is damp with sweat. Both my bikini top and the fine fabric of my light cotton skirt cling stickily to my flesh. With a sigh I clamber out of the lounger and tip toe across the burning paving slabs into the relative cool of the house, fix myself a cold drink and head upstairs to the back bedroom. This is the darkest and coolest room in the house. It has only two small windows looking out onto the garden below and receives little direct sunlight. I gulp down my drink, drop my book onto the floor and flop down on the bed revelling in the feel of a slight draft that seems to circulate constantly throughout this room. I shut my eyes and will myself to sleep. It is no good; the pillows disappear beneath my head and no matter how many times I pouf them the feathers always seem to be somewhere else. The duvet beneath me keeps collecting where I am hottest; sticking to my back and between my thighs. I twist and turn, roll over onto my front, strip the duvet off the bed and lie on the sheet but nothing seems to work. I am hot, uncomfortable and grumpy … and then she laughs. It is fullsome, noisy, assertive. This is no soft snigger, no tittering behind hands, no small smirk or girly giggle. She takes all her personality, her life, her joi de vivre and lets it flow forth in a torrent. It is as if she is challenging everyone in earshot to join with her in celebrating what a humorous and wonderful thing life is. I wish I could laugh like that. Her laugh rouses me. I sit at the bottom of the bed from where I can see out of the windows into the garden next door. There she is; bikini clad, bathed in sunlight, chattering on her mobile, eyes hidden behind a pair of huge sunglasses. In her right hand she is holding a towel which moves constantly as she accompanies her conversation with a never ending series of hand gestures. She moves around as she talks; laying out her towel, wandering across to look at some flowers, peering upwards at the sky. I rise from the bed and find a position from which I can see the whole garden; a position from which I can stand and watch and admire. I absorb her fluid grace; the easy flow of her limbs flow, the dainty step of her feet, the elegant swivel of her hip when she turns, the fluttering of her hands, the way she twists her hair round a finger when she stops and listens, her long slender legs, the gentle V of her brief clad pubis, her rounded buttocks, the slight flaring of her hips and the smooth indentation of her waist, her washboard flat stomach that rises up to her full breasts that jiggle and bounce Bostancı Escort Bayan in the confines of the taut fabric of her bikini. Finally, I admire her nipples pushing against the material encasing them, rubbing themselves back and forth eager for attention. My own nipples ache; hard stiff nubs of sensation desperate to be released into the fresh cooling air, to be taken between thumb and madly finger, to be stroked, tweaked and squeezed, to have nails run up their length, to have saliva dribbled over them, to be rubbed and caressed with flattened palm until they are shimmering wet and sensitised. Willingly would I oblige them but my hands are too busy elsewhere. Two fingers rest on my bottom lip, my tongue gently caressing their tips, my teeth running back and forth on my sensitive pads. I tease the nerve endings into life, play with them until I desire more, until I need to be filled, until I slide my lips down to the first knuckle and allow my stiff fingers to caress back and forth across the flat of my tongue to half fill my mouth. I love suckling on my fingers, they can be so many things; a flaccid cock in need of tender loving care, a stiff nipple desperate for attention, a clitoris captured sucked and swollen as it quivers between my teeth; and I lose myself in giving them the attention they deserve. And my other hand? My other hand is a tease. It is stroking the wafer thin fabric of my skirt across the searing heat of my pubis before trailing its fingers down to find the hem. Then, ever so slowly, allowing it´s nails to work their way up the inside of my thigh where it comes to rest; gently stroking at the smooth soft skin just out of reach of the bubbling wetness of my vagina. I want to make it behave; I want it to form firm straight digits that I can spread my thighs about, sink down upon and soak with the fluids dribbling from my sodden pussy. Did I shut my eyes or did they stare forth unseeing from their sockets? Either way I wasn’t as attentive of the object of my admiration as perhaps I ought to have been; for when my pupils once again refocus it is to find her stood staring straight at me, hands on hips and legs set firmly apart. As I watch she raises a hand, extends a finger and beckons me to her. Every droplet of blood dashes helter-skelter to fill my face. Blushing madly I step backwards, away from the window, my teeth biting down on the fingers in my mouth, the hand in my skirt twisting on the fabric spastically as I pray for the floorboards under my feet to collapse beneath the weight of my embarrassment and allow me to crash unseen into the kitchen below. I fall back on to the bed and bury my burning face into the pillows. Thoughts tumble through my head. How had she seen me? The room is dark and I’d stood well back from the window. What could she see? Could she see my hand beneath my skirt? Did she know I’d been staring at her? Does she know how I’ve lusted after her? And behind all the questions was a gnawing statement: “You’ve been summoned. You have to go. She’s expecting you.” I’ve always tried to be a good girl even if oftentimes I’ve failed and I had been very naughty watching and fantasising about her so it was only right that I went and apologised and … and what? That is where thoughts failed me. Should I be scolded and punished or should she rip the clothes from my trembling body and finish off what I had so barely started? Like a reluctant schoolgirl called before the Head, I tread my way with heavy feet and pouting lip back down through the house and out into the gardens. The sun still blazes far Escort Bostancı above yet my body is shivering and I wrap my arms around me for warmth and comfort. Nervously, I ascend the steps to the grassed plateau and there she is; laying face down on her beach towel, skin glowing in the sunlight and naked. I glance around and spy her discarded bikini off to one side. I wasn’t prepared for this and now I’m unsure as to whether to go forward or retreat to the safety of my home. My heart is pumping in my chest, adrenaline racing through my bloodstream; fuck, fight or flight? The concrete paving slabs burn the soles of my feet; fuck, fight or flight? I step gingerly forward onto the dry cool grass and as one foot unwittingly follows the other I quickly find myself at her side. “I wanted …” She raises a hand, index finger held aloft and my half formed explanation stutters to a stillborn death on my tongue. Her hand falls back down to lie on the grass above her head and I am left to stand and wait and stare and ogle. I could turn and leave. I could take the raised finger as a dismissal. I could run away and hide in the cool safety of my house but lying at my feet is a flesh and blood goddess and my eyes flit across her wondrous skin in awe. I devour it all; the lightly fleshed ridge of her shoulder blade, the creasing of the skin on her neck from where her head is turned, the playful tendrils of hair caressing her shoulders, the gently serrated ridge of her spine, the soft arc of her abdomen leading downwards to her rounded fleshy buttocks. I take in her slender arms, the wrinkled skin at her elbow, the mole on her left shoulder, the slight swell of muscle on her biceps, calves and thighs, the knuckled shape of her ankle and the light glow of sweat that encases her whole being. She does not move, does not speak, makes no further acknowledgement of my presence and soon I am wilting in the heat but I refuse to go, refuse to leave her, here I will stay. I sit down on the grass and tuck my legs beneath me. Stiff blades of grass tickle at my skin. Her face is before me, eyes hidden behind her pitch black lenses, droplets of sweat gathering about her top lip framing their full shape with multi-coloured sparkles of light as the sun refracts through them. I watch her breathing; see the steady flow of air between parted lips,the rise and fall of shoulders, the swelling and contraction of breasts trapped beneath her torso. My breathing synchronises to hers, my tiny breasts rising and falling in time with hers, my body mimicking the same soft pant with which she fills her lungs. She turns over. I try to keep my eyes locked on her face; stare straight ahead into the lenses of her sunglasses, afraid of what I might reveal should I allow them to wander. I can feel her gaze assessing me; peering behind my eyes to root around amongst the hidden secrets of my desires. My breathing accelerates under her inspection, panic gripping me by the throat causing me to gulp in air and for the second time that day I feel myself blushing. I drop my eyes and concentrate on my hands as they play nervously in my lap. I attempt to regain my composure. It is a while before I raise my head again and when I do it is to find that she is no longer paying me any attention. She is lying flat on her back, starring off into the azure sky, mouth parted to reveal sharp bright teeth and pink tipped tongue. Brazenly I allow my eyes to wander off her face to inspect the twin mounds of my obsession. Soft pillows of flesh grace her chest; so much larger than my own stiff peaks they bulge to one side and fall slightly outwards from her sternum. Each is encased in honeydew skin and surmounted by small mocha areolas and firm erect nipples. I feel my own nipples responding to the sight of them; hardening to push firmly at the fabric of my bikini top.

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