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It was late—late enough for to Patrick feel confident he had the room to himself. Again, he found himself staring out the tiny window with its dismal view of the blank brick dining commons next door. With a wistful sigh, he lowered the blinds and crawled into his bunk.
Lying there that first night in college, it was crazy to think how much one summer could change everything. He'd walked across the stage at his graduation, sat out his prom playing video games with his buddies, and started his summer job as a mere boy. As he lay there, surveying his war wounds in which he took a pride no one else could ever really understand, he closed his eyes to relive the chain of events that had made him a man. Soon he felt a familiar stirring in his shorts.
The night it all started was beyond hot. The air had that heavy, beef stew texture that hung to clothes and flesh long after you stepped inside out of the murk. He'd taken a long, lukewarm shower to cut the shellac of sweat he'd accumulated since that morning. It was a Saturday in late June, Patrick remembered that much. His parents were sound asleep at the far end of the hall, his sister's scraping snores spilling out into the hallway, making him chuckle as he made his way to his room and closed the door. Having plans before he went to bed that involved some pilfered Lubriderm and a certain frequented website, he turned the lock and checked the knob before letting his towel slip away and taking a seat at his desk.
He was already semi-hard—eight hours of staring at Katie Ashford's ass in her black miniskirt had him primed and ready to go. He'd barely been able to keep himself from slipping into the bathroom to rub one out when she'd had to bend over and clean up a drink spill near the end of service. He knew he'd never get the courage to talk to her. Besides...he liked to watch. His dad said that was what his generation did best—watch, stare, imagine actual sensations and experiences.
All he knew about sex he knew from porn, all he knew about pleasure was courtesy of his own right hand (well, and that ill-fated experiment with the heirloom tomato his dumbass cousin Clive had suggested.) He assured himself for the thousandth time that things would be different in college. Little did he know, he wouldn't have to wait that long.
On that first night, he was in such a hurry to get down to business that despite his careful precautions with the door, he forgot his window was wide open. To be fair, no one had lived in the house next door since the Robertsons moved out when he was in eighth grade. There had been a real estate sign on the lawn for what seemed like years.
So he was quite startled to discover, as he began scanning through the MILF videos on his favorite porn site, hard-on in hand, the light flicking on in the window directly across from his. He practically fell out of his chair when he turned to find not only was someone there, but they were right in the window. Furthermore, that someone was naked. A woman.
A hot naked woman!
"Hooooly fuck, no way..." he whispered aloud, frozen in disbelief.
She'd left the blinds low enough that he could not see her face—she was only visible from the shoulders down. But what a vision she was, a sensuous silhouette etching itself forever into his eyeballs, the dark dots of her nipples and navel, her pubic hair visible only in the moonlight filtering through the limbs of the oak in the narrow gap between their houses. Her hands explored her jaw-dropping form, seeming to savor their scooping, squeezing investigation of her breasts, their course down her belly, lower.
Patrick shut his computer and crawled toward the window, peeking over the sill. He pinched his eyelids shut, shook his head. To his delight, when he opened them, she was still there.
He gasped as she waved, then pressed her hand to the glass. Before he knew what was happening, he was pressing his hand to the glass of his own window, the wordless communication from this mesmerizing figure making his palm buzz. He imagined he could feel the warm softness of her skin instead of the cool, hard, indifferent glass between them.
She gestured for him to step into the light. He'd killed his overhead light, but his desk lamp was on. He hesitated a moment, glancing at his door. Reassuring himself that it was firmly locked and that everyone else was asleep anyway, he stood and moved in front of the window, exposing himself to her. His boner ached with desperation for release. His mind spun—he didn't know what to do next even though he knew exactly what he wished he could do.
She let her hand drift back down her body toward the darker area between her thighs. He squinted, trying to make out the details of her fingers as they began to move among the blackness there, her legs parting slightly as her hand disappeared between, reappeared. He watched her stroke her pussy for a moment, unable to breathe or break the trance, hardly able to believe this was actually happening. Before he knew it, his loose fist had found his throbbing cock again. He began to stroke it in the same patient, lazy rhythm with which she rubbed the swollen, wet lips he knew hid behind that dark triangle of hair. He tried to imagine her smell, her taste, the feel of her lower belly against the belly of his dick as he dragged it down to do the job to which her fingers so diligently attended. Her other hand twisted at her nipples, fondling the lovely curvature of each low, plump breast, which appeared indigo in the moonlight. If he squinted hard enough, he could swear he saw goosebumps.
One hand wandered up out of sight, while the other continued to press into what he assumed was her clit, rubbing in wide, slow circles. He was jerking faster now, releasing tiny grunts of bated breath every few seconds. He could feel the sweat forming on his brow and chest as the tingling turned to a steady, rising buzz in his rod. His hand slid down the glass with a low whine as he lurched forward. He hadn't really planned it, but he didn't know what else to do—he let fly all over the window. It sounded like the beginnings of a rain storm as he spattered the panes with swipes and splotches of jizz. She was still rubbing herself, her hips now moving in rhythm with her speeding strokes. She dropped the blind but continued her vigorous efforts as a shapely black shadow.
Patrick backed toward the pile of laundry in his room, used an old pair of basketball shorts to clean his window, unable to take his eyes off the one across the way. He pulled his boxers on and fell onto his bed, still staring at the vague shadow moving behind the blinds. He watched as it leaned forward, shifted, as an arm shot to the wall to support it as it bucked through an apparent orgasm. She lingered a moment, heaving. Then she pressed her hand to the window again, like a driver expressing gratitude, and disappeared. A few seconds later the light went out. He laid awake a long time that night, staring out at the window next door, convinced that someone else was doing the same.
