Author's Note to readers: This is a prequel to the other two stories about poor Timmy.
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Yellow eyes. Have you ever known anyone with yellow eyes? Except for Natasha Bodinski, I have never known anyone with yellow eyes.
Yellow eyes are eerie. Hers eyes spear me, penetrate me, render me helpless. Lionesses have yellow eyes. Surely some snakes have yellow eyes. Owls have yellow eyes. Predators, all of them. Natasha included.
I remember the first time I was captured by her eyes. Her Russian parents had just immigrated to the neighborhood. She -- their only child -- quickly began to integrate into the community. Her accent, rather than alienating her, made her exotic. She attracted friends at college easily, almost as if they were mesmerized by her ease as a foreigner in this country. Even my sister, who was in biology with her at UVM, became enamored with her. At the dinner table my sister gushed about Natasha's poise and charm. Whenever I saw her on campus, I made a wide detour.
Maybe some of it had to do with our fascination with Russia at the time. The superpower against which we had armored ourselves. The competitor we were taught to hate, to distrust. The grand USSR was hidden behind an Iron Curtain. It gave the country and Natasha an air of mystery. And here she was, not in our country by defeat, or to escape the ruins of her politics, but as if to come and claim our country. How was it that she seemed more cosmopolitan than we? Why did the friends around her, guys and gals alike, talk and act as if they felt compelled to prove to her that they were suave and sophisticated.
She jogged every morning. Usually some kind of tight white shirt, tank top or sometimes tee shirt. Shorts. Short shorts. Very short shorts. White, with the UVM logo in green and yellow. White sneakers. Anklet socks. Every morning. Punctually.
The rigidity of her punctuality almost scared me. It was a discipline to which I knew I could only hope to aspire.
My bedroom window in my parents' house faced the street of our quiet neighborhood. At first, when I saw her jog by, I just stood there in my room and watched, hypnotized to immobility like prey charmed by a snake. Then I began standing by the window, just off to the side and out of sight from the street. I waited. Soon, I began to notice that it was always at seven thirty. In fact, it was exactly at 7:36. And that's when I first felt a stab in my groin. That preciseness frightened me as much as it entranced me.
I don't know why it became terrifying. I couldn't help myself: I made sure to be done with my shower and back in my room, watching my watch until 7:35. Then I would raise my gaze slowly with trepidation as if looking up at the tortured Christ nailed to a cross. Sure enough, exactly a minute later, the crucifier would round the corner. The gorgeous Russian was on her victory parade down my American street. Her tits bound in a jogging bra under her white top, but bouncing ever so proudly, ever so confidently.
This might be strange to say, but it became almost claustrophobic. It was like a bad repetitive dream. I became obsessed with timing it. My breath would quicken as the time ticked toward the toll of her arrival. Adrenaline surged into my heart when I saw her come into view. The trot of her lithe legs. Her muscular thighs tightening and relaxing. Her calves extending and pushing off. Her arms slightly bent. And between them, her round breasts riding the rhythm of her rigid determination.
Surely you can predict what started happening. I set up in front of the window. Naked and dried from the shower. Bent on my knees so that only my head showed above the sill. It was uncontrollable. I was possessed by her command. It is silly to admit, but I felt as if I were a soldier in her army, whose bidding it was to stand at salute for her passing. Somehow I was convinced that other guys, and possibly girls, in the neighborhood along her route were being brought to their knees as well. Volunteering ourselves into the service of her command.
Shameful then. Shameful that what began to salute her was my cock. But I had no choice. I was not volunteering at all. I was being pressed into service. I had been conscripted into submission. I was mesmerized by fear and fascination. And both thrilling feelings gorged my saluting cock so hard, it throbbed.
All throughout my adolescence I had always feared that my masturbation was too frequent and urgent. I was always deeply shamed by the dirty, degrading and despicable images in my head as I pumped by swollen cock into my bed sheets. I feared cumming and having the stains discovered my Mama when she did the laundry. And so I taught myself to rub but not cum. I taught myself denial. And yet the more I denied myself, the more I needed release. I started cumming in my socks or tee-shirts, hoping it wouldn't be noticed and simply thrown into the washing machine. I would cum and every time, I was instantly guilty about cumming.
But this ... this horrifying act of stroking my cock while a women jogged by ... this was final proof of how disgusting and utterly out of control my masturbation had become.
There I was, on my knees, a soft tee-shirt wrapped around my hard, stiff cock, stroking while the Zsar of Lusciousness demonstrated her command over me. The contrast was not lost on me. She demonstrated utter self-discipline. While all I could demonstrate was my demonic, disgusting degradation into nothing more than a dick-stroking cum boy.
On one bright sunny morning, my timing was perfect, my dick hard with devotion. I was using a tee-shirt to stroke myself. I slowly slid loosely up and down my dick, sometimes squeezing my hand a bit so I had to push my cock in as if having the outrageous fortune of her pussy descending on my cock. The sensations pulsed through my dick and shivered straight up my spine. I watched her jog by my window. Such a perfect body. Her tits, her strong legs, her round ass, all now undressed by my lecherous eyes. I stroked and was planning to throw myself on my bed after she passed, pump my pathetic dick into the tee-shirt covered pillow and blow my cum.
It was at that moment, for the first time -- I swear Natasha somehow read my mind -- that she turned her head in mid-stride and looked straight at me. Instantly and involuntarily my face distorted, my mouth opened in that urgent "oh" expression which accompanies complete loss of control, and I saw her eyes. Her yellow eyes. Her strict, relentless eyes. Her glare hit me, invaded me, went deep into my groin and set off an explosion of shame. My cum spurted out and hit my chest and chin.
I fell away from the sill. Cum was spattered on my chest and stomach. I lay there and was too terrified to move. I was scared Natasha had stopped jogging and was waiting for me to reappear. That she knew exactly what I had been doing. I panicked that the doorbell would ring any second and she would tell my parents that she was going to call the police on me and have me arrested for being a pervert, a demented peeping tom.
I got a hold of myself and peeked over the sill. No Natasha. I wiped my cum off with the tee shirt and stuffed it under my bed. Then I glanced out the window trying to see if she was anywhere. Nowhere. I breathed for the first time, but my heart was still pounding as if I had just finished a 50-yard sprint.
All day I fretted. Maybe it was just a glance. How could she possibly have known what I was doing? But inside, I knew. Worse yet, the same illogical thinking that led me to believe all the other foolish things like being a soldier in her army and such... it was that deranged thinking which made me know she knew. And she knew I knew she knew. That whole double, triple, dividing snake of thoughts in your head that just leads you to get further lost in obsession. And obsession is addiction.
