It was a warm, early summer's day when the Browns, as I later discovered they were named, moved into the single-story house next door. Looking down from an upstairs window of my two-story dwelling, I saw a large moving van pull up outside, followed by a Nissan Rogue. Two burly workmen clambered out of the truck and looked as if they were waiting for instructions from the occupants of the auto.

Mr. Brown stepped out to talk to them, and there was much smiling and arm pointing as he appeared to be explaining where the possessions in the truck were to go once inside the house. Mrs. Brown came and joined in the convivial conversation before Mr. Brown searched for keys and went to unlock the front door of their new property.

There's just the two of them, I thought to myself—no kids. But then, from the backseat of the auto, out climbed a girl, seemingly late teens, perhaps eighteen or nineteen—twenty at most. From the ponytail protruding through the back of her baseball cap, her scruffy jeans and her oversized plain white T-shirt, she had the appearance of being a tomboy. Possibly, I thought, she was a little overweight, but she was still a healthy size, and she had a body that was asking to be squeezed and hugged. Whoa! Behave yourself, I told myself.

She appeared to be bored, as girls of that age often are, but was listening to music on headphones, and was paying no attention to what her parents were saying to the moving men. Nonetheless, she went over to her mother and stood close to her, perhaps seeking some comfort in her new surroundings. Then, she looked around, taking in her new neighborhood, before glancing up at my house.

She spotted me, staring at her, out of my window. Our eyes locked and, for a moment, I was paralyzed, like a rabbit in the glare of headlights. Embarrassed, I was about to turn away when she smiled at me. It was a subtle smile, almost unreadable, but it seemed possessed of warmth and innocence. Faint though it was, it was the cutest smile I'd seen in ages, and she displayed no resentment that I had been gawking at her.

I felt myself going red, but I smiled back before reaching up and fiddling with the blinds, in the pretense that it was the reason I had been standing at that window. When I next glanced down, she was gone, inside the house I presumed, but I was stuck with the memory of that sweet smile.

I was missing female company, after being widowed a couple of years earlier. Something about the girl reminded me of my late wife, when she had been a similar age. Part of me wanted to get to know the newcomer better, if only to receive that smile again, but another part of me—the saner part—knew that there was a massive age gap. I was sixty and she seemed to be no more than twenty. Even a platonic friendship was in danger of being misconstrued as the actions of a pervert. Yet I couldn't get her out of my head.

oooOOooo

A couple of days later the girl and I happened to be leaving our front doors at the same time. I was collecting the mail, and she looked to be going to the park, with a skateboard under her arm.

Seeing her close up, I felt she was dressed just as she had been that first day—scruffy blue jeans, a loose white T-shirt—which needed to be ironed—and a baseball cap. She was wearing no make-up, as far as I could see, and I got the impression she was not someone who cared much about her appearance. In fact, she seemed quite boyish, yet somehow that look suited her. She was innately pretty, and tons of make-up and designer clothes might have detracted from her natural beauty.

And then, as she turned to glance at me, the baggy neck of her shirt shifted a little revealing part of a purple bra strap. It was quite thin, confirming my suspicions that her oversized shirt was concealing smallish breasts, but it also had an expensive appearance and looked out of place, given her plain and cheap outer clothing.

I was about to avert my eyes when I glimpsed there were letters embroidered into the strap. I found myself staring for longer than I should have been, as I tried to decipher the writing. I may even have subconsciously lent forward a little to get a closer look—“CRET”, it appeared to say.

Swiftly, her hand shot up and adjusted her neckline to conceal her underwear. My eyes moved to take in her face, and she was staring at me. I felt myself flush in embarrassment, yet her expression wasn't one of displeasure or anger. In fact, she had that impenetrable smile which gave her a sweet appearance. She could give Mona Lisa a run for her money.

For a moment, I considered apologizing, but that would only draw attention to what I'd been doing. Perhaps she hadn't even noticed what I'd been straining to see, and an apology might only compound my embarrassment by her asking me what I was saying sorry for. I could hardly reply that I had been focused on reading the writing on her bra strap.

With a degree of panic setting in, I decided it was better to seize the initiative and move on. “Hello,” I said, jovially, “I'm Mark! I'm your neighbor from next d— Oh, God! Of course, you knew that, didn't you! Sorry!” I laughed, while feeling flustered.

She didn't say anything in reply but simply nodded her head while retaining her gentle smile.

“What's your name?” I asked, hoping to get a conversation going.

“Emma,” she replied, shyly.

“That's a nice name. How are you settling in, Emma?” I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. “It's okay,” she replied, with no further elaboration.

“Are you still at school?”

“No way!! I'm nineteen, I'm at college,” she firmly replied.

“Of course, and now you're back home for the summer vacation, and to a new home at that.”

“Yeah!”

“What are you studying?”

“Computer tech.”

“Have you got friends around here?”

“Nah, but it doesn't bother me. I like my own company.”

“Nothing wrong with that, Emma.”

“Look—I gotta go,” she said, holding up the skateboard and bringing our stilted conversation to an end.

“Yes, of course, it's been nice chatting to you, Emma, see you around.”

We went our separate ways. Clearly, she was not a great conversationalist. Maybe she found me intimidating or, more likely, boring, but I contented myself thinking it was most likely she was shy.

But wearing what appeared to be an expensive purple bra beneath a scruffy top suggested there was a hidden side to her. Then it hit me—“CRET” was part of “VICTORIA'S SECRET”—I felt a twitch in my boxers. That bra must have cost more than her shabby jeans, shirt and baseball cap combined. I was intrigued...

oooOOooo

Over the coming days, Mr. and Mrs. Brown were seldom seen and I was sure this was because they were busy inside the house, unpacking stuff and just generally turning their new house into a home that they could call their own. Emma, though, had either been told to keep out of the way or else had decided to keep her involvement to the minimum. What attracted her interest was the pool in her garden and it was not long before she was out there, either partially submerged in the water or else sunbathing on a lounger alongside the pool. I knew this because I had happened to have looked out of a back bedroom window and had seen her.

I should have given her a quick glance and then turned away, but I was mesmerized by her appearance. What caught my eye was the skimpy scarlet bikini she was wearing. For the first time, I was seeing what lay beneath her tomboy outfit. It was incongruous, given the boyish outer clothing she wore—not that I was complaining, far from it. The color naturally complemented her skin, and the bra top perfectly encased her pert breasts.

I suddenly became aware that I had a hand down my pants, inside my boxers. My God, what was I doing?! She's nineteen, for goodness' sake, I told myself. Reluctantly, I pulled myself away from the window, congratulating myself on my self-control. But then I was soon to return, and, before long, I was standing there again, appreciating her innocent beauty.

The next day, she was out at the pool again, and I was back at the window. This time, she was wearing a black bikini and was lying on her stomach. I watched as she reached behind and deftly undid the clip of her bra top, sliding the straps off so that she was lying on the cups. I watched, compulsively, as she soaked up the sun, while scrolling through her phone.

Then, after ten minutes or so, she turned onto her back, using one hand to hold the cups of her undone bra against her boobs. I watched, transfixed, praying that there would be slippage and she might reveal a nipple. Then I shifted my gaze to her face and was shocked to see she was looking directly at me, that mysterious smile again on her face. And then I realized she still had her phone in her other hand and, what's more, it seemed it was pointed at me. Had she taken a photo?

Hastily, I reached up and fiddled with the blinds, not that she would have bought that ploy for a second time. Then, red-faced, I looked at her again. She was still staring at me, with that same thoughtful, enigmatic expression. It was becoming clear to me that she was not quite so innocent as she had first appeared.

oooOOooo

I was careful to stay away from the window for the rest of the day, but the following afternoon I couldn't resist peeping further. Sure enough, she was there again, lying on her stomach in the scarlet bikini. I reckoned I got away without being spotted that time.

But that only served to fuel my impulses, so I was at the window again the next day. That time she did spot me, as she turned over, but seemed unbothered that I had been watching. However, I knew I had to get a grip of myself. I resolved that the next day I would resist all temptation to peep, hoping maybe, that she might even look up at my window and notice I wasn't there.

oooOOooo

My willpower was holding out. It had been a couple of days since I had stood staring as she lazed by her pool. I still wanted to look, but perving her was not the way to get to know her. I needed to bump into her more often and get to learn more about her that way.

But then, that evening, events took a disconcerting turn. I looked out of my kitchen window to see my other neighbor's cat about to use my flowerbed as its toilet. Wasting not a second, I tore out the backdoor and shooed it off. Turning around to come back inside, I realized that over a low bush I could see Emma in her ground floor bedroom, and, as it was still light, the drapes were not closed.

She was standing, fully clothed, in front of a very large wall mirror, opposite the window,. She was brushing her long blonde hair and then redoing her ponytail. Once more, I was fascinated by the sight I was seeing—the graceful femininity of her actions, nothing at all tomboyish. Then, astonishingly, she crossed her arms, grabbed the bottom of her white T-shirt and yanked it over her head, revealing the back of a pale blue bra.

I stood frozen on the spot. I knew I shouldn't be looking, but I was praying she would turn around so I could have a frontal view. My hand was inside my boxers, playing with my semi-erect dick. At that moment, nothing could drag me away from the spot I was on.

Suddenly, she took a small step to one side to pick something up, and I was delighted to be rewarded with a reflection of her breasts, sitting in two pale blue lacy cups. It looked to be another expensive bra she was wearing, which uplifted and accentuated her boobs, displaying them to perfection. My penis was now fully erect and my mouth wide-open.

Then a realization hit me. If I could see a reflection of her front, then most likely she could see a reflection of me. That's how physics works!

Just as I thinking it best I moved, she swiveled elegantly around, that familiar inscrutable smile on her face. I had been rumbled. All I could do was avert my eyes and closely examine a leaf on the bush beside me.

oooOOooo

This was a warning I should have heeded. Seeing her from my back bedroom, by her pool, was possibly excusable. After all, windows are intended to be looked out of, and I can't be held accountable for what I might see. But standing in my garden, peering into her bedroom window, while she was in a state of partial undress, was unpardonable. Would she tell her parents?

I made my way back into my house, unsure what to do. Common sense said I must never do that again but, the next evening, I was unable to resist the temptation of going into my garden again, at about the same time. I took a pair of pruners with me and, if challenged, I would claim I needed to prune a rosebush. Never mind that it was the wrong time of year to be pruning roses—I would confess to knowing next to nothing about gardening, which was true.

I positioned myself by a suitably located rosebush, situated just twenty yards from her bedroom window. The bush was overgrown, meaning it was genuinely in need of pruning, but more importantly it provided some cover. I could peer through the foliage but hopefully would remain partially hidden from her view should she happen to look out.

Amazingly, she was there, in her room, right next to the window, and I could see her top half. She had her back to me, but she was naked from the waist up, save for a pale green bra.

I swapped the pruners from my right hand to my left, solely so I could play with myself with my right hand. In no time at all I was fully erect, and I became aware of precum wetting the head of my penis. I was fondling myself and was not far from climaxing. It was like I was a teenager again.

I watched as she stood very still with her back to me. Then, her hands reached behind her back and grabbed the backstrap of her bra. My God, she was going to undo it!

But, having held me in suspense, she dropped her hands. Her bra was staying on, at least for the time being. Her right hand picked something up from the windowsill behind her.

I kept watching her, totally engrossed. It never occurred to me for a moment to query why she was standing there. People don't stand stationary for that long, with their backs to a window, especially when they are semi-naked. But I was too absorbed in observing and self-pleasuring to think it through.

Then, with lightning speed, she pivoted around and was now facing me. I had the full view of her breasts, encased in what was another surprisingly sexy bra.

Once more, she had caught me. Sure enough, I was partially obscured by the bush, but she could plainly see I was there. I forced my eyes to move up from her breasts to her face and she was staring straight at me—with that strange smile she had. In her hand was her phone and it was pointed at me.

I was praying that a sinkhole would appear. With my right hand still inside my boxers, I pointlessly held my pruners up with left hand, while putting on a fake, rather terrified, smile. “I'm gardening,” I mouthed, before snipping off a branch of the rosebush.

I then shamefacedly retreated back to my house, thinking to myself, how did she know I would be spying on her? How long had she stood at that window for, waiting for me to appear, not knowing for certain I would?

There was an element of mystique to this young minx, which only made me more determined to learn more about her.

oooOOooo

The next day I got an answer to my question. I'd seen that she had left her house, carrying her skateboard, so I took the opportunity of venturing into my back garden, seeing if I could find any clue as to how she knew I would be watching her. It didn't take long to find. Halfway down the garden, fixed to the top of a wooden fence post separating her garden from mine, was a small camera, and it was pointing at my backdoor.

I deduced that it had picked up my movements as I had left the house the previous evening, sending a notification to her phone. She would have been waiting for that, and she'd immediately responded by removing her top and standing with her back to the window.

It was fiendish and it was cunning. Hats off to her. She was clever and I remembered that she was studying computer technology at college.

Of course, she would now have picked me up standing next to the camera, so what would her next move be?

oooOOooo

The following morning, I bumped into Mr. Brown as we were both leaving the house together. We introduced ourselves to one another, and I learnt his name was Grant. He seemed a friendly guy and we got chatting.

“So, are you settling in all right?” I asked.

He chuckled, “You probably know what it's like, Mark, the unpacking never ends. I reckoned we'll still have unopened boxes hanging around in five years' time!”

“Yeah, I know what you mean, I've got some like that,” I grinned.

“But it's back to work for Martha and me tomorrow. Back to the coalface, so any further sorting out will have to wait.”

“Emma? She'll be home alone?” I enquired, wondering if I'd phrased it so it didn't sound pervy.

Grant laughed again. “It's how she likes it. She enjoys her own company. She's a bit nerdy so she keeps herself occupied.”

“She's no boyfriend, then?”

“Nah, she seems to have no interest in boys—or girls, for that matter—in case you were wondering,” he sniggered.

“She must have a lot of young admirers, though. She seems so sweet and good natured.”

“She has her good days,” he joked, rolling his eyes. “Look, let's swap phone numbers and email addresses. It's always useful for neighbors to be able to contact one another.”

oooOOooo

Later that afternoon, there was a notification on my phone. An email had arrived from an address I didn't recognize and which gave no clue as the name of the sender, who was simply identifying themselves as “Anon”.

There was no message in the body of the email, just a title line that read, “I don't mind you watching... 8 PM tonight.”

My stomach churned over as I read those words. The sender had to be Emma, yet she had not identified herself as such. And where did she get my email address? Presumably, from her dad, but how? Did he know? Probably not.

I sent a reply, agreeing to be there, but a few minutes later an automated response came saying “This mailbox does not receive messages.” It seemed she had set things up so she could send emails, but I could not reply—she was in charge of the communications.

For the rest of the day, I couldn't relax, excitedly anticipating what would happen that evening. I thought masturbating might relieve my anxiety, but, if anything, it made it worse. By eight o'clock, as I left my backdoor to enter the garden, I was a bag of nerves.

I walked to the rose bush and turned around to look towards her bedroom window. Her drapes were closed. Had she tricked me? Was she making a fool of me?

No! As I stared at the window, wondering what to do, so the two drapes very slowly began to open, one going to the left and the other to the right. They were being remotely operated, just like theater curtains. As a gap appeared in the middle, so there she was, standing on a chair, facing out and reaching up to the rail supporting the drapes, as if she were making some adjustment to the operating mechanism.

The scene would have been innocent enough except she was dressed only in a pink bra with matching satin panties. She didn't look out of the window, instead focusing all of her attention on the rail. Yet her face bore her enchanting smile, telling me she was aware of my presence.

My eyes were glued to the vision in front of me, barely twenty yards away. Her bra, lacy with a frilly edge around the cups, perfectly encased her firm young breasts. Her panties were a tight fit, and I could swear that there was evidence of a camel toe.

I shoved a hand into my boxers, and I fondled a growing erection. She was teasing me, but the show only went on for a minute or so before she pressed a button on a remote control in her hand, and the drapes proceeded to slowly close, gradually concealing her from view.

I stood there for a couple more minutes, hoping there would be an encore, but there wasn't. My penis was still erect, so I made my way back inside my house, intent on self-pleasuring for the second time that day.

oooOOooo

The next morning our paths crossed as we both left the house together, she to the park, and me to the mailbox.

“Hello, Emma,” I said, a little nervously.

“Hi,” she replied.

“Er... thank you,” I added.

“What?” she answered, her eyes screwed up, as if she genuinely didn't know what I was referring to.

“Er... you know... last night... hmm?”

She shook her head. “No, I don't know what you're talking about. See you around, Mark.” With a shrug of her shoulders, she was gone.

oooOOooo

I reflected on what she had said—or rather what she had not said. Was she regretting what she did, or was she simply protecting herself so that if her parents were to find out, then she would claim she had been fixing the drapes and had no idea she was being watched?

If the latter, then she was again showing how wily she could be. I would be labelled a voyeur while she, at most, would be considered naïve and unwise to the ways of the world... and to the perverts who inhabit that world.

oooOOooo

Her next move came later the same day. A ping informed me of another email from “Anon”. Again, there was no text in the body of the email, just a title line which was “I saw you playing with yourself...”

My God! Although she'd not looked in my direction, she had picked up on me with my hand down my pants. Perhaps another hidden camera? As I pondered how sly she was, another email arrived—“Bag outside front door...”

I went to the door and, sure enough, lying outside was a little plastic bag. I picked it up and took it into the house. It was very light, but there was something soft inside.

With some trepidation, I stared in, and, with trembling fingers, extracted a pair of cotton panties in a bikini style. They were pink with a black lace trim and a small black bow on the waistline. On the front was a colorful image of Minnie Mouse.

Another email came: “They're for you... I bought them... I wore them overnight... in bed...”

I lifted them up to my nose and inhaled. Sure enough, there was the essence of girl. My penis started throbbing.

A further email pinged: “You owe me $5...”

Then: “They're baggy on me... they'll be tight on you...”

My hands were now shaking. Her emails were succinct, but the messages were clear. She wanted me to pay for them and put them on!

I went upstairs with the panties, stripped off and pulled them up. Emma was right. They were a tight fit, and the elastic was digging in, yet the soft feel of the cotton served to further strengthen my erection. I was also acutely aware that I had on something she had been wearing, and the intimacy was not lost on me.

I was fully erect and quickly discovered my manhood was too big to fit inside the panties, so the head was sticking obscenely out of the waistband.

Another email: “Your turn... Back bedroom window... NOW!”

Her tone was assertive. She had displayed herself to me the previous evening, and now it was my turn to exhibit myself to her. I hesitated for a minute, wondering if this was sensible. Obviously, no way was it sensible, but could I bring myself to do it?

Another email: “NOW... I said NOW!!”

She was becoming impatient, perhaps understanding that the more I procrastinated, the more chance of common-sense prevailing and the less chance of me complying. She was striking while the iron was hot, or, to put it another way, while I was highly excited.

I went to the window and looked out. Sure enough, there she was in her back garden, by the pool, looking up at me, that faint, unreadable smile fixed across her face. In her hands was a pair of binoculars which she lifted to her eyes and pointed at me, undoubtedly focussing the lens on my erection sticking out of her panties. Unlike her, being tall, I did not need to stand on a chair to be fully exposed.

She put the binoculars down, picked up her phone and typed. An instant later the message arrived: “Cute...” Then, without looking up again, she walked away, back into her house.

oooOOooo

I didn't see her or hear from her for a couple of days but then, looking out of my front window, I saw her coming home with her skateboard. Not wasting a moment, I stepped outside using the usual pretext of checking my mailbox.

She was wearing her characteristic clothing of scruffy jeans, oversized T-shirt and a baseball cap, yet I was as sure as I could be that, beneath that plain exterior, she was wearing the most gorgeous bra and panties.

“Oh! Hello, Emma,” I said, trying to sound surprised at seeing her.

“Hi,” she replied, indifferently.

“What have you been up to?” I asked. The question was open to different interpretations, and I was keen to discover how she would answer.

“Skateboarding,” she replied, holding up her board, as if I'd not seen it already.

“Nothing else?”

“No! No money... broke!”

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.”

“You don't fancy lending me some, do you?” she asked, without a moment's hesitation. She looked me in the eyes with her trademark unfathomable smile.

“Er? What would you do with it?”

“I don't know... something entertaining, I suppose. I need excitement.” She put more stress on that final word than on any other word she had ever spoken to me. Was she blackmailing me? Or was she simply offering more “excitement” if I funded it.

“Erm... okay. You must get bored being home on your own, so I'll... er... I'll lend you $25 to pay for some excitement.”

“You already owe me $5,” she added, without qualifying what for, but we both knew it was for the cotton panties.

“Er... yes, I do.”

I reached into my back pocket, pulled out some bills and counted out $30. She took them off me, nodded and then walked to her front door, leaving me standing, feeling bewildered, but a little aroused.

oooOOooo

All was quiet for a couple of days and then an email arrived from “Anon”—“Parents away... 8 PM... come round back... be right outside my window...”

Reading this message immediately caused me to become aroused. I couldn't wait for the hours to pass.

I made my way to the back of her house to be there just before the stated time and positioned myself directly outside her bedroom window. It was still daylight, but her drapes were closed, yet I was convinced they would open dead on the hour.

And, sure enough, as my watch told me it was 8 PM, the drapes slowly parted, revealing Emma's room, and there she was. Dressed simply in a leopard skin patterned bra and matching panties, she was sitting just feet away from me, on an office chair angled slightly so her line of sight was not directly at me. Her face bore her familiar inscrutable smile.

Staring at her, I was aware of my penis waking up and I thrust a hand inside to unsnag it from my boxers. I watched, engrossed, as she slid her right hand down inside her panties and began playing with herself, fingering her labia and clit, I assumed. I could tell from the little wriggles she was giving that she was hitting the right spot. Then I noticed that her nipples had become erect and were pushing against the smooth fabric of her bra.

Her caressing continued while I gazed on in an almost hypnotic state. As the sensations began to overwhelm her, her eyes clamped shut and her stroking of her private region became more intense. Soon, I was aware of her mouthing something, inaudible to me, as her state of arousal mounted. The hand that wasn't in her panties, burrowed its way inside her bra and began manipulating an engorged nipple.

My own fondling was increasing in pace with her. I could tell she was approaching the point of no return and suddenly she let out a scream so loud that I could hear it through the double glazing. Her back arched rigid while her body shook. All the time, she kept her manipulations going.

Finally, she came down from her crescendo. She withdrew her hand from inside her panties and held her fingers close to her face. They were glistening from her juices and then she seductively inserted two of them into her mouth and provocatively sucked.

With that, she withdrew her other hand from inside her bra and picked up a remote control. Seconds later the drapes began to close—the show was over.

I had just stopped making a fool of myself by climaxing outside her window, but I returned home and masturbated to the erotic imaginary now burnt into my brain.

oooOOooo

There was no communications from her for a couple of days and I wondered if she had decided that masturbating in front of me had been a step too far and she had now ended her little game. Nor did I see her enter or exit her house so there was no opportunity for me to coincidently leave mine at the same time.

If contact was to resume, it had to come from her. And it did, very late one afternoon! There was a ping on my phone and I glanced down to see a message from “Anon”: “All deliveries to YOUR house...”

It made no sense. Had I missed something, such as an earlier email? I checked and, no, I hadn't.

As I was trying to figure out what was going on, another email arrived. This was a longer one, with text in the body as well as in the title line. The title read “I would look nice in these...” and the body had an Amazon link, beneath which were some numbers "10 36B". These had to be sizes. What else could they be?

I clicked on the link, which revealed an expensive matching set of bra and panties in mauve with purple edging. The bra had lacy cups supported by delicate straps and a thin back band, while the panties were satin and styled as a thong.

I could feel my penis waking up as I pictured Emma in this lingerie, but my daydream was interrupted by another message: “Next day delivery... before 1 PM TOMORROW...”

She was cunningly piling on the pressure, giving me no time to decide the pros and cons of a sixty-year-old man buying racy lingerie for a nineteen-year-old girl. I looked at the website and it said I would have to order within five minutes to have the goods delivered by 1 PM the following day.

Nervously, I selected size 10 panties and a 36B bra and completed the transaction.

oooOOooo

I didn't sleep much that night, thinking through what I had done and what she intended to do with the lingerie.

It arrived around 11 AM and she must have been watching for an Amazon delivery truck because, before I had even examined the package, an email arrived: “Remove contents... place in plain bag... drop over fence...”

I opened the parcel and the sight and feel of the lingerie exceeded the thrill of seeing the images online. The bra and panties were so delicate, and light, and sheer... Their soft, satiny feel set my penis pulsing. I was entranced and couldn't stop holding and feeling the garments.

“Where's the bag?” Another message pinged into my inbox. She was getting irritated, so I quickly found a plain plastic bag, carefully placed the two items inside, and then went into the back garden and released them over the fence.

oooOOooo

There was nothing more from her that day. I kept an eye on my phone and monitored her driveway. I was becoming obsessed with her and she, being fully aware of that, was teasing me.

The next morning, I heard her front door slam, unnecessarily loudly. I looked out of the front window, and she was in the driveway. This was my moment to check the mailbox.

I rushed outside, feigning surprise. “Oh, hello, Emma, how are things?”

“Okay.”

“You going skateboarding?”

Emma spread her arms wide, displaying her indecipherable smile, showing she was empty handed. “Stupid me,” I smiled, shaking my head, “No skateboard.”

She was dressed in her signature outfit of blue jeans, unironed, wide-necked T-shirt and baseball cap. But, as she spread her arms, through the gaping neckline of her T-shirt, I caught sight of an inch of her bra strap.

It was mauve with purple edging—it was what I had bought her and given her the previous day.

I was bubbling over with excitement, but what could I say?

“Done anything nice lately? Anything nice happened to you?”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don't know, I just thought someone might have been nice to you.”

“Huh! People who are nice to me usually want something in return,” she replied. “Gotta go!”

oooOOOooo

The following morning, I received a series of title line only cryptic messages from “Anon”.

“Return over fence at 10 AM tomorrow morning... not earlier, not later...”

That made no sense, but I'd learnt from experience that further messages would soon arrive to clarify.

Sure enough, a couple of minutes later came: “Handwash... then dry...”

Then: “You can sniff...”

Finally: “Bag outside front door...”

I rushed to the door to see what had been left. There was a plastic supermarket bag sitting outside. Quickly, I retrieved it and peeped inside. It was full of her underwear. All the stuff I'd seen—purple, pink, pale blue, green, leopard skin, mauve with purple edging—plus items that I'd never seen before—white, black and lemon.

And it had all been worn! And, she had given me permission to sniff! But, she expected me to wash it all!

I sorted out several pairs of her panties and bunched them up together before inhaling deeply. The pheromones were overpowering and did their job of arousing my male passion. My penis was stiff within seconds.

Hastily, I pulled my pants and boxers down, used one pair of her panties to fondle my erection while I put the rest under my nose, breathing in her scent. In no time at all, I had erupted into the panties that were cradling my penis.

I looked down at the mess I'd created. Post-orgasmically, my libido had crashed, and I was acutely aware that I had abused the underwear of a nineteen-year-old student. I felt a sense of shame and humiliation.

And then I remembered I had to wash everything, including, most importantly, the pair I had soiled.

I had never handwashed anything in my life, least of all lingerie. Heaven forbid I should wreck this delectable ensemble by doing the wrong thing. Fortunately, Google was helpful.

With my phone open on a page of instructions, I set about performing the task, having one last sniff of the garments before dropping them into lukewarm water with some mild detergent. As I solemnly carried out the task, following directions to the letter, so my arousal began to return. I couldn't believe Emma had instructed me to handwash her most personal apparel. Was it turning her on, like it was me?

I found somewhere inside to dry them and the next morning I carefully folded each item and placed them into the plastic bag. At 10 AM, I cautiously dropped them over the fence into her back garden. For a moment, I thought about hanging around for her to retrieve the bag, but I decided that, like a timid animal, she would not come out of her house until she was sure the coast was clear.

oooOOooo

Around eleven o'clock that morning I heard the front door of Emma's house being heavily slammed, and I'd worked out that this was the signal that she was inviting me to bump into her. Quickly, I made my way outside.

“Hello, Em,” I said.

“It's Emma!” she retorted. Her usual enigmatic smile had disappeared, and I saw a flash of anger in her eyes. “No one's allowed to call me Em!”

“Sorry, Emma,” I replied, contritely. “I didn't know... How are things?”

“Okay.”

“Anything happen today?” I was fishing, but she wasn't taking the bait.

“None of your business—I need to go.”

“Okay... I'll... er... see you around, Emma.”

There was no mistaking that she was not a happy bunny after my faux pas over her name. Why was she so sensitive?

oooOOooo

A few hours later there was a message from “Anon”: “Never, NEVER call me Em!!!”

I felt chastised, but there was nothing more I could do as she controlled the communications channel. So, I waited, expecting there would be follow-up messages.

“You have to be punished...”

“Await instructions...”

What the hell was she going to do? What could she do?

oooOOooo

I heard nothing from her for a couple of days and then my cell phone rang, late one Sunday afternoon. Looking at the caller ID I saw it was her father, Grant, calling me.

Overwhelming panic shot through me as my brain rapidly tried to process why he could be calling, and the most likely reason seemed to be that Emma had reported me to him.

“Hello...” I answered, nervously, a second or so before the call would have gone to voicemail.

“Hi Mark, it's Grant! I'm just phoning to thank you. You're a great neighbor.”

I had not a clue what he was talking about. “Sorry?”

“Emma told me!”

“Er?”

“You know, that you offered to paint my shed, when you were talking to Emma.”

“Oh, that!” I exclaimed, with a sense of relief, despite still having no inkling of what this was about.

“Yeah, she said you'd be able to do it tomorrow, Mark, although I told her it might take you a couple of days at least. It desperately needs doing because the old paint is flaking off. It's an eyesore. You must be able to see it from your house so you'll be as pleased as I am to see it spruced up.”

“Oh... er... yes, I'm more than happy to help, Grant. My pleasure.”

“I'd do it myself, but, not being retired like you, I haven't the time.”

“I'm... I'm pleased to help.”

“I'm proud of Emma for talking to you, Mark. She's usually very reserved with people she doesn't know too well. She must have a soft spot for you! And I reckon going to college has brought her out of her shell.”

It's done more than that, I thought! “Yes... yes, she's a sweet girl. When she asked, how could I refuse?” I lied.

Grant chuckled, adding, “I've given her $25 to buy you a present as a thank you. She asked me not to tell you, so it would be a surprise, but I can't wait to hear what she gets you. She said she'd buy you something nice. You'll have to let me know what she gets.”

What in God's name would she buy me? I shuddered to think, but I sensed it would not be something I would wish to disclose to Grant. My brain was in a whirl as we closed the conversation.

oooOOooo

Barely ten minutes later, I received a series of title line emails from “Anon”.

“Tomorrow... 9 AM sharp... my garden...”

“Tools and paint will be by shed...”

“Work in your pink panties... NOTHING, except your pink panties...”

My God! She expected me to paint her dad's shed dressed in nothing but a pair of cotton panties bearing a colorful image of Minnie Mouse.

“This is your punishment... you upset me...”

“Do this and I will forgive you...”

I didn't know what to do. I had already committed to painting the shed, so I couldn't back out of that, but I was concerned with working while dressed only in panties. Certainly, her garden was fairly secluded, but it was not totally shielded from view.

I was in a dilemma. Was she open to persuasion or compromise? But how could I negotiate with her? She didn't accept replies to emails, and I could hardly go around to her house to talk to her as I knew Grant was there, being a Sunday. Tomorrow morning would be too late to confront her in person and, besides, she would do her usual trick of playing dumb and pretending to not understand what I was talking about.

If I refused to comply with her instructions then I had no idea what her next move would be, but it seemed improbable she would roll over and accept defeat. More likely she would impose some worse humiliation on me.

But, as the prospect of laboring for her dressed only in panties pervaded my brain, I found I was being turned on, and my penis was waking up. Very soon, I had a full-blown stiffie. I knew I had to do the job and pray no one—other than Emma—saw me.

I didn't sleep much that night...