It was hot, unusually so for the temperate marine climate of Seattle, and so she was as naked as could be without being fully so--stripped down to her pink and black lace bra and matching tanga cut pink and black lace panties. Still, at ten o’clock at night, with the house a balmy 75 F, that wasn’t enough. She needed to go outside, needed to feel the cooling night air against her skin, needed to feel the breeze coming off of the Sound reminding her body that sooner rather than later, this heat would pass.

“Norman! Lily!” she called to her two Great Pyrenees, each of whom in turn rolled over lazily in their sleep and stood up, stretching, staggering towards her and the back kitchen door leading to the yard. The yard was fully fenced, private, with great fir trees and a maple sheltering it from prying eyes, and so she opened the door and stepped out into the darkness, the impossibly large white forms of the dogs following close behind her. The back porch light clicked on, bathing her in a halo of light, but had she even noticed, she wouldn’t have cared--no one to see her, no one to see the pale curves of her ass or the slight sheen of sweat decorating her neck and the swell of her breasts above her bra.

Next door, he rolled over in his sleep as her motion-detecting back porch light clicked on. Oh. Oh my God, he thought, leaping from his bed and drawing open the curtains to peer out of his darkened bedroom through the open window. There. There she was. His angel of the past few restless nights, his unknowing angel. Fuck. Tonight she was nearly naked, last night she had been wearing at least a black lace negligee. Now, everything he had been imagining, been stroking himself to, was suddenly on full display through the space in the branches of one of the fir trees in her backyard.

His right hand fell immediately to his cock, already hard with anticipation. She was walking around the yard now, her pedicured feet--God! what he would give to kiss those feet--ensconced in a pair of slightly heeled black thong sandals. Stroking his cock, now struggling to free itself of his boxers, he watched as she bent over, back to her silent observer, to pick up a toy for one of the dogs. And oh dear God, when she bent over, her round, come-hither ass was on full and absolute display. It was as if she knew, somehow, that he was there, as if she was intentionally tempting him.

He hastily pulled off his boxers, already wet with precum, stroking himself harder and faster, his eyes never leaving her ass, her long legs, the curves of her hips. Just then, her back porch light clicked off, and just as suddenly, and to his absolute horror, he realised that the glow from his hallway light, now seemingly lighting up the room like a horrible searchlight, backlit him, making him (or so it seemed to him) glaringly obvious to any viewer who happened to look up at that moment.

And look up she did. He froze in a combination of fear and anticipation, his right hand still on his cock, his left hand gripping the windowsill. She raised her left hand and slowly waved and then...then a sly smile seemed to cross her face. Was it his imagination? Yes, that was it. It was his imagination. Any second now she would scream and run back into her house.

But no...no, she was definitely waving. Smiling up at him. Oh. Oh my God. He panicked, briefly, sure that she knew what he was doing.

“Hey! Good to see you!”

Her voice rang through the cool night, soft and soothing, as if she were out there fully dressed, as if there was nothing amiss about him standing, naked (in her view) from the waist up, in his window, watching her.

“Come down! It’s much cooler out here!”

There it was. An invitation. He hurried to pull on a pair of pyjama pants, hoping his erection would subside before he could get outside. He practically tripped, running so fast in his bare feet downstairs, flying out his back door, running across the cool grass, to the fence. The dogs barely even looked up; she clearly wasn’t at all alarmed by his presence, and so neither were the dogs. He peered over the fence.

“Um, hi. I’m Jon.”

His words...why couldn’t he have thought of something clever to say? Anything but what he had just said, anything to impress this woman who had haunted his dreams the past few nights.

She laughed, a high, wonderful laugh that wrapped him in warmth and made his mind go directly to making her laugh like that whilst he was between her legs, pulling those black and pink lace panties down.

“Amy. Come on, there’s a gate just over to your left, I’ve some Riesling in the fridge, wouldn’t mind the company.”

She seemed completely unaware, or at least uncaring, about her state of undress. She walked to the gate, those beautiful breasts and hips swaying. He heard her fumbling with the latch, and then suddenly, the gate creaked open and he was within a foot of her radiant beauty. He couldn’t help himself, his eyes falling to her breasts, her belly, the triangle where her thighs met.

“You’ve been watching me.”

A statement, not a question. Not an accusation, either, though. His cock twitched beneath the thin fabric of his pyjama pants, eager to hear more, his mouth eager to taste her Riesling and oh God, so eager to taste anything else she had to offer. She stepped closer, whispering now.

“I like being watched, Jon.”

He could’ve sworn that she could see his heart literally skip a beat, or four, at these words. She was watching him, waiting for...what? A reaction? His breathing changed involuntary, and he was quite sure that even in the darkness, she could see his twitching, hard cock and other, less noticeable signs of arousal, like his rapidly dilating pupils. Her next words, though, tossed him right over the edge of the cliff into the abyss of absolute infatuation.

“I like that you watch me, Jon.

You’ve just moved in, no? Come inside, let me give you a proper welcome.”

Again, a statement, not a question, nor something to be questioned. She turned away from him, walking slowly to the back door, the porch light clicking on again, illuminating her translucent white skin and oh fuck, that ass. He followed along, as meek and obedient as one of her dogs, each of whom had now taken up positions on either side of the back porch.

She was standing in the kitchen, lit by the glow of the refrigerator, already unscrewing the cork on the bottle of 2011 Chateau Ste. Michelle Riesling. He was so close he could touch her, her alabaster skin, her stunningly heavy breasts, her interminably long legs ending at the impossible roundness of the curvature of her ass and wide hips...fuck, he was literally living the dreams that had kept him tossing and turning the past few nights.

“Glasses. Top shelf, breakfront behind you.”

Again, her words were an expectation of obedience. A shiver, a single electric quiver, ran from his cock all the way up his spine at the thought of what that tone could do, saying other words in other situations. He turned and walked across the kitchen, retrieving the stemmed white wine glasses, placing them with a careful ‘clink’ on the sea green top of the tiled counter.

Still lit only by the open refrigerator, he watched as her long slim manicured fingers poured each glass three-fourths full of the Riesling. He was transfixed by her hands, nails rounded short, pale pink gloss on each. He wondered briefly what it was that she did, that allowed her to have such an extravagant pedicure but required such a modest manicure.

“Nurse. I’m a nurse, Jon. You?” Her laughter was high and clear, and for a moment, he was quite sure that she could read his mind. “You were staring at my fingernails, no? So either you have a thing for manicurists, or you were wondering what it is that I do for a living. Hands say so much without speaking.” She took his hands in hers, hers soft and cool against his hot and, if he were to admit it, slightly sweaty.

“Engineer. Civil or mechanical. And left-handed.” That was it. This woman was either Agatha Christie reincarnated, or could read minds. She dropped his hands and picked up her Riesling.

A casual observer would note the blueprint and ink stains on the lateral side of his left hand, and think nothing of it, but she was far from casual, and thus, his hands spoke volumes. In fact, he was a civil engineer, and so stunned was he by her pronouncement that his hands literally shook as he picked up his glass, clinking it against hers. He gulped his wine indiscreetly, needing alcohol to fuel this--this whatever it was. Still shaking, he put his glass down.

“I’m...wow, I drank that fast. May I have another round, bartender?”

Now he was relaxed a little, the heat of the alcohol cooling the heat of his skin, settling his nerves.

She giggled, a girlish, soft chuckle, and set her own glass down with a barely noticed clink of glass on tile to pour him a second.

“Come, let’s go to the living room. Have a seat on the ottoman.” Her tone, again, brooked no dissent. She left her own wine glass behind in the kitchen as she strode into the living room, standing before him as he sat down on the soft, tufted, forest green fabric of the ottoman.

The brief wonderment of his position, directly in front of her nearly naked form, passed through his slightly fuzzy brain, to be replaced quickly by the embarrassment of the realisation of the prominence of his erect cock, clearly visible through his pyjama pants. He sipped at the Riesling, watching her as a cat watches a feisty mouse.

Amy, however, was no mouse. This became clear with her next few words.

“Jon, you are to watch. No touching. No touching yourself, no touching me.” She began to shimmy her panties off over her wide hips, exposing the pink nakedness of her waxed pussy, as his breathing came short and he suddenly felt very dizzy. No touching her? What was she doing?

The panties fell to the floor and he soon had an answer to his question. She positioned herself on the sofa directly in front of him, less than two feet away, and drew her knees up, letting them fall open, exposing her everything to his unwavering gaze. The pink, wet, glistening of her inner lips...

Oh, fuck. He leaned forward a little, but did as told and did not touch her. The intoxicating scent of her swollen sex and her perfume seemed to be strangling him, causing all higher brain function to cease, all the blood in his body running to his cock. Her right hand held her labia majora open, her left hand...oh fuck, she was so wet, so ready, she was sinking her fingers into herself, then taking those pussy wet fingers and circling her clit slowly, watching him watch her.

Moaning softly, she arched her back, nipples clearly erect beneath the fabric of her bra, her eyes never leaving his face. He was in her absolute thrall. Her fingers went faster and faster, until her engorged clit peeked out from beneath her hood, and she briefly closed her hazelish-green eyes in ecstasy, and...oh dear God, a slight gush of fluid ran out of her open cunt onto the sofa beneath her, her spasming body releasing in front of him.

She sat there for a few moments, breathing hard, perhaps even harder than he was, then stood up, picked up her panties, tossing them into his lap. His Riesling forgotten, an empty glass lying sideways on the antique Oriental carpet beneath his feet, he watched as this goddess stretched and then smiled down at him.

“Welcome to the neighbourhood, Jon. Show yourself to the door, leave the glass on the drainboard. It was a pleasure.”

Her words, once again, a simple command, and with those words said, she turned and walked upstairs, leaving him, suitably stunned, to let himself out.