The Girl In The Window by Ynot
Samantha entered her room and quickly shut the door behind her. She leaned against it and peered out across the yard, across the road, peered across at his window. The light was on. She crossed the room and seated herself at her dresser. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed his light suddenly extinguish. He was there, he was watching her again.
For several months now they had played this little game. As she became more aware of his attentions, so he had taken to being more secretive. Now he always turned out the light so that she might not see him sitting there, staring at her as she put on her little shows, little shows just for him. Gradually she had changed tiny things in her room. Nothing major, just little, almost insignificant, things. Things that by themselves meant nothing, things that by themselves were almost unnoticeable, which when combined as a whole, united to improve and enhance the show.
First she had changed the light shade so the harsh overhead light became much more soft and subtle. A slight change to the angle of her dresser meant that she now sat closer to the window, closer and more central so that the window frame became her frame. By moving the bed against the back wall, she knew the little lamp on her bedside table would perfectly back light her youthful body, transforming her into a sensuous shadow puppet, a sensuous shadow puppet ready to put on a show. A show for him as he sat there in the darkened room, eyes trained upon her every movement, her every motion, his eyes straining to see every detail.
Slowly over the months, Samantha had become increasingly bold. Enticing, tantalising, teasing. In her mind she would imagine him sitting there in the darkened room. She tried to image his body reacting as his eyes strained to see every detail. The very thought of her effect upon him spurring on her own reactions. She had taken to wearing translucent tops as she sat there. She knew that the little lamp on her table would render her blouse almost see-through. In spite of that, or perhaps because of it, she would be sure to remove her bra in the confines of the bathroom, knowing that as she sat there, he would have an unrestricted view of her womanly bosom, her breasts sitting high and firm and proud.
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Tonight she had decided that he would get a special show. Tonight she was home alone, she need not fear any interruption. Tonight he would sit there and peer from the darkened window as never before. His straining eyes would see more detail than ever before, movements and motions that he had only dreamed of. She sat at her dresser and slowly brushed her hair. Dark, rich, auburn hair. Pantene-pretty hair, her friends called it. Long and thick and healthy. The sort of hair that is in every shampoo commercial, but with which few are blessed. The first shows had just been this. Her sitting there brushing her hair. Caressing it with the antique, silver-backed hair brush her grandmother had given her. Gently she would tend to its needs.
Untangling it, smoothing it, brushing it until it shone with an inner light of its own. Her hand would lift the heavy brush to the crown and slowly let it travel down, down, down. Past her nape hidden in the depths of her tresses, across her shoulders, down, down, down the full length of her locks to her waist, only to return to the top and start again.
Gradually she began to get a little bolder: sometimes lifting it in her hands to caress against her cheek, or rub seductively against her braless chest, to marvel at the softness of its contact even through her blouse. She sat there brushing, brushing. She knew he was watching as he sat there in the darkened room, eyes trained upon her every movement, her every motion, eyes straining to see every delicious detail.
Quickly she reached for one of the many ribbons atop her dresser. With quick and practiced hands she gathered her crowning glory in to a high ponytail, trapping and securing it with a golden ribbon. She arched her back and tilted her head as far back as she could. She marvelled as the end of her hair tickled her back, dancing delicately against her denim-wrapped butt. She strained her head back further knowing that as she did so her breasts would be lifted and thrust forward against the see-through material that tried to restrain them, dancing their own little dance as she shook her head gently to and fro. Samantha loved this pose, so wanton, so erotic. She straightened and pulled the thick ponytail forward over her shoulder.
It hung across her chest, the end of it dangling free several inches below the curve of her pert breast. She pretended to brush the end of her hair, but it was just an excuse to feel the coarse bristles of the brush against her soft satin breasts. Her breath caught in her throat for a moment as the bristles rasped across her nipple.
She placed the brush slowly on the dresser. Suddenly she could hear her heart distinctly beating: would she carry on – could she carry on? Her middle-class morality suddenly reared, unwanted, uncalled for. She reached slowly for the top button on her blouse. Samantha amazed herself at how easily she undid the button, then the next, and the next. She knew he sat there in the darkened room, eyes following every movement, every motion, eyes straining to see every detail. Her breathing had become a little shallow now, but she barely noticed. Another button fell open, then another, and finally the last. She straightened and slowly pushed her shoulders back, and square. The blouse opened and as her breasts thrust forward, it gently slipped from her shoulders. The warm gentle breeze rushed through the open window, it swirled around her torso, its gentle enveloping fingers cupping her exposed breasts, teasing her budding nipples as they began to react to both the change of temperature, and the erotic images coursing through her mind. She stood up and carefully unbuttoned her jeans. Slowly she eased the zipper down. Placing a hand on either hip she grasped the waist band, and gently began to sway her hips back and forth. Slowly she eased her jeans down across the full curve of the butt.
She bent forward at the waist. Bent fully so as to push the trousers to the floor. As she stepped from them she arched her back, pushing her round spankable arse back and out. Her breasts hung enticingly from her extended torso, the ponytail swung, dancing from her head. She held this pose momentarily. She knew how she would look to him. She had practised these movements over and over in front of the full length bathroom mirror, over and over until she was sure she had them perfected.
She reseated herself carefully in front of the dresser, this time just slightly twisted towards the open window. She reached up and placed a long slender finger delicately under her chin. Slowly she dragged the extended, arched finger down across her throat, down, down. She felt the little lump as she passed the top of her sternum, down, down, down through the start of her cleavage. Her breath caught slightly as the palm of her hand ‘accidentally’ brushed across her stiffening nipple. She instantly felt a stirring in her loins. Still lower the finger travelled, down, down, between her breasts, down across the flat of her belly. The tip of it disappeared into her navel, only to quickly reappear on the other side. Down, down, down it travelled. Samantha carefully eased her thighs slightly wider as she felt the top of her lace panties. Down, down, down, across the top of her pubic patch. She could feel the carefully trimmed hair through the thin material. Down, down, down. She moaned softly to herself as her finger travelled southwards over her mound, gently she pressed the thin fabric between the soft womanly folds. She was suddenly aware of her own wetness, her own heat. Gently she rubbed in little, soft, up-and-down strokes, her hips automatically beginning to rock back and forth in a perfectly matched rhythm. She leaned back slightly, pulling her hand to the brim of her panties. Her fingers burrowed under the elastic as she eased her hand down once more. She gasped as this time her finger grazed across the very flesh of her opening, her long slender, practised finger parting her womanhood. Suddenly she knew what she wanted, suddenly she knew what she needed. She also knew that it had to be private.
Quickly she reached for the blind and drew it closed. She turned out the overhead light as she scurried across the room to collapse on the bed. She rolled over onto her back as the soft glow from the bedside lamp bathed her naked body. Her left hand reached across her prone body, trapping the hardened nipple of her right breast between forefinger and thumb. “Aaagghhh…” she half yelled, half moaned as she pinched her hard nipple. The quick stab of pain raced through her body, seeming to arriving at her brain, and her pussy simultaneously. Her breathing was short and sharp and shallow now. Her hand stayed at her breast, gently rolling her nipple, calming, soothing, teasing. Her right hand had automatically zeroed in on its specialist target. She raised her head slightly to gaze down at herself. Quickly her left hand joined her right. She lifted one knee, bending it at right angles, and flexed her thighs open wide. Her left hand held her folds open wide, as she watched and felt, and reacted to the motions of her right. Suddenly she was oblivious to anything. Her eyes shut tightly, her desires took hold.
The body urging on her mind, her mind urging on her body. She probed her wetness with a finger, then another… it felt sooooo good. A third joined them. She knew it was close. She was amazed at how close she was, how soon . Very close, that glorious release, that wonderful muscle-tearing spasm that would send her over the edge. The thumb of her right hand pressed firmly against her clit. Hard even pressure as her fingers massaged deep inside her. Back and forth, back and forth, probing, twisting, stretching.
Her panting, rasping breathing suddenly stopped… her breath caught in her throat… she thought she would suffocate… then yes, oh yes, it happened. Finally her body could take her attentions no more. The orgasm hit her hard, like a giant wave swamping a tiny boat, it flowed over her, out of her. She could feel all the muscles of her abdomen spasm involuntarily. The waves rippled through her, a single tear of pure joy, pure relief, began to trickle down her face.
She lay there gasping, trying to regain control of her spent body, fighting to restore command.
Suddenly she was aware she was not alone. His large manly torso filled the doorway. How long had he stood there? How much had he seen? She went to speak, but he motioned her to be quiet. He crossed the room. Samantha was surprised at the grace with which he moved for such a large man. So swift, yet unhurried, so quick, yet silent. Normally she would have screamed, but suddenly this seemed so right. His gaze upon her naked sweat-drenched body was almost welcome.
He reached down and lifted her ponytail from the pillow. “Beautiful,” he whispered in his deep voice. “So absolutely beautiful.” He fondled it eagerly. His large hands softly stroked her hair. They felt so different against her head. So big, so powerful. He was amazed at its texture, its lustre. It surpassed anything he had imagined in his mind, as he sat in his darkened room watching her in the window. The hair was thick and heavy in his hand. He thought about the large kitchen shears in his pocket. This beautiful hair would succumb so easily to them. It would be his trophy, his magnificent trophy, taken from the girl in the window, but first there were other stirrings that demanded to be satisfied.
He reached out with one hand to cup her breast. She gasped out loud, surprised by both the touch of his tough labourer’s hands and her immediate response to that touch. Samantha moaned softly as he continued his gentle stroking caress. He looked deep into her eyes, staring into her soul. She returned his gaze, longing to swim endlessly in those two deep pools of blue. He reached down and forcefully, but gently, pulled her to the end of her bed as he fell to his knees between her spread thighs. His powerful arms lifted her limp unresisting torso from the bed and she watched intrigued as he mouthed her tender breasts, nibbling, teasing, suckling like a little child. Slowly he lay her body back, his tongue painting a shiny trail of saliva down across her belly. She sighed deeply as his tongue travelled lower.
This wasn’t how it was meant to be. As he had left his darkened room, as he had hurried stealthily across the road, he had planned her punishment. Thoughts of yelling at her, frightening her, hurting her had filled his mind, spurring him on to climb the stairs to her room. He would teach her a lesson for sitting there, sitting there and teasing him, tormenting him. He would take her hair. Removing the very object of desire she had used so many times to drive him insane, forcing her to sit there in the window while he hurriedly hacked at that hair. Slicing, chopping, raping her hair so she could no longer tease him with it.
Samantha lay there upon the bed, while he knelt almost subserviently between her wide spread limbs, her scent of readiness filling his nostrils. Her lifted his tongue from her body and stared up across her breasts into her eyes. Samantha looked down at him as she felt the tongue lift from her prone body. He was staring up at her. He was staring, probing with his deep blue eyes, asking, pleading, begging with those deep blues eyes. She propped herself up slightly on one elbow, still his unblinking deep blue eyes stared at her.
“Yes.” Samantha was surprised at her voice. Suddenly it had an air of command to it. As if she was issuing instructions, instructions she knew would be followed.
She moaned lightly as she felt his tongue re-contacted her naked body. Again she was surprised by his gentleness. Compared to her very previous lovers, he seemed to be genuinely enjoying her body. Where others had lapped at her like a thirsty dog, quickly, as if to get it over with, moving on to concentrating on their own pleasure, he slowly explored her every inch, his tongue flicking gently here and there, dancing back and forth, or probing deeply. Sometimes the hardened tip of his tongue would touch and tease her, other times the broad blade would soothe and bathe her.
She couldn’t stop the sounds of pleasure from escaping her throat, her groaning, her sighs, relaying her pleasure to him. Several times she had approached the point of no return. Each time he seemed to sense her closeness, and would alter his attentions, not stopping, just changing, so that as she approached the point of pleasure she would not quite make it. He would allow her passion to ebb slightly before beginning to build it once more. Several times he had held on the edge of oblivion only to pull her back at the last moment. His finger had now found her wetness, and was probing gently, deeply, relentlessly. She could feel herself starting to lose control. Her body started to thrash about slightly, trying to get that little extra touch, that one last touch that would allow her the release she desperately needed. Again he ensured that he did not do quite enough, again holding her on the edge, balancing her there for what seem an eternity before pulling her back at the last minute. She was focused on only one thing now. Tossed aside was the middle-class morality that would normally have stopped her lying there while a complete strange had such intimate contact with her, such intimate knowledge of her. Almost subconsciously, her practiced right hand reached for her crotch, but he slapped it away roughly.
She could sense the moment approach again, as he began to sense her response and slow his activities she arched her hips hard against his face, her hand grabbed at his head, pulling him into her. He seemed to know her body almost better than she did. He moved with her as one, as her hips bucked so his head moved defeating her intentions. His strength was too great for her as he held his head back, refusing to allow her release. She balanced on the edge, teetering, so close but so far. Again he mercilessly pulled her back. Her groans had developed into a mixture of panting moans and little yelps of pleasure, gradually increasing in both frequency and volume. Samantha could stand it no more. It was now, she wanted to come now. She grabbed roughly at his hair and pulled his face from her body. He could see the fire in her eyes as she glared down at him.
“I want to come!” she said matter-of-factly. Her tone was almost instructional. “God damn you. Make me come. I need to come. Fuck it, I deserve to come!” she pleaded insanely.
“Are you sure?” he asked teasingly, bouncing his tongue against her clit just to reinforce his control.
“Aghh, fuck… yes, yes… oh please now, I need to now… oh shit… oh yes, yes,” she pleadingly panted as his tongue explored her more.
“Oh damn you. Do something, do anything. Just… please… let… me… PLEASE!” Samantha was totally out of her mind now, but she didn’t care. Her only concern was to relieve the tension he had built inside her. Suddenly she was on the edge again, balancing, balancing. This time his tongue did not slow, instead holding her further out from safety, his probing finger pushed her off the edge, off the edge in to the pit of pleasure she thought she would die in, a pit of pleasure she would gladly die in.
The waves of pleasure rippled outwards from the center of her being. She could hear nothing, she could feel nothing, see nothing, knew nothing but the waves of pleasure, waves of relief, the spasms as they tore through her. Her open mouth tried to scream, but nothing escaped her dry throat as the orgasm continued to rule her body.
Slowly her senses returned to her. She welcomed the gentle breeze that continued to waft through the window, cooling her sweat-drenched body. She felt his great powerful arms lift her, turning her, holding her in a kneeling position. She felt him searching for her opening, felt his hardened shaft separating her. Such was the state of her arousal, her readiness, her wetness, that even with his size he buried himself to the hilt in just two slow but persistent strokes. He waited for a second so she could adjust to the feeling of accommodating him, before beginning an easy slow rhythm within her.
Samantha groaned as she felt his flesh inside her own. She could sense his fight with his own arousal to ensure a soft, slow, rocking rhythm. Normally she would have welcomed such slow paced, thoughtful lovemaking, but now it wasn’t right. It wasn’t how she had imagined it all those times she had lay there tending to her needs after sitting in the window. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t what she wanted. In her many fantasies he would burst into her room, unable to control his desire, or unable to withstand her teasing, he would toss her to the bed and have his way with her. Have his rough, brutal, punishing way with her. That’s what she longed for now, that’s what she needed now. Normally such thoughts would repulse her, now they excited her.
Samantha twisted her neck, looking back over her shoulder as he stood at the end of her bed, his muscular torso gently rocking back and forth in a maddeningly slow easy motion. Her tongue slipped out and wantonly moistened her lips, he groaned at the sight.
“If you’re going to stand there with your little dickie up my cunt, at least you could have the decency to fuck me properly with it!” she said, her tone half pleading, half challenging. “What’s the matter? Don’t you know how to give a girl a decent fuck?”
His body suddenly reacted to her coarse language and the insults to his manhood. His challenged ego took over. She screamed as with a vicious buck of his hips he drove his cock deep and hard into her. Deeper and harder than anything she could remember. A twinge of pain raced though her as his hardness forced its way inside her.
“So the little whore in the window wants to be FUCKED eh?” he growled as his hips slammed into her. “Well by the time I get finished with you, bitch, you’re not going to walk for a fucking week!” His hips were bucking ferociously now, driving his flesh into hers, deep and hard and fast. He could hear her squeals of pain, squeals of pleasure as her took her, as he used her for his sexual plaything.
Suddenly, he was in no mood to be gentle, and Samantha wasn’t looking for gentleness. She felt him lift her ponytail from her back and wrap it around his meaty fist. As he slammed into her with his bulk she would catapult forwards, his hardness being dragged out of her as she moved away from his body, he would tug roughly on the rein of hair in his hand, pulling her back on to him, pulling her back to meet his next violent thrust. The pain of his vastness, the speed of his thrusting, the violence of his attack on her, enhanced Samantha’s pleasure. It hurt, but somehow it hurt good, so very, very good. Strangely she wanted it to hurt, she wanted it to hurt more. She knew he was close to his long-awaited orgasm, the very thought helping to build another in herself. Again she glanced back at him, his sweat-covered body softly illuminated by the bedside lamp.
She urged him on. “Yes baby. That’s it, fuck me… fuck me hard… I’ve been so bad… come on, fuck me.” She could feel his body reacting to her erotic dirty words. He didn’t speak, rather just issuing a series of animalistic grunts as he ravaged her body. She could feel him tensing. “Come on damn you… fill me with your cock, spray me with your sticky seed,” she screamed at him, as she slammed her pelvis back against his.
He reached down and pulled the heavy shiny scissors from his jacket pocket. He watched as her eyes opened with that wide terrified look he had seen in his imagination a thousand times. She starred speechless as he brought the cold heavy scissors up against her soft cheek. Slowly he dragged them backwards, the sharp icy blades tracing a line across her cheek, up over her delicate ear, and disappearing in to her hair. Her mind was awash with thought. She wanted to run, but she somehow knew she would stay, stay until he had finished with her. His thrusting was now even more violent, dragging her back to him after each giant thrust. He puled the scissors from her mane, and placed the open blades around the pink ribbon that bound the ponytail high on her head. Slowly he closed the handles. Samantha let out a scream as she heard the unmistakable sound of one finely honed blade meeting another. She stared down at the bed in front of her as the severed ribbon floated past her face. He released her hair from his sweaty grasp, and marvelled as it swung free and danced around her face and body, swinging back and forth. Suddenly he tensed, his upper thighs strained, the muscles of his legs squeezed hard. He could feel that long-awaited spasm in his groin. AAAaaarrrggggghhhhhhh. His body started pumping his essence into her.
Samantha felt his body tense, she knew his release had arrived. She felt the involuntary jerking as his body began to empty in to her own. Unable to support her own weight any longer she fell forward, his cock sprang free from hers, and she could feel him pumping his white hot juice all over her. Like a giant hose his weapon deposited wad after boiling wad upon her back, and arse, and thighs. As she felt his scolding hot come splashing across her soft delicate skin, she could wait no longer. Abruptly she suddenly came. Her tired raw centre contracted repeatedly as again the screaming muscles spasmed involuntarily. She had been used, totally used, and she loved it.
As she lay there, exhausted, she failed to notice him soothe her hair softly. He quickly slid the large heavy shears back into his jacket pocket. He instantly recalled the evil thoughts that had made him bring them with him. He also knew that know he would be incapable of carrying out such an act. As he caressed her magnificent hair he knew it was where it belonged, where it would always belong, and where it should stay. Even as he had opened the door to see her naked soft body sprawled across her bed those thoughts had begun to evaporate from his mind. The moment he touched her hair, finally felt it its silky soft texture, marvelling at its thickness, its weight, deep down he had known that he could never defile it. It was where it belonged, where it would always look its best, how could he take it from her. He reached down softly and picked up the shiny pink ribbon. Samantha did not notice as he placed the ribbon in his pocket, this would be his trophy.
The gentle kiss he placed on her come-soaked arse likewise went unnoticed, she was too preoccupied with her own thoughts and feelings to even notice him leave the room. As he descended the stairs he already knew that he would no longer sit in there in that darkened room, no longer would his eyes be trained upon her every movement, her every motion, never again would his eyes strain to see every delicious detail.