Lust Call (7 page)

‘It's that rain we had a couple of weeks back,' he said, eyeing the cleavage of my firm breasts. ‘Now the sun's out, the weeds have gone mad.'

‘I've got nothing else to do so I'll make a start now,' I said as he looked down at my short skirt, my naked thighs.

‘You'll get quite a suntan working out here. Anyway, I'd better get on.'

‘OK, Barry. Don't get too hot indoors.'

‘I won't. And you be a good girl while Dave's away,' he said with a chuckle. ‘I'll see you later.'

Be a good girl? I mused as he went back into his house. Why had he said that? What had he meant? I was becoming paranoid, I thought as I grabbed a hand fork from the shed. There was no point suspecting anyone and everyone. There again, Barry had two weeks off work, and he could easily see my front garden from his house. Maybe Dave had inadvertently given him my email address, I reflected. They got on well together and, although it was unlikely, my email address might have come up in conversation. Barry was now a prime suspect.

I could hear Barry banging about in his kitchen as I squatted by the flower border and began digging up the weeds. Perhaps I should have confronted him
about the emails, I reflected. But he'd only have denied it. I doubted that my secret admirer seriously wanted to have sex with me. It was more of a fun thing, a turn-on, a way to get kicks. I should never have gone over to Derek's house, I mused as I pulled up a particularly large weed. I should have deleted the emails and waited until my voyeur became bored and gave up.

Wondering whether to change my email address, I looked up as I heard the bushes rustling the other side of the wooden fence. Was Barry there? Was he spying through a hole in the fence? I couldn't hear him banging about in his kitchen, and I wondered whether he'd gone out into the garden for some fresh air. Again, the bushes rustled. It might have been a cat or birds fluttering. It might have been Barry pressing his eye to a hole in the fence and gazing up my skirt at my tight panties. Pressing my thighs together, I carried on weeding. If the next email mentioned my weeding in the back garden, I could be certain that Barry was the culprit.

There was definitely someone or something moving about behind the fence. I was about to forget the garden and go back into the house, but I came up with an idea. If I parted my thighs and the next email mentioned that I was wearing pink panties, I'd be one hundred per cent sure that Barry was my man. Brushing my long blonde hair away from my face, I gazed at the fence from the corner of my eye as I parted my thighs wide and forked over the border. There were several knot-holes and cracks in the fence, but I couldn't see an eye watching me. There was no banging coming from the kitchen and no rustling behind the fence, and I wondered where Barry was.

Parting my thighs further, I realised that my arousal was soaring and my panties were becoming
wet with my juices of desire. I could feel the lips of my pussy swelling, my clitoris emerging from beneath its protective hood. Initially, I'd felt apprehensive about showing my panties to my next door neighbour. But I realised that he'd believe me innocent. It was a beautiful summer day, I was wearing a short skirt, I was working in the garden, I had no idea that I was being watched, I had no idea that a man was gazing up my skirt at my panties . . . I was innocent.

The sun was beating down on me and, after half an hour, I went into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of orange juice. Coincidentally, the banging resumed in Barry's kitchen. That was no coincidence, I knew as I gulped down my drink. I wandered into the dining room and checked my emails – nothing. Barry wouldn't have dashed to his computer and mailed me, I reflected. He'd probably send me an email later in the day. After he'd had another look at my panties? After he'd wanked and thought about sinking his cock deep into my hot pussy?

Sitting on a patio chair, I pondered on the situation. I was no psychologist, but I tried to analyse Barry's thinking. If this went on for several weeks, he'd become bored and frustrated. His frustration would reach the stage where he'd begin to make mistakes and, hopefully, reveal his identity. I had to trap him, I decided. I had to do something that he'd be bound to mention in an email. But, what?

There was only one thing to do, I concluded, climbing the stairs to the bathroom. I slipped my panties off, grabbed Dave's shaving foam from the shelf and sat on the edge of the bath with my legs wide open. This was crazy, I knew as I lifted my skirt and squirted the foam over my mons and pussy lips. As I grabbed the razor, I had no idea what Dave would say when he saw my hairless pussy. I doubted
that he'd suspect that I had a secret lover, but he'd question me. Why shave? Where did I get the idea from? What prompted me? The hairs would take weeks to grow back, but I'd got it in my mind that this had to be done. My secret admirer had asked me to shave. If Barry was my man and he saw my hairless vulva, he'd be bound to mention it in his next email.

Repeatedly dragging the razor over the sensitive flesh of my vulva, I shaved off my blonde fleece. Wiping the foam and curls away from my fleshy lips, my sex crack, I finally gazed at my reflection in the mirror and gasped. I'd stripped years away along with the curls, and I couldn't image what Dave would say. Free from their veil of blonde hair, my outer lips appeared bigger, fuller and more pronounced. The pink petals of my inner lips protruded invitingly from my sex valley, I felt my clitoris swell as my arousal heightened. Stroking the smooth flesh of my outer lips, I breathed heavily, deeply. I needed to come, I thought as my juices of desire seeped from my yearning vagina. But I had to put my plan into action first.

Tugging my panties up my long legs, I moved the crotch to the side so that one hairless outer lip bulged out like a balloon. Making sure that the elastic of the leg hole was embedded deep within my sex crack, I lowered my skirt and went back to the garden. I was ready, I thought, taking a deep breath. I was ready to expose my hairless pussy lip to my neighbour, and trap him. Squatting by the flower border with my thighs apart, my pussy lip blatantly displayed, I grabbed the fork and carried on with the weeding.

I'd shaved and plucked up the courage to expose my hairless pussy lip, but there were no sounds emanating from Barry's kitchen and no rustling
behind the fence. Had I wasted my time? Had he gone out? I was about to give up when I heard a noise behind the fence. Someone was there, I was sure as I parted my knees further and exposed the smooth flesh of my bulging pussy lip. Was he watching me? What was he thinking? Was his cock stiff? More to the point, would he email me?

The notion of someone looking up my skirt at my swollen pussy lip was sending my arousal rocketing. I'd enjoyed the thrill of flashing my panties when I'd been a college girl. I'd loved sitting at the bus stop with my thighs parted, watching the old men gazing at me as they passed by. My panties had always been soaked with my pussy milk by the time I'd got home and I'd sneak down to the end of the garden and masturbate behind the hedge. My orgasms heightened by the thought of the old men ogling my panties, I'd lie on the grass masturbating for what seemed like hours. They had been heady days, I mused. But this was completely different. This was sexually stimulating, exciting, and dangerous.

My clitoris was solid and in dire need of my caressing fingertip, but I couldn't go into the house and masturbate until I was sure that Barry had taken a good look at me. The longer he gazed at my bulging pussy lip, the more his arousal would heighten and the more likely he'd be to mention it in his next email. Was he wanking in the bushes? My panties were soaked with my juices of desire, and I knew that I couldn't wait much longer for the relief of orgasm. But I daren't masturbate knowing that he was watching me. He'd think me a dirty slut if I brought myself off in the garden.

Hearing the bushes rustling, I again wondered whether Barry was wanking. The thought of his spunk shooting out of his purple knob exciting me, I
had no control over my actions and slipped my hand between my thighs and massaged the swollen lip of my hairless pussy. I couldn't help myself as I moved my panties aside and caressed the hot flesh of my sex-wet inner lips. Massaging the solid nub of my yearning clitoris, I felt my womb contract, my heart race. I must have been mad, I reflected. Toying with my inner lips and massaging my clitoris when I knew that Barry was watching me, I must have been crazy.

Crazy or not, I had to determine whether or not Barry was the culprit. This was my only chance, I knew as I parted my wet inner lips and exposed the creamy entrance to my tight vagina. I'd initially suspected Derek, I'd worried myself silly over my adultery, I'd pondered on Barry being the culprit . . . This was my chance to discover the identity of my secret admirer, and I wasn't going to allow the opportunity to pass me by.

Sitting on the path with my legs wide apart and my gaping sex crack facing the fence, I slipped a finger deep into the wet heat of my pussy. As my vaginal muscles tightened, gripping my finger, I felt alive with sex. Could Barry see the swollen lips of my hairless vulva gripping my finger? What was he thinking? Hearing a slight rustling of the bushes behind the fence, I knew that he was there, lurking, watching me. My clitoris was solid, my creamy sex milk flowing over my finger as I massaged the hot inner flesh of my vagina. And I knew that I wasn't far off reaching an orgasm. The sun, the birds singing, the warm breeze . . . This was reminiscent of my teenage years of masturbating in the garden. The days of old were returning to me.

As if I'd not gone far enough with my sluttish behaviour, wicked thoughts filled my mind and I grabbed the hand fork and ran my fingers over the
smooth plastic handle. Did I want to shock Barry, I pondered, slipping my wet finger out of my contracting sex sheath. The smooth fork handle would make an ideal dildo. What the hell was I thinking of? I was a married woman, for God's sake. This was blatant whoredom. Barry must have thought me a slut, and he'd be right. But I had no control over my feminine desires. I needed something hard and thick to appease my yearning vagina. Dave was away, and all I had was the fork handle.

Easing the plastic phallus deep into my tight vagina, I let out a rush of breath. The filling and stretching sensations were heavenly, and I again recalled my early days of masturbation when I used to take a candle behind the bushes and enjoy its hard smoothness. I'd lie on the grass with my panties by my side and my legs open wide and fuck myself silly with the candle. After I'd come several times, I'd scoop out my pussy cream and then suck my fingers. I'd loved the taste of my sex milk. Sometimes, in my bed at night, I'd suck the crotch of my knickers. Having worn them all day, they'd be heavily scented and very wet, and I'd go to sleep with the crotch in my mouth. My parents had been totally oblivious to my wanton self-loving. And now my husband was oblivious to my gratuitous exhibitionism. But I was only doing this to prove that Barry had sent me the emails. Or was I?

Reclining and resting my head on the soft grass, I moved the handle in and out of my spasming vagina and massaged the solid nub of my exposed clitoris with my free hand. I could hear the squelching sounds of my sex juices, and the rustling of the bushes, as I neared my desperately needed orgasm. One hand beneath my thigh, working the fork handle in and out of my hot vagina, the fingers of my free hand
massaging the solid bulb of my sensitive clitoris, I closed my eyes and trembled uncontrollably as the birth of my orgasm stirred deep within my rhythmically contracting womb.

Strangely, all feelings of guilt and thoughts of wrongdoing faded as I repeatedly thrust the makeshift dildo into my sex-wet vaginal sheath. This was my body, I mused dreamily as my clitoris began to pulsate. When I was young, I used to masturbate regularly in the garden and enjoy massive orgasms. The only difference now was that my next-door neighbour was watching me. Was that so bad? My husband was away and he'd never discover the shocking truth about his sluttish wife, so what was the problem? The problem was that I'd been fucked by Derek. Dave didn't know about it, but the memory would always haunt me. I'd committed adultery and was now masturbating in front of my next-door neighbour. But I had no control over the power of my arousal, the yearning of my neglected cunt.

My young body shaking uncontrollably, my breathing fast and shallow, my orgasm came with a gush of hot pussy milk. Shafting my contracting vagina with the plastic handle, massaging my pulsating clitoris, I sustained my beautiful climax as I imagined Barry wanking and shooting his spunk into the bushes. Again and again, waves of sexual bliss rolled throughout my quivering body as I gasped and writhed in the grip of my ecstasy. My clitoris pulsated wildly beneath my massaging fingertips, and I cried out beneath the summer sun as my orgasm peaked and shook me to the core.

I felt as though I'd been possessed by an unseen sex entity as crude images of Barry's knob spunking in my mouth loomed in my mind. Whimpering and
writhing in my sexual abandonment, I knew that I was behaving like this to shock Barry. But, why was I doing this? Why had my arousal soared to such frightening heights and forced me to use the fork handle as a dildo and behave like a common slut? I was an adult, I thought as I fucked myself with the plastic phallus. I was no longer a silly teenage girl who'd just discovered the delights of her femininity. I was a married woman.

As my orgasm began to subside, I slowed my thrusting rhythm, fucking my inflamed cunt slowly as I recovered from my self-abuse. A blackbird fluttered above me as I looked up at the blue sky. Had he been watching me? My vaginal muscles gripping the fork handle, my clitoris inflating, I moved the fork faster in and out of my sex-hungry cunt. I needed to come again, I thought, wondering whether Barry was still there. The bushes rustled again, and I quickened my thrusting and fucked myself hard as I panted and writhed beneath the summer sun. Barry would never forget the lewd sight, I knew as the plastic handle massaged my G-spot and my milk of desire flowed. And I'd never be able to forget what I'd done in front of my next-door neighbour.