The Watcher

Jennifer craves eyes on her body—quiet, hungry eyes that belong to someone she shouldn’t want. She felt the change in the air the first Thursday the neighbor girl, Alison, crouched behind the boxwoods and didn’t blink. Instead of closing the curtain, Jennifer let her blouse slip, stood closer to the window, and slid two fingers between her thighs while the young blonde watched. Moisture gathered fast, gleaming under the lamplight each time her knuckles brushed her clit. She came without making a sound, thighs trembling, pretending she hadn’t noticed anything. Yet every week the thrill sharpened: Alison always returned, breath fogging the glass from the outside. Jennifer teased longer, rolled her nipples between thumb and forefinger, fucked herself slowly with three fingers until the wet sounds carried. She let the girl memorize the rhythm—until the moment arrived. One Thursday Jennifer left the back door cracked. The latch clicked. Soft footfalls crossed the rug. Jennifer turned, bare and glistening, and crooked a finger. “Come here,” she said, voice low. Alison crossed the room already trembling. Jennifer guided the girl’s palm between her own spread legs, pressed slick heat against trembling fingertips, and whispered, “Touch me like you’ve been dreaming about.” When their mouths met, it tasted like permission.