Modesty by moonlight

Modesty by moonlight by Anonymous
For months now, I have been unable to keep from looking out my hallway, in hopes that I might catch my neighbor, once more "going unto the breech." Even if I had the will power of resist actually looking out my hallway window every night, I think the very thought that at any given moment in the evening a young women might be tickling her clitoris for me to see, might just drive me. One time, as I looked on, waiting for her to begin, she leaned to look up at my window to see if it was dark. Perhaps she is shier that I thought. Fortunately, I didn't have a single light on and I presume she could not see me because she still has not drawn a shade. But I think its false modesty when you insist on keeping most of your clothes on but diddle yourself in view of an open window. Nevertheless, I won't argue. She is a chubby women, but very pleasant to look at. Her modesty prevents her for completely unclothing. But on a few occasions the heat has caused her to shed as least her panties. But let me describe a typical scene.
After a particular hard day, she retires at about ten and begins to read while lying in bed. I can see her stretched out, from chin to knees. I wish that I could see her face more readily. I may be a peeping Tom, but I am interested in more than just her body. If I could she her face, I think I could with her a little bit better. Beginning to groom herself, she may stroke her hair and then check her elbows for general softness, but invariable, her hand strays to her panties, usually silvery silk and a little too tight. He mound peeks out a bit about the leg holes and forms a perfect ripe hill. After a few pokes and prods at the waist band, she sticks her hand into her crotch. I see her fingers work away into the folds of her labia. Then, as quickly as they went in, she pulls them out to give them a sniff. Perhaps now she realized her clitoris needs some more attention. Rocking herself out of bed, she turns out the light and puts on the TV. What it is she turns on, I don't know, but somehow it aids her nocturnal efforts. Almost inattentively, she pulls her silken shorts aside to allow access to her clit. As the TV flickers, she begins to slowly rub circles on her clit. Her hips buck every once and a while, accepting the now glistening fingers that bring her genitalia such pleasure. I can almost hear her muffled sighs. The pace quickens and there is a frenzy of fingers friggin and clitoris flapping. Around in circles, moderate in pressure, but I can see her thighs and labia take the pounding in little ripples of flesh. By this time my legs shake in anticipation, my own hand is at the ready, trying to hold my own orgasm for hers. I wish I knew what she sounded like when she cums. The diddling just stops, and then she smells her hand and wipes it on her bed sheets. I have often fantasized about sending a dildo to her address in hopes she might take to using it. Perhaps, her own modesty prevents her from ordering one herself. But I am sure that if she had one, I could count on more evenings of self-pleasure for both of us. You can be jealous if you want, its all true, my only regret is that I catch her far less often than I'd like, and that I don't have to courage to bluntly ask her if I could . . . be of any assistance.