In the garden, there, I spy on her, A beauty, beyond compare, And as I voyeur, from my hidden lair, I feel the heat in me, I feel it in the air.Her languid form, like a dream so rare, I watch her, with an unwavering stare, But as I hide, from my quiet lair, I want to, I really want to, I want to dare.That sensuality, that garden, a place of promise, full of such intensity, I know, it’s not right, To spy, on her, in this proximity.On display, in sex and body, full in bloom, I watch her on this humid day June, I know, I’ll be alone my cock and I, A fact, that fills me, with a sense of gloom.In a garden perfumed and green, I, a servant, waiting behind the screen for a glory so obscene, to fill the holes of this natural queen.I watch her every move, so keen, In the shadows, I remain unseen. In the garden, she’s like a dream.
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It was one of those hot, wet, summer afternoons in the country side where everything seems to move slower than usual. In the East End of Long Island, things did not move at all. It was June, and so the city-diots had not yet swarmed our quiet east-end towns. I was sitting on my porch, trying to come up with some new material for my play, when I heard a high-pitch laugh and rustle from across my fence.
I stepped up on to the sturdy bench beside me and looked out over my yard and into my neighbors garden. I saw a woman by a pool holding a book. She was on a rumpled towel on a lounge chair adjusting her side table, and pouring herself a drink. She was naked and hard to ignore. I watched her for what must have seemed a while. Standing there on that bench, frozen in space like a meerkat, staring out over my burrow and across my garden directly into hers.
When she finished adjusting her lounger, she took another sip from her glass, shuffled her ass, leaned back, and opened her book. Just as gracefully, her legs opened in concert with the covers of her book. Her pussy, unkept, flashed dark pink and shadowed in the sun. The rest of her body more glowed than glistened, as if she had been powdered in in sugar and sherbet. Sprinkled at the center of it all, the craggy, dark hairs around her crotch and pussy mound betrayed a woman unkept and un-bothered by the modern and mundane.
I stopped breathing. It was an astounding sight. An invitation, I thought. An invitation to the world, an invitation to the natural and seasonal state of things. Hot, wet, and effervescent. Even thought I was standing in the shade of the large magnolia tree in my back yard, I felt the heat of the sun on all her body. I could not help but wonder what she must be feeling right then and there. What her sex smelled like. What it might taste like. Pungent and salty? Or, sweet, like burned sugar and sherbet?
She had no idea I was there or all the dirty little thoughts she was inspiring. She had no idea that there was a horny little man just across her garden, spying on her, like a meerkat, from his little burrow.
What a turn to my dull, laborious, day. This happenstance moment of sounds and serendipity had shifted my existence so precisely, so abruptly and completely, that I had gone from lamenting being stuck far out in the middle of nowhere to, there was no better place than to be here, in a hidden neighborhood near the Long Island Sound in Orient Point, New York.
I was so overtaken by the exciting of my good timing, the arousal of this good fortune, that I had a strong urge to do two things; first, to see if I could find a better spot between the fencing and the privet to continue voyeuring, and two, an almost uncontrollable urge to take the little bit of clothing I had on, and like her, like this mysterious neighbor, undress and allow the world, the sun, the air, to see and feel me in my most natural and vulnerable of states. I stepped off the bench to do two exactly those two things.
When I came back out I went towards the fence line. I couldn’t find a good viewing point between any of the planks and the shrubs. I rummaged around for some time, naked, sweaty, eager. At certain moments I became self aware of the off-chance that someone else, another neighbor, or passerby could see me bare-assed creeping around. The idea both excited me and made me anxious. I gave up and returned back to my peeping perch.
Fifteen or twenty minutes had passed, and in that time, I had gone through several cycles imaginations and expectations, of arousals and erections, of sweating and more sweating. I could smell my armpits and I could smell my cock on my hands from fondling it between its heavy swings as I went around in my yard in search of another closer more intimate viewing spot. I gave up finally, and went back to the bench. My heart was racing with anticipation and a modicum of shame. At first, I did not see her on the lounge chair. I scanned her yard and back towards her house. I skipped a breath, thinking that perhaps she was on to me. Then, I heard a splash and looked down towards the pool. There she was. Swimming, as free as anything, among the dark blue water and lush backdrop of her yard.
She was laying back, her bottle of wine next her, bottom half of her cooling off in the water. I watched silently for some time. She took a phone call, got out of the pool and then back in. Waded for a while and finally swam towards her blue floaty and mounted it, layed back into it, sinking slightly below the surface, and seemingly let herself ease back into the drowsy afternoon. Her legs, again, open up and exposed her pussy and craggy little hairs full towards the sun and in my direction.
I lost my balance at the sight of that gorgeous pussy aimed at me. I felt like it had seen me, found me out. I stumbled and started to tip over. I made a loud noise and flew across my porch and in the air landing on the dry grass and hard ground. The bench wobbled for a few seconds and toppled over, making another loud noise. I was laying naked on that grass patch, aching in modest pain, still as a shrew, hoping my neighbor had ignored the ruckus that had just occurred. I knew that I was done peeping for the day, and hoped, prayed, that I had not been found out, and that she would make a habit of these afternoons.
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