What Katie Did On The Balcony. By Katie_tt free porn video

I’ve written about how I used to role-play at being an exhibitionist with my old friend Alex (“How I Started Being an Exhibitionist”) and told you about my minor teasing in public places and my fantasy about making love in public (“What Katie Did in the Parking Station”). In the second post I described how I shamelessly teased Mr Burgess who lives across the road from me. I promised I would tell you how things ended up with me and Mr Burgess, and here it is. And it is not a fantasy.
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It is a week after the non-event in the parking station. It is another warm autumn day in Sydney, one of those glorious days when the sky is a deep, cloudless blue, a slight hint of an ocean breeze to keep the humidity down, the sun warm enough to make me drowsy as I sit on my balcony, my mind drifting to some places of sweet sensations and gentle pleasures.

I have been trying to read a book but it was not interesting me and I have let it fall to the floor. My mind flickers across my old friend Alex, who is away on some business. I never fantasise about Alex because of the real satisfaction we give each other but I do like remembering some of the things he does with me.

My last orgasm happened yesterday morning while I was chatting online with a young man in England. The poor lad seems obsessed with me and contacts me as soon as I come on line. I tell him how I would stroke him; how I would let him ejaculate on my breasts, all the things that horny young men like to hear. Of course, I am not doing it purely as an act of charity. I get considerable pleasure out of it myself, the same erotic arousal, the tightness in my breats and the damp warmth between my legs that occur when I am writing these stories and blogs.

Yesterday had been no exception. I even viewed him on web cam, though this is not something I really need. I prefer the anonymity of the text chat, which allows my imagination to enhance the mood created by the words. Also, penises tend to all look the same, especially when they are half covered by a frantically jerking hand. This time, I did watch him. I came as he climaxed, although he did not produce as much cum as I would like to have seen. I should tell him to stop masturbating so often.

My own climax, however, had been quite satisfying, my whole body taking part in the last spasm as my fingers plunged hard into the canal of my vagina, and I was grateful that I’d had the foresight to put a towel of the chair on which I sat naked.

I come out of my reverie with a start. My hand is on my shorts, rubbing, the smooth fabric of my panties, sliding over my pussy lips, over my clit. Mmmm…it feels good. I love my vagina and the joy it gives me...

I take my hand away and sit up, scolding myself. Here I am, a 42 year old woman, masturbating on my balcony, where anyone could see me. Well, almost anyone. I am on the third floor, out of view from the street but certainly visible from any one of a dozen windows in the apartment block opposite.

Then again, wasn’t a public display one of my strongest fantasies?

There is still a voluptuous aura surrounding me. I find I am rubbing myself again. I would love to stand up on the table and pull my shorts and panties down and let the world watch me pleasure myself, but I don’t. I will go inside, into my bedroom, take all my clothes off to lie naked on the bed. I will fantasise about something, and fuck myself with one of my toys, or maybe just my fingers. Whatever. I feel so restless. I need to cum.

I miss Alex. He would know what I need at this particular moment. Would he encourage me to work through my fantasy, to stay on the balcony, to masturbate in front of an unknown number of people?

Or he might take me inside, work out some role play which will leave both of us exhausted but satisfied.

I shake the idea out of my head and stand to go inside. In the glass of the sliding doors I can see, against the darkness inside, the bright reflection of the building across the road, and I realise, with a slight shock, that there is a man on the balcony opposite, and he is watching me. My first reaction is anger. I feel he is violating me, invading my privacy if not my body. How dare he?

The anger passes, to be replaced by the warm flush of an anticipated sexual event. Isn’t this exactly my fantasy of a moment ago?

I look closely into the reflection. He is not fifty metres away and I can see his face clearly. It is Mr Burgess. My knees tremble. I feel I might climax as I stand there, without even touching myself.

I need to do something, but I don’t know what. I should give him something worthwhile to look at.

I pick up a tea towel from the little balcony table and I start rubbing the glass, pretending to be cleaning it. I stay where I can monitor his reflection, trying to see what he is doing. I undo the buttons of my shorts so that they are loose on me. I stretch up, polishing the glass door, and as I stretch up I feel the shorts sliding down. I feel the warm sun on my exposed flesh.

I pull my tummy in and the shorts slide down to my knees, revealing my panties. Oh God, I hope he is watching.

I kick the shorts off altogether. There is no law against standing on my own balcony in my panties, but even so, the knowledge that there is at least one pair of eyes watching creates a slightly illicit thrill which adds fo my arousal.

I continue the window cleaning, still stretching upwards to reach the highest part.

From in front, where he can’t see my hands, I am pulling the panties down with one hand until I am sure half my crack is visible.

I want to take them right off and turn to show him my dark triangle of pubic hair but I am still not brave enough to do this.

In the reflection his hands are hidden by the balcony wall, but I fancy that I can see rhythmic movement. Are you masturbating, Mr Burgess? Is this little glimpse of my bottom enough to send you off to a little ecstatic trip?

There is the sound of a car parking, a car door opening then closing. Mr Burgess’s reflection looks over the railing and waves to someone in the street.

Damn. Mr Burgess has a visitor. Show-time is over.

I turn and look over the balcony. A little sporty looking car has pulled up and a woman is walking towards Mr Burgess’ apartment block. She looks small; neatly dressed in a black skirt and a black shirt or sweater. I watch her pert figure as she heads into the building. Mr Burgess has disappeared from his balcony.

So, Mr Burgess has a woman. A very pretty woman, from what I saw. I feel cheated, which is ridiculous because I have no claim on Mr Burgess.

I retrieve my shorts and my book and go inside, feeling very flat and no longer horny. (There must be a better word for describing a woman in need of sex.) I busy myself with some housework for a while, trying not to think about Mr Burgess or on-line titillation or Alex, and after twenty minutes or so I am reasonably calm. The sun is still shining on my balcony so I make a cup of tea and go back outside to relax. I glance down to the street. The little car is still there. I raise my cup in a silent toast to Mr Burgess and his woman. At least someone is having the right kind of fun in this quiet street.

Now I am mildly surprised to see Mr Burgess’ woman leaving his building. Maybe I was wrong. Her neat, almost prim attire suggests that maybe she is a secretary or accountant or something like that.

I expect to see her go towards her car but no, she is crossing the road towards my building. I feel uneasy. Has Mr Burgess told her about the teasing tart from across the road, and is Mrs Burgess coming to give me a piece of her mind?

As she nears I get a better glimpse of her face. There is something familiar about it. Where would I have seen her before?

She disappears around the side of the building and shortly my security bell rings. I am very apprehensive, believing that there is soon to be some nasty moments. Should I ignore it, pretend that I’m out? Don’t be c***dish. It won’t be the first time I’ve been confronted by an angry “other woman”, and anyway, I’ve done nothing but show the dear man a bit of tit.

I press the intercom button and say: “Hello?”

“Is that Miss Thompson? Miss Katie Thompson?” I have only the initials, “KT”, on my bell so it’s a reasonable question.

“Yes”, I say. “Who is this? How can I help you?” May as well be polite to the jealous bitch.

The tinny voice in the intercom says: “My name is Evie Burgess.” Oh shit, says the voice in my head. It is a wife.

She does not sound hostile, but still I hesitate. “From over the road,” she says. “I would really like to have a word with you. We can talk down here if you don’t want me to come upstairs.”

She doesn’t sound at all threatening, so after a moment I press the button and tell her to come upstairs.

I realise I am still in my panties. I run to the bedroom and put on some fresh panties and shorts, and I am just buttoning them up when there is a knock on the door.

I open the door and there is Evie Burgess. Much shorter than me, probably younger, with an elfin face and big black eyes and neat short cut hair and a sweetly curved body and my first thought is: how did that boring Mr Burgess get possession of such a sweet creature as this?

And still, there is that feeling that I’ve seen her before.

We are staring at each other. There is a look of bewilderment on her face. Maybe we have met before, and she has recognised me. But that is only a passing thought. I am overwhelmed by the desire to embrace her, to see how well she will fit in my arms, to kiss her. To know her body.

I stop staring at her and invite her in. As soon as the door is closed she turns to face me. The bewilderment has been replaced by a troubled look which serves only to enhance my need to hug her,

It is a while since I had anything to do with another woman, not since that troubled affair with my former business partner Fiona, and the old familiar feeling is stirring deep in the centre of my emotions.

“I’m very sorry”, she is saying. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come. It’s about my brother, Colin,”

Her brother? brother! So it is Miss Burgess, not Mrs! That explains the familiarity. She has the same colour eyes and hair; her lips are fuller but her mouth has the same serious lines as her brother. I know that if I came to know them better I will find many more points of similarity. But why is she here?

“Come and sit down”, I say, hoping I sound calm. I offer her tea or coffee but she declines.

“I’ll get straight to it,” she says. “Colin says you have been seeing each other.”

I blink. “Not really”, I say. “Not at all. I mean, we see each other on the street and last week he gave me a lift when it was raining.” I think it best not to mention the balcony sightings. “I don’t think we’ve said more than ten words to each other. We’re really not seeing each other.”

She sighs, her eyes looking bigger and sadder.

“That’s what I thought”, she says. “You see, he has a problem, and I thought I better warn you.”

Oh my God, he is a serial killer r****t after all!

I hide my consternation. “He seems - I mean, I have never felt -“. I stop short of saying “in any danger”, waiting to hear what more she has to say.

She gives a little smile. “Oh no, Miss Thompson”, she says. “I didn’t mean anything like -he’s not dangerous. He’s the sweetest man. He would not even dream of hurting anyone.”

She pauses, obviously gathering her thoughts. “You see,” she continues, “he can’t have an ordinary relationship with a woman.”

I remember the way he’d hurried away when I’d invited him in, leaving me to think he was gay or impotent.

“It’s nothing physical”, Evie goes on as if reading my mind. “And he’s not gay, or at least I don’t think he is.””

She sighs again. How I want to cuddle her! Instead, I say: “Maybe you should start at the very beginning of - whatever his problem was.”

She looks at me, maybe with relief at being given some direction. “Thank you, Miss Thompson,” she says. “I think - you seem to be a person who understands.”

“I’ve been around,” I say. “I’ve seen a lot of things - and their aftermath. And please - I’m Katie. And it’s Evie, isn’t it?” As if I’d forget.

She smiles again, this time more broadly, and my heart beats faster. I want to say more things that will make her keep smiling, but this is not the time.

“Colin is three years older than me,” she begins. “I’m 35.” So Colin is five years younger than me. And even at 35, I can’t help but think of Evie as someone much younger.

“Colin was okay till about five years ago”, she says. “He’s very smart and he was very popular, and he had a really important job with one of the big banks. He had lots of girlfriends and I thought he would never get married.”

She shook her head. “He was so different then. You wouldn’t believe he is the same person.”

There is a long pause. Her eyes are looking into the distance, through the wall, and I sense that her mind has gone back to those happier times.

“Then he fell in love.” It is a simple statement but I know there is an ocean of emotion behind it.

“The wrong woman?” I prompt her, immediately regretting my words which sounded as if I thought I was listening to a cheap soap opera.

'Oh no,” she says. “She was wonderful. They were so right for each other. Everybody was so happy for them when they said they were going to get married. He adored her, and she loved him so much. She was not like the other girls he knew. She was special.”

Her face darkened. “So much so, he told me he had never been in bed with her. He could wait they were married.”

She sighs, and I see tears welling up in her eyes. I say nothing.

“They did get married,” she goes on. Her next words come out in a rush, "And she died, that first night, in his arms, while they were -“

She can’t go on. Tears are rolling out of those beautiful eyes and I fetch a box of tissues for her. I take some for myself, because now I am crying too, at her sad, awful story and at the pain she must be feeling as she recalls that time.

After a while she is able to continue. "It was some sort of a stroke. The doctors said there was some congenital weakness in the blood vessels. There was nothing before that which showed anything wrong. It could have happened any time, but - love-making - killed her.”

She looks so unhappy.

“You love your brother very much,” I say, breaking a long silence.

“Yes,” she says. "And when that awful thing happened - I couldn’t help him, he just fell apart, and I did my best to get him back together again, he was just never the same.”

She need not go on. Of course, after such a horrible experience, the poor man would be terrified of the same thing happening again. I hated myself for the way I’d teased him. It would be the worst form of torture for him.

I make cups of tea while she sits quietly, staring at nothing.

After a few sips of tea, she starts talking again, telling me about doctors and psychiatrists, tranquillisers and anti-depressants, a round-the world trip on which he cried at all the places his dead wife would never see.

“The thing is,” she says, “he is still a healthy man and he still has a sex drive.” She is blushing. “But he won’t have another woman. He has fantasies. He confides in me that this or that woman is in love with him, but always something gets in the way and it fizzles out. He won’t even go to a prostitute.”

“And you think he is having a fantasy about me?” I ask. She nods. Oh, I say silently, if only you knew.

“Well, it’s not healthy for him,” I say, “but he has to have some outlet, and it is not harming anyone else. I don’t feel threatened by anything like that.”

I try to choose my words carefully, to make her see that people, men and women, can do far worse things than imagining that they are screwing someone.

“I think everyone has fantasies about their sex life,” I tell her. I recall the current movement towards having people accept that mental disorders are an illness, not just a behavioural deficit. “I know, with Colin, his illness -“ I stop and sigh. “Dear Evie, you must have heard it all before, from all the real experts.”

She makes no sign to show that she noticed my term of endearment.

She shakes her head. “It’s not just the fantasies,” she says. “He likes to look at women. Not touching. Just looking. He’s become - a peeping Tom.”

Voyeur is the nicer term, I want to say, but this is not the time for an English lesson.

“Well,” I say, “it’s still fairly harmless. Men always like to look at a woman. And some women like being looked at.”

I wonder if I should tell her that I know, that I have been encouraging his obsession, but I decide not to. She will think that there is something wrong with me, that I am an evil influence, more mentally ill than her brother.

“Oh Katie,” she says, using my first name for the first time. “I know that. Even I -“. She shakes her head. “What I do doesn’t matter.”

Oh yes it does, my silent voice proclaims. What DO you do, Evie? Are there things you do which we can share?

For a moment I hate my body because my vagina has twitched and I know I am getting moist down there. It is the helpless woman scenario. I don’t like having these feelings while Evie is opening her life to me.

“It’s a lot worse than that.” She is talking confidently now, almost eager to discuss and analyse her brother’s condition. “You see, he wants to see them doing - you know, intimate things. He wants to see them getting undressed. He wants to watch them doing things in the bathroom.”

She stops. I wonder what’s coming next.

“He climbs up walls,” she says. “He is very good at it. He peeps through their windows, even three or floors up. He’s been caught,” she says at last. “Several times. And the last time, he really frightened a woman, and he had to go to gaol, and he had to go to therapy which just didn’t help at all, he‘s on the sex offenders registry, and he has to move because people find out. And he lost his good job, and now he works in some shitty little bank, and I just think it's going to get worse and worse, and I think he’s been peeping at you across the road.”

She looks up at me. I can’t tell if her expression is fear, or shame, or deep despair.

“That’s why I came here,” she says. “To warn you. And to ask you, please, if he does anything, don’t call the police. They will lock him up again, with all those perverts, and it will be the end for him. My poor Colin.”

Now she is really crying, sobbing, her face buried in her hands.

I really can’t stop myself. I go to her and now she is in my arms. I am hugging her to my breast while I stroke her sweet head, wanting to give her a safe haven, a place of peace.

Once again I want to kiss her. I want to give her my naked breast, to feed my nipple to those delicious lips, to let her take comfort in that primal action. . I want to feel the curves of her body, to touch, to explore the essence of her femininity.

I control myself. I know I have always been aroused by the helplessness of a crying woman, and anything I did now would only be for the satisfaction of my own desire.

And how would Evie respond? Evie does have that strange quality, the “I don’t know what” that suggests that she can be attracted by another woman, but I can’t know that for sure, and given her present emotional state a wrong move could have regrettable consequences.

So I simply comfort her. Big sister Katie.

“I’m sure there’s a solution for him”, I say. “Even if he can’t get back to normal, we can help him learn to accept it and live with it and keep it under control.” Why did I say “we”? It’s nothing to do with me.

She raises her head and studies my face. “Who are you, Katie?” she asks, very seriously. “I mean - you are so kind and understanding.”

I don’t know what to say. I have had this sort of thing said to me before, and could never understand why.

“I’m just myself, Evie”, I say. “I hate seeing other people unhappy. I’ve been miserable myself and I know there is always a way out of it.”

Our faces are very close to each other’s. I can feel her warm breath on my face, tinged by the tea we have been drinking. I can smell the saltiness of those tears which need to be kissed away.

Our eyes lock together. I am fearful of the passion inside me, afraid that it will unleash itself and frighten her away.

Before I know what I am doing, I am kissing her on her mouth, on her parted lips. It is a gentle first kiss; it could be just a kiss of friendship, a comforting kiss.

My body is saying otherwise. I remember the phrase I’d learned in Paris: “La rage au corps”, the tempest in the flesh. It is in my flesh now, and the only thing which is controlling it is my feeling of care towards Evie. At any other time I would let the tempest take over, no matter if it meant the loss of the object of my desire. But not this time. I don’t want to lose Evie.

Now we are very still, our mouths together, lips on lips. I feel her body become tense and I wait for her to break away.

She does not break away. She is returning my kiss, just as gently, sweetly, and her body melts against mine.

Our tongues meet, only just the tips, but there is a spark, a spark which becomes a current and energises my whole body. Both our bodies; we are both trembling.

The kiss becomes stronger, our tongues caressing each other, our bodies tight against each other. I feel her breasts, just beneath mind, pushing upwards, her hips against mine. Oh how I want her! Her sweet body, her sweet soul.

Now there is a flurry of hands, on breasts, on buttocks, frantically seeking to touch and caress. There is no denying the carnal force that is driving us towards each other. I want her; she wants me.

Her hand is on under my shirt. We both say “Oh” as she cups my naked breast in one hand. She fondles it, feeling its weight, squeezing gently as if to test its quality. I am fumbling with her blouse, trying to find the tiny buttons, there seems to be hundreds of them. She already has my shirt off and she is kissing my breasts.

Finally her blouse is off too. She is wearing a bra, her tits high and rounded. Her skin is so smooth.

The bra has a Velcro fastener and it comes off easily.

I want to look at her so I push her away, gently, holding her at arm’s length. The ten year age difference is obvious, almost embarrassing. Her breasts, even without the bra, are firmly rounded and sit proudly on her chest. Her small pink nipples are standing out, erect, waiting to be sucked.

My breasts are bigger, beginning to sag. My nipples are long and dark.

Her skin is smooth. I can see that she does not let the sun shine for long on her whole body, for there is only the faintest of tan lines and her skin has a creamy white smoothness that is waiting to be caressed, licked, kissed.

My own skin is normally a light olive, thanks to my Greek grandmother, and it used to smooth and finely textured, but now it is beginning to show the signs of too much sun and surf.

Evie is beautiful. I am, at best, what the novelists used to describe as a “fine figure of a woman.

We embrace again and kiss again, this time more passionately. I thrust my tongue deep into her mouth and she moans. Her arms are around me. One hand is frantically trying to get under my shorts. I take a moment to release the buttons and my shorts slide downwards, just as they had done for her brother just a short while ago.

Now her hand is between my panties and my flesh. I am trying to do the same with her, but her skirt is too tight.

Our kiss is going on. Our breaths mingle. My tongue cannot get deeply enough into her mouth and hers is trying to wrap around mine.

How long is it since I had felt such ecstasy? I want it to last forever, yet my body is yearning, reaching out for a climax.

Her hand has gone right underneath my bottom and her fingers are on my pussy lips. There is a wave of happiness from the realisation that she has been here before. She has loved a woman before. I don’t have to tread carefully. I don’t have to be the one to lead her, to teach her the ways of Sapphic love. She can be mine, and I can be hers.

I give up trying to get past the skirt. I hastily undo two buttons at the top and the skirt comes down easily. She steps out of it and stands before me in pink panties. She stands still, presenting herself for my approval. She is beautiful. Though she is short, her legs seem long. They are shapely as if sculpted by an Italian artist, and as smooth as the marble of such a statue. Her tummy is flat and I regret my fondness for food which gives a bulge to mine. The skin of her arms and legs and indeed of her whole body is tautly stretched over muscles which are well-defined but not those of a body builder. She spends time at the gym, doing just those exercises which keep her in perfect condition.

I find that have automatically removed all my own clothes and I am completely naked. She is still in her panties. Without taking her eyes off me she removes them, gracefully raising one leg then the other. I see her pubic hair, dark brown and curly. Not trimmed short like mine, and I know I must run my fingers through it, bury my face in it, finding the treasure that lies beneath.

There is a tension between us. We move as one, two magnets attracted to each other. She is in my arms and I am in hers, naked bodies pressed together, 0ur legs between each other’s, hands groping for breasts, buttocks, vaginas…

She is so moist. She gasps as I find her clitoris, then it is my turn to moan as I feel her hand on my labia, her fingers probing until - ah! - yes my love, you have found it.

We are kissing, sometimes deeply; sometimes light butterfly kisses on nose, eyes, cheeks. We say things to each other, not with words but with gasps and sighs and moans, the sounds of passion and endearment.

She is pulling me down to the floor but I don’t like the feel of the carpet so I hurry her into the bedroom. We sink on to the bed. Neither of us is the leader or follower. We work together, exploring, discovering. Fingers, lips. Breasts on breasts, naked thighs, moist openings tightening, relaxing.

We are on our sides, arms and legs entwined, hands down there, there, oh my god Evie, so moist, so warm. Oh yes Evie, touch me there, as I touch you. Faster. Slower. Now hard, now gentle. My fingers deep inside you. Your hands clutch my bottom, pull me closer to you. Now you are deep inside me. My cunt opens for you. Now our bodies are locked, mouth to mouth, breasts to breasts, fingers making the ultimate connection. Evie, we are one.

We find the right places, the right pressures. We are the eternal lovers. We have known each other since the beginning of time. We are new lovers, we have only just met.

We climax together. Naked bodies straining against each other, shuddering, frightened by the power of the release, joyful at the intensity of our ecstasy. Someone screams, someone squeals. Whimpering, moaning. There is laughter and tears. I don’t know who is making which sound, who is touching which flesh. If we have souls, then ours have become one for a moment.

I have become her and she has become me.

It is the moment which lasts forever.

We lie quietly, still embracing, fingers still inside each other, our vaginas relaxing, our breathing becoming slower as we drift into a languid after-glow.

In the absence of passion, our positions become uncomfortable. Slowly, reluctantly, we remove our fingers, both gasping at the final moment of withdrawal.

We lie on our backs, holding hands.

“I knew”, she says softly, “as soon as I saw you.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t want to tell her that I thought she was an avenging wife or mistress, that I almost refused to let her in. I didn’t want to tell her a lie.

Eventually I tell her something which was true. “When I opened the door,” I say, “I had no idea what you wanted, but I wanted to hug you and kiss you. And then - I was so afraid that you would not like that.”

She sits up and looks at me with those big dark eyes, a serious, almost sad expression on her elfin face. “Katie,” she says. “Will this happen again?”

I draw her down to me and kiss her lips. “Oh yes,” I say, my mouth still on hers. It must, and it will. And soon.”

She sits up again. Ï should go back”, she says. “Colin will be getting paranoid. I told him I just wanted to say hello to you.”

“Such a wonderful hello”, I say. I look at her face and see concern and - something else. A hunger.

I feel my pulse quicken. There is something I must do.

I take her by the hips and raise her. She is relaxed; she lets me do as I want.

I make her kneel, straddling me as I lie on my back. I move her pelvis towards my face and now that enticing patch is over my face and I can see her lower lips. I bring them to my mouth. I kiss them, lick them, loving that strange salty sweet musky flavour of a woman’s passion.

I devour her cunt. She presses down hard, grinding her core against my mouth. I feel her hand, reaching back, finding my own womanhood. I know I am not going to cum again; it is her orgasm I want, her climax on my mouth. Is it my dominant side taking over? Am I wanting to give her the final pleasure so that she leaves feeling that she has to return to me?

No. I just didn’t want her to leave with that hunger in her eyes. I was replete from our love making, she was not. She is younger, she has a greater well of physical passion than me.

My understanding of her needs is correct, for she climaxes quickly, but this time it lasts longer for her. I rejoice at the way her clitoris swells under my tongue. I feel joyful at the sounds she makes when I slide a finger into her moist canal.

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” she cries out with every convulsive movement. I think she is having multiple orgasms, not just one big one.

It excites me but I don’t need to climax. Her orgasms are enough for both of us.

I am so happy.

She is happy too. She is laughing.

“Oh, Katie,” she says, bending down to kiss my face which is covered by her secretions. “Katie, Katie, Katie. I have never felt so good.”

“Nor have I”, I say and I think it is true. I have had many great orgasms, but never before have I experienced the pleasure and joy I felt when she was cumming on my face.

I slap her bare buttock. “Go on, you had better go look after your brother. But have a shower first. You smell like - like someone who has just had monumental sex.”

I watch as she showers and gets dressed. She is so lovely, so sexy, dressed and undressed. Will we fall in love as we get to know each other? Part of me wants to, but there is that other part which wants no more entanglements, no unhappy end to an affair.

And what of her brother? That sad man, whom I can still only think of as Mr Burgess. Where would he fit in if things developed between me and Evie? She is so devoted to him and I would not want to destroy that devotion. Inevitably he would be part of our relationship.

I watch her walk back to her brother. Why am I crying? An hour ago I didn’t know that this woman even existed. Can it be that I have fallen in love with her?

I have spent almost my whole adult life denying the existence of “love” as a unique entity. Sexual attraction, intellectual compatibility, companionship, caring - yes, I have felt all of those things and more, but this sudden need just to be with someone, not wanting her to be out of my sight - is this love?

I miss Alex. I can share these thoughts with him. He will help me understand.


Dear reader,
If you have read my writings before you will know that I get carried away while writing. Yes, I was touching myself and made myself cum as I remembered and wrote about that first encounter with Evie. But now I have tears in my eyes as I did at the end of the story.

I know I promised to tell you how things went with Mr Burgess, but because it concerns Evie it will be a while before I can write about it.
Be patient. And I have other memories, other stories to tell.

I wanted her.

How will it end?