The Watching

The Watching

He had long been an ardent admirer of the female form. From the days of his boyhood, he had gazed with reverence upon the long tanned legs and his eyes had moved upward to where the legs suddenly disappeared into a shapely abyss of mystery. The rounded hips that narrowed into slender waists that moved upwards into shape and roundness of the breasts up to the sheer neckline and into the faces….they had all beckoned some unknown part of him that he did not understand but was fluent in nonetheless. The eyes made the face, for a woman's eyes could show you so much if she cared to reveal herself to you.

The women had known it the entire time, of course. He took no pains to hide his attraction, and he was helplessly forward with his stares. It was all he could do to control that stoic expression that came over him for fear that he would reveal too much of himself and frighten those lovely beings off. Oh, they were lovely creatures. He knew how Adam had felt when he first bit into the fruit and the juices had run down his chin while the shock of sweetness ran over his tongue. The loving offering of temptation was one that he as a son of the first man could never resist.

He watched and watched, and some were shy and demure while others were offended and glared. Still others had looked back with boldness, taunting him with their nearness and total unavailability. They were so lovely that you dreamed of touching them but dared not lest you disrupt the sacred silence and lose the mystery. It was better to imagine who they might be than to actually know.

She was no different than the others in many respects, but in the best respects she was totally unlike any he had previously watched. She would glide out of her car, long brown legs stretching forth first and hanging in the air until those feet found the driveway and then she would get out and stand up. She would cast a glance his way, knowing that he was watching and drinking in every movement.
She never covered those legs, but put them on display like an artistic work should be displayed. The Maker had sculpted her from a different mold than the others. Her legs were shapely and tan and whispered of sensuality and grace. He watched them a thousand times and replayed the moments of her arrival in his mind thousands of times in delicious memories.

She would look back at him with a mixture of ladylike contempt for his forward stare and womanly acknowledgement that confirmed for him that she knew what her effect was. She knew what she was doing, and she didn't even have to give it an effort. It was natural for her. There was no effort, no exertion on her part to do what she did.

She was a sorceress with her body and the way that she moved, casting a spell over all who saw her. Those legs moving in concert, close together, as the parts above moved in their own wickedly tantalizing way. He saw the hair floating behind her, blond and shining and free. He wished that he could be half as free with himself as her hair was.

His friend had spoken one time in the midst of her movement to remark on how she dressed sexy every day. He knew better than his friend…. she did not dress sexy, she simply was. You could have covered her from head to toe, and the sexuality of her person would have oozed through even the thickest of cloth. Beautiful was an adjective until he saw her personify it. It was a mere word, but she was the embodiment of beautiful.

The property line was an invisible barrier between them that he had longed to cross each day. He had often wanted to breach that fence, to cross the yard and go up to her…but he did not. Would it be appropriate to tell such a creature what she most surely already knew? Could appropriate even be the word to apply to such a woman as this?

What made her so attractive was the whisper of inappropriateness that permeated her walk, her look, and her eyes. She was pagan in her sensuality, natural and delightfully insensitive to the rules of normal protocol that said that a lady could not be so open with her femininity. She would come out each day an extra time to do the normal things because she knew he watched, and some part of her enjoyed the fact that he did.

It was affirming for both of them. She knew that she was beautiful and sensuous when he looked at her, and he knew that he was a man each time she would turn her eyes to meet his. Their relationship was just a mere gaze upon arrival, a look when she would come out the side door and he could see just her ponytail from the corner of the house as she took out the garbage. Even the most average of activities brimmed with undertones of Venusian temptation, for nothing this goddess did could ever be mundane.

She could make a walk to her car scorch with desire. She would bend over into her car, those legs pert and straight as the back bent and thrust her towards him in a way that only inflamed the imagination more. She was gorgeously wrong and sinful. He wanted to taste her, to touch her in the most desperate and private ways possible, to violate himself and her in doing so.

She was ripe, in the full bloom of her womanhood. This was what little girls could become if circumstance and opportunity conspired to produce in them the kind of feminine perfection that exploded with each step. Her body was full and perfect, and time could do nothing to change that reality. Her eyes were shining with insinuation in each glance. Her hair could catch the sun and imprison its light within its strands. And, oh, those legs with their copper tone and firmness.

Watching her was something he did in a way that he had once observed the stars as a young boy. He had wondered at their light and theorized as to what made them shine so. He now did the same with her each night. She was fabulous. He was tormented with the most delicious feelings at her every appearance, and she made no effort to allay his agony, showing up each night time and time again, finding whatever reason she could to show up at the side door.

She could have talked on her phone inside, but she came out and stood on the steps. Her pet needed no trip outside at nine o'clock, but she would come out and stand in the driveway clutching the animal to her breast. Her house was clean, but even the smallest piece of paper was an occasion to go outside and toss her hair on the way to the garbage can.

There was no doubt in his mind of her explicit awareness towards his condition. She knew exactly what she was doing, and this made her all the more intriguing to him. He could not imagine why anyone would leave her alone in that house, why anyone would leave her alone at all. He would have smothered her with his presence, and his desire would have devoured her each minute.

She was not alone, of course. She had him anytime she wanted outside, waiting for her next appearance. This was her company, her interaction. Ah, to be alive and to know mystery…this is all the watcher could want in his nightly observation and she provided mystery aplenty with her ripe sensuality of presence. And so he would watch and never tire of the sight of her, and she would never tire of the exercise of providing him those deliciously short sights of her each night. The watching was the most exquisite pleasure in the world to both of them, for she could look upon him and know that she was beautiful in the eyes of a man, and he could know that a woman valued his assessment of her enough to appear time and time again each night to see him sitting and waiting to watch her gorgeous form.

©Jay Bates 2006