The Watcher

Jennifer loves knowing eyes are on her, especially the wrong kind. Thursday nights she waits until after dinner and starts in the living room, slow fingers sliding down, open curtains, lights low. Alison, barely more than the neighbor’s kid, crouches in the bushes and watches every stroke. Jennifer sees the shape out there but never breaks pace. She spreads wider, pussy glistening, breath rough, soaking the couch cushion. The risk pounds through her like a second heartbeat. Alison is silent out there, breathing faster each time Jen comes. Jen lets it ride like that for weeks—wet, exposed, the girl trembling in the dark. Then one night the door stays unlocked. Alison steps inside, red-faced, shaky. Jennifer crooks a finger, says nothing, just opens her legs wider. Alison crosses the room on trembling legs. No more curtains. No more bushes. Jen grabs her by the hair and pulls that young mouth down between her thighs, and the game changes from watching to taking.