I suppose that it was pure chance, a lucky throw of the dice, and a case of right time, right place, that I met Lisa. The circumstances were hardly usual; in fact shock was possibly the first reaction she evinced from me. Definitely shock. Intrigue and wanton lust also added to the brew of emotions that she caused. The experience of her though, was a life-changing event, one that would never ever diminish in the memory and would alter my perspective on life from that time onwards.
I had been called by a man who's name reminded me of an out-board motor. Popolopoulous or something similar, merely trying to pronounce his name sounded like a four-horse-powered engine on the back of a little boat. He wanted a full survey of the outside walls of his house in Maida Vale. A few days later, armed with digital camera and measuring beam, I was "on site", taking notes and sketching the layout of the building. He had an idea he wanted to build a carport on the side with provision for a vine to grow over a steel trellis.
An electronic controlled gate separated them from the busy road that ran through to Paddington Green. From the street level, it was not possible to see the property, completely hidden by the dense growth of honeysuckle that draped over the top of the slatted wooden fence over a raised brick wall. Once inside the front garden and with the gate shut, London and its snaking and pollutant traffic were shut out completely. Not even the roar of diesel engines or the whine of small motorbikes penetrated over or through the barrier of brick, timber and foliage.
The house and its grounds were a sanctuary of quietitude. Closely mown lawn, laid in concentric arcs, split by gravel paths and brick built raise flowerbeds flowed like waves of alternate green, grey and colourful waves up to a Carrerra marble portico with three step as a demarcation from the gravel covered drive that swung in a graceful sweep from the gate at the north side to another supposed gate at the south end.
The starkness of the marble contrasted with the deep redness of a clay-brick, two-storey height, Georgian front house with symmetrical bow front windows at ground floor level, on either side of the portico.
My professional eye dated the place and took in the condition of the house. Although it wasn't a remarkable property for the area, the level of maintenance and quality probably added a couple of hundred thousand to the purchase price. I orientated my self and walked along the gravel drive to the right hand side, or south facing gable as it turned out to be. It was at a gap between the gabled end and the partition wall that separated the neighbouring property that the client wanted to erect the carport, under a mature London Plane tree that offered shade.
Measuring and pacing took only a little while and then a quick sketch took a short while longer. Engrossed I missed the small, half opened sash window at the side. Music coming from the raised bottom half first attracted my attention and then, my curiosity, because I was supposed to be on the premises alone.
I ignored it, marking the position for when I measured that section of wall to precisely plot the chimney flue that protruded on the flank.
I suppose I forgot about the window, letting the music drift into background noise until I got to that section, between the front corner and the chimney flue where the window broke up the uniform brickwork set in a Flemish bond.
The open window was at eye level. The music became recognisable as something by Rachmaninov. A heavy scent came from the gap at the bottom sash and as I approached, a softer noise under the notes of music. I hooked the end of the tape to the corner of the house and stretched ti to the box of the window. It was at that point I saw her and the tape unhooked and sprang back as if it wanted to eat my trapped fingers. I hardly noticed the sharp pain.
She lay on the floor at an oblique angle, naked. Her paleness was in stark contrast to the dark floor covering. Golden hair flailed out and spread over the carpet as if a cushion was under her head. She lay on her back, knees drawn up while her busy fingers pinched and pulled at She moaned slightly and her head rolled from side to side in a languid rocking motion. Small moans of pleasure escaped from her parted lips.
I couldn't gauge her age from my vantage point. She appeared to be young, perhaps in her teens, but difficult to determine. Both hands were engaged in pleasuring her nipples. Stroking them in loving fingertip swirls and then pulling the tips cruelly up between thumbs and forefingers, which drew a moan from her throat.
She was beautiful. That much was plainly evident. Slender and hairless at her pubic mound. Her face, even in a rictus of pleasure, was unmarked, flawless and lost to the intense sensation her nimble fingers were causing.
Her eyes were closed and her perfectly even and white teeth were biting her lower lip. She drew breath sharply through them as she pinched her hardened and deeply reddened teats and her long neck arched, forcing her shoulders off the floor and pushing her breasts forward as if enticing her fingers to punish the little nerve centres further.
One hand travelled in small circles over the skin of her flat stomach, while the other fell almost lifelessly to the floor at her side. Her knees straightened and her legs parted slightly.
Anticipation was adding to my already painful arousal. I visualised what she was about to do and the excitement went immediately to my engorged cock. From my vantage point, I could see her vulva, slick with her juices and swelling with mounting need. I wanted, no, actually needed to plunge into her body, possess it, ride her and bury my myself between her parted thighs, but as any voyeur, I remained a silent witness to her self pleasuring, frightened that any slight movement or noise would spoil the magic of the unfolding scene before me. Besides, I knew well enough that, contrary to the popular male belief that a woman in such a position would, upon spying her audience, invite him in to join in, my intrusion would end in my eviction, most likely with a stream of verbal abuse.
Her fingertips had found her moistened lips and parted them slightly. It seemed she was being careful not to touch that most sensitive nub of nerve endings, perhaps leaving it till she was ready, or delaying the moment in self-torture. Carefully her tips separated the swollen lips and her forefinger slipped easily between to disappear into the hidden canal beyond.
Another sharp intake of breath announced her invasion of her pleasure pool. The single finger entered and exited in a slow, rhythmic tempo that matched her breathing. She unfolded a second finger and it accompanied the other in its travels into her depths that were hidden from me in shadow.
The pace increased and her back arched as her pleasure mounted. Her fingers fucked her hairless sex in a relentless and increasingly bruising drive towards an orgasm. Her chest rose in staccato as her breathing became ragged. Her tongue flicked out to moisten her parted lips. Her head thrashed from side to side with her eyes screwed tightly shut.
She lifted her passive hand from the floor and a finger slid straight to her budding clit. The first touch brought forth a rasping gasp that seemed as if it must tear her throat. Mercilessly she rubbed her self while finger fucking herself. The torment to her clit was becoming a rapid tattoo, her legs quivered in uncontrolled rapture. Cries escaped her lips as her orgasm approached. Then she pinched her clit, drawing it forward, pinching the sensitive bud bringing a sharp gasp of indrawn breath between her clenched teeth as if her fingers were red hot and she had burned herself and then, a scream that climbed through an octave shattered the air and she squirted her slickness over and between her fingers to pool on the carpet, before seeping away. Her fingers quickly were sucked dry of her juice, one by one, each finger slipped between her rose coloured lips to be drawn into her mouth and cleaned thoroughly.
My heart rattled and banged in my chest, seeming to hit my ribs from the inside as if it was trying to escape. My own breathing coming in short gasps as I watched her legs twitching in diminishing waves as her orgasm receded, each wave just slightly less powerful than the last.
Then all went very still, breathing, heart, everything as she turned her head, opened her eyes and looked straight at me. Almond shaped azure orbs orientated on the open window and my freeze-framed face, surrounded by painted window frame and sash.
I was mortified and desperately wanted to run and not stop until I was far away, but my legs refused to follow the instructions my thoughts were telling them. I was transfixed by her stare like a moth on a collector's pin. A mixture of shame and self-loathing overcame me. But, then, she smiled, just an upward twitch of the ends of her perfect lips and a slight wrinkling of her nose. We looked at each other, neither moving in a frozen tableau until her smiled broadened and her pink tongue tip licked across her top lip as if tasting the air.
I thought I saw her invite me in with a twitch of her head in a come here movement of her head. I thought that was what I had seen, but was too stupefied to move. She repeated the action and emphasised the motion theatrically.
I took the broad hint and pulled back to find the door. I couldn't see anyway in and turned back to shrug with open palms in a silent plea for directions. She understood and pointed to my left.
.... There is more of this story ...