Monique and John - a May/November Romance
Copyright© 2025 by acguy
Chapter 5
Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 5 - An aspiring young architectural student sets her sights on her older widowed neighbour.
Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Reluctant Romantic Fiction Exhibitionism Masturbation Oral Sex Safe Sex Voyeurism
Dropping my briefcase by the door, I changed into shorts and a t-shirt, then headed to my home gym. An hour with the free weights and thirty minutes on the rowing machine should have been enough to clear my head. It wasn’t.
Even as I stood in the shower, the hot water streaming over me, I could still hear Monique’s voice, still feel the ghost of her lips on my cheek.
By the time I sat down for dinner—an omelet, simple and satisfying—I had convinced myself to stop thinking about her. But the moment I settled into my chair with a glass of wine, my eyes were drawn to the window, to Monique’s darkened room.
Waiting.
Wanting.
When her light flickered on, my breath caught.
She stepped into view, wearing a copper-colored skirt that hugged her hips and flared at the thigh with a teasing slit. A fitted white tank top bared her shoulders, and on her feet were delicate dancer’s shoes.
She raised her phone, and a moment later, mine buzzed.
I hesitated before answering.
“Good evening, Monique,” I said, my voice betraying my anticipation. “You look stunning.”
“Thank you, John,” she purred. “I was about to practice, but then I realized—you couldn’t hear the music.”
I heard the smile in her voice.
“I’ll put my phone down,” she continued, “but stay on the call. That way, you can watch ... and listen.”
I swallowed hard. “That’s a brilliant idea.”
She set her phone down, and the soft strains of music filled my ear.
Then she moved.
At first, it was only a warm-up—slow, fluid motions, her body stretching, hips swaying, arms unfurling like silk ribbons. Even these simple motions were hypnotic. Ten minutes passed before the music changed.
“I’ll be dancing bachata next, John,” she murmured.
Then, the beat shifted.
She turned away from the window, her hips rolling in deliberate, sultry undulations, each movement teasingly slow. When she faced me again, her eyes were closed, lost in the rhythm, lost in herself.
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