Chapter 1

Mrs. Robinson lived across the way from me.

Or the window, more definitively.

My family occupied a 2-story home at the end of a cul-de-sac. At a slightly offset angle from Mrs Robinson’s similarly structured home. My boy bedroom, however, was very much in line with her Master Bedroom on the second floor. When I lay in my bed her own opening would consume the vast majority of my view. My window being poster sized while hers was ... far larger than that.

She had a sliding glass door that would exit onto a very thin foot-space of a balcony - which she would use to house a nice set of plants and flowers that framed the expanse of her doorway quite warmly. She was meticulous about feeding them, daily. And they appeared to be ever so happy about her nursing them regularly that way.

And she also had enormous boobies.

Absolutely magnificent ones. Plus a nice big ass to offset the challenge of carrying those around I suppose. She wasn’t all that fat at all. As far as I could tell it was mostly just tits and ass. Or that’s mostly all I cared about, I guess. Initially.

Our Living Room sat below me. Television set against the wall, no window down there to harm her. And no other windows on my end really besides the little frosted one beside me in the bathroom. It was almost as if the architect said, “Let’s just cut open a portal right here so some young and impressionable male can quietly enjoy the charms of Mrs Robinson and her fantastically built big boobies. Seems a fair consideration.”

So that’s precisely what I did, for well more than a decade. Before I knew what I was really looking at; while I was more interested in that than anything else; and even on into some years as a full-fledged adult. Mrs Robinson on display. Sometimes more than others. The mystery of her offerings an ever evolving theater of erotic fascination.

Count your lucky stars.

Her personality matched her stature to some degree. Particularly pleasant if not robust. Everything appeared to just cascade out of her, so to speak. Not at all volatile or explosive but very much, uh, present. You could not mistake her presence for anyone else s. She could surely sit in for a Nun, or a Headmistress, or a Nurse (but not a Doctor), or a Teacher, or a Principal, or The Mayor, or maybe even United States President. She could have been any of them or all of them at once, in my estimation. But she wasn’t. All she ever did was feed those flowers. Or kindly smile and temporarily chit chat with a roaming neighbor.

Or maybe close the curtain from time to time and fuck the holy hell out of some random stranger who would empty the tank on her and never return. She may have even devoured them completely in there as far as I could tell. Initially.

Cuz I could hear her fuck. Sometimes. Depending on the time of year.

She might go one or two years in between without eating anyone at all. Or there might even be a second stranger in there within the very same year (very rarely). One year there was a third. But that only happened that one year. Otherwise, it was only her over there. With her brilliant big bobbies warbling around. And that massive black dildo she would challenge herself with at times.

I got to watch that happen. She sometimes left her curtains wide open and let me watch her fuck herself silly with that thing. It was like a python were in there devouring HER that way. At first I was terrified but eventually I learned to just spray my goo all around the room and try not to enter a state of cardiac arrest. Which was often times very challenging. I’d get so excited sometimes I couldn’t maintain a proper hold on my cock, my hands would be shaking so terribly. My own private earthquake (or nightmare).

“One day I’m gonna get caught doing this, I just know it.”

I never did though. I mean, my parents never caught me in the act.

But Mrs Robinson?

Well, there’s a lot for us to talk about here.

One time she went right up to the window frame. She was wearing a light and wispy nightgown (or robe if you could call it that), with a delicately drawn flower pattern etched upon it - sunflowers they were, I believe. It’s hard to qualify that because she also had a few sunflowers set out on the balcony so my memory might be slightly off. Or maybe it’s because I couldn’t care about the robe so much as her bountiful boobs being set out in the open the way they were. She was standing there with her nightwear pushed aside (as if it had any choice in the matter, having a set of tits like that pushing out from under there), a little bit less demonstrably than the way the curtains had been spread apart. And she was ... almost optimistically ... tracing her fingers about her bosom. While staring at the moon.

It was breathtaking, the view that night. Of her I mean.

More elegant than it was pornographic.

The heft of her breasts could not defy gravity completely. They hung a fair amount. I wouldn’t call it saggy in any way - the volume within there was far too thorough to allow for anything flat at all. They were pointed out at the window proudly, if not defiant. Her areola were notably large. Certainly not the size of her palm but larger than a silver dollar (something less than a Sand Dollar might be most accurate). And they accented out from the rest of her in their entirely. It was almost as if her nipples were thanking her for showing me. I know that sounds ridiculous but that’s how it mostly felt from where I sat.

Not that she was showing me, exactly. I could not define that she was at the time. She was just enjoying what the moon looked like, and the shape of her gorgeous breasts within its glow.

Fair enough. I wasn’t gonna complain about it none.

I didn’t dare move from my bed that first time, however. I remained beneath the covers in the dark and masturbated my eager pecker frantically. I was reasonably concerned she might catch a shadow shaking or something but I did my best to remain covert and not erroneously interrupt her moment.

Her moment? My moment? A moment shared between us?

I dunno, she never looked my way directly.

She acted as if my bedroom weren’t even there at all. Let alone a window to look at her through.

Kinda.

I could maybe tell she knew I was there. I could maybe tell she was hoping I watched her. I could maybe tell she’d been leaving her curtains apart the way she often does because she wants me to notice her. Or wants me to hear her those other times. Out of empathy for me? Or was it something else?

Another time she did that in a similar way - only she slid the door aside completely and finger fucked herself. Just stood there behind the screen, staring up at the moon, with her hand held under there, jacking her middle finger up and out of her hairy bush. She wasn’t very timid about it, if at all. Almost did it in a masculine kinda way.

Just before she was finished she barked out one solitary word for me to hear (perhaps).

“YES!”

Her entire body then shook itself apart, violently (which I’d seen from farther away than that a time or two, or several times more accurately). She then quietly and lightly replaced the door where it had been and went to bed. Left the curtains set apart the way they were.

So ... the curtain thing. You want to know how that might be arranged? Well it was completely unpredictable. They weren’t open all the time and would be set apart at irregular intervals. It made me crazy at points. Not knowing, ya know?

Sometimes the singular fucking went on in there with the black mamba she’d obtained. The light would be on behind the curtains and I could tell, the way the flickering went on. I’d move my way up to the wall and sometimes I could hear her; mumbling or breathless in the throes of activity. It was kind of a privilege on those nights, cuz I could get right up on the wall like that and pull my pecker out. I could jack it off that way in front of the window myself (needless to say I NEVER closed my own curtains). I wanted her to see me so badly. I wanted her to watch what I do for her. I wanted her to know that I’m sharing it with her. I can hear her and I know what she’s in there doing, like I am. Cuz - doesn’t she want me to?

But maybe not. Maybe I’m just a fucking pervert and I’m cheating her out of some private enjoyment with herself. That were surely a possibility.

Nothing was indisputable. It’s probably best that I not spill the beans too irresponsibly then, right?

It was certainly true that when the fucking with another human being went on in there she would always have the curtains closed. So I could only surmise that I’m not supposed to see that part. But I could still observe enough to know how she tends to go about it. The vast majority of the time she’d be on top. I could tell cuz of the shadows. Her massive tits would be jumping up and down. Quite easy to discern who the female is and not the male, ya know?

She liked to have her ass slapped though. If he got up behind her.

She liked to say, “FUCK me!” a lot. She would say that over and over - as if he wasn’t already enough. And he would always fuck her harder in return. She got what she wanted. Sometimes I could hear their flesh smashing into each other. And I really enjoyed that.

One time she even demanded, “Fuck my fat ass!!”

And I came instantly.

Then I came again a little bit later. She milked that man for hours that night, with time in between for some quiet chatting. She’d also later say, “Make me suck it.” And he was behind her at the time. I could tell he maybe grabbed her by the hair and she spun around. No doubt then sucking it like she’d demanded.

I must have cum a half a dozen times that night myself. And I did it everywhere. I was pacing the room at times, deciding where to go next. I wanted to be included in it, somehow. I would ask myself, “Might she want me to do it over here? Over there? Where do you want me to?”

And how could that particular guy have not have returned for more beyond that evening? Are you fucking insane, mister? I want her every night!!

That’s why I considered she might actually be cannibalizing them once it’s ultimately over with. There’s probably a dozen dead bodies in a freezer beneath the house or something. How else could you explain her going for months or even years without some sex like that? And never the same guy twice?

Okay so finally there came a time where I just could not completely hide myself any longer. I can’t qualify if it was due to overwhelming guilt, potentially. Or some act of crazy courage and bravado.

I would walk up to my window.

While her curtains were open.

And she was standing there.

Naked.

We both were.

We’d been playing this game for several years by then. I still could not determine how much she knew I knew. Or how much she might want me to. Or how much (if any) she might want me to want her. Or whether she’d ever even wanna see any of Me at all.

I would pass her in public on any random day and she would smile as if nothing unusual had ever happened between us. Maybe my own mom would be right alongside me or I might be all by myself - wouldn’t matter. I could hardly meet her eyes, of course, but she would meet mine and treat me like a sugar plum candy or the sweetest thing she’d ever encountered. But certainly not the guy across from her window with the very persistent boner in his hand.

Kinda.

Sometimes there might be a wink. Her eyelid would not ever actually blink like that but something about all the rest of it would look like a wink of a type. Or maybe that was just desperate imagination on my part. But I’d swear that it was real. As unpredictable as whether her curtains might be opened or closed but it had to be a real thing.

I watched her fuck herself a number of times before the night I’d formally walk up to the window and introduce myself. That’s how I knew she owned that big black dildo. I’d seen her take it out from somewhere deep in the recesses of her closet (why she would bury it so deep in her closet when no one’s ever over there but her - for the most part - was a mystery to me. Though I later understood it’s likely cuz she’d be doing herself with it every night if she hadn’t tucked it away in that manner). She’d move about all over the bed with the lights as bright as day for me to cherish. Enough so that it looked alive for her. And she was grossly pornographic about it all. I use the term “grossly” to mean - exceptionally so. She’d toss her ass up in the air and slap that thing back between her butt-cheeks. She’d tap her face with it lightly. Spit on it and drool. She loved all the drool, and played with it all like cobwebs. She’d snake her body about all over the bed and do that thing 100 different types ways. Never failed to surprise me.

But it would not ever be done like “show and tell”.

It’s not like she was performing.

It was all very real for her and had nothing to do - to any degree of certainty I could ascertain - with some sort of “audience participation”. Instead it was all Voyeur. I was peeping on her as if she hadn’t ever known there was a window with it’s curtain wide open not all that far from her squirming around on the bed like she’s being buried by a deluge of hot steamy semen.

Except for the fact that, more often than not, she WOULD do something at some point that might indicate a “hello” of sorts. Almost like the wink that wasn’t ever one-hundred percent pure. Something out of the ordinary from the rest of it. A nod of a kind. When and where and how that might happen was always of extraordinary interest to me. It’s the only time she’d “touch” me, in a way. Identify me at all. And I loved it.

Absolutely selfless of her. Fantastic.

There had been a progression, of sorts. From how it all began. A further alert on what I was allowed to witness. Years and years of it, a notably slow burn.

Until I finally would go to the window myself that first time.

To timidly take ownership of what we’d been doing all along.

She’d been standing there doing the moon thing again. Lightly tracing her hands about her unimaginably fucking godammned and brilliantly enormous boobs some more. And I was annoyed this time. I was mad about it. Or my pecker was mad at me anyway.

So I got up from the bed and joined her.

Not nearly as close to the window as she had maintained but stupid close to be comfortable about at all. I was terrified. I took my spot near the edge where I normally listen to her when the curtains are closed. And I poked my stubborn boner out beyond the edge, in profile. Began jacking off with it furiously. It wasn’t long before I quickly shot my fear all over the glass between us. My knees went wobbly. I could hardly hold my legs beneath me while I witnessed my eager jism splash and stain the window, crying its way down the chilled glass to the base of the frame (no doubt pained by the false hope that it had any chance of reaching her at all).

She never flinched.

It felt impossible for her to not know I was there but she never did identify me in any manner at all. Her neck would not even pivot. Her ear wouldn’t move to the left just a tad and begin to notice me. Her eyes never left the comfort of the moon.

But her hand had stopped for a moment. The tiniest most briefest of moments. To the the casual observer who had not been studying Mrs Robinson for eons like I had might not even notice. But I would. I noticed. It had altered, the way she continued to measure herself. It transitioned into something else. She wasn’t alone with it any longer.

It was almost as if she had gasped. And then fed her nipple to my mouth. So I could nourish on her. So I could be content. And fear nothing.

That hadn’t happened. That’s not what she had done. But it would appear that way from my vantage point.

Most definitely.

And I never would clean up that particular mess. I left my eruption on the window for my own mother to potentially be confused about at some point. I let it dry and cake itself, attached there to honor and thank Mrs Robinson for her brilliance and all efforts prior, to the best of my ability at that point.

Is that silly?

It was an especially proud moment for me. Despite the fact I scrambled back to my bed and hid under the covers once more, shortly after I’d made that hasty declaration of love and affection.

Not too long in the timeline after that - it may have been weeks or months, but every day felt like an eternity for me in those years, waiting for Mrs Robinson to grace me with her luscious and often lewd leanings - my parents left town for a weekend.

And they asked Mrs Robinson to look after me, if necessary.

Not that it would be necessary by then. Just, reasonably responsible parenting, ya know? They’re good for that much. Mrs Robinson had a fine reputation in our neighborhood and no one could be trusted with your teenager any more than she could. Or so they surmised. I’m the only one who might know a bit differently, eh.

In any case, sure enough I took a spill on my bicycle. It was a winter month so I got pretty muddy. A little bit black and blue. A tiny bit bloody.

Once I’d limp my way home I found Mrs Robinson was in our kitchen. She was in there doing my dishes from a day ago. I guess they’d given her a key, “just in case”. But how the hell could she know I’d come home like that and might need some handling myself? Only Mrs Robinson could accidentally know something that way I would guess.

“Oh my goodness, look what’s happened!” she declared.

She would gasp. The first time I’d seen her do anything remotely like that within my immediate presence. “Come with me.” Then effectively and efficiently arrived to gather my hand and capture us into the master bathroom. Had I not been shivering from the cold I may have popped a boner already.

Wouldn’t take long in any case.

She began to undress me without consultation. My shirt was tugged up over my chin and discarded. My pants were down around my ankles in a jiffy.

“Now Harold, what have you done to yourself?” She would pepper me with commentary while disrobing me even more hastily than a mother might. “Reckless little menace,” and I loved that she called me that. The way that she had called me that, somehow. “Get these out of the way for me.” My shoes were her only obstacle, apparently.

By then she was down on her heels, her face level and equal to the growing bulge in my underwear. All I could do was cover that area of concern with both hands while she unpeeled the rest of me clear of all other protection. And somehow she hardly noticed that. It wouldn’t appear that might bother her at all, whatever could be going on beneath my shy attempts to resist it myself.