A Young Man’s Fancy - Rose
by Midnytdrmer
Copyright© 2025 by Midnytdrmer
Young Adult Story: A moment in a young man’s life when he finds himself obsessed with his older married neighbour Rose
Caution: This Young Adult Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction .
Long ago, a friend asked me, What part of a woman’s body most attracts you to them? Instantly, my mind shouted legs, but being young and on the reserved side, I didn’t want to appear odd, so I said breasts. He smiled and said You know what does it for me? Butts!
I remember thinking, butts? What is so attractive about butts? Anyway, he told me of their virtues, the round fullness, gentle giggle as one walked, and I sort of half listened, yet it never left me.
I suppose I started looking at butts after that, and honestly, at all aspects of the female form. I realized, or perhaps learned, a great appreciation females. Fat, thin, tall, short, curves, hair, eyes, brains, wrists, ankles, smiles, every tiny detail holds its charms.
These days, I tend towards the Rubenesque qualities like thicker thighs, a bit of meat on the ole bones, and plenty of curves to explore and distract. Funny as it may seem, I have noted that over the past year, tummys stand out as something that drives me wild. I blame it on the trend of crop tops, but no matter if it appears on a fit torso or a fuller belly, I want to reach out and go crazy.
Today, although my appreciation of many qualities defines me, I can still fall back on a great pair of legs, which is my one weakness. They always find a way to capture my attention and lure me into depraved thoughts.
Now that you have a simplified background of my character, I can relate the desires of youth and perhaps detail the struggles and triumphs I experienced.
To start with, I will relate the story of Rose. She was my lower-level neighbour living with her husband in the bottom of a converted three-unit home. Although I have never been a good judge of age, some might like to understand that she was about 20 years my senior.
The very first incident was just a simple shock to my system. It happened while I was checking my hydro meter, which I had to do in the basement hallway of Rose’s section of the house.
She answered the door in a micro robe. I remember how it accented her curves and hinted at what was beneath. One quickly speculated if there was actually anything under it, and being a young man, the answer was bound to be no.
I recall following her down the staircase, eyes fixed upon the hem where it met between her thighs, but that was it—a short yet stunning moment.
Truthfully, it all happened innocently enough. Rose could not have expected me and was obviously comfortable enough in her attire to answer the door for anyone, although, thinking back with a more mature perspective, I think it might have been the beginning of a long, slow seduction.
One had to consider whether it was the youthful attention or the effect of such attention upon a hungry soul. Surely she had noticed my wandering eyes and bedroom stares as lust grasped an innocent boy’s hormones. Sadly, I am not in tune with women, so I cannot say if it was on my part, hers, or both.
Responsibility aside, since it has little bearing on this story, I developed a habit of looking out my bedroom window. It happened because one day I noticed my Rose sunbathing. She wasn’t what one might consider a beauty by any stretch, being on the heavy side, with a rough yet natural appearance, but still, she was fascinating to my young mind.
Admittedly, I had already had several fantasies about her from the robe incident, but now I had the chance for long, unhurried glory. My eyes slowly took in every inch, studied and re-studied every tiny aspect, while the mere look of her soft, unblemished body, with a healthy, glistening glow of perspiration dappling her skin, was enough to give me pause.
More than that, though, I witnessed a slow shift of her legs in a kind of soft, lithe, evocative dance as one thigh rubbed its mate suggestively. They never actually parted or ultimately changed position, yet that simple motion had an erotic, perhaps even forbidden connotation.
I was hooked! From that first encounter and all that transpired, I was a prisoner of her body. I often sought a repeat of that scene, but it never happened. In my quest for another though, I witnessed an equally profound memory, one which any testosterone-driven male might well cherish.
It occurred on another sunbathing day; however, on this occasion, after I had already mentally caressed her body as a highly attentive masseuse might, I watched as she pulled her tube top out to examine the depth of her tan.
Standing as I was in my bedroom window, I found myself peering down over her shoulder at the fullness of her breasts. I watched with mild interest as her head compared the exposed skin to that which had been covered, and once satisfied, replaced the top, but in my head, I screamed no, for I had not seen enough.
More than any moment I had experienced before, the desire to take it all in again and again filled my thoughts. I wondered if I could be that masseuse or perhaps offer to rub suntan lotion upon her as my mind dreamed of ravaging that innocent body, but I knew that was mere Hollywood tripe. Instead, I lay back and fantasized about it over and over again.
Oh, how slowly I would start, carefully rubbing the warmed lotion onto her feet and individual toes, massaging with just the perfect amount of pressure to awaken nerves. Then would come the ankles and calves. I would always move slowly, meticulously, patiently, exploring every tiny swell and valley of muscle and curves.
The thighs would be the most difficult, so warm and inviting, yet I knew it had to be timed not to appear fixated; no lingering would be absolutely mandatory.
A daring moment follows where a finger tip sneaks beneath the leg opening. Just for a second, mind you, before dancing away. Long enough to lay the desire, yet innocent enough to be misread or imagined.
Then, above the skin-tight short, shorts, to work upon the stomach. Slowly, every smooth pass covers the exposed skin before the second invasion. This time, half a finger’s depth, beneath the waist, touching, feeling, experiencing, before gliding away. It would have to be a smooth, uninterrupted motion, so the sensation ultimately would be brief.
Upon successfully navigating these two tiny advances, I would know it couldn’t stop there; it could only end in passion or rejection, so the third tease had to come and be even bolder.
Risking everything, I would use four full-length fingers with possibly half a palm to snake delicately and hopefully still unnoticed under the waistband. Imagine the feeling and sensation such an action would have.
Whether I got away with it again or not, I would know what lies beneath those shorts, and if I survived, it would be time to go higher.
Over the ribs, while finding that balance of pressure to define each one and follow its path before finally coming to the bursting tube top.
There I was peering down from my bedroom window, lost in my erotic fantasy while hoping for the poetry of sexual implication. When my fantasy reached the tube top, it was frozen in time, treated instead to a real, deep, full down blouse.
From that day forward, I dreamt of her, dreams filled with fantasies, passion, and raw desire. Now, I actively watched for her and noticed more and more. Things like the clothes she wore to work at an industrial laundry and how the sweat made parts cling to her body, tiny painted toes that always peeked out of her sandals, the fullness of her unadorned lips, and even the soft, bedroom-like eyes that held my soul.
Several months later, I saw a flash of her in through the bedroom window as I passed on my way to work. She had just put on a blouse which still lay open over a pink lace bra that burst under its burden. The entire event took less than five seconds as I passed without stopping, yet that tiny innocent act renewed fantasies and deepened desires. Many were the moments I kicked myself for not stopping and not having her see me, but propriety also speaks of character.
Another time, a noise beyond my window late at night had me peering out, only to see her tending a late-night BBQ. On this occasion, she wore a long, sheer black nightgown with the shadow of her naked form flowing beyond. Had it been lighter or perhaps had I been closer, I might well have seen more, but still that image plays in my memory.
I recall what I had thought to be an innocent moment, a few days later, she was out hanging laundry, and I was again off to work. On this day, she wore slacks and a form-fitting yet not what I might call a tight blouse.
I paused to engage in a brief neighbourly conversation, yet on a deeper level, I feel sure it was to feed the close-up memories of her face and figure. On some level, though, there became an ulterior motive, for on this day, I brought up the fact that I had seen her in that nightgown and how she looked fantastic.
The news surprised her, yet she didn’t act shocked or embarrassed; she merely thanked me for the compliment and continued her task. Had that been the extent of it, perhaps I wouldn’t have been writing this, but one tiny thing changed at that moment.
As we continued our conversation, I noticed the slow but unmistakable stiffening of her nipples. In the light of day, they spoke volumes to my young mind. Hungrily growing through her blouse with no known or reasonable reason other than the knowledge I had just imparted. The mere thought that, either consciously or unconsciously, she found a young man’s lust exciting. When I left, those two points remained prominently begging for attention, so stiff, so hard.
Sure, a flurry of ideas crossed my mind at that moment, but faced with them taunting me, threatening to have me react, I crumbled. Knowing I had run away instead of pursuing was the wrong decision, but a man only learns from his mistakes.
Perhaps a month later, while I was cleaning my car’s interior, she came out of her house and wandered over. It was mesmerizing to watch her walk that short distance. That day, she wore tights and open-toe high heels.
Instantly, my mind screamed that she had never worn tights or high heels in five years. I had known her, but whether it was the attire, the fashion show runway saunter, or simply my own appreciation, I was immediately hooked.
So absorbed was I in her look that, to this day, nary a hint remains of what we said. I can recall the moment she raised a leg and placed it on the car’s rocker panel. My eyes followed her from inviting toes painted white all the way to her waist as her hands began adjusting the fit of those tights. Straightening some unseen seams or simply teasing me to act, I admit I lost it.
Suddenly, I found my hand reaching out and cupping the raised calf. I stroked softly up and down, feeling the inviting material, yet I really think it was the flesh beneath that held me. I recall saying, These are really nice, Rose, but you should be careful choosing your attire; something like this could give young guys the wrong ideas.
I never dared look at her face, eyes, or anything beyond what was beneath my fingers. I can describe in intimate detail the sensation, thoughts, heat, and softness, but had she responded?
Now, having blurted out a kind of confession, my active thoughts ran from the implications, as I had not yet developed a strong sense of confidence. Typically, under such pressure, I cowered, yet my hand continued to react from somewhere inside.
My mind imprinted every sensation, yet it refused to allow me to look into her eyes or even where the hand dared go. Instead, they fixed themselves on the sweet white painted toes and pondered how they might react to tiny kisses or even a gentle sucking.
I know the hand braved more, though, for I have a sensation where it paused to caress the back of her knee before rolling over the top and continuing along the path of her inner thigh. I know, too, that the moment it ended, the rippling sensation of her trembling thigh registered, for at that moment, she fled.
I looked at my hand for a long time, and my thoughts questioned the experience. Had I done something wrong? Is that why she left? Was it the phone which sort of signalled a far-off sense of duty? Was she more afraid of me? Had I actually done that, or was this sense of creating a primal reaction in both of us mere fantasy? All I can say is I believe those tiny waves that shook her thigh through my fingers happened just as I have written it here.
Thinking back, I might well have continued ravaging my neighbour had she not fled to the security of her home. I know I watched as she hurried off, smooth, unmarried material stretched tightly over her body as though she were exposed. No lines, no flaws, and I wanted more.
There were ideas how I could have seduced her in my car, and others where I followed her inside, but perhaps a favourite is catching her on the phone.
For anyone who has ravaged a woman while she struggled to retain composure on the phone, you can understand. Knowing she wants that pleasure so badly and feeling the body give in one tiny victory at a time is magical. There is always a moment where her free hand pushes on your head with little conviction: the delicate grind or slow weakening of will as thighs inch apart. Every gain brings on more pleasure, deepening the desire to succumb, and then it does. That first soft moan never leaves your thoughts.
It wasn’t a week later that I again had to read the hydro meter; once more, she wore that micro robe. With all that had transpired, I wanted to grab the lapels and rip them open, smothering her in kisses as I pressed her back against the wall, but no, morality says she’s a married woman and untouchable.
I believe that in every married woman’s life, sometimes someone makes a crass or saucy pass. Most never go beyond that moment and are rarely, if ever, shared with a partner, but that seems the norm.
So why do I feel it is okay to make such gestures yet fear and relish a moment when one’s desires match one’s own? Perhaps that is a question best left to a psychiatrist.
Anyway, there I was, following her down the stairs into that narrow hallway, my eyes glued to her, questioning every fact and fantasy. She was the epitome of all my desires, and the fact that she was married held no sway.
She held the light in that dark space while I wrote down the numbers, but in a tiny lapse of concentration or perhaps a deeper subconscious will, I dropped the pencil and scrambled to retrieve it.
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