The Blonde Woman

Inside, through the bedroom window, the lamp glows soft and gold. She appears in the doorway and you swear your heart stops. She slips her phone from her purse and tosses it onto the bed without a glance, like she can’t stand anything between her and the heat building under her skin. She’s flushed from the summer air or maybe from the wine you see half-drained on her nightstand. She kicks her heels off, lets them thud to the floor, then hooks her thumbs under the waistband of her skirt and peels it down her hips inch by inch. The fabric clings to her thighs for a moment before sliding free and pooling at her feet.

She stands there for you in nothing but a lacy black bra and panties so thin they barely hide anything at all. She turns toward the mirror, her back to you, hips swaying slow as she reaches behind her to unclasp her bra. Her fingers fumble the hooks once, twice, then she laughs softly to herself and slides the straps down her shoulders anyway. She peels the cups away from her breasts, nipples hard in the warm lamp light, full and flushed from her own touch.

The bra slips from her fingers and drops to the floor. She raises her arms and gathers her hair up off her neck, bare back arched, breasts lifting and spilling forward, perfectly framed in the glow of the bedside lamp. A sheen of sweat beads on her collarbone and glides down between her breasts, catching at her ribs before dripping onto her belly. She runs her palms down over them, fingers skimming her nipples, pinching lightly, her breath hitching as her eyes flutter shut for a moment.

She turns just enough that you see everything from your vantage point outside her window; the curve of her waist, the swell of her ass hugged tight by that scrap of black fabric, the smooth line where her thighs meet. She slides one hand down her stomach and hooks a finger inside her panties, tugging them down an inch, teasing herself, teasing you, showing more skin with every heartbeat.

You lean in closer, breath fogging the glass. A twig snaps under your knee, too loud in the hush of night. Her eyes fly open, head whipping toward the window, locking right on yours. She jerks back with a startled gasp, clutching her chest, eyes wide with genuine fear. For a moment she’s frozen, mouth open, breathing rapid and shallow, her body rigid with shock. The tension stretches unbearably as she stares at your shadow behind the blinds.

Slowly, her panic eases, replaced by something else... a darker thought flickers behind her eyes. Her breathing steadies, and the hand clutching her chest relaxes, sliding down slowly over her bare breasts as a twisted fantasy takes root. She hesitates, torn, knowing how wrong this is... but the thought excites her visibly, her nipples stiffening even harder, her thighs pressing subtly together.

Biting her lower lip nervously, she glances to the side, conflicted, but only briefly. The decision made, she reaches down, fingers hooking her stocking at mid-thigh. She drags it down her leg, slow and deliberate, baring more of that perfect skin, until the stocking dangles from her fingertips. Her eyes never leave yours as she steps cautiously to the window. She hesitates once more, breath quickening, before cracking the window open just enough to slide the stocking through. She balls it in her fist and presses it through the gap, letting it drop softly into your waiting hand.

Her voice is trembling, but dripping with excitement as she whispers the words. Put it on. Over your head. Her smile returns, hesitant but hungry now, savoring each thrilling word. Knock on my door. Don’t say your name.

Her wedding ring catches the lamplight as she vanishes from the window. Your hands shake as you pull the stocking over your head, a cheap disguise for a filthy fantasy. You creep to her door, shadow swallowed by the porch light, heartbeat drowning out the crickets. You lift your hand. Knock once. Twice. Behind the door, you hear a soft laugh and the click of a lock sliding open to let her stranger in.