Erica straightened the bedsheets and plumped the pillows. She put her hands on her small waist, blew a strand of blonde hair from her face, failed and tucked it behind her ear and smiled. It had been a tough job carrying all her stuff up to the fourth floor but it was worth it. The new apartment looked *amazing*. Sure it was about the size of two shoeboxes taped together and yeah, it cost more of her monthly salary than she was ever going to tell her mother but it was hers and hers alone.
She went into the kitchen and poured a glass of water. There was a view – just – between two old red brick buildings down to the harbour and the green sweep of the far shore and beyond that a morse-code line of white breakers where the ocean began. She felt goosebumps rise up her slender arms. *The sea!* She could almost smell the salt – and taste hot fresh donuts. Her phone buzzed. It was a friend, checking she was still going to come out that evening. She said she was. Erica closed her eyes and breathed the imaginary sea air once more, opened them, wiped an invisible speck of dirt from the top of the cooker and went to her bedroom to pick out an outfit.
She had been going through her closet for a few minutes when she glanced out of the window. She couldn’t have said at the time what made her turn round but she did. The bedroom looked over a roofscape – a water tower, a scattering of air conditioning units, tv antenna – stretched out all around. But there was one building that was higher and in a grid of otherwise dark windows one had a light on. And in it was a silhouette. She paused. Were they looking at her? They were a distance away but it made sense that if she could see the shape of them they could see the shape of her. She had a sense of medium length hair, a tall body – but more detail. The light was behind them and they were brought out in fuzzy silhouette. She moved to the window and they stayed still. Erica’s hand moved to the cord of the blinds, held for a second more then pulled them closed. The snap of the blind’s leaves seemed loud and she started. She had almost been holding her breath and felt her heart beating in her chest.
She realised she was late and rushed to go out, forgetting it all. It was only later when she came home to the dark room that she remembered the figure and the curious exhilaration she had felt. She opened the blind, curiously. In the building over the rooftops there were many lights on now, but no figure. She went to bed and dreamed of being on a stage while a huge crowd waited silently, patiently.
Erica’s feed pounded the sidewalk as she approached the apartment block. She was feeling good – full of energy and life. She felt so good that she decided to run up the stairs too. By the time she got hole she was breathless and she stood in her room, bent forward, hands on her thighs to recover. She peeled her vest off, leaving her in shorts and a deep blue sports bra that hugged her breasts. Her thumbs found her waistband and she froze. Her eyes slid up to the window. It was a grey day. Wispy clouds scudded across the sky carrying a few stray leaves. And there in the apartment block opposite was the stranger. She had been cooling down but now her pulse raced. Could they really be looking at her? Perhaps they were looking over her building at the sea too? She still could not see any details of the other person. She went to the window and lifted her hand to the cord again. But she stopped. She stopped hand held high as if she was greeting them. She swallowed. It was a feeling she was unfamiliar with. She felt nervous, anxious even – but more like the feeling before a recital. The kind of confusing buzz of wanting to do well, wanting to please and impress, of not wanting to let one’s self down. But there was something else too. Something that made her lower her hands and take the waist of her Lycra shorts and push them down. Not in a planned or intentionally sexy way but just the way you would if you were hot and needed a shower. All the same she was there, in her bra and a pair of bikini style panties, trembling. Then she closed the blinds and put a hand to her mouth, wondering what she had just done and why.
She took a shower. Hot water steamed over her. Her hair looked dark, flattened wetly to her head. She leaned back and opened her mouth and let it drum on her face and closed eyes. She felt it strike her breasts and taut belly and the top of her mound. She washed, bent and soaping her feet and calves and legs and her neck and arms. As her hands ran smoothly across her chest her palm stroked her nipples. She was hard and she gasped. As hard as she had ever felt herself, so sensitive it almost hurt. She brushed back over herself and this time paused to feel the her own firmness and arousal. She gasped quietly, lost in the hiss of water. Her other hand soaped down, over her trim bush, between her legs. She felt how wet she was, how open. Her moan was as much in shock as in arousal. She had been turned on before – by herself and with lovers – but then she had seen the cause and effect. Their fingers, their words, their tongues, speaking to her body or not, as the case may be, and turning her on. But here, it was different. She had not spotted the cause, and the effect was overwhelming. She leaned against the white tiles, propped in the corner as her fingers explored herself, sliding and stroking up to the hood of her clit. She pressed and moaned again, her fingers taking hold of her nipple and squeezing until her moan became a faint cry. She rubbed faster, bending her knees an inch more to spread herself open. She slid then, down the wall, half lying as the orgasm made its way out of her. It was nothing she could control. She jerked, writhed under the water, squeezed her eyes until she saw stars and came to in a cloud of steam. A few minutes later she turned the water off and crawled out, wrapped herself in a dressing gown and went back to bed where she promptly fell asleep and went to a place beyond dreams, where she lay naked and cool under the dappled light of foreign constellations.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/crc6hy/the_thrill_of_being_watched_exhibitionism
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