There is a beautiful lane near where I live. It leads down to a rather expensive and exclusive school. Actually, it is more of a college.
And there, leaning against the fence of the school that adjoins my property, I saw her. It is quite strange, really, how a single look can trigger a memory. She was, I would say, 18. Really, I do wonder about some of these schools that make a uniform compulsory. Perhaps it is something of a fetish among men that they like to see young women in a uniform. She was leaning against the fence, her right leg slightly bent at the knee and her arms folded. Her blazer was undone and this revealed the gentle swelling of her breasts. I have to say, my garden is particularly beautiful at this time of year. Her hips were slightly tilted and from where I was standing, I had a perfect view of her. I am something of a people watcher and I notice the most minute detail. As I watched I noted the gentle rise and fall of her breathing and the fullness of her lips. I noticed the flaring of her nostrils. Not on every breath, you understand, just now and then. And then her eyes. Large, round and almost piercingly green. She moved slightly and sighed. A long drawn out exhalation. Again, I took in the whole view of her. A little rebellion, perhaps, in the shortness of her skirt? Yes, I think so. The uniform code is below the knee, but she had clearly rolled hers up at the waist. What was she looking at? Trying to remain secluded, I followed her eyeline as best I could. Of course. It was the statue by the pond. The full sized marble nude.
And then, I knew. In that precise moment, I knew. Also in that precise moment, I remembered my own epiphonal moment when I was 16. The moment when the sweaty frustration of emergent womanhood coalesced into sexual arousal. I had been 16, and the girl I had seen was 18. It was, to be sure, only a passing glance as she left the netball court. I had seen her a hundred times, but this particular time, as I looked at her and smiled as she passed me, I caught the scent of her sweat, and it instantly aroused me. In so doing, each curve as she walked attracted me. The way her skirt moved, exposing her thighs, and, with the sweet beneficence of the summer breeze, exposed for just one tantalising moment, her panties.
That was my first time, you see. The first time I had masturbated thinking about another girl's body.
And for my admiring schoolgirl? What stirred in her, I wonder. I relaxed into that special state of utter concentration. I saw her and in seeing, her clothes melted away under my steadfast gaze. Her blazer, her blouse, her almost comical training bra, her skirt and finally she was leaning on my fence in her panties. Oh, I had no doubt, they would be the regulation green cotton panties the school demanded, but in them, perhaps, nestled the sweet dew of her arousal. They say that a girl's vagina and her mouth are similar. If so, hers would be full and pouty with the clitoris budding from beneath the folds. Hair? Yes, I am sure, but not much of it yet I think.
She gave one last lingering sigh, and turned and walked away, back to the school simmering in the heat beyond. Once there? Ah, who knows, or dares to dream? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps a boring lesson in Latin? Perhaps though, just perhaps, a trip to the toilets, those stained green panties around her ankles and her hand between her legs.
What if she has someone? Someone special at the school? Maybe now they are locked in a cubicle kissing. Teenage hands exploring the swelling of pubescent bodies. Maybe a hand stretching the elastic of those panties before an enquiring finger begins a stretching of something far more sensitive.
Standing, secluded by the shrubbery of my garden, I climax without the need to touch myself.
I climax, and I weep with joy.