One summer's eve when I was about fifteen years old, I found myself in the circumstance of watching Vicky Saunders, my boyhood friend's mother, masturbating. This came about by accident and was unintentional on my part... at least the first time I watched her.
In our neighborhood when dinner was finished, the kids would gather in front yards to hang around till it was time for bed. One evening I was the first out on the street, and I waited half an hour for someone else to show up. When nobody appeared, I tried using The Call, cupping my hands into a hollow ball and blowing across a gap between my thumbs. This produced a deep, resonant whistle that could be heard inside the surrounding houses. Sometimes this worked. On this night it didn't. Then I tried checking to see who was in Jerry's living room. The Saunders back yard was separated from ours by a wood fence. Peeking over this I could see through their windows and sliding glass doors into their kitchen and living room where I hoped to find Jerry watching TV. Jerry wasn't there, but his mother was. She was alone and laying on the couch.
I watched her for a little while, stretched out and relaxing. It was nice to have a chance to study her in this candid moment of solitude. She had always been attractive to me and this was better than the brief glances I stole when Jerry and I were in the house doing things. I studied her, trying to imagine the wonders of her feminine form hidden by her jersey top and slacks. She lay with her head resting on the sofa's arm at the far end and her legs stretched out, the toes of her bare feet nearly touching the other armrest.
I noticed that Mrs. Saunders had slipped her right hand up to the wrist into her pants. And her pants were unzipped. I could see a little triangle of white satin where her panties peeped out. I just thought she had been scratching an itch or something. I watched, curiously focusing on the form of her hand inside her pants. At first her hand seemed to be quite still, as though she had dealt with an itch and just left her hand there. Then I noticed a little movement. Mrs. Saunders' fingers started doing something inside her pants. I could see the form of her knuckles moving. I watched this until I was sure that this wasn't just an absent minded scratching or something.
There came a moment beyond doubt that Mrs. Saunders was touching herself. She was touching her pussy. She was rubbing it with her fingers and I was clinging to her fence watching. My heart began to convulse at the thought and I felt this coppery tang in my mouth. I was amazed and intensely curious. It had been a few years since I had masturbated to my first orgasm and I had just recently heard that women also masturbated. One of life's greatest mysteries to me at this time was how a woman could do this without having a penis. I was nearly driven mad at the realization that Mrs. Saunders was masturbating and that I had the perfect opportunity to watch the whole thing.
Her eyes were closed, her expression very relaxed as she lay on the couch. I could see from the way her blouse stretched across her breasts, the rhythm of her breathing was obvious while she quietly fiddled between her legs. She rubbed herself up and down in evenly measured strokes for five or ten seconds. Then she stopped. She rubbed herself for a while and paused again. I was unsure exactly what I was witnessing, but looking back, I understand that Vicky was stroking herself to gradually ascending waves of arousal that she allowed to subside, only to revive them again.
As I watched, Mrs. Saunders began running the fingers of her other hand casually across her breasts, fingertips finding and playing with her nipples while she busied herself in her pants. She pulled her blouse up at the waist and slipped her left hand inside. I watched the form of her hand cupping her breasts and caressing back and forth between them. I was so excited by the sight of watching Jerry's mother pleasure herself that I could hardly breathe. I was shivering with delight and fiercely erect. I desperately wondered what she was doing in her pants, strained to resolve every detail of her fingers' movements as though I could see through her slacks if I only peered with enough intensity.
I saw that sometimes while stroking herself, her fingers would dart farther down between her legs, her hand would plunge deeper into her pants. I wondered if Mrs. Saunders was stroking a different part of her pussy, or if she slipped her fingers inside. Jerry's mother lay on the sofa and teased herself again and again this way for about ten minutes. Then something changed in the way she was touching herself. Rather than lightly stroking with her fingers, the caresses became firmer with her arm's strength behind it. Mrs. Saunders slowly rolled her hips as she masturbated more intently, pointing her toes with the effort. She slipped her left hand down into her panties, lifting them away to give her stroking hand more room. Her whole hand moved briskly inside her panties. The rise and fall of her breasts allowed me to see that she was breathing more deeply and more quickly through parted lips.
Then her eyes were squinting shut as her body became rigid against the persistent rhythm of her hand stroking her clitoris. Mrs. Saunders recoiled. A spasm of euphoria shot through her body, followed by two others. Then her body relaxed, settling back into the cushions of the sofa, her hands still in her pants. She trembled a little as she recovered her breath. I saw a few caressing movements beneath her slacks before she withdrew her hands and zipped up her pants.
Vicky sniffed the fingers of her right hand. She smoothed out the disarray of her blouse and lay still for a few minutes. Then she rose and walked back into the master bath leaving the living room empty. I was stunned. My mind was spinning with furious passions and the visions of what I had just seen. My interest in the company of the other kids was replaced by a sudden need to be very alone in my bedroom. The treasured memories of this night continue to this day to fuel my passions in the still of night. It is accompanied by visions from other evenings spent at the same fence. Naturally, I was curious enough to have a look over the fence when I was taking out the trash. I found her there. And there were many other evenings when Mrs. Saunders imagined herself to be pleasuring herself in secret when her every touch and caress was being watched.