Being Spied On

The window was open, and the cool evening breeze drifted lazily through the room. Even so, it was stifling and oppressive in there. I stood in my bra and panties, sticky, clammy but above all supremely conscious of the evidence of my arousal between my legs. That subtle wetness and musky scent that nothing can disguise.

What made me stand and slip my hand into my panties that night rather than retreat to the sanctuary of my bed, I will never know, but standing there masturbating was highly erotic. Tugging my bra straps down and using it to push my small breasts up high only made me feel more horny.

I recall spreading my legs a little and bending my knees slightly until the muscles started to ache, the pain only adding to the mounting climax.

Was it a subtle sound? Was it my expanding consciousness becoming aware of his breathing? To this day, I do not know. Yet I knew he was there. A few moments later, and I knew it was breathing that I heard. Regular, deep, but increasing in speed. My brother was watching me.

I remember an ice-like clarity of understanding. I knew, of course, that at 14, he was becoming curious. What 14 year old boy isn't? So, I continued, slipping my panties down to my ankles so he had something to see. My hand would be covering most of my sex, of course, but what I was doing would be obvious to him. I allowed myself to whisper profanities into the still night air and with a long, breathy expletive, I sank into the embrace of orgasm.

How long did he watch me? Certainly for many months. Did he masturbate? I really don't know, but, with all my heart, I hope so! Did he take and use my panties? I have no evidence that he did, but if he had, it would have been with my blessing.

I never saw him masturbate, I only saw his cock once, and that was by pure accident, and, poor boy, he was so embarrassed.

Yet, today, looking back, I played a part in his education. I hope that his girlfriend appreciates it.