The lights were on. Finally.
The woman walked across the room, pulling the elastic from her hair and letting it tumble down her shoulders. The man shuddered at the motion, letting the thrill of watching her wash over him. She rolled her head back over those shoulders, pausing at each side to stretch. She then rubbed a hand over her neck. He knew that she'd been feeling a bit of tension these last few days, as she'd been paying more attention than usual to the muscle that sat above her décolletage, not that he minded. She moved through the bedroom, sliding her sweats over her hips, something which made the man’s breathing shallow. He felt the familiar stirring in his groin.
The man had watched the woman for several days, having spotted her in a supermarket carpark not quite a month ago. He'd been drawn to the curve of her body as she had stretched up, loading the last of her groceries into her car. Her breasts lifted slightly, arching her back and extending her arms above her head. He noticed that she'd not worn a bra that day. It showed in the bounce of her perfect tits as gravity had assisted them back to their resting position. As the unseen force did, the tits gently swayed. She turned to her car, and disappeared inside.
The man had followed her that day, waiting patiently across the road as she ran into the bank, visited her mother, and finally as she ate dinner at her boyfriend’s house. The man was disheartened when they pulled up in front of a multistorey building at the end of the day. He watched as the woman’s car had descended into the parking lot below. He nearly decided to leave, but thought better of it. Instead, he entered the building behind a fat, foul smelling, middle-aged man. He feared the woman had escaped him. But then she rounded the corner from the mail room and called for the elevator. He stood behind her as they entered the confined space when it arrived. He smelled the subtle hint of her perfume, left over from its morning application. The man had stepped into the corner of the small room and tried to keep his look subtle. The woman had made eye contact with him, smiling coyly. He had felt it then; the sensation of growing, the increased pressure against the fly of his jeans. Outwardly, he had remained the definition of calm, and returned her smile with a handsome one of his own. She blushed.
As the elevator door closed, the man had watched her slide the key into the lock of her apartment, 421. That number etched itself in his mind. He found her windows on the outside of the building. After doing so, he ascended the fire exit of an adjacent block, and located an empty apartment to camp in front of. Luckily for the man, no one seemed to take much notice of the world outside of their apartments once they were inside of them. The woman had the lights on. Once he was comfortably positioned on the fire escape, he saw her curl up on her couch. There, she watched a horribly dramatic, vampire-ridden television show. He noticed that she laughed at the most poignant moments of the melodrama. The quirk endeared her to him.
That night, the man had watched the woman move between the various rooms of her apartment. The lights were off in the lounge room and the man waited an agonising twenty minutes before the light in the following window, the window to the bedroom, had been flicked on. In the time he waited, the man imagined what the woman might be doing. He'd guessed that she was showering. He imagined a steamy room. Hot water cascading over the woman’s face. Racing down her body over her plump, naked breasts. Washing over the flat stomach he had glimpsed as she had stretched earlier that day. And, finally, running down her shapely legs to the floor. He had imagined the woman lathering her body with soap, paying extra attention to the underside of her chest. Imagined her lifting and letting drop back into place the tits he had admired in the carpark. Imagined a sigh escaping her lips as she washed the inside of her thigh, wandering slightly higher for a moment, for her own pleasure. The man had groaned audibly at the thought. He stroked himself through the fabric of his pants, feeling the blood rushing to meet the touch of his fingers.
When the woman had reappeared, she'd been silhouetted through a sheer curtain. Wrapped in a silk kimono, she moved with a fluidity that the man admired. It was as though her joints had been loosened in the warmth of the shower and now she could travel entirely freely. The woman pulled a cotton singlet and panties from her nightstand. Undoing the kimono in one effortless motion, it slid from her shoulders to the floor. She had dressed in her nightware, but not before the man had a chance to study her naked form for the first time. Her skin was pale, milky, still slightly pink from the heat of the shower. Her brown hair hung in loose waves down her back, finishing below her shoulder blades. Her breasts hung in a perfect curves from her body, shifting in sync with the rest of her movements. The man’s eyes continued down the woman, over her delicate waist and the soft skin of her stomach, finding the perfectly groomed entrance to what he could only imagine was heaven. The woman turned her body, facing her pert, shapely ass toward him. Bending forward to pull on her white bikini briefs, it was a though she was putting on a private show just for him. The man had felt an unbelievable surge at the moment, his body pushing forward, his erection pressing him maddeningly, urging him to go to her but the man had stayed put. It was not yet time.
It had gone on this way many nights, the man sitting in the shadows, watching her as she went about her evening. She would arrive home, fix herself dinner, watch television, shower, and sleep. The man learned her schedule after only a few days. The woman was, if nothing else, a creature of habit. She woke every morning promptly at 5:30am. She pulled her curtain wide, made a cup of coffee, and drank it in bed over the day’s news. When the coffee was finished, she would get up, get dressed, and go for a run. The man particularly enjoyed this part of their mornings together. He would run behind her, watching her rear jiggle each time her foot hit the pavement. The man was glad that he too was fit. At a certain point in the run the woman would stop at a park bench. There, she would do squats, star jumps, and a number of other static exercises that drove the man wild. She never saw the man slipping into the shrubbery just off the running track. In amongst the foliage, he would find a comfortable position from which to watch the morning’s fresh round of displays. Breasts rose and fell with the take-off and landing of each jump. From the occasional wince or adjustment she'd made, the man had come to realise that she did these exercises despite the shock of pain that ran through her chest upon each repetition. Her ass dropped low into each squat, almost enough to reach the pavement, before rising to a perfectly sloped resting position. Sweat often trickled from beneath the lower band of her crop top, making the man ache to touch her. On one occasion, the man had feigned an injury and rested on the bench immediately behind her, just to have a front row seat to the show. When she returned from her run, the woman ate at her kitchen table, and stared intently at her phone, occasionally tapping something out. The man often wondered at the content of her messages. Were they dirty good morning messages for her boyfriend across town? A sweet message to her dear mother? Or just another boring work email? He wasn’t sure. But, like clockwork, the woman would shower, dress and ready herself for departure by 8am.
The man had followed the woman to work the first few days. He sat in his car and watched her intently. He soon discovered that the woman was an incredibly conscientious worker, who never left her desk for lunch. The one exception to this was Friday. On Friday, the woman had a standing lunch date with her mother. It was touching, the man thought, that the woman would see her mother so often. He had spent a number of nights cramped in the space between the mother’s house and the one beside it. There, he watched the mother fuss over the woman, fixing her hair here or flattening a collar there. He had watched as they ate dinner together at the kitchen table. The man was grateful that the mother’s home had an open plan living and dining area: it meant he could position himself next to a window with a large plant, out of sight for entire evenings. The woman would sometimes spend the night at her mother’s house - a special treat for the man, as the guest bedroom had a large bay window. Thanks to the unkempt fernery under that window, the man could watch, from a short distance, the woman’s evening routine. The man felt the unique mix of lusty thrill and adrenalin when, on occasion, the woman had looked directly at the spot where he was secreted among the foliage. The thrill of her at once seeing and not noticing him. Her eyes would dart away after these moments, and she would return to whatever it was she was doing.
There was one special activity that the woman only did in his view at her mother’s home. The man got chills thinking about it. The woman would open a delightfully talcum scented body cream - something he had once been lucky enough to smell through an open pane - which she would use to lather herself, head to toe. The woman took special care to coat every exposed inch of her body, her hands gliding over her skin, and sliding over her curves. The man found it especially delightful when the woman perched on the edge of the bed, spreading her legs, and rubbing cream up the inside of her thigh, giving him a view of what a desperately craved to take as his own. Occasionally, the man would close his eyes when he was alone in his car to picture her legs spread before him, inviting him to touch and taste, to wander, caress, and, eventually, to enter. The man would imagine this until he could take no more. He knew he mustn’t touch himself, for when it was time, he wanted to feel her as though he had never felt anyone before.
The man had become able to work the commitments of his own life around that of hers. Even if he were to miss her exit from the office, the man was sure to know when she would arrive home to her apartment. This allowed the man some wiggle room in his schedule, enough to fit his friends, family, his job, and, usually, his dinner plans. However, there was one night a week that the man had learned to make himself available to the woman. On this night, the woman would meet her boyfriend. They would eat dinner at a nice restaurant, usually at the boyfriend’s expense. The man admired this, assuming chivalry to be, as they said, dead. They would then move around and do things that the man could not predict. Worse still, he could never be sure in which apartment they would end up when the night had concluded. For this reason, the man kept close. He attended the movie theatre with them, watching the woman perform fellatio in the back row. He had watched as she lowered her open mouth and bobbed her head slowly, taking the full length to the back of her throat. That night, he had watched as she worked her magic, in a public space, smiling lustfully after she had swallowed. He had been to bars, clubs, a horrible amateur production of a godawful musical, and so many other things, just to know where she was.
All the while, as the man had watched the woman, his desire to be nearer to her, to touch her, to taste her, had become ever more insistent. He found himself drifting into fantasies of her more often than he would have liked. It was only when he'd begun to feel as though ambushing the woman as she opened her front door may be his only option that a plan presented itself to him. One afternoon, he witnessed her realising that she'd locked herself out of her apartment. The man had made a habit of entering the woman's building and riding the elevator with her. He often followed her into the car park and made for a car, pretending it was his. On this fateful afternoon, the woman had stepped into the elevator, only to realise she had locked her handbag in her beat up, old Merc. The man had been fortunate to have been standing casually in the lobby, rather than following the woman into the elevator. As such, he able to easily change course when she came storming back out. At a safe distance, he followed her. When she approached the vehicle, she removed a small magnetic box from the wheel well, and headed back toward the building. The man had noted the location of this box with a giddy kind of excitement.
The man had of course cut himself a copy of the woman’s apartment key the following day. Removing the box from the undercarriage of her vehicle, the man had made a duplicate and returned the receptacle to its resting place before the woman finished work that day.
If you have enjoyed this story so far, please consider reading by searching ‘He Lies in Wait’ A.J. Levine in the Amazon Kindle Store.