Neighbor's Wife Dances Naked in Open Window

My desk faces the alley like a front-row seat I never asked for. Three weeks ago the new couple moved into the apartment directly across from my home office on the fourth floor. He left for work every morning at six-thirty in a crisp suit. She stayed behind.

Her name was Lena. Twenty-four, married six months, and bored out of her mind. I learned that later. At first I only knew her by the way she moved.

It started innocently enough. A flash of bare shoulder while she stretched in front of the tall living-room window. Then the curtains stayed open. Every afternoon at two-fifteen, like clockwork, she appeared. First in a silk robe. Then the robe slipped off her shoulders. Then nothing at all.

The first time I saw her completely naked I forgot how to breathe.

Lena was slender but curved in every place that mattered. Small waist, full hips, heavy teardrop breasts that swayed when she moved. Her skin was a warm olive, her nipples a dark rose that tightened the moment the cool air from the open window touched them. A neat landing strip of black hair pointed straight down to the smooth lips of her pussy. She danced like no one was watching, except she made damn sure I was.

Our eyes locked the very first time.

She had been spinning slowly, arms above her head, back arched so her tits lifted high. When she turned to face me she didn’t flinch or cover up. Instead she smiled, slow and knowing, and kept dancing. Her gaze never left mine. That smile said she knew exactly what she was doing to the married man across the alley whose own wife was at the hospital pulling twelve-hour shifts.

The tension was instant and vicious. My cock hardened so fast it hurt. I stayed in my chair, fingers frozen on the keyboard, and watched her for forty straight minutes. She never closed the curtains. When she finally disappeared into the back of the apartment, she left the window wide open like an invitation I was too chickenshit to accept.

The next day she danced closer to the glass.

She pressed her breasts against it until the soft flesh flattened and her nipples dragged pink trails down the pane. Then she turned, bent at the waist, and looked back at me between her spread legs while she ran two fingers along her slit. Her mouth formed a perfect, silent O. My hand was inside my sweatpants before I realized I’d moved. I stroked myself in long, guilty pulls while she rubbed her clit in tight circles, never breaking eye contact.

By the end of the week her performances had become outright obscene.

She would drop into a squat, knees wide, and fuck two fingers into her pussy while she mouthed words I couldn’t hear but could easily read. Watch me. Want me. Come over.

Thursday she wrote on the glass in red lipstick: I’m so wet for you.