As he walked into the living room of their second floor apartment fresh from his morning shower, he saw her bent at the waist and leaning out the open window, apparently talking to Mrs. Smith, the landlady who usually sat downstairs on a lawn chair in the front yard watching the world go by. The curtains were closed and only her bottom half emerged from between them. She was wearing one of her ratty old sweatpants and stood leaning on one leg, with her hips off to the side, one cheek a little higher than the other.
At that exact moment, the way the thick cloth draped and accented the shape of her ass looked very good to him. He thought about how she had looked earlier, walking around the apartment in his old, oversize sweatshirt. Obviously braless underneath, he had enjoyed the gentle swaying of her breasts pushing against the fabric as she moved about.
Without really thinking about it, he walked over to where she was, stood behind her, pulled the window down as far as he could without hurting her, and locked it in position with the anti-burglar lock. She was a little startled, but Mrs. Smith was still talking, so she acted as if nothing was happening. She felt him grab her hips and grind his crotch into her ass. Out of the corner of her mouth, through clenched teeth, so Mrs. Smith would think she was still paying attention, she whispered, “What the hell are you doing?”
“Whatever I want,” he said, and she felt him pull away and begin ripping the sweatpants down the seam at the back.
(…)
Read the rest of At The Window (1,701 words)
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