A live naked girl
Author: bоurbоnslut
She didn't like walking around the apartment in the evening without anything on; at least in a T-shirt, panties, shorts, sweatpants. Whether it was modesty (though she looked not bad, or to be honest, really good), or just paranoia (the axe murderer from urban legends doesn't get excited when he kills), she didn't know. Besides, she knew very well that her neighbor from the apartment on the opposite side of the building could see her living room completely.
She knew this because "Mr. Slippery"—she named him that because his hair was slicked back with gel and gave him the look of a bird caught in a tanker
disaster—told her himself. Once in the elevator, as he was getting off, he said to her: "I can peek into your window, and I know... that you're a night owl, just like me." She wondered if he would have said that if she were married, or at least dating someone.Damn pervert. He sits at his kitchen table, Mr. Slippery's table, at the oilcloth-covered table, pretending to read, black half-glasses slid down his nose. But at night, when she walked around her living room, in a T-shirt and shorts or in panties, pretending to sort through magazines, books, and newspapers, she glanced over at his window and noticed his gaze, his eyes, definitely not looking at the newspaper. She always rushed in the mornings, sweaty, dressed in a sports bra on days when she didn't feel like exercising. Mr. Slippery spent the whole morning with the old men downstairs in the park, taking egg sandwiches and coffee and sitting on the bench with the others. They were elderly men, past whom she, dressed in her modest clothes, had to run on her way to work, nodding at them, they sometimes nodded back. But it was better if they were engrossed in discussing some article from the Daily Post or Racing Form and ignored her altogether.
Tonight she just wanted to curl up on the couch and watch a movie. But instead, one idea seized her. Maybe it was a full moon. Maybe it was her long-standing lack of a relationship with a man or even a woman. Maybe she spent too much time alone, at the computer, in front of the TV. For some reason, she realized that, alone or not, she had never, except for her morning shower or bed, been truly naked in her own apartment.
To hell with Mr. Slippery. If he wants a show, he'll get one.
Before starting, she ran to the bedroom and put a knit shirt and yoga pants on the arm of the sofa, hedging her bets against the axe murderer; by the time he picked the locks, she would definitely be dressed. Then she turned off all the lights, except for the TV, and put in the VCR the porn that Artsy (great body, talented painter, and lousy lover) had left her. She wondered if Mr. Slippery could see what was playing on the TV, but realized the angle was wrong for that.
Standing on the rug, she slowly pulled her black T-shirt up, remaining in her bra and panties. And sneakers, she noted (having dropped a glass in the kitchen last week, she was still careful). Well, to hell with them; sneakers could be kicked off without untying them. Who was this crazy chick? She smiled to herself.
Her hands trembled as she unhooked her bra. When was the last time someone did that besides her? Slowly... one, two, three... she let her breasts fall forward, holding them like rare art objects, museum exhibits, staring at them as if they didn't belong to her. Smooth, full, soft, she was surprised at how beautiful they were. She crossed her arms, but not to cover them, just to squeeze them together. Her pinkish, taut nipples grew each time she moved. Her hands brushed against them, her hands moved over them.
Her panties, her favorite black color, cut high on the legs, a belated thought came to her as she stared intently at the window, noticing thousands of open windows in the city lying before her. Taking off her panties, slowly, one leg at a time, holding onto the chair, she wondered who else saw the wonderful, liberated body she was putting on display. She Was Naked In Her Own Home! Come on, Axe Murderers! Look away from the Post, Mr. Slippery!
Here she was, her excitement growing, her pride and self-admiration growing along with her cheeks flushing pink. She leaned to open the window, feeling the cool breeze on her chest, butt, pussy, arms, and legs.
Free, vulnerable, alone, and involuntarily exhilarated. She smoothed her hair, tousled from taking off the T-shirt. She didn't know where to put her hands, didn't know how to stand. How do naked people stand when they're not doing something to get naked, or not naked, or lying down? She sighed heavily.
She looked out the window at Mr. Slippery and for the first time met his eyes. Her mouth opened. He smiled broadly, a grin spreading from ear to ear on his face. Slowly he rose from his seat, turned, and turned off the kitchen light.
She froze for a moment. Slowly, she began to smile. She leaned out the window, letting the wind tousle her hair, and her nipples hardened.
She smirked and laughed, stood still and felt the wind blowing on her a little stronger. She turned around, her back to the window, exposing her bare buttocks to the neighbors, and laughed like crazy. She shouted and waved at passersby on the street, who shouted back at her admiringly and not so admiringly.
It was two in the morning when she went to bed. She slept, feeling the blanket against her whole body, and drifted off, satisfied. And naked. Bare. Completely.
Author's e-mail: pitеrkо@inbоx.ru