Barry had two weeks off work, and he could easily see my front garden from his house. Maybe Dave had inadvertently given him my email address, I reflected. They got on well together and, although it was unlikely, my email address might have come up in conversation. Barry was now a prime suspect.
I could hear Barry banging about in his kitchen as I squatted by the flower border and began digging up the weeds. Perhaps I should have confronted himabout the emails, I reflected. But heâd only have denied it. I doubted that my secret admirer seriously wanted to have sex with me. It was more of a fun thing, a turn-on, a way to get kicks. I should never have gone over to Derekâs house, I mused as I pulled up a particularly large weed. I should have deleted the emails and waited until my voyeur became bored and gave up.
Wondering whether to change my email address, I looked up as I heard the bushes rustling the other side of the wooden fence. Was Barry there? Was he spying through a hole in the fence? I couldnât hear him banging about in his kitchen, and I wondered whether heâd gone out into the garden for some fresh air. Again, the bushes rustled. It might have been a cat or birds fluttering. It might have been Barry pressing his eye to a hole in the fence and gazing up my skirt at my tight panties. Pressing my thighs together, I carried on weeding. If the next email mentioned my weeding in the back garden, I could be certain that Barry was the culprit.
There was definitely someone or something moving about behind the fence. I was about to forget the garden and go back into the house, but I came up with an idea. If I parted my thighs and the next email mentioned that I was wearing pink panties, Iâd be one hundred per cent sure that Barry was my man. Brushing my long blonde hair away from my face, I gazed at the fence from the corner of my eye as I parted my thighs wide and forked over the border. There were several knot-holes and cracks in the fence, but I couldnât see an eye watching me. There was no banging coming from the kitchen and no rustling behind the fence, and I wondered where Barry was.
Parting my thighs further, I realised that my arousal was soaring and my panties were becomingwet with my juices of desire. I could feel the lips of my pussy swelling, my clitoris emerging from beneath its protective hood. Initially, Iâd felt apprehensive about showing my panties to my next door neighbour. But I realised that heâd believe me innocent. It was a beautiful summer day, I was wearing a short skirt, I was working in the garden, I had no idea that I was being watched, I had no idea that a man was gazing up my skirt at my panties . . . I was innocent.
The sun was beating down on me and, after half an hour, I went into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of orange juice. Coincidentally, the banging resumed in Barryâs kitchen. That was no coincidence, I knew as I gulped down my drink. I wandered into the dining room and checked my emails â nothing. Barry wouldnât have dashed to his computer and mailed me, I reflected. Heâd probably send me an email later in the day. After heâd had another look at my panties? After heâd wanked and thought about sinking his cock deep into my hot pussy?
Sitting on a patio chair, I pondered on the situation. I was no psychologist, but I tried to analyse Barryâs thinking. If this went on for several weeks, heâd become bored and frustrated. His frustration would reach the stage where heâd begin to make mistakes and, hopefully, reveal his identity. I had to trap him, I decided. I had to do something that heâd be bound to mention in an email. But, what?
There was only one thing to do, I concluded, climbing the stairs to the bathroom. I slipped my panties off, grabbed Daveâs shaving foam from the shelf and sat on the edge of the bath with my legs wide open. This was crazy, I knew as I lifted my skirt and
I could hear Barry banging about in his kitchen as I squatted by the flower border and began digging up the weeds. Perhaps I should have confronted himabout the emails, I reflected. But heâd only have denied it. I doubted that my secret admirer seriously wanted to have sex with me. It was more of a fun thing, a turn-on, a way to get kicks. I should never have gone over to Derekâs house, I mused as I pulled up a particularly large weed. I should have deleted the emails and waited until my voyeur became bored and gave up.
Wondering whether to change my email address, I looked up as I heard the bushes rustling the other side of the wooden fence. Was Barry there? Was he spying through a hole in the fence? I couldnât hear him banging about in his kitchen, and I wondered whether heâd gone out into the garden for some fresh air. Again, the bushes rustled. It might have been a cat or birds fluttering. It might have been Barry pressing his eye to a hole in the fence and gazing up my skirt at my tight panties. Pressing my thighs together, I carried on weeding. If the next email mentioned my weeding in the back garden, I could be certain that Barry was the culprit.
There was definitely someone or something moving about behind the fence. I was about to forget the garden and go back into the house, but I came up with an idea. If I parted my thighs and the next email mentioned that I was wearing pink panties, Iâd be one hundred per cent sure that Barry was my man. Brushing my long blonde hair away from my face, I gazed at the fence from the corner of my eye as I parted my thighs wide and forked over the border. There were several knot-holes and cracks in the fence, but I couldnât see an eye watching me. There was no banging coming from the kitchen and no rustling behind the fence, and I wondered where Barry was.
Parting my thighs further, I realised that my arousal was soaring and my panties were becomingwet with my juices of desire. I could feel the lips of my pussy swelling, my clitoris emerging from beneath its protective hood. Initially, Iâd felt apprehensive about showing my panties to my next door neighbour. But I realised that heâd believe me innocent. It was a beautiful summer day, I was wearing a short skirt, I was working in the garden, I had no idea that I was being watched, I had no idea that a man was gazing up my skirt at my panties . . . I was innocent.
The sun was beating down on me and, after half an hour, I went into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of orange juice. Coincidentally, the banging resumed in Barryâs kitchen. That was no coincidence, I knew as I gulped down my drink. I wandered into the dining room and checked my emails â nothing. Barry wouldnât have dashed to his computer and mailed me, I reflected. Heâd probably send me an email later in the day. After heâd had another look at my panties? After heâd wanked and thought about sinking his cock deep into my hot pussy?
Sitting on a patio chair, I pondered on the situation. I was no psychologist, but I tried to analyse Barryâs thinking. If this went on for several weeks, heâd become bored and frustrated. His frustration would reach the stage where heâd begin to make mistakes and, hopefully, reveal his identity. I had to trap him, I decided. I had to do something that heâd be bound to mention in an email. But, what?
There was only one thing to do, I concluded, climbing the stairs to the bathroom. I slipped my panties off, grabbed Daveâs shaving foam from the shelf and sat on the edge of the bath with my legs wide open. This was crazy, I knew as I lifted my skirt and
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