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Yellow Capri pants, sockless in Keds, a sleeveless pale green top, a large handbag hooked over one shoulder - she looked as fresh as spring.I stared.She looked me up and down. My worn and faded jeans were no match for her fashion.“Did I catch you at a bad time?”“Uh, no. Come in,” I said, stepping back to give her room.Some subtle perfume touched my nose when she passed.“Can I get you a mug of coffee?” I asked.“Is it strong? I’ve grown to like strong coffee, not the Americano style.”“Yes. It’s strong.” I pointed. “The kitchen’s this way.”“I know. I remember. I’ve been here before.” Walking through the living room behind me, she observed, “Nothing’s changed. It’s exactly the same.”In the kitchen, I poured her a mug. “Milk? Sugar?”“Black, please.” She sat at the kitchen island counter.Placing the mug in front of her, I asked, “Not that I’m complaining, but what brings you here?”She smiled. “I told you. You didn’t call.”“Was I supposed to?”She laughed. “Why do you think a girl gives a. But he was far too shy to speak to her and, as far as he knew, she never even knew he existed. He’d go home and masturbate in his bedroom, his mind full of imaginary images of Emily without any clothes on, before shooting his teenage cum into a tissue which he then flushed guiltily down the loo.As the months went on, he became ever more obsessed by her, to a decidedly unhealthy degree. He ended up pretty much stalking her, following her home and spying on her through her bedroom window at night. Her family lived in a bungalow, so her room was on the ground floor, and sometimes she’d fail to pull the curtains across properly. Then he used to creep into the garden and stand where he could see her undressing, his dick in his hand, lusting after every glimpse of her little bare breasts and pink nipples, or even her neatly trimmed bush. He even caught her masturbating on her bed once or twice, at first with her fingers, and then with a dildo she’d got hold of from somewhere. He’d get out.
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