It had been three months since James Whitcomb Riley moved in. Three calendar month of staring at her when she was sitting on the balcony, wearing not more than a bikini. Three month of closelipped photos, taken from behind the Venetian blinds, or, when the opportunity arose, directly through the windowpane. And three calendar month of watching her in the shower, using the conceal camera I put in the unused lock. It was a great way to pass the time, but once again, I was getting greedy.

On two social function since that first sentence, I had seen the adorable flyspeck redhead turn into a vixen of lustfulness, when she upgraded an ordinary rain shower to a second of self-pleasure. Those consequence were beautiful, but they also made me realize there was so much of James Whitcomb Riley that I did n't know yet. If she could get this freaky in the toilet, could she be equally freaky - or even to a greater extent ! - in the comfortableness of her own sleeping room ?

I had to find out. The probability came in early August, when James Whitcomb Riley knocked on my door. Behind here were two tumid suitcases, in her hand was a bare key of her flat. She told me she was going on a trip, and asked if I could water her industrial plant while she was gone. She even handed me a piece of composition with her peregrine phone number and the flight info hastily scribbled on it. Of path, I accepted. I had been waiting for this chance for old age.

I was n't in a haste. I spent the commencement day of Riley 's vacation figuring out my design, even though a rather detailed one had long formed in the back of my head. The exclusively thing I did on that 1st day, was to bear a transcript of the key made in a shop nearby - just in cause. On the second day, I went in, armed with a tearing can.

James Whitcomb Riley 's apartment was tidy. The furniture was clean, it smelled nice, and, from the outset peek I had into the other room, her bed was made. I left the living room behind and stepped into the way where she spent her nights. There were some posters of popstars on the wall, a yoke of mirrors surrounding a big one, a twin bed, a with child wardrobe and two smaller closet, and a desk with a clump of books, pieces of newspaper and a laptop on it. It was a typical student bedroom, even though she would n't pop her academic year until next month.

I opened the wardrobe. It was n't as tidy as the rest of the apartment, there even was a pile of unwashed laundry lying at the stern shelf. There were a dozen pairs of bloomers, probably twice as many tops, a few coats and jacket crown, a ledge for her sportswear, and two others of random that did n't belong anywhere. I close the wardrobe and opened one of the cupboards. The boring one, as I found out : this one contained only Word of God, notepads, and spate of paper. The next cupboard, however, was the one I had been looking for. It was there she kept her wind cone - which were n't overly exciting - and her underwear - which was. I estimated there were nil short of thirty pairs of panties, ranging from indolent boy shorts to tiny G-string. Most of her bras looked convenient, but there were a few that she could have only bought with a boy in mind. The fact that both those bandeau and the lacy, expensive-looking scanty were stuffed towards the back of the drawer made me bind with my idea that she must have been single.

I grabbed a picket, old looking pair of panties from an unused corner of the drawer - a trophy, if you will - and kneeled down next to the bed. There was a synthesist catching dust, a bunch of nonunionised horseshoe, a worn lash, and a horseshoe box, that seemed out of place with all the other shoes lying about. I took it from under the bed and put it on the desk, and then opened it.

kitty.

It was Riley 's secret hoard. The box contained two rubber toys, varying in size of it, and a low metal one with just enough way for a battery. It was still working, buzzing gently in my bridge player. There was also a half-empty large number of fag and a barge, an empty-bellied skunk bag, an titillating novel, a pack of condoms, and a flash drive. I took the drive and put everything else back exactly as I had found it, before putting the box back under her bed as well.

I watered Riley 's industrial plant and walked back to my apartment, armed with the watering can, the striped, blue-white panties and the flash drive. I could n't wait to put it in my pc. One would expect a gimmick hidden so well would at least be protected with a password, but there was nothing of the sort. In fact, the three leaflet on the drive were audaciously named `` smut television '', `` smut pics '' and `` me ''. constituent of me wanted to skip right into the net pamphlet, but I decided to contain the others out first. The pictures folder contained a bombastic collection of woman-friendly, erotic images, although some could easily be placed in the `` smut '' family. The television folder had twenty-odd full-length moving-picture show, starring all form of actresses, but every utmost one of them showing a lot of detailed scenes. But if I wanted random erotica movies, I could easily find them myself. I wanted Riley.

If I had any dubiety that James Whitcomb Riley could be a naughtier girl than she pretended to be, the `` me '' folder would have taken it all away. There were dozens of little concealing photo, none of them showing James Whitcomb Riley 's face, but with help from the toy I recognized, and even the duo of panty I had borrowed, it was obvious that it was her. There were exposure of her spread ramification and a utter prospect of the larger one of the toy dog vanishing inside her. There were pic of her finger disappearing as well, and close-ups that left nothing to the imagination. Lastly, in a subfolder called `` vid '', were eight video files of up to half an hour in length, showing a tiny redhead playing with herself, stuffing her eubstance entire of toy dog, and reaching vivid orgasm.

I copied every file to my hard driving force before putting the photoflash parkway back in James Whitcomb Riley 's hugger-mugger box. Everything was exactly as it had been before - except for the missing pair of underwear. In the week that followed, I kept coming back. With the flash drive and the toy box, I had already found the holy place grail, but on occasion, I stumbled upon other interesting material. There was a pile of letters from what I assumed was once a holiday offer, with a fistful of photos of a naked man tucked carefully in between. There was a pair of step-in with an open crotch, that looked like it had never been worn. Hardest to rule were the random spell of paper with short, erotic stories written on them, complete with quick draught to accompany it. But the ripe finding - besides the shoe box under the bed - was a the ms of an erotic novel, signed by Riley herself. It was the tale of a untried woman, captured and used against her will, who, after she had finally been capable to escape, tracked down every last one of her kidnappers, seduced them, and killed them while they were shooting their in conclusion loads inside her. It was n't a bad chronicle, and James Whitcomb Riley surely knew how to save.

The day before James Whitcomb Riley was supposed to come back family, I got to work. More cameras had been waiting on my desk for workweek, and now I could finally let them open their backstage. I carefully hid one between the water pipes than ran overhead in the sustenance room, and put another in one of the electric sockets in her bedchamber. Disguised as deadbolt, they were hiding in knit stitch sight - the perfect scheme. It took me a few hours, but I finally managed to relate them to the power lines, one directly inside the socket, the other one through a hole in the rampart. I could easily alter the batteries of the one in the bathroom, but these had to be up and running every 60 minutes of every day. This way, they were.

When James Whitcomb Riley came home the next day, I could watch her every move. I could take heed how she talked to her mother on the phone, telling her all about the trip ; I could watch her eat a agile salad just before midnight ; and I could see her, from up close, chemise into her Nox train and fall asleep the second she got into bed. I watched her sleeping for a while, and then went to bed myself. I woke up early, because I did n't want to miss out on anything. Luckily, I did n't have to.

The import Riley woke up, there was movement underneath the cover. I could n't see her face - her head teacher was turned the other way - but something was happening. Whoever she had gone on vacation with, there must have been a great lack of privacy. The cover moved, Riley 's wooden leg changed lieu every ten seconds. When she kicked away the mantle, I could see her panty hanging over one leg, the early freed of their grasp. Riley moved around a lot, squeezing her chest, running her hand through her fuzz, kicking her fundament up, down, spreading her legs and closing them again. She was giving it her all, that was clear as day.

Suddenly, the movement stopped. She shuffled to the side of the bed - kicking away her panties in the process - and moments later, she came back into my view, holding the largest of the toys that I had held a week earlier. She started feeling herself up again, while licking the tip of the toy and putting it in her mouth. I could almost feel her backtalk around my own toy - almost. Who knew, maybe some day, she would take me in her mouth like she did with her pink morning time lover.

I got back to realness when she lowered her bridge player and used the tip of her toy as a stand-in for her digit, rubbing herself with it. Just when I was starting to get annoyed with myself for not having put the photographic camera in the socket on the contrary wall, Riley changed position. She got up and placed the toy on the bed, holding it with one script, leaning on the former. She kicked a leg over it, turning her body a one-fourth of a full lot - in the centering of the socket. I had the perfect aspect on her when she lowered her body over the toy, until all but the bottom in disappeared inside her. She paused for a patch and sat up, pulling her top over her question and throwing it on the floor in front end of the camera. I had not seen her fully naked since she had left for her trip, but this sight easily made the waiting worth my while.

Her body started jumping up and down, as if she was riding an imaginary young man. I could see the smell on her face, a combination of girly naughtiness and pure lecherousness. She rode her toy, rubbing herself with her free hand. Her hair got in the way, but I was n't looking at her face any to a greater extent. James Whitcomb Riley leaned back to give me a thoroughgoing horizon of her skinny consistence, her bedspread wooden leg, and the toy sliding in and out of her. Her breast wiggled in the same calendar method. She was still jumping up and down, but she had let go of the toy, so it barely moved any longer. Instead, she leaned on one hand behind her, as she rubbed herself with her other manus as fast as she could.

Having seen Riley have a shower sexual climax three fourth dimension before, I knew she was going to get there when she held her breath and ramped up the speed even further. The silence before the storm, the eye of the hurricane. A present moment later, Riley collapsed. She kicked her metrical foot forward and fell on her back, her physical structure shivering with pleasure. She did n't even rag to claim out the toy just yet. A powerful moan came into existence, an drawn-out vowel, that ended with a sudden gasp for air. She slammed her ramification into each other a few times, squeezing her breasts. A mo had passed, perhaps longer, when she finally grabbed her toy and slowly pulled it out. Instead of leaving it at that, however, she laid her hand between her branch and slowly started rubbing again, bringing the toy to her mouth. She tasted herself, she took the entire affair in her mouth and sucked her juices off. Then, eventually, she bent over the edge of the bed again and hid the toy back in the shoe box.

Not even ten hour after her explosion of pleasure, Riley knocked on my doorway. She looked eat up, and I knew it was n't all because of the trip itself. I gave her the original key back, she thanked me for taking care of her plants. It was strange to talk to the girl I had been watching minutes ago, but Riley seemed totally exquisitely. If she would have made a bold movement and would ingest entered my apartment, she would ingest seen a live feed of her sleeping accommodation on my calculator silver screen. She did n't, of course of instruction. Instead, she thanked me again and disappeared through the door. I sat and watched her have breakfast, realizing this was only the beginning - the rootage of something very beautiful indeed .