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

On two occasions since that offset fourth dimension, I had seen the adorable tiny Aythya americana turn into a harpy of lecherousness, when she upgraded an ordinary bicycle shower to a minute of self-pleasure. Those mo were beautiful, but they also made me realize there was so much of Riley that I did n't know yet. If she could get this freaky in the bath, could she be equally freaky - or even more ! - in the comfort of her own sleeping accommodation ?

I had to incur out. The opportunity came in betimes Aug, when James Whitcomb Riley knocked on my threshold. Behind here were two large suitcases, in her hand was a spare key of her apartment. She told me she was going on a stumble, and asked if I could water her plants while she was gone. She even handed me a piece of newspaper with her mobile headphone number and the flight information hastily scribbled on it. Of course of action, I accepted. I had been waiting for this opportunity for historic period.

I was n't in a rush. I spent the starting time day of Riley 's vacation figuring out my program, even though a rather detailed one had long formed in the vertebral column of my read/write head. The only matter I did on that first day, was to have a copy of the key made in a store nearby - just in case. On the second day, I went in, armed with a watering can.

Riley 's apartment was tidy. The article of furniture was fresh, it smelled nice, and, from the number one peep I had into the former room, her bed was made. I left the living way behind and stepped into the way where she spent her nights. There were some posting of popstars on the walls, a couple of mirrors surrounding a big one, a Gemini bed, a expectant wardrobe and two littler cupboards, and a desk with a clump of books, pieces of paper and a laptop on it. It was a typical student sleeping accommodation, even though she would n't start her faculty member class until next month.

I opened the wardrobe. It was n't as tidy as the relaxation of the apartment, there even was a mountain of unwashed washables lying at the posterior shelf. There were a 12 pairs of pants, probably twice as many tops, a few coat and jackets, a ledge for her sportswear, and two others of random that did n't belong anywhere. I close the closet and opened one of the closet. The boring one, as I found out : this one contained only al-Qur'an, notepads, and big bucks of paper. The future cupboard, however, was the one I had been looking for. It was there she kept her windsock - which were n't overly exciting - and her underwear - which was. I estimated there were nothing short of thirty span of panties, ranging from indolent boy short circuit to diminutive thong. Most of her brassiere looked convenient, but there were a few that she could bear only bought with a boy in mind. The fact that both those bras and the lacy, expensive-looking panty were stuffed towards the rachis of the drawer made me stick with my idea that she must bear been single.

I grabbed a pale, old looking twain of panty from an unused corner of the drawer - a trophy, if you will - and kneeled down succeeding to the bed. There was a synthesist catching dust, a bunch of nonunionized brake shoe, a worn lash, and a shoe box, that seemed out of place with all the early shoes lying about. I took it from under the bed and put it on the desk, and then opened it.

Jackpot.

It was James Whitcomb Riley 's hugger-mugger stash. The box contained two rubber miniature, varying in size of it, and a smaller metal one with just enough room for a battery. It was still working, buzzing gently in my hand. There was also a half-empty face pack of cigarettes and a igniter, an empty weed bag, an erotic novel, a ring of condom, and a flaunt parkway. 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 plant and walked back to my apartment, armed with the tearing can, the striped, blue-white panties and the photoflash drive. I could n't hold off to put it in my pc. One would expect a device hidden so well would at to the lowest degree be protected with a password, but there was nothing of the sort. In fact, the three brochure on the drive were audaciously named `` porn video '', `` porno picture show '' and `` me ''. role of me wanted to jump out right into the last leaflet, but I decided to contain the others out first. The word picture folder contained a large accumulation of woman-friendly, erotic picture, although some could easily be placed in the `` smut '' category. The videos pamphlet had twenty-odd uncut flick, starring all variety of actresses, but every finis one of them showing a lot of detailed scenes. But if I wanted random smut picture show, I could easily incur them myself. I wanted James Whitcomb Riley.

If I had any dubiousness that James Whitcomb Riley could be a risque girl than she pretended to be, the `` me '' brochure would have taken it all away. There were dozens of little concealing photos, none of them showing James Whitcomb Riley 's face, but with service from the plaything I recognized, and even the pair of panties I had borrowed, it was obvious that it was her. There were photo of her spread stage and a arrant sight of the larger one of the toys vanishing inside her. There were picture of her fingers disappearing as well, and close-ups that left nothing to the imaging. Lastly, in a subfolder called `` vid '', were eight video files of up to half an hour in distance, showing a bantam redhead playing with herself, stuffing her torso full of plaything, and reaching bright coming.

I copied every filing cabinet to my difficult drive before putting the flash drive back in Riley 's secret box. Everything was exactly as it had been before - except for the missing twain of underclothing. In the week that followed, I kept coming back. With the flash ride and the toy box, I had already found the holy grail, but on occasion, I stumbled upon other interesting clobber. There was a bundle of letters from what I assumed was once a vacation fling, with a handful of photo of a bare man tucked carefully in between. There was a duad of panties with an undetermined crotch, that looked like it had never been worn. Hardest to discover were the random bit of paper with short, titillating account written on them, perfect with quick drawings to attach to it. But the expert finding - besides the shoe box under the bed - was a the manuscript of an erotic novel, signed by Riley herself. It was the narrative of a young woman, captured and used against her will, who, after she had finally been able to take to the woods, tracked down every terminal one of her kidnappers, seduced them, and killed them while they were shooting their last loads inside her. It was n't a bad story, and Riley surely knew how to save.

The day before Riley was supposed to come back home, I got to work. More tv camera had been waiting on my desk for hebdomad, and now I could finally let them circularise their wings. I carefully hid one between the piss pipes than ran smash in the support elbow room, and put another in one of the electric sockets in her sleeping accommodation. Disguised as dash, they were hiding in knit stitch sight - the perfect scheme. It took me a few hours, but I finally managed to connect them to the big businessman occupation, one directly inside the socket, the former one through a cakehole in the wall. I could easily modify the batteries of the one in the bathroom, but these had to be up and running every hour of every day. This way, they were.

When James Whitcomb Riley came home the next day, I could look on her every movement. I could hear how she talked to her female parent on the phone, telling her all about the trip-up ; I could check her eat a speedy salad just before midnight ; and I could see her, from up close, miscue into her night gear and pin asleep the arcsecond 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 moment Riley woke up, there was movement underneath the mantle. I could n't see her human face - her read/write head was turned the other way - but something was happening. Whoever she had gone on holiday with, there must have been a keen lack of concealment. The mantle moved, Riley 's legs changed spot every ten seconds. When she kicked away the mantle, I could see her panty hanging over one leg, the other freed of their range. Riley moved around a lot, squeezing her breasts, running her manus through her haircloth, kicking her feet up, down, spreading her legs and closing them again. She was giving it her all, that was discharge as day.

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

I got back to realism when she lowered her hand and used the tip of her toy as a substitute for her fingers, rubbing herself with it. Just when I was starting to get annoyed with myself for not having put the camera in the socket on the reverse wall, Riley changed side. She got up and placed the toy on the bed, holding it with one hand, leaning on the other. She kicked a leg over it, turning her body a tail of a full-of-the-moon roach - in the direction of the socket. I had the perfect view on her when she lowered her trunk over the toy, until all but the bottom inch disappeared inside her. She paused for a while and sat up, pulling her top over her head and throwing it on the floor in movement of the television camera. I had not seen her fully naked since she had left for her trip, but this sight easily made the waiting worth my piece.

Her soundbox started jumping up and down, as if she was riding an imaginary swain. I could see the look on her human face, a combination of girly naughtiness and pure lust. She rode her toy, rubbing herself with her free hand. Her hair got in the way, but I was n't looking at her brass any more. Riley leaned back to give me a double-dyed panorama of her skinny consistence, her spreading pegleg, and the toy sliding in and out of her. Her breasts wiggled in the same rhythm. 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 mitt behind her, as she rubbed herself with her other hand as fast as she could.

Having seen Riley have a shower orgasm three clip before, I knew she was going to get there when she held her breath and ramped up the f number even further. The silence before the storm, the eye of the hurricane. A moment later, James Whitcomb Riley collapsed. She kicked her understructure forward and fell on her back, her torso shivering with pleasure. She did n't even bother to need out the toy just yet. A mighty moan came into existence, an protracted vowel sound, that ended with a sudden pant for air. She slammed her legs into each former a few times, squeezing her breast. A arcminute 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 lip. She tasted herself, she took the full thing in her mouthpiece and sucked her succus off. Then, eventually, she bent over the boundary of the bed again and hid the toy back in the horseshoe box.

Not even ten minutes after her explosion of pleasure, Riley knocked on my door. She looked tire, 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 works. It was strange to talk to the girl I had been watching minutes ago, but James Whitcomb Riley seemed totally ok. If she would accept made a bold move and would have entered my apartment, she would receive seen a live provender of her bedroom on my computer sieve. She did n't, of grade. Instead, she thanked me again and disappeared through the door. I sat and watched her experience breakfast, realizing this was only the kickoff - the beginning of something very beautiful indeed .