Traffic light


Another boring day with the same boring routine. With the kids safely off to school, I looked around in the cramped apartment. Time to start the first load of the neverending stream of laundry, then the dishwasher, the dust rag and vacuum cleaner, followed by the daily exercise of folding and ironing. An hour later, I opened the window of the laundry room and looked outside. Though still a bit chilly, it was bright and sunny, with a soft breeze that carried the smell of hawthorn blossom. Somewhere close by, two birds were singing their most beautiful songs, duelling for the attention şişli escort of a female. I hardly noticed that as I looked down from my first floor window and watched the passing traffic in it’s never changing pattern of stopping and going, regulated by the pedestrian traffic light just forty yards down the road. I looked at the occupants of the cars and trucks and wondered about their thoughts and their destinations.With a sigh, I reached for the shirt on top of the pile of laundry that waited to be ironed and folded, then I saw her. Traffic had come to a halt again at the red light mecidiyeköy escort and her car had stopped right beneath my window. Through her open roof, I noticed she wasn’t looking at the traffic light but instead, her head was bent backwards and she was looking straight up, apparently without focussing, because she didn’t notice me. She looked nice with her slightly parted bare legs and her tight white t-shirt with a v-neck that gave away a glimpse of cleavage.I watched how her right hand released the steering wheel to cup a breast and tweak the nipple through the fabric of her shirt. That’s when I noticed why her legs were bare. Her skirt was hiked up and her left hand was between her legs, moving in small circles. As she closed her eyes, her movements slowly increased in speed, while she sucked in her bottom lip. I felt my manhood stir as I looked down on that amazing scene beneath my window. Her right hand tugged on her nipples and twisted them, first left, then right, until they looked like little fingertips trying to poke through the fabric of her t-shirt. Her left hand was a bit further down her panties now and judging from how it moved, she had one or more fingers stroking in and out of herself. My imagination painted an image of wet pink folds, clamping down on plunging fingers, my fingers.

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