University was a difficult time for me in lots of ways, but none more so than in the realm of finances. To suggest I survived on next to nothing would be an exaggeration, but not massively so. I had to work almost full time to allow my studies to continue, and even then was forced to rely on my aunt and uncle for the generous provision of living quarters.
I say living quarters, but what I actually mean was an attic. As apologetic as my uncle was about the state of the room, there was no getting over the fact that it wasn't really meant for habitation. He'd tried his hardest, for which I was profoundly grateful, and yet it was still an unheated, uncarpeted room accessed only by a ladder, which had to be stowed most of the time because it got in the way in the hallway. When I arrived it was with promises from my mother that I would work on the room as I lived there, but in all honesty I had completed less than half of the work required by the time I left three years later. I visited my aunt and uncle recently, and the room has barely changed since.
Michael and Sarah, my mum's brother and his gorgeous but utterly airheaded wife, were as accommodating to me as they possibly could be, but with two children already - and only two bedrooms - they couldn't spare me any more room than they did. Their children were separated by the kind of gap which makes you think the second must have been a mistake - Sophie was a cute-as-a-button, chestnut-haired teenager, whilst her little brother, Matthew was a blonde.
Whilst Matthew was still sleeping in his parents' room, Sophie had a bedroom all to herself, which lay directly below the part of the attic which I occupied. I could often hear her moving about, and when she had friends over, could hear them chattering away excitedly, though tbeir words were always muffled by the floorboards.
It was a cold, dark day in late November when things changed. I was up in my room, reading a book by the window. It was getting dark outside, but I was comfortable and I reckoned I had a few more minutes' daylight left before I had to get up and turn a light on. It was only when I looked away from the pages of my book that I realised how dark it had become in my room. I blinked into the darkness for a moment, letting my eyes adjust, and when they'd done so I noticed something which, for some reason, I had never before seen: a thin shaft of light protruded from the crack between two floorboards on the far side of the room. I realised instantly that the light must be coming up from Sophie's room, and went over to investigate.
The floorboard was loose, and had been cut fairly recently near to where the light was coming through. It took no effort at all to lift out, and I was looking at the back side of Sophie's ceiling. The light came from the halogen spot lights Michael had installed in his daughter's bedroom not long before I arrived. I was surprised some of it was shining upwards, but the light unit was cheap and not too well installed, and there were little gaps all over the place. Gaps large enough, I realised, that I could see right into Sophie's room. There she was, sitting at her little desk, scribbling away on some sort of homework.
I nearly called out, but something stopped me. I realised my heart was racing, adrenaline coursing through my veins. Worst of all, though, was the sizeable, painfully hard erection I was now sporting. Of course, it was the possibility of seeing more than the mundane scene below which had raised my pulse. I am - though I was only beginning to admit it to myself at the time - a lover of young teen's girls' bodies and of their emerging into sexuality. Nothing is closer to my heart.
For the moment, there was little to draw my attention, but I watched for a while anyway, until a shout from downstairs told us all that dinner was on the table, and Sophie left her room.
From that evening on, whenever possible, I would watch Sophie through the floorboards. She didn’t spend a great deal of time in her bedroom, and much to my annoyance would invariably get changed into her nightclothes in the bathroom after her nightly bath. That didn't stop me seeing her in her panties in the mornings sometimes, though, which was enough to keep my fantasies going and my balls empty for a good long while.
But I wouldn't be writing this if there wasn't more to tell. It came one evening when Michael and Sarah decided to go out for their anniversary. Despite offering to babysit the children, I was told that I had far too much work to do, and that a friend would be asked to help out. I had used the excuse that I had to study hard ever since I had started watching Sophie, to explain why I needed to be in my room so much. Now it meant that I got out of looking after Matthew, something I despised.
With no-one to enforce her normal routine, Sophie made it to bed late that night. She came into her room after her bath, dressed in trousers-and-top style pyjamas, and proceeded to dry and comb her hair, a nightly ritual. When she was satisfied, she hopped into bed with a book, holding it in one hand. She did that a lot, the other hand under the covers. I was convinced she was playing with herself under there, but without any proof it didn't hold the same eroticism.
This time, though, perhaps without the spectre of her parents possibly coming in to say goodnight, she became a little more bold. After a few minutes' reading, and with her cheeks already flushed, Sophie threw off the covers. He hand went straight back to her pyjama bottoms, and straight back beneath the waistband. She was masturbating in almost plain sight, a layer of thin cotton fabric all that separated my eyes from the fingers dancing over her sex.
I watched, mesmerised, blood pounding in my ears for several long, glorious minutes, until with an audible huff Sophie pulled her hand out. I thought the show might be over for the evening, and allowed myself to shoot into the wad of tissues I held over the end of my penis. But I'm glad I didn't stop watching, because what happened next got me hard again faster than I ever had managed before.
Sophie hopped out of bed and went to her wardrobe. In the bottom was a large toy chest, full of all the things she didn't use on a daily basis. She rummaged around in the very bottom of it, and a moment later her hand emerged holding a maraca. It had been her brother's game until fairly recently, when a careless foot had cracked it, causing all the beads to leak out. Sophie had insisted she would have a use for it, and demanded that the now-silent maraca was not thrown away, and I hadn't seen it since.
Now she was walking back to her bed with it. On her way, she stopped to close the door to her room properly, and lock it. She wasn't meant to lock it, but the babysitter wouldn't know that. I was getting more and more excited about what was about to happen, and my excitement grew immeasurably when she stopped and shed her pyjama bottoms and her panties, and lay down on the bed.
Oh my God. I could see her hairless, well developed juicy pink cunt, crimson at its heart from her earlier ministrations, the engorged swollen clitoris at its zenith poking well clear of the rubbery, smooth lips. It glistened, too, a clear sign of her arousal. A hand snaked down, the same hand as earlier, its now shaking fingers finding the smooth folds of her teenage pink wet sex. It dived between them, alternating attentions between her swollen button and the entrance to her most forbidden place.
As the excitement overtook her, I could hear little half whimper half moan noises coming from her. Sophie's eyes were closed by now, her teeth clamped on her bottom lip, except for when she panted or moaned. She sounded almost in pain, begging the feeling to stop. Her legs writhed, thighs clamping together and then parting obscenely, toes curling and flexing almost in time.
I'd almost forgotten about the damaged maraca, but now it came sharply back into focus. It was lowered to her sex in the free hand, and for a moment just ran in among her lips. I could see the plastic shining wetly, wishing I could lick it clean. Then, almost as if a decision had been made and could not be gone back on, Sophie's whole body stopped moving, all except the hand with the maraca. Slowly, carefully it was tilted until the slightly bulbous handle was pointing downwards, undeniably aimed at her juicy pussy. And then the pushing began.
This wasn't the first time the handle had been in there, I was sure of it. It wasn't a big thing for her to take, but it was pushed in all too freely, entering her body until about five inches was inside, and the start of the teardrop head of the toy was beginning to force her wide open. Then it was gently withdrawn, but only half way, before being returned with a forceful shove which drew a whimper from Sophie's lips.
The rhythm was relentless, practised, and it drew its inevitable result only minutes later. With a shudder which racked her whole body, legs pushed straight, toes curled, head thrown back in a silent scream, Sophie came, and came hard. I watched the toy, still embedded in her, quivering as spasms wracked her vagina. Finally she stopped, and lay, legs spread-eagled with the toy obscenely poking out of her. She stayed there for a moment, eyes tight shut, until with a flutter of eyelashes and a gasp, she came back into the room.
Then, her eyes unmistakably fixed on mine, she gave me the thumbs up...
I reached out to her delicious cunt and planted my face in and started licking her pink lips and she said you know what you do better than daddy, I was shocked but kept licking her lips and made her release her girlie juices on my tongue.
I quickly got out of her room.