Mrs. Buckley Observed (F-solo)
by Philip Harris

Mrs. Lori Buckley, two years divorced, sat alone in her 
kitchen and pondered the welcome realization that she was 
nearly alone in her own home, a rare occurrence.  Her 
eldest boy, next year to graduate from high school, was at 
summer hockey practice.  Her eldest daughter, recently 
blossoming into middle school womanhood, was away with 
friends, probably doing things that she hoped her mother 
wouldn't suspect.  Mrs. Buckley's youngest daughter, still 
in grade school, was at summer band practice.  That left 
only the 13-year-old son, Tommy, who was sitting outside on 
the front porch with the next-door neighbor boy, 14-year-
old Richard.

"Tommy," Mrs. Buckley called. 

"What?" Tommy called back from the front porch, but only 
after Mrs. Buckley had called for him three times.

"Tommy, come here."

The front screen door slammed and Tommy trudged into the 
kitchen with the petulance of juvenile rebellion at an 
expected chore.

"Tommy I need you to go to the store and pick up some 
milk," Mrs. Buckley said.

"Ah, Mom . . . ." Tommy whined, simply to show resistance 
against responsibility.  After a few minutes of further 
protest the front screen door slammed again as Tommy, a 
small bribe in hand in addition to the milk money, set out 
upon his task.

"I have to go to the store for my mother," Mrs. Buckley 
overheard Tommy telling his friend Richard.  The store was 
several blocks away.  A walk there and back would take an 
adult twenty minutes.  Sending a boy on the errand 
guaranteed Mrs. Buckley at least forty-five minutes of 
privacy.  Satisfied that she now had had the house to 
herself she walked up the front stairway to her bedroom.  

In her bedroom Mrs. Buckley undressed quickly, stepping out 
of her open-toed flats as she unbuttoned her bright yellow 
blouse, revealing a lacy violet bra with B cups.  She 
wiggled out of her lime Capri pants, unzipped on the left 
hip, to reveal violet panties on a still-nearly flat tummy 
and firm buttocks.

Right there in bed, just as if she was fucking a man, Mrs. 
Buckley thought.  It would be nice to do it in bed for a 
change.  With four children in the house her only place for 
relief was usually the bathroom.  In bed, legs spread, 
would be much more comfortable now that she had the chance.

But wait.  Mrs. Buckley stopped with her hands just inside 
her waistband, her panties just coming off her hips.  Wait, 
she had the whole house to herself.  Why not do it 
someplace special?

The couch in the front den!  That was the place!  That 
couch used to sit in Mrs. Buckley's parents basement, and 
when she was a girl just her own daughter's age she spent 
many delightful private moments on that couch giving 
herself relief from countless crushes and schoolgirl 
fantasies.  Later she'd given her virginity there.  It was 
a comfortable, experienced couch.

Mrs. Buckley strode boldly out of her bedroom in her bare 
feet and underwear.  She hadn't gone about the house like 
this since--well, since never.  When she was first married, 
before the children came, she walked about at home like 
this all the time, to her young husband's delight; but they 
hadn't owned this house back then.  Today Mrs. Buckley felt 
wonderfully sexy as she walked, nearly naked, down her 
front stairway.  Now nice it felt to be walking somewhere--
anywhere--on a mission for sex.

The summer afternoon sunlight streamed in through the 
ground floor windows; all of the curtains were open.  The 
windows were open too, letting in the distant sounds of a 
lawnmower, of passing cars, and of children at play.  Mrs. 
Buckley felt almost as if she were naked outdoors.  How 
long had it been since she'd had sex outdoors?  Oh, way 
back when she was a teenager.  How she missed it!  Yes, the 
couch in the front den was the best, most wicked place.  
With those big screen windows open it would be nearly like 
doing it right out on the front lawn.

The front den didn't look anything like a brothel.  The 
furniture was old, mostly given by relatives.  A big wing-
backed chair faced away from the doorway where Mrs. Buckley 
entered.  But in her mind she played a little fantasy that 
this was a brothel.  This was the parlor, she pretended, 
the place where men select the women.  

There would be a man in the big chair, of course, making 
his choice.  A stranger unknown to her, but very handsome.  
Mrs. Buckley would be the last girl to enter, displaying 
herself in her underwear.  He'd seen all the rest, but of 
course he was going to choose her.

"On the couch," the brothel's madam would tell her.  Mrs. 
Buckley didn't look back at the chair as she entered the 
room, she didn't look at the client.  Men choose women in 
this establishment, not the other way around.

She lay on the couch, intending to sit up for inspection, 
but instead instinctively taking the reclining posture so 
familiar to her from her adolescent couch adventures.  She 
lay with her head toward the chair, toward the imaginary 
client.  Her left leg rested up upon the back of the couch 
while her right leg stretched down to the floor.

"Show him your wares girl," she heard the madam say in her 
imagination.  Mrs. Buckley reached behind her back, 
unhooking her bra, and then pushing the cups upward from 
the front, holding them up to show her breasts.

She knew that she had very fine breasts.  Her eldest 
daughter would soon need a bigger bra cup than Mrs. Buckley 
did, but Mrs. Buckley's breasts still had youthful 
firmness.  They'd always been prettier than other girls' 
breasts, in her opinion.  She'd seen other girls naked in 
high school gym class, naked and bigger in the chest, but 
when she'd looked into her bathroom mirror at night she'd 
always known that her breasts were prettier.  

They were fuller now, more experienced.  Her areolas were 
dark from giving milk to four babies, and her nipples were 
bigger and more noticeable than when she was a teenager.  
Looking at them now, touching them with her fingertips, she 
was very pleased at what she could offer.

What she could offer . . . .  She frowned as she plucked at 
her umber nipples.  She was still a fine looking, youthful 
woman full of sexual desires.  Many men looked at her every 
day.  But once they found out that she had four children to 
care for they avoided sending her even the remotest sexual 
invitations.

Back to fun:  "He says that you're the prettiest girl," 
Mrs. Buckley's imaginary madam told her, "but he wants to 
see more demonstration."

Leaving her breasts bare, Mrs. Buckley reached down into 
her panties, holding them open with her left hand and 
touching her vagina with the fingertips of her right hand.

"Mmm."  A short, delighted hum came through her closed 
lips.  Oh yes, this was something she definitely needed.  
Nobody could possibly know how much she needed to do this.  
She understood that other people had sexual urges too, but 
privately she felt that nobody in the world could have sex 
urges as demanding and as often as she did.

"Aahh," she gasped, her mouth falling open as she caressed 
back and forth across her sensitive womanhood.  She longed 
for a man's rough fingers to explore her there again in 
unskillful but delightful possession.  

"He can't see how you do it if you hide it that way," Mrs. 
Buckley's imaginary madam reminded her.  Mrs. Buckley 
paused just long enough to quickly slide her panties off 
her hips, kicking them to the floor half way across the 
room with a flick of her foot.

Mrs. Buckley slid her fingertips between her labia as her 
vagina opened wetly.  She was teasing her imaginary 
customer, seeing if he would walk around for a closer look 
at her.  She tapped her clitoris with her fingertips, using 
her other hand to hold it more openly exposed.  She could 
cum very quickly this way, but she wanted to play for a 
while.  She wanted to show herself off.  She alternated 
rubbing her open vagina and tapping her clit.  She plucked 
at her clit, pinching it gently and rubbing it as she had 
her nipples, but it was too slippery and elusive to grasp.  
The pursuit felt delightful.

"Show him that you want to fuck; let him hear it; 
demonstrate your need," the imaginary madam's voice 
instructed.  Mrs. Buckley plunged two fingers in and out of 
herself, and then stroked herself rapidly, causing a gushy-
gushy sound as she quietly mouthed breathy "uh, uh, uh" 
sounds.  Then she switched to using three fingers--since 
last using this couch she'd become a three-finger woman, 
but the generosity of her wetness was more than a teenage 
girl could produce.

"Oh, ah, oh, ah, oh, ah, oh, ah" she was now moaning aloud.  
Her breathing was short and in gasps, making her breasts 
jerk slightly up and down in rhythm with her waves of 
arousal.  She liked being loud at sex.  She wanted to shout 
and scream, to let the neighbors know that she was having 
sex.  She'd loved doing that in the small apartment where 
she'd lived when she first married.  With children sharing 
her home now she always had to be very quiet when she did 
it in the bath, but today she felt like cumming with a 
scream.

"Fuck me, fuck me!" she spoke aloud, but keeping her voice 
down to ensure she could not really be overheard.  "Fuck my 
pussy!"  Soon her fingers were moving almost too quickly to 
see, and urgent "nyah, nyah, nyah" gasps were all that she 
could articulate.  

In the throes of her masturbation Mrs. Buckley felt a 
sudden fear.  Did she hear a sound other than herself?  It 
had been very faint.  Was somebody on the porch, looking in 
at her?  Could it be that the neighbor boy Richard hadn't 
gone to the store with her son?  

She continued to stimulate herself passionately while 
listening.  She was too close to climax now to deny 
herself.  She was uncertain that she'd heard anything at 
all, and yet she now felt as if someone were in the room 
with her.  Could the neighbor boy have come into the house 
and been waiting, sitting quietly in the wing-backed chair 
when Mrs. Buckley came into the den?  

But no, she told herself that there had been no noise.  It 
must have been her imagination.  She didn't look.  She 
didn't want to know.  She was in desperate sexual need now 
and had to ride to the finish.  She needed her climax no 
matter who her audience might be.

"Ah, ah, ah, ah . . . ah!  I'm cumming!  I'm cumming!  Ah!  
I'm cumming, cumming, cumming!  Ah!  Ah.  Ah.  Ah . . . .  
Oh make me cum more!  Make me cum more!  Please make me cum 
more!"

Mrs. Buckley came, in two, big, hip-thrusting waves, and 
numerous smaller ones.  It was a good cum, the best she 
could remember having in a long while, made better by the 
imagination that she was being watched while she orgasmed 
and the uncertain thrill that it might be true.  

She lay there afterward, in after-sex rapture, her eyes 
closed as her fingers gently and expertly coaxed the 
twilight of her ecstasy, slowly cooing "oh,  . . . oh,  . . 
. oh," to herself while her breathing quieted.  Her 
imagination of being watched was silly, she decided.  No, 
she must be alone.  When she opened her eyes she would see 
that no one was watching her giving in to her sex-
frustrated girl-woman needs.

She lay with her eyes closed for several minutes, 
displayed, listening timidly.  As her cum-high quieted, the 
feeling again grew that she was being observed.  The back 
of her neck prickled with a certainty that she wasn't 
alone.  Her bare breasts felt--looked at!  She wished that 
she hadn't tossed her panties away, leaving her only her 
recently busy hands to cover her sex with.  She smoothed 
the hairs of her once-raven bush, subconsciously realizing 
that it needed a trim.

Ah!  She felt sure that she heard a very tiny noise again, 
from within the room!  The big chair had creaked.  Could 
she hear breathing?

When she finally opened her eyes Mrs. Buckley didn't look 
back toward the chair or toward the window.  She put her 
bra back into place and got up from the couch quickly, 
walking swiftly to exit the room at the opposite end in 
from which she'd come in.  As she stooped to pick her 
panties up off the floor she snuck a quick backward glance, 
but it wasn't enough to let her see anything distinctly. 

The corner of her eye seemed to catch a Peter Pan shadow.  
Was it just sunlight?  She didn't dare take a good look.  
Mrs. Buckley quickly walked bare-bottomed and wet-thighed 
through the house, avoiding the den as she circled back 
toward the safety of her staircase, but then glancing back 
into the den as she walked up the stairs to her bedroom.  
From that view she could only see the back of the big 
chair.  No feet showed below it, but a young boy sitting 
cross-legged in the chair, or peeping in through the 
window, wouldn't be visible from the stairs.

Once in her bedroom Mrs. Buckley listened very carefully, 
straining for any sound she might hear.  She intended to 
dress, but instead she removed her bra to bare herself 
completely.  She felt strangely compelled to play with 
herself some more as if she was still being watched and 
that more was expected of her.  "What do you want me to do 
now?" she asked in a whisper to her empty bedroom.  Was 
that the front screen door being opened and closed quietly?  
Were there small footsteps descending the front porch?

"Ah!" she gasped.  Peeping out of her bedroom window Mrs. 
Buckley saw Richard slink quickly across her front yard and 
into his own parents' house next door.  He must certainly 
have heard her.  Had he seen her through the window?  Maybe 
he had even been in the house, in the den watching her do 
it!

Mrs. Buckley sat on the edge of her bed, wondering 
fretfully what to do about this awful embarrassment.  What 
could she offer the boy to ensure his silence?  She lay 
back across her bed, still unmade from this morning, with 
her feet on the floor.  She knew what boys his age want 
more than anything, and as she thought about that her 
fingers busied themselves between her legs again.

If Richard ever told anyone of whatever he saw, Mrs. 
Buckley never learned of it.  There were no repercussions.  
Perhaps he hadn't seen or heard anything.  

But thereafter, Mrs. Buckley often looked across to his 
bedroom light at night and, closing her eyes, she imaged 
what he might be doing in there and she wondered if he was 
helped by memories of witnessing her passion.  Uncertainty 
teased her.  If he was doing it, he was just preparing 
himself for manhood, she decided.  Often when Mrs. Buckley 
was alone in her bath she gave herself to the fantasy that 
someday an older, ready-to-become-adult, Richard would come 
to her and demand reward for keeping her secret.

-end-

