The Voyeur

Puma stretches out across the chaise, late sun sliding along her skin. A boy from a few doors down presses flat behind the hedge and watches, breath caught in his throat. Heat and curiosity finally drag him closer. Twigs snap. Puma’s eyes open. She lifts one finger, beckons. He steps forward. She rises to her knees, bare breasts shifting with each breath, and reaches for his belt. The zipper drops. Her lips close around him, slow, wet, certain. Sunlight glints off pale hair as she works him deeper, hand steady at the base, eyes locked on his. He grips the chair, knuckles white, while she takes her time, sucking and stroking with unhurried hunger. Every slow pull of her mouth draws a quiet sound from him, swallowed by the rustle of leaves and the distant drone of bees.