More of a view from the Rear Window

At exactly twelve Mr Wainwright would come out the back door and weather permitting would sit at his small patio table on which he had placed a plate of sandwiches and a drink that looked like cola but could have had something stronger in it for all that I knew, and would eat lunch. And so on and so on. I could have predicted Mr Wainwright’s movements and timings to the second.

Then there was Ms Stevens, or Monica as I called her. An ex dancer with the Royal Ballet, the thirty something Ms Stevens would pirouette and en pointe, adopt the Spanish fourth position and practise her arabesque routine ad nauseum. Occasionally she would even dress up in traditional tutu. It was clear that she missed the ballet terribly.

Or Trevor, opposite and to the right, with his drinking chums. He was public school through and through was Trevor. Posh and regularly pissed he held a party at least every fortnight and it gave me great amusement to watch him and his rugby pals play drinking game after drinking game before going out to a club. Trevor seemed to do ok with the ladies – I would see him bringing a girl back to his place regularly though discretion being what it was he would close the curtains and deny me any voyeuristic fun! Not so Jasmine though.

Jasmine was a nineteen year old mixed race beauty. Born to a black French father and a white English mother her skin was a beautiful shade of olive and her long, jet black and beautifully shiny hair flowed down over her neck like a bubbling stream of water in a brook. She was lithe and pert, her five foot five frame svelte and her breasts impressive, firm and erect. Her legs seemed to go on forever, which was surprising given her height and she had a beautiful shape to her shoulders and her hips. Her rear was rounded and tantalising and her pouty lips gave her an Angelina look. She would dress immaculately in clinging dresses without shoulder straps or wit the faintest of shoulder straps – her chosen look was a sheer, clinging satin dress in one colour which always appeared as if it were held aloft by some mysterious power. As it was, her breasts sufficed to be the hangar on which the dress could reside.

This Silk Stocking Story continues on Tuesday.

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