Unlike my other stories, this one is true, except for the parts that aren’t true.

*

 

I used to live on the top floor of a three-story, twelve-unit apartment building in a densely populated section of a large city on the West Coast. The white stucco cube sat near the top of a hill and provided a view of some of the ugliest scenery you’d ever care to find. It’s what you got when you couldn’t afford luxury rents in this town.

The second and third floor apartments featured tiny balconies, barely large enough to accommodate a chair and a little side table. When I was searching for places to rent, the balcony was a key selling point — I imagined spending every sunny afternoon out there, drinking coffee and solving the daily crossword puzzle.

Instead, the balcony was next to worthless. It only got an hour or two of afternoon sun; the noise and exhaust smell from the busy adjacent street didn’t make the experience any more pleasant; and the view was dominated by the neighboring duplex’s fenced and unkempt backyard.

And the neighbor’s yard was a real eyesore. The lawn was full of splotchy crabgrass, and the dead bushes in the garden seemed to catch every random piece of trash that blew past. In the year that I had lived there, on the rare occasion that I’d actually step outside, I’d never seen a human set foot in that ugly backyard.

All that added up to a balcony that I never used.

Then spring came around, and after an especially rainy spell of weather, we finally got a sunny weekend. I sat inside and looked out the glass door at my dingy little balcony and saw the layers of dust and grime that had built up on the chair and table I purchased the week I moved in. And I remembered my mother’s annual spring cleaning rituals. And, with a sigh, I resigned myself to getting out the broom and bucket and giving my useless little exterior space a well-needed once-a-year cleaning.

I found a pair of my ex-boyfriend’s forgotten muddy shoes out there, which I threw away, officially disposing the last remnant of that relationship. And then I buckled down to do the serious work.

I was scrubbing the dirt off the outdoor table when, out of the corner of my eye, I sensed unusual activity in the neighbor’s backyard. I looked over the rail, and much to my surprise, there was a woman out there. A tall woman, hair dyed a brash blonde, wearing a white tank top and cut-off shorts. She had thick arms and legs and a good figure. She had also worked up a sweat.

She was cleaning up that rundown backyard.

She had already pulled up all the weeds and trimmed the edges of the flower beds. There were dozens of flowers in one-gallon containers lined up and ready to be planted. Bags of fresh mulch were piled up on the deck. There was a sparkling new charcoal grill and a round table with four chairs on the small deck

New neighbors, I thought to myself. How nice that I wouldn’t be looking out over that ugly excuse for a yard anymore!

After seeing her impressive progress, I felt compelled to do an especially good job on my own dreary balcony. So I spent more than an hour making everything sparkle. I made a mental note to buy an outdoor plant or two to further cheer up the space.

And I was pleased with my results. When the afternoon arrived and the sunshine finally slanted onto my balcony, I sat down with my coffee and a novel and soaked up a couple hours of spring sunshine.

My neighbor worked through the rest of the afternoon, planting flowers, spreading mulch, watering the plants, and disposing of all the yard waste.

After a couple hours, as I was losing the sun, I got up and gathered my things. I glanced over into the neighbor’s yard one last time, and she was standing there, looking up at me, her fists resting on her hips.

She was a reasonably attractive woman, a bit older than me. She was big-breasted and her face was smeared with dirt.

We were separated by enough distance that I didn’t think we could hold a conversation, especially with the traffic noise from the street. So I raised my empty coffee cup to her in what I hoped would be a gesture of greeting. A kind of toast, to her and all her hard work. She smiled and gave me a little wave.

And with that, I went inside.

That began the summer of me finding joy in my apartment balcony. Once I put some effort into making it a cheery space, I looked forward to sunny weekends when I could relax out there for a couple hours. I would sit surrounded by my petunia and pansy pots, tuning out the traffic noise, sipping black coffee, and reading.

And my neighbor continued to improve her yard. She painted the fence, she strung lights. She placed a whimsical family of three plastic pink flamingos, which she moved around every few days. It looked great. Not only was the yard no longer ugly, it was also … interesting. Even pretty, in its own unique way. I actually enjoyed looking down on her urban retreat.

She and I had never crossed paths anywhere else. I didn’t know her name. I never met her on the street, or in the local grocery store. I didn’t know the car she drove. I had never even heard her voice. All I knew about her was she was the woman next door who put the hard work into making her backyard look presentable. If we happened to simultaneously glance at one another, our eyes meeting across the distance, we’d wave. That was the extent of our relationship.

On one particularly warm Saturday afternoon, I was sitting on my balcony when my neighbor stepped out into the yard, much like she had a half-dozen times before. I happened to be at a chapter break in my book and stopped for a moment to see what her chore of the day might be. But instead of breaking out her little push mower, or her weeding paraphernalia, she carried a blanket out into the middle of the grass and rolled it out. Then she went back inside.

She came back out with a towel. And then she pulled her tank top off over her head.

And she was topless underneath.

And then she shimmied out of her shorts, and she was naked under them, too.

She flopped down face up on the blanket, angling into the sun and away from me.

I was momentarily stunned. Then I felt a voyeuristic thrill. It’s not every day you see the woman next door lying naked in the sun. I had already surmised that she was very fit, but seeing her flat, defined abs made me realize she was in extraordinary shape. This woman didn’t just exercise — she worked out. She had large breasts with dark nipples, a piercing in her navel, and a completely bare pubic mound.

I glanced around, wondering how private her backyard actually was. I recalled the layout of the balconies in our white stucco apartment building. The first floor units wouldn’t be able to see over the fence, and I wasn’t sure about the second floor units — maybe they could see her, maybe not. But all three top-floor units could certainly see into her yard. On the other hand, while I didn’t know my neighbors well, I knew they didn’t spend much time on their balconies. So perhaps this was a show for an audience of one: me.

She was an antsy sunbather, rarely lying still for more than two minutes. She constantly moved her legs, she fiddled with her navel piercing, she grabbed her tits. After maybe ten minutes, she leapt up and dashed naked back into the house, returning with an insulated cup that she drank from every minute or so.

After maybe a half hour, she rolled over face down. Now her bare back and butt were visible, and a fine back and butt they were. She was muscular. Especially for a woman. She had to be a serious bodybuilder.

I read exactly zero pages of my book while she sunbathed below me.

She didn’t stay out long. After maybe another half hour, she popped up, picked up her things, and began to head back indoors.

But before she reached her backdoor, she suddenly stopped and looked up. And she spotted me.

The guilt I felt for spying made my face flush and my stomach churn. Busted!

She set her arm load of stuff down on the round table and turned directly towards me. Still naked, she set her feet, leaned back, and with a dramatic flair, she flexed into a bodybuilding pose. She lifted her arms, her biceps bulged, the veins in her forearms popped; her flat abdominals tightened into a hard six-pack. As she stood there naked, her muscles pumped, she smiled at me.

I didn’t know what to make of it. I’m glad I didn’t have to say anything, because I had no idea what I might say. But I did have an inspiration, and instead of acting shocked or confused or guilty or angry, I simply picked up my coffee cup and raised it with a nod, repeating the gesture I had given the first time we’d met.

A toast to you, my mysterious naked bodybuilding neighbor.

I couldn’t hear her, but I saw her laugh. And she picked up all her stuff and strode back into the house.

I was trembling when I went back into my apartment. I am no prude, and I have had more than my share of sexual relationships, with members of both sexes. I know my way around a female body. But I have never met a female bodybuilder before, much less seen a naked one. This was something new for me.

And that was the trigger for a new masturbation fantasy that evening. As I lay in bed with my vibrator on my clitoris, I closed my eyes and imagined her muscular body and what it might feel like to be with her, to run my hands over her hard muscles, to be picked up and thrown around on my bed, to be pounced upon, and to go down on her hairless little snatch. The idea of an extraordinarily strong woman took me into an imaginary world that I had never explored before.

I reached my orgasm, and as I toppled over the edge, I felt an unease.

What the fuck had I just masturbated to?

The next day was Sunday, and I dared to imagine what would happen if I sat out on my balcony again. Would she would come out and see me, perhaps strip down and put on yet another little show? And I imagined that if she did, it would actually mean something, that this was more than just some one-off, innocent, accidental exhibitionism. And I imagined her curling her finger towards me, gesturing me down to join her, and maybe we’d live out the sexual fantasies that had been percolating in my mind for the past twenty-four hours.

It was with fear and anticipation that I settled down on my balcony on a sunny Sunday afternoon in late June.

I brought my cup of coffee and my puzzle book with me, but I left them on my little table, forgotten. And I waited impatiently for what would happen next.

I wouldn’t have to wait long.

She walked out with a real power and sense of destination in her step. She arranged her blanket smack dab in the middle of her yard. She dropped a towel, and then, for the first time, looked up at me. We made eye contact from across the distance between us. And she smiled, and she stripped right out of her clothes.

She stood naked and blew me a kiss.

Then she settled onto the blanket. This time she turned to face directly at me.

She moved her legs apart and raised her arms above her head. Her pussy was right there, an exciting slit between her thick thighs. From this angle it was clear she had breast implants, and she had chosen to go big. She had a decent tan going, with nary a sign of a tan line.

And she proceeded to rub lotion into her skin, over her shoulders, her breasts, her abs, over her puss. She raised one leg straight up into the air and lotioned it up, then repeated on the other leg. Her nude body glistened in the sun.

What she did next took my breath away. She used both hands to gently pull her outer pussy lips apart, which exposed her inner labia. And then she held her clitoris between her thumb and middle finger, and she began to stroke it. Short little strokes, back and forth. As this performance continued on, she stretched her lithe body, tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and sensuously licked her lips.

She stroked a little while longer, and then she froze. She clenched tight, her body totally rigid. Her nipples drew up into hard knots. She was cumming.

Her body slowly relaxed back onto the ground. Her eyes fluttered open. She looked up at me.

I was so aroused.

I somehow had the awareness to respond. I raised my coffee cup in salute.

Another toast, to her.

She simply smiled and slumped back down and closed her eyes. And she just lay there, as if she was asleep, soaking up the day’s dose of ultraviolet radiation.

I confess, I envied her confidence. To be uninhibited enough to stroll out into a space that is only semi-private, strip out of your clothes, and masturbate yourself to orgasm took a kind of bravado that I didn’t have in me. I supposed it went with the territory of who she was. She was probably a competing bodybuilder, a woman used to getting up on a stage in a skimpy bikini and having hundreds of people stare at and critique her body.

I tried to imagine what it would take for me to sunbathe outside naked. I didn’t think I could handle being seen by some random stranger walking past. Perhaps not by anyone other than my anonymous naked friend next door.

I surveyed the territory I could see from my post on the third floor. There was her backyard, of course, but the next neighbor down was obscured by a line of trees. I had an unobstructed view of a busy street and sidewalk, and anyone passing by could easily see me sitting there. However, the building’s balconies all had full-height stucco walls separating them — which provided a privacy screen between neighbors — and I realized if I scooted up close to one side, the wall blocked the sightline from the street. If I moved my chair up against the wall, I could only be seen from one place: the neighbor’s backyard.

And thus the seed of an idea was planted. Yes, I could sunbathe naked on my balcony. Only for a couple hours per day when the sun was at the right angle, but it was something. I would be in view of only a single person, a person who surely wouldn’t complain.

I spent the next week at work accomplishing very little as I obsessed about the possibility. I checked the weather forecasts for the upcoming weekend multiple times per day. I bought a terrycloth robe. I bought sunscreen. I got a bikini wax. I impatiently ticked off the days on the calendar, like a little kid fixated on Christmas.

But I wasn’t sure I would go through with it. There were too many things that could go wrong. Oh, but I wanted it. I wanted it badly.

Saturday finally came. The sun crept around the corner of my apartment building at about one o’clock every day. At five minutes ’til, I was already in my chair, naked under my new robe, waiting for the first rays of sunshine to hit my chair. Her backyard was already in full sun, and she was laid out on her blanket, her nude body glistening with oil. She had developed a radiant all-over tan.

I sat and drank coffee and watched her, and the sun gradually spread until my chair and I were fully illuminated by the summer sun.

With a big, nervous breath, I stood up. I untied the robe’s terrycloth belt, hesitated for a moment, and with a burst of conviction, I slid it off.

I’ve never been insecure about my appearance. Genetics gifted me with good boobs, and I am a reasonably fit. In my youth, my parents kept a gym membership, which developed my fitness habit that I carried forward for the rest of my life. I am comfortable in a bikini. When I’m intimate with a new partner, I never worry about disappointment when they first see me naked.

My previous forays into public nudity — a midnight skinny-dip with friends, or a vacation visit to a nude beach — always had safety in numbers. There was no threat of getting arrested based on the whims of whoever might accidentally see. Stripping on my balcony was a new type of naughtiness.

And I had done it. The robe was off.

I sat down and stretched, letting the sun touch my skin from head to toe. I felt the warmth of the sun on my breasts. My nipples relaxed. I felt the sensation of sunlight on my pussy mound.

The threat of sunburn was real. I applied sunscreen to my virgin skin.

My neighbor had not noticed that I had stripped down. She lay there, her eyes closed, absorbing the rays. My heart pounded in my ears.

And then she opened her eyes and saw me. And a big smile bloomed on her face.

I was so nervous, and so excited.

She sat up and leveled her gaze at me. We watched each other, the distance between us too great to have a conversation, but short enough to see everything. We had a connection. Two naked women, together.

And she tested me. She pinched her nipples. I took up the challenge, and I pinched mine in response. She sucked her fingers and slid her wet fingers over her nipples, and I did that too. Then she propped one leg up and rotated it outward, displaying her pussy. I shifted my chair around and drew one leg up and out. I showed her my freshly waxed pussy.

She had her insulated cup beside her. She picked it up and raised it towards me with a nod. I picked up my coffee cup and replied in kind.

A toast. To us.

And so we sunbathed naked together for a couple hours. As I felt the pleasant warm sun on my body, I cooked up sexual fantasies. Fantasies about being crushed by this woman in a strong embrace, or being pinned down on a bed. I imagined her restraining my hands, holding them above my head while I was backed against a wall and she fondled my pussy. I imagined running my hands over her muscles, wondering how firm and big they would feel.

I was sexually primed when the sun finally dropped behind the apartment building, leaving me in shadows. She got up and went inside. Then I got up, went inside, and I masturbated three times.

We repeated the mutual admiration society for a couple more weekends. I’d tuck in beside my wall and take off my clothes, and she’d strip naked in the middle of the yard.

Then, one day, just as I had become comfortable in my sneaky exhibitionism, I settled into my regular weekend post. I had shrugged out of my robe and was basking in the late summer sun. Then she showed up with company.

She was with a man.

I quickly slipped back into my robe.

The man was just as well built as she was. He had ridiculously wide shoulders, a narrow waist, and thighs as thick as logs. He didn’t see me, but she did, and she gave me a cursory wave. Then she ignored me and talked to her companion. And they both began to undress.

She stripped down to a bikini, while he stripped down to a tiny pair of Speedo swim trunks. They spread a big blanket down on the grass and sat down.

They were both bodybuilders. They were both big. They were both muscular. They both moved with an air of confidence. They were as intimidating as hell.

They were drinking beer out of glass bottles. I could hear their muffled voices as they chatted, which was animated and friendly, but I couldn’t make out their words.

After a few minutes, they lay down next to one another on their bellies, their shoulders touching, their backs and butts facing me. His little Speedos didn’t cover the bottom crease of his big round glutes. Her bikini thong showed off her whole ass. She swung her hips towards him and bumped them against his.

He sat up and began to rub lotion into her back. She pulled her hair out of the way. There was some laughter. And then he unfastened the back of her bra. It fell off and she took it and flung it to the side.

He rubbed her whole back, his big hands finding each defined muscle and giving it a slow, firm massage. She set her head down on her crossed arms and luxuriated in the touch of his strong hands.

He began to rub her ass, and she rolled over onto her side. She hooked her finger into the waistband of his tight little swimsuit and dragged it down an inch.