Justine flicked her blonde tresses aside and wedged the phone between her cheek and shoulder. “I can meet you in a bit. Like, half ten? Mom reminded me to water Mr. Turner's plants early.” She scrabbled in her cutoffs for the key and lined it up with the back door lock, laughing. “Yeah yeah, that hot guy to our left.”

She swung the door and stepped through into the kitchen, the most striking feature being it was so clean and bare. She had not expected a single man to be so neat. Just a fridge, cupboards, sink, coffee maker and a toaster. Her kitchen was always cluttered with shoes scattered on the floor and jackets hung haphazardly on hooks.

She smiled again. “Yeah, imagine how I feel trying not to stare whenever I see him out in the yard.” She giggled. “Call you when I get home.”

Pocketing the phone, she was halfway through the kitchen when she had a pang of self-consciousness about wearing her shoes inside his home. She kicked off her flats and padded barefoot towards the lounge, each step sinking into the thick pile of the plain carpet that seemed to be a single piece throughout his home. Pausing, she went back and arranged her shoes neatly along one edge of the room.

The lounge was similarly striking. The term minimal didn't do it justice. Sterile might have been closer. No ornaments or knick-knacks besides the plants on small wall ledges and window sills. The only other accessories that prevented the room from being empty were a wall-mounted TV, a wooden coffee table, and a luxurious sofa. She ran a hand along the top edge of the seat cushions, buttery soft to the touch. Rounding it, she gingerly perched on the seat, then sank into it. She sighed and leaned back, stretching her lithe legs ahead of her. It was like a giant hug.

She flicked her attention to the white wall opposite. Alongside the television was a large picture; one of those prints mounted on stretched canvas over a wood frame. It resembled an industrial abstract painting in muted hues. Kind of an impressionist style, like her art teacher used to bang on about.

Slithering from the sofa, she approached. Gawped. On closer inspection, it was a series of nudes; the female form in a variety of poses. It was artful, tastefully rendered, filled with undeniably sexy curves sweeping across the canvas. She wondered if he had others, and glanced around. Nothing obvious. But maybe in other rooms of the house. There was a small scrawled signature in one corner of the frame: Casey something-or-other. Or Cody.

Returning to the kitchen, she wondered where he might keep the watering can. A cupboard above the worktop by the sink had pipes leading to it so she tried that one, but it just contained the water heater. The one next to it, cups and tumblers, with a few half-opened bottles of spirits and cans of mixer. Jack Daniel's and Bombay Sapphire. No off-brand stuff.

Justine tried the cupboard under the sink next and found the small watering can. She filled it and watered the plant on the kitchen window sill before heading to the lounge.

There were five plants; one in the window, three on all walls other than the TV, and a well-established yucca in the corner. She began with the closest wall, working clockwise, having to refill the can before sprinkling the yucca.

Her gaze wandered to the artwork again. Specifically the third of the poses, with the woman draped over some unidentifiable piece of furniture, one hand cupping a breast, the other clamped between her thighs. It was bold. Daring, even, and she wondered if the artist had painted it live, watching the woman pleasuring herself as he interpreted the nuances of her arousal in broad brush strokes.

What had been going through her head as she displayed her usually private moments for this man to capture? It made her body flush and she only just remembered to stop pouring, jerking the can upright. A spurt arced from the spout and splattered to the carpet.

Mortified, Justine put the can down and scurried along the hallway to the bathroom for a towel. They were neatly stacked of course in an open shelf unit and she leaned over the laundry hamper to grab one. Manly scent drifted and she paused, glancing down. Some sort of rich cologne mixed with the musk of a day spent wearing the crumpled linen shirt.

Shaking her head, she whisked a towel off the shelf and returned to blot the spillage. The flooring appeared to be coated in something that repelled water so it was mercifully easy to clean.

She refilled the can and took it upstairs. Peeked into the spare room but it was empty. Ventured down the corridor to the master bedroom and paused in the doorway. The bed was huge. Dominated the space. A sumptuous duvet, immaculately folded, topped the mattress. Justine entered and stroked it on her way to the window where two more plants rested.

The room had a half-sunken wardrobe on one wall; three mirrored panels interrupted only by small, curved, metal handles. A pair of bedside units on either side of the wrought iron headboard completed the furniture.

On the wall opposite the bed, adjacent to the louvre door leading to the en suite, was another of the paintings. She stared and approached. This one was more overt than downstairs, perhaps due to the more intimate bedroom setting. Instead of a single female subject, this had echoes of couples locked in various sex acts. One on her knees, hair flowing around her face pressed to a man's groin. Another depicted a woman straddling her lover's head.

Almost of its own volition, her hand reached up to touch the painting, gripped by a sudden urge to trace the outline of the woman leaning against the wall, legs spread, reaching out of the canvas for someone; the artist, assumably. Justine's fingertips brushed the cold glass and she snatched her hand away, afraid he would know.

She shook her head and watered the plants to distract herself from the arousing imagery. Checked the en suite and found one more plant, which she sprinkled with the remainder of the can.

With one last glance at the erotic artwork, she retraced her steps, taking the towel she was carrying back downstairs to the bathroom. She hung it on the rail to dry and her attention fell to the laundry hamper again. He'd only been gone a few hours. He'd texted her mom from the cab to say he was running late to catch a flight to the conference and didn’t have enough time to tend to the plants. That was barely enough time for his clothes to cool.

With her heart thumping, she gingerly reached out. Crept her hand closer to the shirt until it was within a few inches of the fabric. Then an inch. She made contact and her phone trilled. She nearly leaped out of her skin, shook herself, and stepped back into the hallway, swiping to answer, flushed.

“Hey, Sarah…”

Her friend babbled as Justine's pulse slowed. She eventually managed to get a word in:

“Sure, I'll pick some up on my way over. See you soon.”

Casting a gaze over her shoulder at the bathroom door, she rang off and padded to the kitchen, retrieved her flats, and left, locking and testing the back door before squeezing through the gap between the fence panels and the hedge.

~oOo~

The next day was another scorcher. In just her cutoffs, loose-fitting school leavers' T-shirt, and flip-flops, Justine dragged a sun lounger from her deck to the pool. Peeling off her top and shorts to reveal the tangerine bikini beneath, she flicked out the towel, settled, and stretched, intent on working on her tan before college started after the long summer break.

As the sun-bronzed the lotion on her glimmering skin, she turned over. Read pages from some trashy romance she'd found in the den; an implausible plot centering around an intern and her wealthy boss. She only put it down when she realized she'd read the same paragraph four times. Her thoughts kept drifting, like the scent from his laundry hamper. His musk.

She wasn't kidding when she told Sarah about trying not to stare at him from her bedroom. Her desk was under the window and many times when she was supposed to be doing homework, she'd found herself gazing into the yard as he cleaned his pool or tended to the border shrubs. He often went shirtless.

Turning over to face the azure sky, she reapplied lotion and lounged. Thought back to the paintings on his walls. Traced her sides with her fingertips and slid one arm up over her head, imagining posing for the artist, capturing her glistening skin on canvas. Who was he? What did he think about when he painted? Was he silent, just observing, or directorial?

She grabbed her phone and searched:

Cody nude artist.

Nothing of note. She changed it to Casey.

Nope.

Female nude canvas.

Modern impressionist painters.

Naked portrait painters.

Lots of results, but nothing matched the artwork.

Frustrated, she shut the browser and switched to lying on her side. She lifted her knee, splaying a little. Couldn’t shake the thoughts of what it would feel like to be revered by the artist. To be treated as a desirable object. Maybe the painting would be good enough that Mr. Turner would hang it on his wall. Gaze it at. Touch himself as he sat on his sofa. Or his bed, imagining what was going through her head as she posed.

Her fingertips drifted. Started at the knee and snaked a path up her inner thigh. Despite the heat beating down, she shivered as the digits neared her bikini fabric. Brushed it. Her folds beneath were damp, transferring a burgeoning dot of moisture to stain the material a deeper shade.

Justine shut her eyes as images spun. The painting. The artist. The scent of Mr. Turner's shirt. Her fingers skimmed her clit through the bikini and she jolted, mouth opening. Circled it once and sighed. Then again, she slid a finger south, darkening the material further with a strip of arousal.

Coming to her senses, she snapped her legs shut and climbed from the lounger, dragging her towel behind her; scurrying to the house.

In the sanctity of her bedroom, she peeled off her bikini bottoms. A silvery string of juice stretched and snapped when the garment hit the floor. Her fingers zeroed on her sticky slit and she flopped onto the bed face first, hiking one knee up to spread her thighs and tend to the ache between them.

Each sigh, each brush of her clit with the pad of a wet finger, propelled her closer to release. Probably the fastest she’d ever brought herself to the boil. With a final gasp, she stiffened and shook, heat spreading through her body from pussy to scalp.

She rode out the orgasm, panting. Brought her fingers to her lips and sucked them clean, rolling onto her back and letting the receding waves lap at her extremities.

Despite the rush of the climax, embarrassment crept over her flushed frame. Lusting over her neighbor was a ridiculous fantasy. A silly teenage crush that would surely fade.

She laughed and shook her head, scrambled up, and redressed, heading back downstairs. With a fleeting gaze at the gap in the fence, she dove into the pool to wash away the tempestuous thoughts.

~oOo~

Slipping through the gap the next morning, Justine unlocked Mr. Turner's back door. He had one of those irritating ring-cam doorbells alongside. She didn’t know why people bothered. In the few other places she'd used them, it had been near impossible to tell what the owner was saying on the other end.

Taking off her shoes, she once again padded to the kitchen cupboard in just cutoffs and oversized T-shirt. She grabbed the watering can and filled it, ensuring the base was free of drips before carrying it through to the living room.

The plants had wilted a little in the unseasonable heat, so she doused them well. Double for the yucca. Her attention didn’t fall on the painting until she was certain the can was empty. She had no intention of spilling anything else in his beautifully manicured home.

She approached the painting, noting how details appeared, shifted, and the perspective altered depending on which angle it was viewed. The imagery was still captivating. If anything, the day away from it allowed her to appraise it with fresh eyes, and she spotted a new series of brush strokes off to the right edge. Harder lines. Almost masculine.

With a gasp, her hand flew to cover her mouth. It was a cock, protruding unabashedly from a male torso, poised inches from a woman's open lips. She tentatively reached for the canvas. Traced the outline of the phallus and shivered. Wondered what it would be like in her mouth, her pussy.

She had massaged her ex-boyfriend, Jonathan, through his jeans while they kissed one time, his fingers inching under her short skirt. He'd stroked the wet outer lips through her panties, but that was as far as they'd gone in months. Every time she tried to encourage him to go further, he wouldn't. They broke up shortly after.

Her fingertips left the painting and she brought them to her mouth. Ran them around its curvature. The indent at the peak of her upper lip. Her body responded, nerve endings triggering a flush of heat. She shuddered, self-conscious as if the woman in the painting was watching and disapproved of the invasion.

Justine crossed to the rear of the room and headed down the corridor into the bathroom to top up the watering can. Paused. Couldn't avoid gazing at the laundry hamper again. His shirt was still there.

She eyed it. Reached for it and stroked the fabric; the collar. Bunched the garment in her fist and lifted it free. Brought it to her face and nuzzled it. Him. Breathed his faint scent.

A shaky thrill coursed through her frame. A light-headed moment she savored as she imagined him alongside her. Wrapping her in a strong hug. Kissing her.

She had no idea when the feelings developed. Maybe during those times she'd daydreamed at her window as he tended to his garden, sun-kissed muscles rippling while he worked below. Maybe when she had been lazing by the pool and heard him and a girlfriend having sex, her rhythmic sighs of ecstasy drifting from his open window. That evening had fueled a torrid masturbation session where Justine inserted herself into the fantasy, bucking underneath him as he took her. Ravaged her. Made her scream.

She wanted him to notice. Bought the tiniest swimsuit and paraded around the pool in it when she knew he was in. Dived in, swam, and climbed out, letting the sun dry her skin as she lazed on the sunbed and imagined him sinking to his knees, making her howl like he did his girlfriend.

Justine shivered. Setting the watering can down, she stroked the shirt material. Brought it to her face once more. Inhaled, and again, trailed a hand down her side, brushing a breast through her T-shirt, her midriff, and the waistband of her shorts. Popping the button, she dug her fingers beneath. Touched her wetness, pulled free, and smeared arousal alongside the musk of his shirt, bringing their combination to her nose.

Fumbling with the shirt's lower buttons, unfamiliar as they were fastened on the opposite side to her blouses, she undid them and slipped the shirt on over her top. A tiny gasp escaped as she imagined it was him encasing her body. Her blood fizzed. She knew she should put it back but the thrill gripped her. She only had the upstairs plants to water. Less than five minutes.

She picked up the can, filled it, and headed up the stairs. Watered the bedroom and en suite plants in a daze, scurried back down, and guiltily shed his shirt, dropping it in the hamper, retreating fast to the living room.

In the lounge, she took a moment to calm and reflect. Staring at the painting, her pulse gradually slowed, while the swirling actions of the women in the picture danced. Slipping her phone from the pocket of the cut-offs, she framed the wall and snapped a few shots.

Grabbing her shoes, she fled the house, locking it and raced home.

Back in her bedroom, Justine stripped off her T-shirt, cupped her boobs and massaged them. Paced to the dresser and watched herself touching her skin, imagining it was Mr. Turner's gaze. Appraising. Widening. Wanting. She tweaked her nipples, her mouth dropping open as a gasp escaped. The caps firmed and she pinched again.

Naughty thoughts rampaged. Him stepping in from behind and hugging her, sliding his hands up her front to cup and squeeze her tits. Nuzzling her neck while watching her reaction in the mirror.

She swished her hair to one side, stroking the skin by her neck as if it were his caresses. Drifting touches to her throat, she drew shapes and snaked a path between her cleavage, over her tummy to her shorts.

Unsnapping them, she let the garment fall. Scuffed fingertips over the pastel material covering her mound. Pressed and circled, a damp spot blooming. She scissored her fingers on either side of the material. Pinched. Dragged it aside. Dug. Watched her expression glaze over as she imagined his caresses doing likewise. His fingers stroking her wetness. His tongue fluttering at her peeking clit.

She drove herself higher. Watched her arousal cresting through slitted eyes, mouth agape, panting harder with each successive brush across the slippery jewel. Tugging her underwear free, the material slid to the floor and she curled a pair of digits up into her welcoming heat, clamping her clit against the crook of her palm.

The intensity took her by surprise and she gasped into the room. Her knees trembled and she slid her fingers back and forth into the tight channel, using her nub as an anchor for the heel of her hand until she stiffened and came.

As she unplugged her fingers, juices...