I watched for a week. From the alley, with the broken street lamp, I had a clear view into your bedroom after dark. I do not know whether you are clinically OCD, but your bedtime routine was ritualistic. At 10:00 PM, the lights in the rest of your home would darken and your bedroom lamp would illuminate. You would go into the bathroom to disrobe, wash up, and switch into your nightgown.  Your hair would always draw back into pig tails. While I don't know exactly, I took you to be about twenty-five. As you came towards the window each night at 10:20 pm each evening, you looked a few years younger. 

Those next ten minutes for me were the reason to ignore the cold and damp weather. Each night, as you came close to the glass, your shape accentuated by the soft light behind, your hands began to explore your own body. First your breasts, swollen and full. Then your nipples, stiff and budding.  Then your stomach, firm and flat, as you raised the nightgown up. Finally your pussy, smooth and bare.

And there, gazing into the night, seeking in the darkness what you could not find during the day, you masturbated yourself to orgasm each night. Your fingers began with your clit, sensitive, and engorged. Your labia was next, swollen, and opening. As juice trickled, your fingers hooked in for lubrication but quickly returned to your clit. And there for five minutes, you repeated your hypnotic rhythm. Five strokes of your clit, three caresses of your labia, one dip inside with your fingers, repeating over and over. The rate of your breathing and the speed of strokes increased, but your count stayed the same. 

And then at 10:25 pm, as if addicted to the exactness of your nightly indulgence, you reached with your right hand to the chair next to you and pulled to your wet slit, the soft, plush, light brown teddy bear that seemed a lifelong companion.  Simultaneously, as if to cool the heat your body had built, your left hand pushed the window open a couple of inches. And as the rhythm of your fingers' exploration was altered to a similar metronomic grind against the bear, my hands finally found my own lifelong toy. 

In sync to your motion, I stroked my now exposed cock, and found my own breath rate increase. Through the window I could hear your whimpers and moans, growing in intensity and volume.  So too the magnitude of my own masturbatory intent grew, to the point where both of our climaxes became simultaneously inevitable. The face of the bear now crushed into your pussy, I see the flood of juice you release gush and darken the soft brown fur.  The intensity of the image overwhelms me as my release alters from pre cum to a fountainhead of seed.  I struggle to stay silent, knowing you are so close, but also craving to hear the only word I've ever heard you utter.  And then, each night, at precisely 10:30 pm, as you orgasm into your bear, you release the word with every other physical sensation. "DADDY!" you cry, and moan, in cathartic spasm. 

"Yes," I whisper back, "Daddy is here."