Artie is a sweet man. In his mid-60s, he always watches out for me, doing easy yardwork like raking and cleaning out the gutters, usually without me even asking. When I’m out of town, he picks up my mail, when I was sick a few months ago, he brought me soup, and he’s always good for a story.

He also likes to watch.

About a year ago, I saw him for the first time. I was getting ready for bed, putting on lotion, when I noticed him at his window that faces mine. I was surprised at first, but he must not have noticed me tense. I found the idea oddly flattering, despite the fact that I’m not that much of an exhibitionist. Artie is harmless. He’s been alone with me in my house several times. So I put on a show. Not much of a show at first, I just spent some extra time working the lotion in to my tits, spent some time checking my hair in the mirror where he could still see, checking all of my angles. Then I got bolder.

I’d been on edge all day, and had been thinking of easing the pressure with a little bit of alone time anyways. That night, though, as I grabbed my trusty toys and laid back on the bed, I left the lights on. Artie got a full show as I slowly worked myself to an intense orgasm, made all the more intense by the unexpected audience. Afterward, I turned off the light, fell asleep, and assumed that was the end of it.

Except, of course, Artie kept coming back. He’s been widowed for as long as I’ve known him, so I guess the pale, auburn-haired, slender neighbor lady with big tits was better than porn. A week later, I saw him again, a bit more stealthy with his lights off, but the light from the street lights just barely caught his glasses. Later that week, there he was again. Then again the next week. I didn’t give him a full show every time, but I let him watch. He never let on that he was peeping on me, and I wouldn’t let on that I knew. He’d come over to do some chores, even came in to check on a few things once or twice, and he was the same Artie that he’d always been.

After a few months, though, it started to feel a bit rote. I couldn’t think of a single guy in my life who had seen me naked as much as Artie had without wanting, and usually getting, more. I still got a bit of a thrill from him watching, but not like the first bit. I started thinking about ways to escalate the situation. After one particularly significant bit of help (midwest winds are not kind to roof shingles), I invited him inside for a drink. Over a glass of lemonade, I asked him if he enjoyed watching me. He was mildly surprised, but admitted that he had a feeling I knew. I told him that I was fine with it and, if he wanted to step into my bedroom, we could have a more up close show and see what developed.

And he said no.

Sweet, funny Artie said that he enjoyed watching, but he was still devoted to his late wife. Watching was fine, but touching and beyond was too far. I told him that I understood, but that he was welcome to keep watching, and that he didn’t have to hide it. He thanked me, though I worried that having the secret out in the open would ruin the thrill, or make things awkward for us. It didn’t though. He’s still Artie, helping out wherever he can, always quick with a story or a joke, we still exchange friendly chit chat in the mornings when I’m on my way to work.

At night, though, I’ll send him a text when I’m going to bed. Just a simple “good night.” Then I wait a couple minutes for him to get in place, and I go put on a show for Artie.