The Jogger.
by
Kris worsci

Category: Beginnings and Endings.

It's wrong. I know it's wrong.

But I can't help but look out the window every morning.

And just after sunrise, there he is, in his white tank top, those lightweight sneakers, footfalls slapping the pavement. He'll go by twice, sometimes four times, in thirty minutes, varying his distance on different days.

I have plenty of time to enjoy the view as he goes across the front of my lot. Some young thing. From that slender frame, those coltish limbs, I bet he's in high school. All sun browned because he's too young to know he's mortal and he doesn't bother with sunscreen.

Those shorts are from the seventies, though. Split up the side so you can see he's wearing no underwear, his bottom can "breathe," so to speak, as he runs. His butt would hang out from under those shorts if his buns sagged at all. But they don't. He's young, so the jerking mounds are high and tight. Pert. I can only glimpse a white curve at the top of his thigh, the hint of buttock, with each right-forward stride.

A high school boy. That makes me four or five times his age. The only pert thing left about me is my attitude.

I'm way too old to be thinking about how firm that pale cheek would feel in my palm. What that sweaty face would look like, eyes closed, mouth open in surprised little gasps as I slap his ass.

An old lecher, that's what I am as I sit here with my morning coffee, looking out over the kitchen sink, the small window open so I can listen for the approaching slap-slap-slap of his sneakers.

Only my eyes can touch him as he bounces by. Jail bait. That's what that tempting boy is. That sun-crispy, tasty looking boy.

My eye candy, to go with my decaffeinated coffee and the fat free half-and-half. My naughty little sweet that doesn't count against my carb count, that makes a gimpy old heart kick up a little in the morning, racing despite the heart pills and the blood pressure medicine.

One morning he stops, right out there, to tie a shoelace, and those short-shorts ride up just right.

And I can see, from fifty feet away, because my eyes are still sharp, oh yes, I can see something that makes my old heart kick up a double notch. He bends and the morning breeze teases the hem of his shorts just a little, just enough.

I can see the level stripes across the low curve of his ass, so lovingly placed across both taut little buns.

He straightens, shakes a leg as if to loosen it. Then he looks right at me. I can see his teeth, a smile, his eyes holding mine through the window.

A wave as he turns, resumes his run, right along the front of the lot.

It's wrong. I know it's wrong.

This story is beautifully, voyeuristically structured. It has an effectively creepy insight of a paedophilic attraction to someone young, -  fresh , tasty spanking meat.  From my perspective, stories where children are the object of desire , whether for spanking or sex, can be utterly tasteless and nauseating but this one is so well written that the reader tends to forget all that and focuses on the clearly expressed frustrated desire so well handled in the narrative.  I wasn't sure if the narrator was male or female but it doesn't matter much.  The opening line delivers the message 'its wrong, I know its wrong'.  Beautifully written. First rate job.

It may be wrong, but this story is oh, so right.  Very well-written, tantalizing and hot.  The need of the narrator shows through well and you can almost feel her arousal and her hope.

This story is as close to perfect as a 500 word story can be. It's beautifully done.  Reading this story brought to mind thoughts of summer peaches -- fresh, warm and perfectly, wonderfully messily sweet and juicy.

Both the physical descriptions of the boy and the internal landscape of the narrators thoughts are told in lush language, so much so that as a reader I was caught up in the heat and the longing.

The story itself (again like the perfect peach) is a decadent pleasure.>

Some really nice first-person narration here, which places us squarely in the head of the watcher, who I don't think is nearly as conflicted as they might appear. In fact, the complete relish in the watching is delicious, and is made all the clearer by the precise language. There's plenty of passion there, but it's a controlled, calculating passion.

Two ambiguities stand out. The gender of the watcher isn't clear, but that turns out not to be important. The story reads quite naturally either way, which is the result of some careful, shrewd writing. Also, the nature of the boy's stripes makes the setting unclear. Mostly, the language suggests America, but stripes suggest a cane, which is incongruous. That mystery is left hanging, adding a final twist.