Ursula: So Near, Yet So Far

So near yet so far...

I enjoy writing a mix of true stories and fantasy stories and allowing readers to enjoy them on their own merits and decide for themselves which are absolutely based in reality and which are made-up. This story is no different but I would wish to plead with you that every last detail of this tale absolutely happened as related, only, I shall not plead in such a way as human nature is to question the truth of something the more the storyteller insists on its authenticity...

So simply enjoy.

Where did it all begin? As a learner driver I was well used to returning to the family home and passing the same "B" registration red Escort. It was not until I had passed my test and was allowed use of the family car to drive me and my sister to school each morning that I was even aware of the owner of the Red Escort.

It was late Autumn, frosty and foggy, and I had been up early as I had classes from 9:15am and studies to get through before class. My sister on the other hand was late. She had overslept and was ratty and arrogant. I knew if I drove off without her I would be grounded so I had to patiently wait around at the foot of the stairs for Her Majesty long after Mum had buzzed off to work by alternate means. I was livid. So of course I had the car warmed up, the windows wiped, and when she finally joined me in the old Nissan Micra I just floored the car in reverse, shooting out of the driveway, steering wheel right hand down as hard as I could. The sound of the radio was drowned by a grinding/scraping noise that sounded terrifying and then I slammed into first and roared to the junction of the main road.

She was now furious and swearing at me. I told her sternly that I would sort it this evening and we could not waste any more time.

To this day my mother and sister recall a different version of events which says more about how fucked up my family are truly than I am.

Anyway, I had busted a rear left light on our Micra clipping the back left corner on the rear wheel-arch of the neighbour's Escort. For my Mum's car that meant a couple of hundred of my savings to repair it and then it was I who told my Mum I was going to leave a note on the neighbour's car, and of course, I could barely see a scratch on her car but I had to at least check there was no hidden damage.

A tall brunette came to our door, Mum called for me. I was introduced to Ursula. I apologised, explained about the crash, Mum had already LIED saying she had persuaded ME to leave the note on her windscreen...I was flustered, embarrassed and angry and felt too awkward to string a sentence together... Of course, Ursula was totally out of my league. Glasses which gave a "don't give a damn what people think of me" kind of air about her, good breasts, slim waist, great hips and arse, and long legs apparent even in casual sweater and slacks. She stood a good foot taller than me.

She would get a quote for the paintwork damage. She said it could be anything up to a hundred-and-fifty...too quickly I blurted "OK, fine!" like an idiot.

Predictably she returned the following day saying it would be £140. I handed her the cash nonchalently, trying to be cool about giving away over two weeks' wages to a super-babe that probably could squish me like a fly.

My bitterness towards my mother and sister combined with my loss of savings - all the fault of my sister in my mind - led me to spend more time in my room, programming my computer, playing games, listening to music, reading, wanking.

The I found myself looking over the road at the Red Escort and panning up at her flat opposite my bedroom window.

The bedroom light was on and she was side profile to me in the window seeming to be trying on a black bra. It pushed her tits up beautifully, not that they needed much assistance. I was hooked. I turned my own bedroom light off and watched the show.

My hard on was urgent enough to jack off whilst pressed against the window, holding my dick in a tissue against the wall below. My Mum barged in without knocking. I tried to preserve some modesty and make it look like I was merely getting dressed, but I guess she knew what teenage boys get up to. For fuck sake - this is the woman who confronted me age fourteen by staring at a tell-tale stain on my duvet cover and asking "What's that?"

To which I had to put on a straight face and say, "Seminal Fluid, Mother!" and then endure her mock surprise and her "o0o00oo - my baby boyyyy???" taunting.

I don't hate my mother but I do understand why some men commit matricide. In fact - the latest story in the papers here, there were fifteen knife wounds and ten puncture marks from a screwdriver or something similar, having also strangled her partially. Whoever the dude was, I admire his restraint.

But anyway, on with the story. Ursula was off out for a hot date. I could even smell her perfume from my window as she wafted out of her apartment block to the car and gunned the engine.

For the next seven or more months I was addicted to watching her. Gradually it progressed from seeing her breasts whilst in her bedroom to seeing tantalising amounts of leg in the lounge, then finally as Summer 1993 reached us, I saw her one lazy Sunday morning reclined on her sofa, her legs pointing towards me, and her loose black shorts revealing generous amounts of thigh.

She must have sussed I was watching but of course in my terror and insecurity it was easier for years to stay in denial that she had ever seen me watching. Nonetheless, she began stroking her thighs and brought her knees up towards her chest. She was watching tv, eating junk food, alone.

The sunlight streamed beautifully into her lounge especially with the French doors open. Her lounge was like the perfect stage especially for my personal entertainment. And she sure put on a show.

To my amazement she began rubbing her chest under her loose fitting top. At first I had guessed she was adjusting her bra strap but then I realised there was no bra under the top. This was her casual wear. A hand went into her shorts... before long she was rubbing herself through her shorts... sometimes she changed angle and went in through the leghole, revealing a hint of minge fringe under the material.

She brought herself to a shuddering climax and then returned to her junk food and junk tv without washing her hands.

That had me bringing myself to one of my best orgasms ever.

A pattern emerged over the next six years. Especially in the Summer months, less so in Winter.

August 1993 I was looking for work having finished school. I would go for long bike rides alone, or go to the job centre, or spend the weekends watching Ursula and the weekdays sleeping having wanked myself dry all day and night most days an nights over her.

Her routine midweek was to go to bed between 11pm and midnight, then turn the bedroom light on around 2.30am either to jazz herself or fuck her boyfriend depending on if he was around - I was never sure. I never saw any of the bedroom activity except her getting dressed against the window which was a rare treat.

Her routine at the weekend was to do a bit of laundry, housework and then maybe a long shower or bath. Then sit or lie in her living room watching junk TV and eating junk food and jazzing herself.

I got to know her technique for sure:

Circling the nipples and cupping the breasts, massaging and kneading them with her own long fingertips. Then drumming her long fingernails on her thighs until she could stand it no longer. Most frequently she wore a white bathrobe and would let it fall open to reveal her stunning body. She would caress and stroke her inner thigh and run a fingertip along her bikini line and gradually move in and then rub vigorously with three or four fingers in a mostly up and down motion, sometimes circular... she did not seem to penetrate herself much, preferring the clit action and getting herself off quite fast as I wanked myself stood by my bedroom window.

At times I hid in my wardrobe by my window to use the mirror to watch her...this made little difference. She caught me out on this trick. She sometimes hid and then went to the window on the stairwell to catch me looking in the wrong direction until I would reveal myself in frustration. Game over. So she knew what I was doing but the performances only ever ceased temporarily.

Autumn 1993 I worked for a double-glazing firm, then came a string of crappy jobs, mostly door-knocking on commission, until in 1994 I got a job working nights in a convenience store. I bought my first car which I wrote off after nine days, crashing spectacularly and walking away without a scratch on me.

After maybe a year as a retail Supervisor I quit; I was unemployed and wanking myself stupid with nothing better to do. With or without Ursula I still watched her windows and played.

In 1995 my sister was due to start Uni having had a year out travelling. I had not had the opportunity to get to Uni as I had not done well grades-wise and UCCA-PCAS had lost my application so there was nothing available through clearing. The pressure was on for me to move out first as I was the older brother and I did not want to be left behind.

Naturally - I leapt at an opportunity to work in a petrol garage across town doing nights. More responsibility, less money, but with a room opposite the garage, above a restaurant. My Sicilian landlord charged me £35 a week, £5 more than my mum was charging in housekeeping. The ultimate FUCK YOU to your parent. I will pay extra and do my own ironing just to be free of you. HAHAHA!

It was an eventful time there but I do not wish to meander too much from the story. Needless to say Ursula used this particular garage to fill up her car, and I had to face her and string a sentence together and serve her. It was not easy. I felt and looked like a total idiot. Some women just have that effect on me. Even now in my thirties I have only ever dated women that I "sort of got on well with" rather than the kind of hotties that invoke pure animal lust in a man.

She was surprised that I had moved out. Perhaps relieved - I don't know. But she stopped filling her car up there. I took that as mercy rather than as an insult.

Then a work colleague had the idea to go to Tenerife to work selling Time-share. We had become good friends. It was a natural progression. We quit our jobs and flew out there. It was a disaster and we were back within the week. I had to beg my Mum to let me move back in and look for work ASAP.

Then came a job as a Night Porter in a hotel. I quickly bought my second car.

I had introduced my petrol station buddy to another pal and they shared a caravan together whilst homeless.

My new colleague who was training me showed me all the best vantage points for perving on guests. I was hooked. There was often a couple to watch fucking, or a Japanese Businessman sat on the bed jerking himself trying to race himself against the kettle in his room, and other such oddities.

I quickly realised I was only into female masturbation but believe me in that time I saw a lot of incredible shit making me a true veteran voyeur.

I got fired whilst on a security walk round. The Night Manager had strolled into the garden via the only access point - the Club Bar - I saw the fire doors open and went out into the enclosed garden surrounded on all four sides by windows. The main bulk of the hotel was like a big square.

I called out wanting to know who was walking around in the dark, my Boss casually collared me and made up a bullshit story about him catching me perving on a couple in a room. His word against mine. I was kicked out. No references. My second car had burned out a couple of weeks earlier with me in it. Life sucked. But I lived.

Summer 1996. A lot of memories. Hanging in the local Shopping Mall with a female friend, drinking with buddies, doing bits and pieces of self employed work, going to one good concert in South London, but mostly wanking in my room and wondering where Ursula had gone and whether she was still living there. The red Escort was there. So where the hell was she?

Then a mate I had fallen out with sold me a blue Escort he was driving. I was unemployed and used an overdraft I had to buy it. Not 'til I drove it home did I realise why I wanted it so bad. It was the same make and model car as Ursula's and the Vehicle Registration Mark was almost identical to hers, one digit different.

I parked up and proceeded to set up the stereo and speakers. She parked up as well and looked at me, looked at her car, then at my car, then at me again and without a word walked up to her flat entrance. I figure she was too stunned to speak.

The next morning I rang the insurance company, got in the car to drive to a garage for a check-up. The traffic was heavy so as soon as I had a chance to finally floor the accelerator I found myself on a dual carriageway with a 40 MPH speed limit but doing over 60 MPH. I felt the steering wheel get harder to control. I realised a tyre had blown. I guessed it was the front right. I was unable therefore to brake for fear of dangerously spinning out but I was about to go down a big long underpass. I had to act fast. I slammed the wheel right-hand-down as hard as I could and aimed for the central reservation. I struck the barrier and pressed into it with all my strength slamming the brake pedal to emergency stop. Traffic undertook me on the inside lane.

If I had been driving a car in most countries it would have been a less dangerous thing but in England we drive on the left. I was stranded in the middle of the dual-carriageway with fast and heavy morning traffic speeding past. A kindly citizen used his mobile to get the Police out and they got the tow truck out.

I was dropped safely somewhere. No more Escort.

Ursula never asked what happened to the car or why I was back living with Mum. We never really talked. I felt she possibly hated me or feared me.

I got a job in a Call Centre as part of the launch of a new network TV station. It was a huge break for me. Good wages, fun job, great people. Plus we had a database of names, addresses and phone numbers for almost the entire UK...everyone with a television was on that database as we had to retune every VCR in the country in preparation for the new TV station whose broadcast frequency meant adjusting the frequency that VCRs use to transmit to the television set. There was a U. Dawson listed at the apartment block opposite me. With a landline number. Whoever she was she was ex directory. Then a trip to the Post Office confirmed it was her. I checked the Electoral Register - bingo - Ursula Dawson. So I had her full name and ex directory phone number.

Summer 1997 I still had the scrap of paper with her number on it. Still not daring to call it.

It had been possibly a couple of years since I had seen her properly masturbating openly for me in her living room. Probably more like three. One Sunday afternoon a work buddy came round. We smoked a joint, had a few glasses of wine and watched a French movie with English subtitles. I had seen it a few times but wanted his opinion as he spoke French and German fluently and could follow it better and tell me if the translation was any good.

He mostly seemed inattentive and fell asleep. I was no longer turned on by Beattrice Dahl's naked temper tantrums and wild sex in the French Cinematic classic so I skipped upstairs to my room and looked across to Ursula's living room.

My heart missed two full beats and then raced at treble pace in utter joy to see her on her sofa in her white bathrobe.

I made no attempt to hide. I wanted to confront this thing and maybe end it once and for all or progress to another level.

Her glasses glinted as sunlight bounced off them with the movement of her head.

She seemed surprised to see me but not displeased.

A hand ran itself up her thigh.

Her white bathrobe opened as if of its own accord. Just a teasing amount of flesh to begin with. Enough to get my attention and make my cock ache with desire. Before long she was running finger tips around her breasts in circular motions, occasionally rubbing and cupping them in turn. Then she tenderly ran fingers down a thigh. She began drumming her manicured nails on her thigh and then further up her thigh until she could bear the temptation no more. She had teased herself with her own light touches and went in for the kill... with an urgency like never before she looked directly and hungrily at me and I at her... I wanked myself to orgasm too fast and then regained position to watch her carrying on, fast and furious. We came at similar moments this time - my second, her first.

I checked if my buddy was still asleep downstairs. The sounds of snoring could be heard from the top of the stairs. I checked the time as well to make sure no one else was due to turn up at the family home. So we went for it again. This time she seemed to be really finger fucking herself as well as paying attention to her clit, but she seemed to have to clamp her thighs together tightly to get more intense orgasms which is why - I guessed - she wasn't a fan generally of finger-fucking her own gash.

She had her second orgasm, me my third, and I watched her return to her junk food and TV without washing her hands. I washed mine and returned downstairs.

Work got really busy. My social life did too. I became a gymn addict and started dating a lady friend in whom I confided everything. She was non-judgmental about it but we discussed our sexual preferences and decided we would just stay friends. She was not attracted to me, but I was in love with her. Ursula slipped to the back of my thoughts as a fond memory no longer accessible as my nights were filled with desperately needed sleep, my days with work, socializing, going to the gym and shopping. I was happy for a while. Life was good - so why spend it in a bedroom perving on a woman opposite?

Then the bubble burst.

I quit a perfectly good job and did agency work, including working for a mobile phone company. I obtained Ursula's mobile phone number and had access to all her calling records. She was a busy girl for sure. I was terrified of how low I had sunk. Her mobile phone number was ex directory naturally and I chickened out of using it, although I did keep it written on a piece of paper for a while.

The mobile operator fired me. I had been an idiot, upsetting a colleage and failing to follow security procedure with a credit card authorisation for a customer. I saw my life descend into a pit of despair like never before.

Many friends deserted me. I became a drink and drug-taking loser like never before.

I had to leave the gym as I only had discount membership through my job which I had left.

All I knew was I was obsessed with two women, neither of whom seemed to really want me. My female former colleague, Heidi, with whom I had been going out with platonically and Ursula.

I went through a series of experiences leading me to throw off my atheism and start visiting a church with Heidi. For me it was pure escapism. I used it as an excuse to move out of my mum's house in April 1999 as my uncle was sleeping on the sofa, and needed a room. I volunteered to move to London to be nearer my newest job and with my church friends. To be fair it was the furthest possible place I could get away from my weird relationship with Ursula. With no communication between us I felt it was just an insanely unhealthy situation after over six years.

Certainly I have told many male and female friends about her and her impact on me. Men generally say: "Did you fuck her?" and are disappointed when I say "No."

Women are either repulsed or turned on. The ones who are turned on become good friends but rarely become lovers. Although it has certainly got me into bed with a couple of women for sure.