Go out on the balcony

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"I'm not going out there naked," she said, "besides, isn't there something else you'd rather do?"

"I want to see the view," you say.

"Fine!" She grabs a tee shirt from the back of a chair in the corner of the room, pulls it on, and leads you outside.

The balcony's only a few yards square with a perimeter wall about four foot high; a tubular metal handrail is affixed to its top.

The back of her house looks out over a picturesque bay, her back garden drops away dramatically to well below the level of the front garden, then there's a high wall and a public footpath between her property and pontoons to which bobbing boats are tethered.

The conversations of people wondering along are only audible as mumbles, as there faces are almost exclusively pointed out to sea. You've walked that path many times and never had cause to look up at the houses. One wouldn't, unless there were unusual noises to attract attention.

She leans on the handrail and takes in the view. Your thoughts are not on the vista, they are centred on the the small crescents of buttocks that are peeping out from under her shirt and the pleasing creases where they meet the tops of her toned legs.

"Beautiful," you say, and she agrees.

You slap her ass playfully, causing her squeal and cuss. You both notice that people below look up to see what the kerfuffle is all about, then continue on their way when they realise nothing of interest is happening.

Do you:

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Jack Foster, Postal Worker

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