Jane Air

had asked aloud, clearly wondering what sort of scene would be filmed in here.
“What kind of room is this?” I had asked, genuinely confused. My colleagues, some even more successful than me, had houses beyond anything you could imagine. Underground pools. Thirty lane bowling alleys. Private islands filled with endangered animals. Showers big enough for the most ambitious orgy. Trust me. I’ve seen some houses.
But this?
The real estate agent had shrugged, “It’s an open design. The original owners left before they finished it. You could do anything in here.” She had paused, looking up towards the monstrous chandelier, something straight out of Phantom of the Opera. “It would be great for parties.”
Angelo had laughed at that, probably imagining what kind of party wanted a 50 foot window for perverts to spy through.
Neither of them liked the house, but I did.
So I bought it, without telling anyone. Signed the contract after months of negotiating. Arranged through my team to purchase it under a title company, so my name wouldn’t be attached. I wasn’t sure how to move furniture, since the paparazzi are always camped out in front of my LA estate, and moving vans would tip them off. In my experience, photographers will do just about anything for a shot. If I didn’t want them to follow me across the country, I had to do everything in secret. So I moved with nothing. A few suitcases, like any other trip. But otherwise left the California house untouched. Paparazzi followed me to the airport. Driver dropped me off. No one knows I’m here.
Jesus. What a ridiculous hassle. Can’t a man just buy a house?
Angelo was pissed.
“How will I reach you if you’re not in LA?”
“How were you planning on reaching me when you weren’t in LA?”
While he never toasted my departure, he was smart enough to know it was inevitable.
“I’ll be in touch,” he had said, somewhat ominously.
And now I’m here.
Alone.
One nice surprise, though, there is a lake. Well, a pond. Down from the lawn, walking across an old dirt road that no one uses anymore, in a forest of trees on the property. Quiet, still. Beautiful spot. You wouldn’t even know it’s there unless you went looking for it. Can’t see the road or the house from it. Only the sound of crickets and the rustling of underbrush. An occasional groundhog.
I decide to head out. The sun’s going down and the thought of another night on my California King mattress, the one thing I had delivered, makes my skin itch. Slipping on sneakers I head toward the back door.
The night is warm, more humid than the West Coast. The ground is soft beneath my feet, absorbing the sound of my movement. My steps are so quiet I can hear my own breath.
It’s nice to be away from the city. The lights and the noise. The constant attention. The honking of cars at red lights when they realize who they’re next to. Phones and cameras in my face. Screaming. I started out as a theater kid. How did I end up head to toe in spandex, battling space aliens, shilling Japanese coffee and Chinese whiskey, and wearing $12,000 suits?
I can smell the pond before I see it. The damp, mossy smell. There are sounds out here, sounds I am not familiar with. The occasional splash of a frog or hoot of an owl. It’s so different. I feel like I am back to myself. Like I can strip away what everyone thinks of me, expects of me, wants of me, and listen to myself.
Listen to the earth.
Listen to…a naked woman.
Well, that’s unexpected.
Before I think to swear at the hassle of another restraining order, of people who can’t imagine how disconcerting it might be to have a naked stranger on their property, I can’t help but notice her shape, pale and soft and perfect, skin glowing beneath the moonlight. The curves of her hips make my mouth water as she stretches out a leg, sliding her body toe first off a rock and into the water. Brown hair hangs over her face and suddenly she is submerged, fabulous round ass rising up as her face and back disappear, white thighs following, then just the tips of her toes before she lifts herself, hair flinging back and breasts, god those breasts, up and out of the water.
I amuse myself, allowing for a minute the thought that she isn’t deranged. Perhaps I am dreaming this. Perhaps this small town with its strange smells and quiet nights comes with fantasy creatures, woodland spirits in the shape of beautiful, naked women.
My very own water sprite.
Forest nymph.
Aphrodite.
For a minute, I am so fucking glad I bought this house.
I hear her laugh and she twirls, head back, hair wet and sticking down her back. The water is waist high and she spins, finger tips dancing on the surface around her, droplets playing in the night sky, framing her radiance.
I hold my breath and keep myself hidden behind the oak in front of me. It’s been a while since I spied on a girl. Not since high school, actually, when my neighbor would sometimes forget to close her curtains when she changed.
Nowadays women throw themselves at me. More often than not, I have to look away rather than sneak a peek.
It’s different. It’s thrilling.
I hear that laugh, her head back and smiling. The line of her breasts, full and ripe and capped with tight, dark nipples. My mouth goes dry and I watch rivulets of water run from her breasts, down that soft belly, to merge with the water at her waist.
I feel my cock grow thick inside my jeans. I want to drag this fantasy creature out of the water. To hoist her against the mossy rocks and bury myself inside her from behind. To fuck her under the moonlight, watching her head fall back into the grass and fill the forest with her screams. To throw her over my shoulder and carry her back to the house,