It still haunts me

Part 1: Crazy crush


I am now over 30 years of age, married with one kid, but it seems I am not
totally healed from a weird disease that used to keep haunting my
adolescent mind.

It all began when I was 13 or 14 when I first knew our neighbor in the
apartment above. She is called Nelly. She was then in her early 40s. My
working mom was in acquaintance with Nelly, who used to spend much time
alone in her house. I went up there for frequent visits, and she always
welcomed me and used to talk to me over a variety of things and issues.

Nelly was not a stunning beauty. She has brown eyes, fair-black soft long
hair she always wearing as a thick ponytail. She has a peaked Roman nose
and razor-thin lips.

It was her body that scorched my soul, tormented my senses and tickled my
fancies. Her husband, who was like an uncle to me, was working his ass
mercilessly from morning until late at night to cater for the needs of the
house. When he comes back from work and finds me in the house he was
welcoming me, thinking it was no harm to find his wife with a little boy.

Nelly, too, was not suspecting of my thoughts about her, may be because I
was too shy to tell her about my feelings for her magnificent graceful
feet. She used to go about in the house bare-feet, wearing knee-length
gown, and I just couldn't help stealing glances of her beautiful feet and
picture-perfect, to-die-for calves.

I would do anything to just spend my lifetime kissing those feet and
calves, I thought. While she was in the bathroom, I used to take her shoes
and slippers placed neatly near the house door and sniff the aroma, knowing
Nelly's feet were just nestled in there for some time. "Why wasn't I just
created a pair of shoes for those lovely feet," I wondered.

I bet Nelly was proud of her own legs and graceful thick soft calves. When
she was sitting with me talking, she was in the habit of taking her knee-
length gown up a little, showing about three centimeters above her knee.

Of course I was serious in exchanging words with her, evading looks at her
feet or legs and avoiding to raise any suspicions in her mind about my
burning love for the lower part of her body.

She used to wear no toe polish, which was even sexier if one is attracted
to natural beauty, though rarely she applied white toenail paint, which I
envied. I followed everywhere in the house, except the bathroom of course.
When she was in the kitchen cooking, I stood with her talking and talking,
which I thought boring at times, but the good thing about standing in the
kitchen was that I got the favorable opportunity of stealthily looking at
her legs, to which I was attracted like a magnet.

Sometimes she would drop some culinary utensils and bow to pick them up and
I get to see her panties, often black ones contrasting her white
complexion, which causes my prick to scream for mercy.