Peeping Tom

Believe it or not, I'm not a peeping Tom.

Not by nature, at any rate.

But what are you going to do when a shapely and attractive woman parades herself in front of her large picture window for all the world to see?

Here's the set-up. I live in a big apartment building that's really two buildings in one, divided by a "courtyard"—if you can call it that—that looks like something out of

Metropolis

or

Brazil.

It's not meant to be used or even occupied by any of the tenants, and in fact there's no convenient access to it; which is no doubt why the lady in question feels no compunction displaying herself in the buff in front of her window. She's in the south building, her window facing north, and I'm in the north building, my window facing south. So I have what might be called a front-row seat.

Now you gotta understand that I'm really not interested in naked ladies. Well, of course I am, but I'm not exactly going to do something illegal to get an eyeful of them. But this woman seems to have no shame—or, perhaps, no interest—in what she is doing.

The first time I saw her was when I got up way earlier than usual—for me—to relieve myself. I work freelance, so I don't have to hit the pavement with all the other wage-slaves of the world; but the call of nature is imperious, and my bathroom is located in such a way that I have to cross the living room—and

my

large picture window—to get to it. And as I was going there, or maybe coming back, there she was.

She clearly

was

a wage-slave, although perhaps a somewhat more classy one than usual. So far as I could tell, she had a full-length mirror set up in her living room, and when she came out of

her

bathroom she went right up to it. She had nothing on. Her apartment is one floor above mine, so I couldn't quite see her full figure: the best I could see was her up to her knees. But that was good enough. She was slim, curvy, blonde, with incredibly erect tits and a bush that could have been a kind of Amazon jungle for any tics and lice that I'm sure were not there. In these days of shaved pussies it's been a long time since I saw a lush delta like that. I took her to be in her later thirties.

Why she didn't dress, or put her makeup on, in the privacy of her bathroom or bedroom was anyone's guess. She was entirely unself-conscious about walking around without any clothes on and with the curtains wide open. She simply didn't care. I don't think she was an exhibitionist: she was (peculiar as this may sound) too

self-centered

to be. I never saw her standing directly in front of her window and saying, in effect, "C'mon, guys, look at my hot bod!" She knew she had a hot bod, and couldn't be troubled to interest or tease anyone who might be trying to take it all in.

So it happened that for the most part I saw her only in profile. That's how I could tell she had fabulous boobs that didn't need a bra to hold them up, and a lovely curved butt without an ounce of fat, and that dense forest of dark fur at her groin. When she leaned over to the mirror to put the finishing touches on her face, I thought I would just about explode.

Then she crisply put on a power business suit, slipped on her shoes, and got the hell out of there. It was twenty to nine. However high-powered an executive she may have been, she didn't want to be late.

So what do you think I did after that? Yep, you got it in one: from that day forward, I set my own alarm for about eight a.m. and took in the view. Day after day it was pretty much the same: she would come out of her shower at around 8:15, go naked to her kitchen to make some coffee, and while that was brewing she would make up her face. She taught me how some women put on a bra, clasping it in front and then spinning it around to put the straps on. Very clever—I would never have thought of that. I guess that's why I don't wear a bra. And I swear to you that one time she actually combed her bush. I'm sure I'd never seen

that

before.

It's pretty interesting to try to figure out a person's life, mood, and character just based on seeing them—whether naked or not—without hearing a word they say. After a while I got to know this broad pretty well. Usually she'd come home around 5:30., make dinner, watch TV, or read a book or magazine—nothing unusual. Sometimes she'd have people over, although usually no more than four, since all our apartments are pretty small. On weekends she might dress in a light cotton dress and wear a bonnet. Once or twice she dressed up in tennis gear.

Then, of course, there was her husband.

Sorry I forgot to mention him; naturally, he didn't figure very much in my thoughts. But he was there—or at least someone I took to be a husband of some kind. I hate to say this, but in some ways he was more interesting than she was. I will confess that he wasn't exactly appealing physically—balding, paunchy, with one of those loosely hung faces that look too big for the body it's attached to. He seemed older than her—maybe mid-forties or even more. I could never figure out exactly what he did, if he did anything. Sometimes he went out of the place in the morning, but most times not. He didn't seem to have a regular job. Many times he wouldn't even be up before she left the house. And on those times that he was, he would just lounge on the sofa and read the paper—that's right,

read the paper

—while she paraded around naked in front of him and everybody else.

What gives here? Is this what marriage does to you? I wanted to go right over there and throttle the poor bastard, saying:

What do you think you're doing, guy? You can get an eyeful of the most luscious eye-candy that ever fell into a man's lap, and you're seeing whether your stocks went up a fraction of a point yesterday.

(Actually, they were probably

her

stocks.) I vowed that if I ever got married, and got lucky enough to nab a hottie like her, I'd make sure she knew how special she was. Of course, if

my

wife decided to parade around naked in the place, I'd make sure the blinds were closed.

The wife—I decided to call her Francine, for that name suited her somehow—seemed to regard her husband with a mixture of contempt and condescending affection, as if he were some old pet that she'd had for years and couldn't be troubled to have put down. Just as he hardly gave her a second look even though he could have slapped her butt a dozen times as she walked back and forth in front of him getting dressed, she scarcely looked at him sitting like a lump on the sofa, and could be bothered only to give him the most token wave of the arm when she left the place. He really didn't seem to know what to do with himself, and oftentimes I never even saw him—he must have gone back to the bedroom to sleep away consciousness until dinnertime.

To give him credit, he would do a lot of the cooking, although like all urban couples they went out for dinner a lot or brought in take-out. There was one time he bought a live lobster, and when she came home he playfully shoved it in her face. It was the one time I saw them engaging in anything like horseplay. I guess Francine wasn't really the sort of woman who would take kindly to horseplay.

I think there must have been times when she got tired of his shiftlessness, for I could have sworn that one day, while he was sitting as usual on the couch, she berated him (clothed), waving a section if the newspaper (maybe the want ads?) in his face. He just shrugged and tried to look away, at which point she just threw the paper down and stalked off. I guess he figured that she was making good enough money for both of them.

So, you wonder—I certainly did—what kept them together. Was he some kind of Adonis in bed? Could I in fact figure out anything about their sex life? I think there was

one

time—only one—when she came out of the bedroom, naked of course, and maybe just a little sweaty, although it was hard for me to tell that from so far away. Her hair was mussed up, which it otherwise never was except when she came right out of the shower. All she did then was to mosey on up to that full-length mirror and look herself over, raking her hair with her fingers and actually giving her breasts a bit of a feel—maybe to make sure they were still firm after hubby had tugged on them to his heart's content. I never saw

him

—

he

never paraded naked in front of the picture window, thank Gawd for small mercies—but I'm pretty sure he was there.

Someone

was there, anyway.

So you ask, where's all this leading to? Well, I'll be honest that I really got to like getting an eyeful of naked Francine every morning—and it was

every

(weekday) morning that she announced to the world that her body was available to anyone who wanted to look. She was like clockwork. She didn't stay naked long enough for me to get myself off, but most of the time I got hot enough that I managed to finish the job myself a bit later. I was, to put it tactfully, between girlfriends, and so I really didn't have much going on in that direction just then. And since the last breakup wasn't the most entertaining thing I'd ever gone through, this kind of silent visual relationship was just about what I could handle.

But you know how things go. After a while you get to thinking . . .

what if there was a time when hubby wasn't there?

As I say, our apartment complex was a big one, and there were front and back entrances to it, so it wasn't easy to actually make acquaintances with anyone not within your immediate vicinity. Did I mention that one time Francine actually saw me peeping at her? (OK, OK, I'm a peeping Tom—are you happy now?) Picture this: Here she is, going back and forth naked, coffee cup in one hand and some makeup implement in the other; she stops cold and looks directly out her window (giving me a fabulous full-frontal view of her magnificent tits and that heavenly bush, not to mention curving hips that Aphrodite would have died for) and looks right at me; here

I

am, giving my member the business while looking straight out

my

window (were there peeping Tomettes looking at me?). Well, I guess I'm really kinda shy, because the sight of those flinty eyes boring in at me made me go limp—in every sense of the term—and I just fell to the floor, ducking under the window and out of view of that luscious but terrifying beauty. I must have stayed there for half an hour, because when I finally pulled myself up and poked my head fractionally above the windowsill to see what was going on across the courtyard, Francine's place was empty.

So that's how it stood . . . until the time when I saw her coming out the back entrance of the building while I was going in. I was so stunned that I just held the door open like a comatose doorman while she sauntered out, looking right into my eyes and saying "Thank you" in a low, clipped voice that said all kinds of things without saying them:

I know who you are; I know what you're doing; I think you're a poor loser, but if you want to look at my fabulous body, go ahead . . . I can't even begin to tell you how little I care.

Well, that was kinda the last straw. I really wasn't a loser—you can take a survey of my dozen or so girlfriends if you want—and I decided I'd prove it to her, somehow.

The chance came sooner than I thought. Of course, there was no way anything could be done on weekdays, for she was in such a hurry getting herself dolled up like a female Donald Trump that it would be hopeless to make a move then; and anyway, hubby was surely lurking in the bedroom or somewhere. And as for weekends, well, again hubby was the problem. Why couldn't he just go on a long vacation by himself, or something? I don't recall a single time when

both

of them went on vacation for more than a day or two.

But one Saturday morning proved to be my opening. I don't know if he'd decided to go shopping for one of his specialty meals, but I saw him get up before her and trundle out of the house before

she

got up. Maybe she slept in on weekends after her hard week's work at Morgan Stanley or wherever. So he was, at least temporarily, out of the picture. What would she do?

It was pretty much the same as before. I could actually see steam coming out of where I knew the bathroom was: like me, she liked really hot showers. Well, I might make it a little hotter for her.

Eventually she came out, in all her naked glory. This time she was drying herself in front of the picture window with this big towel, and as she energetically dried her back she may have cast a glance at my window, wondering idly if she had her usual audience. She did, but it wasn't for long.

I had already bolted out of my apartment and headed to the basement, where there was an underground walkway to the south building. I knew which floor she was on, but I wasn't absolutely certain which door was hers. But I'd reached the stage where caution was definitely thrown to the winds.

So there I was, standing in front of the door that I

thought

was her flat. No use being shy now. I knocked sharply, creating almost an echo effect down the whole corridor.

There was a moment of dead silence. Then, in a surprisingly tentative voice: "Who is it?"

It was her voice. I knew it—I could never forget that smarmy "Thank you" she had flung at me that time. By now, my whole body tingling with adrenaline, I figured I had to go through with it; so I just said: "You know who it is."

Another dead silence. Either she would ignore me altogether or else she would laugh uproariously and say something like, "What chance do you have with me, bud?"

But she did neither of those things. Instead, she opened the door. She was still entirely naked. She just stood there, looking up at me.

I was a few inches taller than her, and I'm pretty well built, so I just stalked right in, forcing her to back off. I wouldn't say she was anything like a shrinking violet; but I knew that with women like her, strength works better than politeness. Anyway, it's a bit hard to be polite to a woman standing naked in front of you.

After a few moments of silence, she said sharply: "Well, what do you want?"

I was prepared. Muttering, "I think you have a pretty good idea," I displayed myself.

I forgot to mention that I had come over there wearing only my bathrobe, with nothing on underneath. Now I dropped the robe to my feet.

My boner was jutting proudly forward. She looked at my face, then looked down at my groin, then back at my face. There was just the faintest curl of a smile at her lips—and just the faintest shadow of dread in her eyes.

I took things quite literally in my own hands, marching right up to her and wrapping my arms around her waist. The first contact of flesh on flesh was electrifying, especially when my cock seemed engulfed in that forest of fur at her crotch. I pasted a kiss on her mouth: she resisted just for a second, then gave in, enfolding her arms around my neck and mashing those lovely tits into my chest. For my part, I moved my arms down and clutched the cheeks of her buttocks, satisfied in my guess that there was no fat to be found there. Soon I reached one hand around to her front, slipped it between her legs, and found a surprising amount of wetness dripping out of her pussy lips.

She wasn't slow on the uptake either. While our lips were glued together, she took one hand away from my neck and grasped it firmly around my hugely swelled cock. I don't know when I've ever felt so big. She gave it a bit of a rubbing, then, somewhat to my surprise, simply parted her legs and let it slip into her pussy.

There we were, fucking each other standing up for anyone—if there was anyone—to see. The curtains were wide open.

I held on to her buttocks with both hands while pumping her. She raked her nails all over my back, causing a little blood to flow. Maddened, I turned my head and bit her earlobe, at which point she gasped and almost screamed. Her noise helped to cover up my own, because I shouted at the top of my lungs when I came.

For a while we must stood there clinging to each other, more to prevent ourselves from falling down than because we had any kind of tender affection for each other. Breathing heavily, we must both have pondered what we had just done. I had just fucked another man's wife in his own apartment—a woman I had met (the little encounter at the back entrance hardly counted) about two minutes before I'd plugged her. For her part, Francine (or whatever the hell her name was—I still didn't know and never found out) must have been thinking:

My husband walked out the door. A strange man who has been playing peeping Tom for weeks or months has just come in, all but naked. He has seen

me

naked dozens, perhaps hundreds of times. After the most cursory protest, I let him fuck me standing up.

Well, we didn't have much time for reflections of that kind. The doorbell rang.

Splitting apart with a kind of wet sucking sound, we stood there in alarm like two burglars when an alarm goes off. My come was dripping off of me and making its oozing way down her legs, but I was shrinking rapidly. She quickly said, "Oh, God! It's my husband!" and shooed me into the bedroom, telling me to stay in the closet until the coast was clear. A few seconds afterward she threw my bathrobe in after me.

So here I am in her closet. This is too ridiculous for words. What kind of bad soap opera had I stumbled into?

Then I got to thinking:

Why the hell would her husband ring the doorbell? Why wouldn't he use his key and come right in?

Well, maybe what Francine said was just the first thing that came into her guilty conscience. Cleary,

someone

was at the door; even if it was just a delivery boy, it was better for me to keep under wraps until it was safe to slink back to my own apartment.

I could hear the door opening. For a moment there was silence. Then a man's voice said, "You look even better up close than at a distance."

Very soon thereafter there were various sounds of kissing, sucking, licking, and so forth. I thought to myself:

Well, this is one scenario where three isn't a crowd.

I came out—naked—and joined in the fun. But before that, I made sure the curtains were drawn.