You've seen the movie, right?
It's a classic. Hitchcock in the director's seat. Jimmy Stewart in plaster watching his neighbours from his apartment window. Yeah, well, that's me right now. Only I'm no Jimmy Stewart - far from it. I'm nearly seventy years old and I didn't have a fall at a motor race while taking action shots. No, I tumbled down three flights of stairs and have what my hospital notes describe as "bilateral #NOF", i.e. two sodding broken hips.
Neither does sexy, young pre-royalty Grace Kelly come visiting at intervals, dressed in Dior, to check my crown jewels are still in working order. (She probably actually did suck the lucky bastard off. I hear she was quite the slapper in real life, behind that icy facade). No, my only visitor is Nurse Glover, a hefty community nurse with a brisk, unsympathetic manner who probably last administered a blowjob circa 1985.
God, I'm bored.
"You've seen the movie, right?" I ask Glover, trying to divert myself from the humiliation of a sponge bath at her hands.
"What movie?" she asks.
"Rear Window. The one when Jimmy Stewart's immobilised after an accident
and -"
"He witnesses a murder?" she interrupts. "Yes, I've seen it. I don't think there are many murders at ten o'clock on a Tuesday morning in a nice middle-class town like Roseford."
"Well, never mind that," I say. "I'm bored out of my mind here. Can you fetch me the binoculars from the dresser in the dining room?"
"It's not in my job description," she answers, predictably. "And what are you going to do? Watch your female neighbours getting undressed?"
In fact, this is exactly what I plan to do, but she knows she's overstepped the mark and, probably hoping to head off a complaint to her manager, fetches my binoculars without further protest before telling me she'll see me tomorrow and letting herself out.
Katherine and I bought this flat back in the nineties when I retired. We knew all the neighbours then, but now most of the flats are buy-to-let investments - the development being in reasonable walking distance of the main line into London - and the turnover among occupants is high. There is no-one to look in on me and help me pass the time.
Katherine herself left only a few years later. She always had a much lower sex drive than I, but when I was working I had an endless stream of young, nubile secretaries on tap willing to keep me satisfied in every possible way. I have such fond memories of blowjobs under the desk and debauched office parties. Adultery was not so straightforward once I was no longer out of the house from six in the morning to eight in the evening every weekday, and when Katherine returned home from a cancelled keep fit class one Monday afternoon to find me fucking Belinda (one half of John-and-Belinda, a couple on our dinner party circuit) doggy-style on the marital bed she lost no time in packing her bags and beginning lengthy court proceedings that robbed me of half my savings and pension and our villa in Spain. My friends pointed out that it had been beyond stupid to shit on my own doorstep like that, and I can't fault their reasoning, although I can't say I am really that sorry. Belinda had the tightest pussy and arse I have ever experienced.
Anyway, such nostalgia aside, the second floor flat across the courtyard has been empty for a week and today a new neighbour is moving in. This is the best entertainment I've had for days. The new occupant is female and a knock-out. She can't be more than twenty-three or -four and she has a perfect hourglass figure, currently clad in skintight low-rise jeans, a short tight t-shirt that exposes an inch of olive-skinned midriff and red Converse sneakers. Her hair, tied back in a ponytail, is a mass of snaky black curls. I strongly suspect she has Italian or Spanish ancestry. In middle-age she will probably be heavy, but right now she is voluptuous, firm and ravishing. She kisses the two men who have helped her bring in her boxes and who are now leaning back on the kitchen counter drinking beer, but only on the cheek. They are dark like her - probably brothers.
It looks to me like she will be living here alone. Result!
After the men have left, she sets up speakers in the bedroom first, plugs her iPod into them and is soon dancing round the flat, her lovely hips undulating, her arms above her head, as she decides where to put her possessions. My cock is hard just watching her. Suddenly, enforced convalescence is a much less dull prospect with this hot piece of ass across the way.
I watch her for most of the afternoon as she comes and goes. She seems to spend most of her time in the kitchen and bedroom, whose windows face me. She is blissfully unaware of the peeping Tom spying on her. As the natural light fades she switches on the brass chandelier overhead and I sit in my wheelchair in the gloom, eating a microwave ready meal off my lap. Finally, she decides to get ready for bed and I can't help stroking my swollen cock. She crosses her arms and pulls her t-shirt over her head. Underneath, she is wearing a plain black bra - no lace or seams which would show through her t-shirt. She unties her shoes, kicking them off, and then turns her back to wriggle out of the jeans. She is wearing thong panties so tiny that her big round buttocks are completely exposed. Fuck, they are perfect - smooth, gleaming orbs of tender, succulent flesh. I yearn to bite them. She leans over to pull her jeans over her feet and I glimpse her fleshy pussy-lips, to either side of the tiny scrap of fabric. My hand is now moving in a blur.
