Thursday evenings my husband worked late. A teacher at the local high school he was one of those wonderfully conscientious people who'd volunteer for any (and all) after-hours activity. On Thursday nights he was supervising, of all things a hip hop dance crew. When he told me I snorted with laughter. And then when he'd struck a pose, holding out his hands like some kind of bad boy rapper I fell to the floor, almost peeing myself I laughed so hard. Brent was so white, so neat, so suburban the very idea of him having anything to do with hip hop was ludicrous—Vanilla Ice was too urban for him.
On one of my Thursday nights alone I discovered I was a voyeur.
The discovery came as a genuine surprise to me as I'd never before felt the urge to watch. My college roommate had tried her best to make me voyeur, never locking the door or leaving a sign when her boyfriend 'visited'. I'd found that whole experience revolting. Now, looking back I think perhaps it was because I knew her and had to make eye contact the next day. As a very visual person I'd found it difficult—whenever I looked at her, all that had been spread the night before would flash before my eyes...yuck.
Strangers, I discovered, were not at all yuck. They were a whole different story. I liked to watch strangers.
In fact, I loved it.
Our apartment complex was shaped like a giant horseshoe. The long thin space between—in the middle of the horseshoe—was filled with beautifully landscaped gardens and a swimming pool. We loved the building—made of weathered sandstone it stood out like a regency jewel amongst the surrounding generic glass and steel structures.
All the apartments had big sash windows, almost floor to ceiling in their length. They let out heat like a bitch in winter but it was worth it because in summer they were glorious.
Summertime everyone kept them open—mostly uncovered by curtains or blinds—which meant of course, with the horseshoe formation of the building we could see right into the apartment opposite. At night often it seemed as if giant TV screens were hung across the way—that's how clearly you could see in the windows.
Summer school break had ended; the nights were starting to cool but the diehard of us kept those windows open for as long as possible. That Thursday I had an awful headache and I came home early with the intention of taking a little afternoon nana nap. When I awoke I found I'd slept longer than I thought. It was past eight o'clock and the apartment was dark.
Because I knew Brent was not yet home I didn't bother to turn on a light. He usually didn't make it home until after nine. After deciding I'd wait to eat with him, I grabbed a soda from the fridge and went to sit at the table by the window in the dark.
I heard them first—a soft moan that floated across the space between the buildings. It drew my eye to the windows directly opposite our apartment. In the brightly lit frame of the window I could see a couple locked in an embrace. He was young and buff. It was his apartment, I knew because I'd seen him before. She I'd never before seen, older than him she was dressed in an expensive grey suit—the kind that lawyers or business executives wore. She moaned again. Expressive and lyrical—a beautiful sound—not at all like my own wounded animal cries of pleasure.
The young guy was shirtless in jeans; I saw her hands go to the fly and then watched as they sunk down low on his hips to expose his pelvis. I've always loved the V of muscle that sits low on a man's stomach. Brent's was lovely, no romance novel cover six pack, but lean and defined. I loved to run my tongue along that v-line of muscle, down, down to the coarse hair below and bury my nose in the manly smell of him. The business woman obviously did too because she sank to her knees and buried her head in his crotch. The young guy threaded his fingers in her hair and guided the movement of her head—pulling her back so I could see the wet length of the erect penis in her mouth.
She was sucking his cock.
I was watching her suck his cock.
I moved closer to the window, on my knees, the base of the window frame at my hips. I felt a hot wet rush between my legs. I knew as I pushed a finger under my skirt and inside the elastic edge of my panties that I'd be soaked. I was. Slipping into that steamy heat I slicked a finger along my slit and started to masturbate. My skirt had ridden up past my hips, pushed back by the hand wedged between my legs.
Cool night air blew on my exposed thighs.
I felt deliciously dirty. Skirt up, ass pushed out, on my knees. Watching her suck his cock. The thrill was so intense my orgasm came quick. Hitting like a match to pooled gas. Bright, fiery and intense.
So fast and furious it left me a feeling a little empty. I would have liked to have tried for a second more leisurely orgasm but I knew Brent would be home soon and I didn't want to share what I had just done. I pulled down my skirt, washed my hands, turned on the light and waited for my husband to come home. All the while knowing that across the building the couple was having sex.
* * * *
While I'd hoped, when I checked the next Thursday to see if the couple was there again, I didn't really expect it. To my surprise—and delight—they were there, erotically displayed for my viewing pleasure—that Thursday and every other that I cared to look. I started to make up little stories about them in my head—scenarios to explain their delicious Thursday night liaisons.
'They were having an affair. He was her secretary. While at work she'd forcefully push him under the desk to lick her pussy, that's why he became so dominant in the privacy of his apartment. He was her step-so. It was an illicit assignation that would shock and devastate the family. He was an escort, a high class hooker that she paid for every Thursday.'
The stories went on and on, becoming the staring feature of every masturbatory fantasy. Apart from my usual Thursday voyeuristic sessions I'd become voracious in my need to make myself come. In the shower of a morning, at night lying beside Brent, even a couple of lunch breaks at work after I'd locked the office door. I'd close my eyes and picture them, always in the frame of that window.
When I was on my knees, skirt up, panties pushed aside I was lost to my need, totally oblivious of everything other than my finger and the couple across the way. Because of that I didn't hear. I didn't hear the door or the soft footsteps of Brent as he came up behind me. I don't know how long he stood, watching me, watching them. However long it was it was enough time for his cock to stiffen and press out against the placket of his trousers. I knew because it was the first thing I saw after he spoke my name and I jumped, spun around on my knees to face him.
"Lila?"
On my knees, my head at his crotch I still had my hand in my bunched up panties. Shame hit me like a wave. Full force to the whole body as if I'd been violently dumped in the surf. Oddly, the shock of him seeing me like that didn't chill my ardor it spiked it, like an accelerant to flame. Right there, on my knees, hand in my panties caught like a dirty little bitch, I came. Spasms rocked my body. I wailed and I knew just from that sound he'd know what had happened.
"Did you just come?" he asked.
Still panting from the intensity of the unexpected orgasm I didn't speak, instead nodding slightly.
"What were you doing?"
To me, the question seemed stupid. It was obvious what I'd been doing. Where he was standing he could clearly see out the window at what I'd been watching. He looked between the window and me, back and forth. I knew because of the hard-on in my line of sight that he wasn't completely disgusted by my actions, but I wasn't sure how he felt.
"You were watching them. Fingering yourself and watching them."
Again I didn't speak, just nodded.
"And you came when I caught you." He looked down at me frowning. I still had my skirt rucked up at my hips, I felt so exposed while he frowned, so turned on that I had to cover myself. My fingers were at the hem, ready to tug the fabric down to cover my legs when he said in rumbling bass, "No. Leave it. Leave it up."
I was shocked silent by his words. Speechless. Our sex life was good, I always came, but it was pretty vanilla—never had he spoken to me like that before. I did as he said, leaving the skirt bunched up above my panties.
"Turn around."
I shuffled around on my knees to face the window.
"Forward. Hands on the frame."
Palms out I leaned into the window frame. He placed a hand between my shoulders and lowered me further so that my ass was arched up.
"Head up. Watch them," he said.
I raised my chin to look up, out over the divide at the apartment opposite. He had her on the couch in the center of the room. Her legs were splayed open and his head was between them, licking. He had his fingers spread out on her knees, pushing them wide, wide open.
Brent pulled down my panties. Not all the way down, just so they sat under the swell of my ass. He'd come down on his knees beside me, I felt his hip bump into mine.
He left me there panties down, ass uncovered for an excruciatingly long time.
Across the way she'd come on his mouth in the time I knelt exposed. Now she was bent over the arm of the couch and he was fucking her from behind.
I wanted something. Anything. I began to rock on my knees, aching for some kind of contact. The contact came as a short sharp slap to my ass. It was unexpected, in the both the action and my reaction. It contracted my pussy, a sharp jolt of pleasure not unlike a tug to the nipple.
"Dirty girl. Touching her pussy watching the neighbors."
I moaned and rocked back, aching for another slap. I got what I wanted in a rain of stinging smacks—his hand barely leaving my ass before coming back down again. I heard myself, like an animal I grunted, moaned and heaved. My pussy flooded, throbbing heavy with wetness. The hand not slapping my ass he brought between my thighs, spearing his fingers into soaked heat. Two fingers he thrust inside and in a moved that shocked me he pushed a thumb against the puckered entrance of my ass.
"Come dirty girl. Come."
Without a touch to my clit, just the slap of his hand on my ass, the fingers in my pussy and the indignity of that thumb at my ass, I came. Clamped hard around his fingers I called out and drenched him with my orgasm. Did they hear me? Did they hear the slap of his hand on my ass? Across the building did she hear me come?
My body shook with aftershocks. Unable to hold myself up I sank down to rest my forehead against the window frame. I was panting, my chest heaving when I felt rough fingers pulling my panties down my legs. He gave a light slap of my thighs and I lifted each knee one by one to allow him to pull them off my legs. I thought he'd take me like that, shove his cock in me while I rested against the window frame.
I was wrong.
