The Accidental Voyeurist

Author's Note: This is not pure stroke - there's a lot of narrative, so if you're looking for the "good stuff," it's in there - but you have to wade through some writing to get there and get the full impact. As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated!

------------------------------

Chapter 1: The Light in the Darkness

------------------------------

On the street after dark, heart pounding, breathing hard, a woman was laboring in the throes of her semi-daily routine. She was out for a run.

She ran this circuit 'round the 'hood like clockwork. Or perhaps more like religion. 45 minutes, every other morning, before the standing monotony of her workday.

Was she one of those peculiar folks who wax poetic about a runner's high? The kind who might encourage you to "feel the burn" or tell you they "had such a great run this morning?"

No.

"I hate running," she confided to a friend over apps and drinks on a day early in her jogging career.

It is the most actuarial of exercises. Move one foot in front of the other to complete footfall after footfall, repeat until you've finished the appointed distance or time, then re-calculate life expectancy or the likelihood of wedded bliss.

It retained the force of habit for her year after year, even if faith in its purpose had long waned. Stay in shape. Land a mate. Some institutional memories die a harder death in the collective consciousness, even after they've outlived their usefulness.

Today's run was different.

An alarm clock had deprived her of her morning ritual by failing to raise an alarm (making it, she supposed, just a clock) and robbing her of precisely 60 minutes, the full length of time she needed to bind her breasts in their penitential sports bra (C cups require a certain amount of discipline), slide her running tights up legs kept shapely through her dedication, and sweep her blonde hair into a ponytail that would swing side to side as she bounced around the blocks, complete her run, return home and reverse the ritual, until her more than adequately maintained physique -- all three and three quarters cubits of it -- was freed from all that skintight nonsense and standing naked before the shower.

She fretted all day about the missed workout. Maybe just a salad for lunch. Fewer calories out = fewer calories in, isn't that how the equation works? It wasn't enough -- she still felt that anxious need to exercise, and if it had to be through darkness growing darker instead of the dawning light of morn, then so be it.

If the time was different, then so was the place. At a customary stretch of sidewalk, her stride slowed and came to a hesitant halt. The way was disrupted by sawhorse barricades and orange tape warning of concrete upturned in massive rough-hewn blocks. The teardown of a house had extended its path of destruction out to the curb.

She considered her options -- zig backwards or zag downhill through an adjacent alleyway. The alley was terra incognita, the kind of place a woman's mind necessarily fills in with hidden menace. It was also the quickest way to regain her normal path. She warily turned down its claustrophobic confines.

She ran faster, but not so fast as to exhaust herself (need to leave energy to kick and bite and scream if necessary), hugging the blank, windowless wall on the right, staying as far away as she could from the specter of the rapists lurking behind the occasional dumpster on the left. She opened her mouth wider to lessen the sound of her breath dragging over the jagged border of her teeth. Her eyes stayed focused on the light from the intersecting street ahead. Just a few more paces to relative safety...

It was surprising then that she would come to a full stop of her own accord before exiting. A short distance before she would have emerged from the shadows, she paused, standing in the lee of a parking space that intruded into the featureless building next to her. What had interrupted her gait?

Beyond the alley, in an angle to the left, there was a small gap in a hedge of evergreens, and through that gap, a subdued light shone, within which her eyes had immediately picked out two figures.

Our gaze instinctively seeks out other people. It is drawn to the outline of a face or the sight of two naked bodies and the affectionate touch of those naked individuals' hands on the other's arm. We can't pull away. All this was visible from this single spot and from this spot only. A little to the left, and the couple would have been hidden by the terminus of the left side of the alley. A step further, and they would have been obscured by the trees. But here, right here, she had a window into the second floor of a modern townhome and the tender embrace of two strangers.

They stood at the foot of their bed. They were both tall, she just a few inches shorter than he, and he looked to be every inch of six feet. She was a stunner -- round ass, long black hair. He looked strong -- broad shoulders, toned body -- with dark brown hair swept smoothly back. Their bodies were pressed together, his head craned down to hers, which craned up to his, deep in a kiss. His arms held her, his hands wandering over her back. Her hand was draped around his chiseled bicep. At some point, he pulled away and cupped her breast in one hand as he leaned down to wrap his lips around her nipple and tease it with his tongue. She ran her fingers through his hair as he did, until his lips returned to hers and his hand reached down between her legs. He broke away from her lips to shift to the side and give his hand space to move freely, circling from her pussy to her clit, the back of his hand writhing against her body over and over. She rested her chin on his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his neck to lose herself to the feel of his fingers and brace her body as her stomach tensed in time to his touch.

She watched from the shadows, mesmerized. The woman's mouth was open in a silent gasp, getting close to the edge it seemed when she pushed his hand away and whispered something in his ear. His hands reached down around her ass and lifted her up above his cock, which was suddenly visible in side profile outstretched from his body. She gave a slight sigh when she saw it -- so absolutely hard, so absolutely large. She kept her eyes on it for as long as she could, the woman's raised thighs allowing her to see it disappear inch by hefty inch until it had been swallowed whole inside her, at which point the woman's lips sunk into his, her arms wrapped around his neck. He turned to the bed and appeared barely to strain as he cradled her body in his arms, horizontal above the bed, and tenderly laid her down on its surface. From that point on, all she could see from her hiding spot were the pronounced muscles of his ass clenching each time he thrust forward, framed by the woman's legs wrapped around his back to pull him to her, except for the moments when he would grip her calves and hold her legs out from his sides so he could get as far inside her as possible, his ass flexing even more strenuously as he did.

She stayed for the whole performance, hands clutched loosely to her chest, watching intently until he straightened up, his hand out of sight in front of him, holding, she assumed, his cock, as it exploded on the lucky woman on the bed.

As he walked away and the woman's legs dangled over the edge of the bed, motionless in the warm glow of climax, the spell was broken. She looked around in embarrassment, as if expecting to have to pretend that she wasn't spying on two people making love and that she wasn't intensely turned on; but she was quite alone. The spot from which she was watching was uniquely secluded, invisible from almost every perspective; and there was no reason for anyone to come here -- until today, that is, until her discovery. She had no reason to worry that anyone could be aware of the restless swelling inside her. It had grown ever more insistent throughout their display and was now a throbbing ache between her legs that impelled her to turn and run back home, where, as soon as she got inside, she slumped her back against the door, jammed her hand inside her running tights, and brought herself sweet relief as she replayed the scene in her mind.

------------------------------

Chapter 2: Coming to Grief

------------------------------

She lived alone now. She had had a man. For more than a decade, she was with him whom she referred to as "my Luke." They folded together neatly, he being one of the few men who could hold her -- really hold her, safe in his arms -- when they nestled in bed. Against tall odds in their mid-twenties, they had met through mutual friends who thought they might hit it off. They did, and for the next few years they enjoyed a carefree life of movies, dinners, drinks, and travel until reality intruded in that unwelcome way it sometimes does, and he was forced to comfort her through the tragedy of losing her parents. They skidded quite unexpectedly off a road down an embankment and out of her life in the middle of a foggy night. She suddenly took ownership of her childhood home in a city grown more and more expensive around it.

For so long, they were fine, totally fine, in their comfy joint existence, looking after the idiosyncratic demands that an old house makes of its owners: fix this, plug that, replace the other thing, weed here, mow there. He was her co-caretaker for the cantankerous property, her lover, her partner in crime, her best friend, her life. Then one day at the end of the work week, on the day marking the end of the first half of the month, she came home to an unsettling quiet. As she called his name, the sound of her voice came back to her with a reverberation that wasn't normal. She proceeded through the house and began to notice holes where his things had been. In the hallway closet, the quarter of the rod typically dedicated to his coats was bare. Beneath the TV, the space above the DVD player where his gaming console resided was vacant. She walked into the one room that could properly be called "his" and found in it the source of the tinny echo she detected: it was empty, save for one cardboard box that had evidently been folded together but not required. In the kitchen, there was a note with a non-specific apology. She cried softly as she read it.

It was over, and she didn't know why.

He called her a day later to explain the abruptness of his departure ("I knew that if we talked about it, it would only make things worse.") and invite her to dinner to talk. He again apologized, but still in unspecific ways. No real explanation was forthcoming. He said he would always love her, which somehow stung a bit more than if he had said he had fallen out of love with her. Even finding someone else would have made more sense to her -- anything but this surreality where they remained friendly and in touch, but no longer loving, no longer touching except for a friendly hug goodbye on those occasions when they saw each other. And they did see each other, from time to time. Through her grief and confusion, she hoped that if she remained close, he might have a change of his original change of heart. Over a plate of pasta or an amber drink in some mahogany bar, she would probe at the edges of the conversation and relationship for hints. She needed to draw him out without scaring him away, to answer the burning question: what was the reason? Had she done something wrong? Was there something wrong with her? The best she got from him was that they "wanted different things in life."

How could that be, when all she wanted was him?

It had been two long years and nine solitary months since. It was hard enough to find someone tall enough, much less find someone with whom she had rapport. There were dates, sure, but each one made her clamp her legs together tighter than the last, to say nothing of her heart. There was the one who chewed with his mouth open while talking loudly (about himself). There was the short, bald one with the rumpled, musty clothes. There was the arrogant one who had clearly been inculcated with the doctrine that backhanded compliments and belittlement formed a sure path between a woman's legs. There was the one who ordered nothing but prison rations of bread and water (they were going Dutch). And while dating as an adult requires a certain self-awareness of one's baggage and limits, the guy who presented her with his full set of dealbreakers was a bit much for her, especially when he folded his arms across his chest and announced resolutely, "I hate cats. There's no way I could be with you if you're a cat person."

Maybe she was. Maybe she wasn't. There was no way he was going to find out, much less be in her life to argue with her when she decides to adopt a tabby out of spite.

All this had her growing close to desperation. What's the final stage of grief -- the one that comes after anger and denial? Ah, yes, acceptance. She acquired the app, the one that seduces you to swipe right to compromise and accept the illusion that choice constitutes control; and on a Friday night spent in front of the TV, she was ready to give in. She had even created a profile. She prepared to peruse and choose from the faces that would appear on the screen in her palm.

Do it. At least he'll look nice, and you'll get touched. That's something, right?

But, she reconsidered, the odds are better than even that he will touch you like a third-rate pornstar. He will rush you to let him claim his prize, and once you've granted it to him (because you know in the back of your mind that if you don't, he'll just move on to the next match -- that's how the game is played), he'll proceed to jackhammer away at you in the mistaken belief that he's doing you a favor by producing a performance on par (he thinks) with that of commercially produced pornography. He'll probably say something like, "Oh yeah, you like that, don't you?" thinking it sounds arousingly manly. Or maybe he'll talk insensitively dirty and go way too far for a casual date: "You want it, don't you? You want my hog, you dirty whore."

The "you" in this equation gets a little lost, was always beside the point really; and maybe a little of something wrong is worse than nothing at all, like being offered a sip of saltwater after wandering in the desert. What do you do when the cost of maintaining hope exceeds the value of hope itself? You give up. It's the final, final stage of grief: resignation. The app was closed; the phone, put away.

Into this void stepped the couple behind the glass, and they became a regular habit, the inverse sedentary reflection of her morning jog. She returned to the spot she had found on her run, pulling into it in her car after nightfall whenever she could. She would sit quietly in the dark, watching, waiting for the light to burst from the dark rectangle and reach out to her in her hiding spot. The uncertainty was addictive. She might see nothing. The window might remain lifeless; or it might shine, but they might do nothing. On a just regular enough basis, though, it sprang to life with a rich view of their hypnotic bliss.

------------------------------

Chapter 3: Seeing, Unseen

------------------------------

The couple enjoyed the thought of being watched. Leaving the blinds open was her idea.

It started after a typical night out entertaining prospective clients. They entered the bedroom, and before the lights came on, they embraced at the foot of the bed. They kissed, and his hand reached down to grab her ass, reaching almost between her legs. That was all it took. She felt the sudden bulge against her leg.

He pulled away.

"Where are you going?"

"To give us some privacy."

"Don't." Her hand, stretched out to his, pulled him back to her; and they proceeded through the exercise of passion with the window open to the world.

Over time, they committed to their little show: the lights stayed on. They kept them dimmed at first, but over time, they grew brighter.

She liked to imagine in vague detail some eyes admiring their lovemaking, coveting from the shadows all that she had. The viewer would watch her husband's sculpted ass as he fucked her. He had the best body, the best cock. They would envy her svelte, soft body as he gave it pleasure they could only imagine. They would remark to themselves how pretty her lingerie was, and how good she looked in it. They would grow aroused and reach down to touch themselves to the vision of what they couldn't have. From time to time, the thought of this faceless, covetous stranger crossed her mind as she was in his arms. With her delicate chin resting on his muscular shoulder, the thought of it brought a wistful smile to her face, a smile witnessed perhaps by some sad soul, out there somewhere.

------------------------------

The light came on, and her eyes, which had descended to her phone to idle away the time, sprang upwards.

Oh what a delicate dance these two performed, night in, night out. They appeared inside the box of light, nicely dressed -- returned, perhaps, from a night out? Even from across the room, their movements beckoned to one another. He stopped at his bed stand, as she walked around. She wore a pair of slacks so well-tailored, the seam down the back slipped into the cleft between her cheeks. Her ass was amazing -- two symmetrical, toned hemispheres, and his eyes remained on them, watching each tense and bounce with her every step. When she reached her side, she swung her silky hair to one side, then the other, with a coquettish flip in his direction and a graceful arc of her hand to remove her earrings. She arched her back to thrust her breasts against the silky, loose fabric of the blouse she was wearing.

He stood facing her, his dark hair swept back, as if boldly coiffed by an unseen wind. He stood perfectly erect, shoulders confidently squared to her, as he removed his watch and cufflinks and placed his wallet on his bedside table. That look he gave her -- he was already thinking about it. He was following the lacy pattern of her bra, a hint of which was visible as it rubbed against the ivory fabric.

He left the room temporarily. While he was gone, she reached behind her head to undo her necklace and unclasp her shirt. When he re-emerged, she turned and gestured to her back, the next step in her seduction. His thumb and forefinger dwarfed the tiny zipper, as he slid it delicately open for her. She turned towards him -- she still wanted a helping hand. He put his palms flat against her body and raised them under her shirt, his fingers glancing almost ticklishly over the sensitive skin of her stomach and over the lace of her bra as he lifted the shirt above her head and off her outstretched arms. That elegant demi-bra and the smooth shape of her breasts as they sat up in it were silhouetted by the lamp on her bedstand as he knelt down and imparted a delicate kiss on the soft skin of her stomach. He undid her thin, black, patent-leather belt, unbuttoned her pants, unzipped them, and let them slide down her legs, leaving her in a thong with the same ethereal pattern as her bra.

He began to rise, his lips bestowing a trail of delicate kisses up her body to the spot where her breasts met and plunged. His hands wrapped around her back and undid her bra. He slid its straps down her arms as his eyes affixed on her breasts, which appeared to her as perfect teardrops, each punctuated by a pert nipple framed against the light.

The way he undressed her -- it was that particular mix of care and hunger. The gentle uncoupling of the clasp of her bra, his tender removal of the lacy garment over her arms, the intense stare at her body like a cat stalking prey. Seeing it sent a rush to the pit of her stomach. If only she could be the object of a look like that. She placed her palm flat against her stomach and slid her fingers inside her panties and held herself in her hand as she continued to watch.