The Face At Her Window

*

Jennifer Delgado was glad to be home.

It had been a hard day. She worked for a local real estate office and two of the other girls in the office had called in sick. There for four properties to be shown and Jennifer had to pinch hit and show three of them. The last prospective buyer had expressed a lot of interest in the house, which was good, but spent two hours inspecting the property, which was bad. It meant that She didn't get back to the office till almost 7:30. Her boss Ms Robertson, was the only one left.

"How did it go?" the elderly gray haired woman asked.

"I think we've got buyer. He's going to bring his wife down Thursday and make a decision."

Her boss smiled. She liked Jennifer. She was perhaps her best agent. She always seemed to sense exactly what the shopper was looking for and could showcase those details to the customer. It certainly didn't hurt that Jennifer was a stunner either. She had a voluptuous figure that she dressed to show off well without looking blatantly sexual. Men certainly liked looking at her; their wives appreciated the sense of style in which she dressed. Both liked her quiet sales confidence.

"Thanks for picking up the slack with Carol and Robyn out," Ms Robertson said. "I know the Trent house is my listing, but you've done all the heavy lifting on it. I'd like you to show it Thursday when the man brings down his wife."

Jennifer was surprised by her boss' offer. It wasn't usual at all for a listing agent to let another agent show a house when a purchase was this likely, but Jennifer knew she could close the deal. Her boss knew that, too. And the old biddy got her cut from a sale no matter who closed it.

"OK. He said it would be in the morning. I'll clear my calendar."

"Good," Ms Robertson smiled. "And since you worked so hard, why don't you take tomorrow off. Robyn promised her little one would be feeling better and she'd be in. Wednesday's normally your half day, so take the afternoon, too, with my blessing."

The younger woman smiled. Her boss could be nice sometimes. "I certainly will. Thanks. I can catch up on things around the house."

Her boss put her arm around Jennifer's shoulder as they walked towards the door. "Well, you earned it today. I appreciate your hard work. I really do... Now, you go on home and kick back. Just make sure you call deShondra tomorrow afternoon to confirm the appointment time on the Trent house for Thursday. I'll shut off all the computers, set the alarm, and lock up. I'm certainly going to have a restful evening."

"Me, too," the agent promised. "Goodnight."

Her boss waved from the door and watched her get into her Honda. Then she turned to close the office. She realized how lucky she was to have good help.

Once Jennifer settled behind the wheel of her Honda, she realized how tired she really was. Her feet ached (although she always wore sensible low heeled shoes when showing a property), her skin felt gritty from the long day, and her eyes when she looked at them in the mirror were bloodshot.

Bless Ms Robertson for that extra time off, she thought, as she started the car and headed home.

It was a quick twenty minute drive to her cottage. Jennifer lived on a quiet cul de sac that was far enough out of town to feel like the country, but not so remote that she couldn't pop over to a grocery store, a home care center, or a liquor store without driving forever. She was lucky to have the little place; it had actually been listed with Ms Robertson's agency and she'd gotten it at a good price. That was three years ago, right after her divorce. Jennifer had gone back to school and gotten her real estate broker's license. Her first job interview had been with Ms Robertson, she'd been hired on the spot, and bought the cottage three weeks later.

She pulled in to the driveway and shut off the car. For a couple of minutes she just sat there, glad to be home. Slowed by fatigue, she got out of the car and went up the front steps of the bungalow. The mailbox was empty. The afternoon paper was lying in front of the door where the delivery boy had tossed it. Jennifer wondered why she continued to subscribe to a newspaper. This was a morning paper and she never had time to read it till after work, so everything was old news. Besides, she could find everything she needed to know from the internet.

Still, there was something about a physical newspaper. Maybe her habit was a carryover from her dad. He subscribed to the paper and he always read the paper in his favorite chair when he got home, second only to kicking off his shoes. Jennifer wasn't quite so regimented, but she was more like her father than she cared to admit.

She tossed the paper on the love seat and went to talk to her birds. She had two parakeets. She'd have preferred a dog, but her long work hours didn't allow for that. So she settled on her birds. Mary Sweet and Jerry Neat, she called them. They greeted her as usual with song, although she had to admit that maybe they sang just as much when she was at work. She had no way of knowing.

She opened the cage and let the two parakeets flit around the room. In her small kitchen, she let the water drip in the sink. Mary Sweet dropped down and stood under the faucet. It was her daily bath. She would bathe and then fly over to one of the curtain rods or lamp shades to dry. Then her mate would take his turn under the faucet. When they had flown around the room for the exercise, they always went back to their cage to and she shut them up again for another twenty hours.

Jennifer went into the bedroom and removed her blazer. She hung it in the armoire. Her home was elderly and had almost no closet space, so she made do with armoires and wardrobes. Then she pulled her blouse out of her skirt and went to look for something to eat. The cupboard wasn't particularly bare and there was food in the freezer, but nothing appealed to her. She decided to call out for some Chinese food. There was a place on Belvedere that was good, cheap, and they delivered. She took a package of pork chops out of the freezer for tomorrow and went to call in her order.

It took fifteen minutes for the delivery boy to get to her place. By then, she'd gotten out of her work clothes and into a comfortable gown and robe. She was trying to find something worth watching on television when the doorbell rang. She paid for the food, tipped the boy, and ate off a TV tray in front of the boob tube. She had satellite TV and paid for almost three hundred channels, but there was never anything on that she wanted to watch. She put it some travel channel, muted the sound, and watched the changing scenery with the careful disinterest of a cat while she ate her moo goo gai pan.

It was nearly 9:30 when she finished supper. She rinsed out the empty food containers and put them in the trash. She said goodnight to her birds and covered them. She brushed her teeth. Used the john. Brushed her long black hair at her dressing table in the bedroom. Then hung her robe on the hook on the back of her bedroom door. She remembered she hadn't checked the locks at front and back, so she went back down the short hall. Front door secure. The same with the back.

She returned to her bedroom. Jennifer turned the ceiling fan on low, pulled back the covers, and settled into bed. She lay on her back, watching the slowly turning fan blades and their shadows move across the ceiling, listening to their soft whirring. She hated total darkness, so she always left the bathroom light on and the door open. Her own bedroom door she closed partially, so some light spilled into her bedroom from the bathroom across the hall.

As she lay in bed, she thought about her day. Mostly she thought about that last showing. The potential buyer's name was Girard. Paul Girard. He was being transferred down from Dallas. He and his wife, kids grown and out of the nest, were looking for a nice house in an established neighborhood. The Trent house was perfect. The widow woman who owned the house had gone into an assisted living center and had no close relatives. She was selling the house as is, furniture and all. Usually that was a drawback, but the Girards were downsizing and didn't need all the furniture they had. They were more likely to sell everything in Dallas and save the expense of moving. Old Mrs. Trent was a woman with impeccable taste and the money to indulge it. Her home was decorated nicely, no junk or bric-a-brac to collect dust, carefully chosen colors, expensive yet comfortable furniture (it always amazed Jennifer how sometimes the most expensive furniture could be some of the most uncomfortable), and a modern well laid out kitchen.

Paul Girard had realized that the furnished house was a bargain at the listed price. He thought his wife would agree. Jennifer could almost smell her commission. As she showed the house, pointing out the features she knew would appeal to the prospective buyer and his wife.

It was always uncomfortable for Jennifer to show furnished homes. She knew men thought she was attractive (read: sexy). Showing a bedroom, with that large bed so handy, was an occupational hazard. The real estate agent had been propositioned more than once, the man wanting to put that bed to good use. She'd always refused. Not because she was a prude or chaste, but she didn't want the problems that would grow out of that little roll in the hay. Since her divorce, she'd dated occasionally and been in two satisfying but brief relationships. She had cooled the men off when the subject of marriage came up. Been there and done that. She had no desire to walk down any aisles any time soon. Nor was she willing to have a man move in with her. She worked hard, made good money, and didn't want some man who didn't offer more than she currently had.

As she laid there in her big bed, she continued to think about her afternoon. Paul Girard had certainly sent enough signals that he wouldn't mind pounding the mattress with her. And truth be told, if she were going to climb between the sheets for that sort of dalliance, she'd consider Paul Girard. Tall, lean, distinguished looking. Intelligent. Not rich, but he wouldn't have any problem qualifying for the loan to buy the Trent house. In fact, could pay cash once his Dallas home was sold and have money left for the bank.

He would be a demanding and yet excellent fuck, she decided. If her life were different, she could see him as a lover. Jennifer thought about him. As she did, she kicked off the top sheet. She pulled up the hem of her nightgown. She slipped her hand inside her panties.

**

Ronnie McDougall, disappointed, was headed home. He'd spent the two hours since sundown on his usual route and hadn't found a single open window. He was frustrated. It had been more than a week since he'd been able to enjoy his peeping habit. Usually he could count on a couple of good shows a week when a careless homeowner forgot to close their curtains. This dry spell was irritating him.

He was an indiscriminate voyeur. Since he had started as a peeping tom a couple of years ago, he would watch anybody and everybody engaged in sexual activity. He preferred seeing women, especially two women, getting it on. (Truth be told, he'd never seen lesbians except in movies on cable, but that was still is ultimate goal.) If they weren't available, he'd be satisfied with a woman and her guy. Or even a guy alone pounding his meat. That wasn't much fun, but it was better than drawing a complete blank.

Voyeurism (although he'd never heard that word and wouldn't have been able to pronounce it) was the outlet he'd discovered. Now 18, he would sneak out of his window every night he could, and prowl the neighborhood. When he found a parted curtain, he would wait expectantly for a hot bodied bitch to appear with her equally hot lover and fall in to bed for a hot 69 session. The fact that it never happened only made his actual successes sweeter than otherwise.

So now, with the clock striking 11:00, he decided to throw in the towel. Frustrated, he headed home. Ronnie decided, though, to vary his route back to his uncle's. It couldn't hurt. So he slipped through a hedge and headed over a couple of streets. He was wary of yards with dogs, cautious of street lights. Dressed in black, he kept to the quiet shadows.

He found a dead end street and scoped it out. The houses were small, set in the center of medium sized lots. Few were fenced. Most of the houses showed dark windows. The streetlights were few and far between. Ronnie's mood lifted; everything he'd seen so far was good.

The black figure started down one side of the street. He moved swiftly and with confidence. He knew that if anyone saw him, the confident air was important. If he were reported, his cover story was that he'd been out for a stroll or even a late night jog. He carried a wallet and his ID to allay any police he might run into. He also had has cell phone.

The third house he checked was as quiet as the rest, but he noticed that one of the rear windows showed a pale glow. He looked around. The rest of the world was quiet and dark. He crept closer. He looked through the window screen, not getting too close so as not to be seen himself. What he saw made him forget the previous empty nights.

The window that glowed was one with its curtains not fully closed. He could see a dimly lit bedroom. The bed he saw was set across the room so he had a grand view of the woman who laid in it. The woman was on her back. She had her knees bent, her legs spread. She had a hand between her thighs. It was obvious what the woman was doing. It was also obvious that Ronnie's long dry spell of excitement was over.

The woman had her eyes shut as she played with herself. Her lips were moving. The watching teen doubted she was actually speaking. He knew from his own masturbatory experiences that sometimes his mind formed words that never made it past his mouth.

He saw her spread her legs even farther apart. She began rubbing her breasts with her free hand. He wished he could see those tits. They looked like they'd be nice and big, just the kind he always liked. Round and firm, big nipples that just begged for being pulled, twisted, and bitten.

He pulled his cock out of his pants, started to fist it. It was long and hard from the excitement of the woman's performance. He thought about busting into the bedroom, surprising the woman. She'd jump from bed, shocked by the sudden intrusion, but he'd throw her back down and fuck her the way she wanted, the way she needed, slam his meat into her hungry twat and pummel her into orgasm. To see better, he moved a little closer to the window.

Jennifer was getting in the groove now. Her pussy was wet and her fingers squished as they plunged in and out of her cunt. She was humping her hips up and down to meet her fingers. She really needed a man, any man, any hard cock. The horny woman imagined Paul Girard. He was the one fucking her, driving her insane with lust. She should have let him have her that afternoon in the inviting bed. She could have had him if she wanted and right now she wouldn't be so desperate for a cum.

She mashed her boobs. She'd always had sensitive nipples and right now they were crying out for attention. Her own hand wasn't enough. She tried to lift one to her lips, couldn't quite reach her nipple. Jennifer strained a bit more, watching as her nipple and tongue almost met. Frustration built. She lifted her ass off the bed, gaining an extra inch in getting her nipple to her tongue as her knocker slid towards her head. She shifted to one side, hoping the slope would increase enough and she could....

She saw the face at her window.

Ronnie knew he was spotted; he jerked away. Goddamn it! How could he be so fucking careless? He thought the fucking bitch was so wrapped up in her masturbating that she'd never open her eyes, much less notice him at the window. And wrapped up in his own pleasure, he'd gotten careless. Gotten too absorbed in what was happening in the bedroom and in his own mind, pressed his face too close to the screen so that his face was in the glow from the window and now he'd really fucked things up. He wrestled his cock back in his pants. He had to get out of there before the police arrived, for he was certain the bitch would call the cops to report a prowler. Ronnie even imagined that she'd fuck the cop after he took her report. She looked like that sort of bitch and he'd fucked it all up so bad he wanted to cry and he'd be goddamned if he'd be that weak.

He just wanted one last look before he left. Keeping his distance this time, he looked inside the dimly lit bedroom. The woman still laid there, her chest heaving from her exertions. Then she got out of bed. Ronnie prepared to run. He knew she was going to call the po-pos. She left the room. He saw her pass through the bedroom door in to the light that came from beyond. Time to hit the road, Bo.

That's when he realized there was a telephone right beside the bed. He could clearly see it and the little red light that said the handset was charged. Why would she leave the room to call 911?

The woman came back. She left her bedroom door wide open so that more light entered. She carried something in her right hand that the voyeur couldn't recognize. She kept it out of sight in her hand. It was obvious, though, when she went to her dressing table and picked up her hairbrush. Went back to bed, Before lying down, she pulled off her nightgown.

He admired her suddenly naked body. She stood beside her bed. If he didn't know better, Ronnie would have thought she was posing for him. Shit, she was posing! Although the cunt never looked at the window, he knew she knew he was still there. She wasn't going to call the fucking cops. She was going to continue the show!

His hot eyes drank in the sight of her. Her tits were just as he had imagined, large, round, firm. Her cunt didn't have any hair at all. Even from the window, he could see it was fat and probably juicy. He could only imagine her ass, but he knew it would be as hot as the rest of her. Her legs were long and shapely and he could imagine them tightly wrapped around him as he fed his cock to her.

Jennifer stretched her naked body out on the bed now well lit from the hall. She was careful to lay at an angle so that her feet were slightly towards the window. She didn't want to give the peeping tom too good a view, but she wanted him to see her and enjoy what she was doing.

She started by lightly dragging the hairbrush across her hard nipples. The bristles tickled her there and felt so good she rubbed even more. Not too hard, though, or the pleasure diminished. Just a tickle from the brush. Left - right, up - down, back -- forth. Tickle left, tickle right. Now use a circular motion. Jennifer brought the brush to her mouth. Licked the handle. Slid the handle inside her mouth like a small cock. Coated the handle with her saliva and touched the handle to her nipples. Rubbed saliva over them. Then teased her tits with the bristles some more.

Back to her mouth with the handle. More teasing with the handle in her mouth. She wanted to look at her window to make sure the peeper was still there, but decided not to. Certain he was there, she didn't want to frighten him away. She wanted, needed him to be there for her own satisfaction.

Jennifer took the brush handle from between her lips. She put the brush handle between her thighs. She teased the brush handle between her pussy lips. Slowly parted them. She held the brush at an angle so that the body was pointed up and as the handle entered her, it dipped in, rubbing her clit before going inside her cunt. She never pressed hard, just let the plastic glide over and within. Out and over. An arc of pleasure from her clit to her cunt.

Ronnie had his cock out again. He spit in his hand and jerked his thick shaft. It was unbelievable what he was seeing. The bitch was putting on a show like he'd never seen. Suddenly, he had a doubt. Was she setting him up? Had she called the fucking po-pos when she was out of the room and was now keeping him entranced at her window so that he'd still be there when the pigs got there. He dismissed the idea as insane. No, she wanted him to see, was performing just for him. The bitch was obviously sick, not that he minded one bit. Sick? Shit, a woman who acted like this was whacked out!