Martin loved to see women peeing without their knowledge, it was the only way to turn him on. He knew a spot just for this purpose. In a local park was a long ditch; during the music festivals on weekends the drunk girls would come to let go of their stinky beer piss. It was dark in the ditch, all he had to do was not making a sound, and one by one their white hips would drop down in front of his eyes.
Martin enjoyed the proximity; in winter he could feel the women's body heat coming off their warm crotches, and their steamy pees splashing on his face. They never noticed him, except for one time that came close, when a girl had one cup too much and tipped over into the ditch. His heart raced, he thought his life was over; but she was more embarrassed than he was, and climbed out like a cat as fast as she fell in. He never knew for sure if she saw him.
As great as the fun lasted, he was getting sick of it. On one hand it was the predictability of it all. The women would come, often in groups, chit-chatting and smoking, taking longer than it had to be, so he was forced to face the same twats forever. Then they were all badly dressed: their ripped jeans were too tight, their skirts had too many sparkles. They reeked of lapsed adolescence. So he ceased frequenting the ditch and fell into a depression.
Then, it was by chance that Martin regained his urge in the form of perfume girls. There were always droves of them in every department store; though he used to find their style stifling, now it was such a welcomed change from the tattered clothes of the concert wenches. They looked confident, like real grown-ups did. He liked that they always wore some form of hosiery and put a pair of heels on; both were usually black, but there were exceptions. How wonderful, he thought, if he could see these women in action!
This was back when parts of Europe still used squat toilets. Even upscale malls had them, and no one really minded, as a toilet in the ground was a toilet nonetheless. The older generation even believed that frequent exercises using them helped with childbirth later on. Then, there was often only one restroom per floor, which was not specified, since most customers were women anyway.
It so happened, that one of the department stores was hiring a security. For it was the inner city, and all sorts of undesirables passed through: blind beggars, scam artists, theft rings, random drunks. Martin got the job though he's no taller or more built up than the others; the manager, a graying man who's always checking his watch, was glad with any replacement he could find, after the previous guard turned out to be a crossdresser who shoplifted from the lingeries section.
The ground floor's restroom had a total of five toilets: two to the left and three to the right. The gaps below the stalls were just enough for a peep. Martin used a periscope he made with mirrors and pipes; when he's in observation mode it was hardly obtrusive, like a little cockroach in a kitchen's corner. With the right amount of lighting he could count the hairs on their twats. If he's lucky he could see three at the same time. They drank lots of coffee in the morning and the pees came out darker.
He couldn't follow the girls in, for that'd be too blatant, so he waited for them to come in. He had to balance his time in the restroom and on his duty outside, so the manager accused him of slacking off. He would look really carefully at their feet in stilettos, their round calves in glossy pantyhose, their hairy twats dripping, and jerk off as hard as he could. By the end of the week he'd seen all eighteen of them below the belt.
During the first days the women at the perfume counters didn't so much as noticing Martin, perhaps because he was young and shy, and his uniform was one size too large; except for a brunette named Fernanda, who's from another country and spoke with an accent. Martin liked her; he liked her twat too. She smiled at him every time he passed by, and, when he finally got the hint and went to her, asked him to show her his baton.
"My goodness! It's heavier than I thought." She weighted it with both hands, feeling its rubbery coating slowly. He told her there's metal inside. One could break a bone with it if he wanted to. When she returned the baton she seemed almost sad.
"I wish I have one like yours."
He shrugged. "It's no toy for ladies."
"Why not? One can always use some protection. There are some very bad people in this city."
"I've never felt unsafe."
"You must live in a good neighborhood then. There are knife fights near my apartment, and the police never come. The place is rotten. Just last month a schoolteacher was dragged into an alley on the same way I go home..."
Fernanda looked upset, her large brown eyes staring into the void. Then she turned to him. "Perhaps you care to walk me back? It's not far from here, just twenty minutes. You can have something at my place before leaving. I'm tired of having supper alone."
It was an offer Martin couldn't refuse. So he started accompanying Fernanda on her way home after work, Monday to Friday. The other girls gossiped that they were getting married soon, some said she even had his child already! But nothing of the sort happened. He felt awkward about this business. Every time he looked at her face, he's reminded of her twat hiding in a small dark bush between her legs.
At least the job was easy. Perhaps because he had a baton on his belt, nothing shady ever came close on the way. Maybe the girl lied to get a company, he thought. She smelt wonderful, confusingly so, because of all the fragrances.
