The Peeper: Pt 1

Since I moved to this damnable metropolis nine months ago the only bright spot in my life has been my peeping tom. He lives across the airshaft from me, our windows a few feet apart, and when he comes home from work around 5:30 p.m. he’s watching my windows, always watching. When I first noticed the slightly bent blind and the shadow behind it a few short of weeks after I moved into my tiny third-floor apartment, I knew exactly what it signified, and I wasn’t nearly as thrilled as I am now. Some bastard across the airway was spying on me! I pretended not to notice, letting my eyes run casually and slowly over other windows in his building, but ten minutes later you better believe every blind in my place that faced the narrow space between our buildings was lowered and had been carefully checked for cracks. The next day I splurged and bought curtains and after they were hung I felt much safer from the prying eyes. Ha, you pervert snoop! You won’t catch me unawares!

Well, I was able to take the gloom and doom of permanently closed curtains and shades for about three weeks. Then I compromised and began opening them up again to let in what light filtered down into the dirty shaft, but I only did so when I was fully clothed and intended to stay that way. If I had to change or undress, my multiple layers of visual armor were replaced with care, so that not a crack, not a chink of light from my rooms could get through.

During the times I did have my curtains opened, I looked for the peeper. I didn’t seem him the first day, but the next day, there he was again from one of his vantage points (I’d learned he had three: his bathroom window, the window by his desk, and his kitchen window). If I hadn’t been closely looking for him I would have missed the signs that he was there. He was a careful and very discreet peeper. At the time I still regarded him as a total creep. What was his problem, couldn’t he get sex the way regular guys got it? He? Who was I to talk about regular anything?! But for all my peeper knew, I was innocent Miss Corn-fed USA. Well, innocent Miss Italian Corn-fed USA. I decided then and there that I would also peep on him. I didn’t want to spy on him naked, he was probably some fat old bitter-faced guy with a wrinkled paunch and spaghetti stains on his undershirt. But I did want to see as much of his home environment as I could: maybe it would give me some clue as to why he peeped. Thus, a little over one and a half months after moving to sin city, began my spy-vs-spy phase. I found a strong little telescope and a small pair of binoculars at an adult gizmo store downtown. Those tools, along with total darkness in my rooms, allowed me to get an idea of how my peeper lived.

And what I found out astonished me. First of all, Mr. Peeper was not some ugly, aging recluse, he was a gorgeous young man in his late 20s or early 30s, with the kind of tall, lean, muscled physique that makes most women fall to their knees and worship. When he wasn’t busy peeping on me, I discovered that he liked to wander around his equally small and perfectly clean apartment buck naked and often with a hard-on, until he settled someplace: at his desk where I could tell from the blue glow he had a computer, in the bathtub (blush) where he did some, uh, pretty incredible things, or in the kitchen at the table reading a book or a magazine until his girlfriend came home. Which brings me to the second astonishing thing. His girlfriend was a babe. And I mean a Babe! Drop-dead gorgeous, exotic-blond features, huge breasts (they were natural, my own peeping later told me), and one of those marvelous slender northern-European figures that a woman with my ethnic extraction could not hope to have without shaving away my bone mass.

So what was a gorgeous hunk who could get virtually any woman to follow him by wiggling his index finger and who had a girlfriend beautiful enough to be a model doing peeping across a dirty airshaft to get a glimpse of a fully-clothed middle-aged Italian woman whose dark good looks and admittedly decent body still paled in comparison with the gorgeous Brazilian and Puerto Rican women who she passed every day on the street (not to mention Peeper’s girlfriend)? I had nothing to offer this man, especially since I wasn’t about to give him a free peek at anything interesting. My first assumption about his motive was the old, tried and true one: never underestimate the level of another human being’s perversion, myself being the prime example of the truth of that truism, but I’ll get to that later. Let’s just say now that for the moment I was content that my answer to the mystery of my peeper’s interest lay in the fact that something odd was going on in that large sculpted head. But no matter how weird he was, I was sure he’d give up his pastime sooner or later, when he learned that the show behind my windows was strictly Family rated.

I eventually stopped spying on him, too. After a few weeks the novelty wore off and I wasn’t learning anything new. His beautiful girlfriend or wife and he fought a lot and kissed and made up a lot. The woman was physically cold, didn’t like to touch him or appreciate his touch much. She reminded me of myself in my early twenties when I wouldn’t let my boyfriend touch my hair or kiss my lips half the time because I didn’t want them messed up. The guy spent a lot of time on his computer jacking off, although I tried hard to look away when he did this, the very first time I caught him at it I decided to stay and watch him come. But although he jacked off for over two hours, he never ejaculated. Either he’s diseased, I thought, or he has an almost frightening amount of self-control. A lot of women would give thousands of dollars to have a partner with such incredible staying power. Why wasn’t his girlfriend taking advantage of his talents? Anyway, I stopped peeping whenever I caught him touching the meat, as I felt both guilty and a little unsettled watching that.

Several months passed, and as the days got warmer, I started opening my windows, especially the one in my kitchen to catch the breeze from the shaft. I still kept an eye out for the peeper, he still watched me from his usual spots, trying not to be seen, and I marveled at his perseverance in the face of total failure. He reminded me of a cat patiently watching a crevice where it knew a rodent would sometime, someday emerge. The rodent eventually does because it forgets the cat is there… I didn’t like where those thoughts were going, and brushed them from my mind.

One warm weekend day I was dressed in what I call my “gym clothes” (shorts and a sleeveless tee) sweeping up the kitchen and had just bent over to sweep the crumbs into my dustpan, when I got that uneasy feeling you get when you know someone is watching you. I felt eyes boring into my back, or rather, given the position I was in, my ass. This annoyed me because I know perfectly well my ass is too big for my body and sticks out too far (I often have to alter my dresses because if I don’t the backs of them are considerably shorter than the fronts) and the last thing I needed was somebody reminding me of that fact with their stares, making me feel like a freak in my comfortable shorts! So I turned around to face my open window with a scowl and a handful of sharp words ready and who should I see but my peeping tom, naked in full view in front of his unshaded kitchen window, with an erection and a look of hatred on his face. My scowl turned to surprise at this unexpected apparition and for a few seconds we just stood there staring at each other. I was completely flustered, I didn’t know whether to back away, throw down the blinds or stay there and pretend not to see him. He broke the moment by hitting his erect cock hard several times with the palm of his hand and, with his face still dark and foreboding, mouthing the words, “Suck it, bitch!” to me. I blushed deeply, turned around, and then ran into my bedroom, where thankfully, the blinds were drawn. But I opened them up a crack to see if he was still at his kitchen window and he was, only instead of looking like he wanted to bite my head off, he was bent over, he was laughing so hard.

That prick! Next time he tries to show that to me, I decided (forgetting that I wouldn’t have seen him if I hadn’t turned around so quickly) I would yawn widely in his face. That should teach him the value I placed on his stupid erection’s intimidation value! Although that event did not occur again, I was careful never to wear my shortest pair of shorts when doing bend-over housework. In the next month or two I didn’t see much of my peeping tom, partially because I wasn’t looking for him and partially because I’d found myself something else to occupy my time: I’d started to go out with someone who worked in the same building as I did. He was a little kinky, and I figured that was better than nothing. I wasn’t ready yet to start a full-fledged search for someone more akin to me and my odd sexual tastes in this large and still frighteningly unfamiliar city. The things that turned me on were extreme, to put it mildly, and tended to attract some very weird people. No, my best bet, I decided, was to try to get my first big city man to understand my needs and indulge me a bit.

Most of our romantic nights were spent at his place, which was about twice as large as my own and considerably less dumpy, but once in a while he came over and slept with me. During the honeymoon phase of my new romance, I forgot my peeper almost entirely, although I never stopped assuming he was there and always watched what I wore and what I did with my lover when the blinds were up (yeah, sigh, I could control whatever we did when together – his kink for power was not very strong). One of those nights when my lover was coming to spend the night, I’d left work an hour early in order to buy the things I’d need for the dinner I was to cook him. As I was struggling with the key to the outer door of my apartment house while trying not to drop the groceries , I saw out of the corner of my eye that I had company: just one person, thank god, but large and darkish looking. I instantly stopped trying to get into the building, placed the keys between my fingers as a makeshift brass knuckles, and turned to head directly into the middle of the street. If he wanted to follow me there and mug me among the already-crowded traffic, he could be my guest. He’d probably be run over before he could finish grabbing my purse.

But when I saw the man standing there was only the peeping tom, I didn’t follow through with my plan. In fact, I felt as relieved as if an old, friendly neighbor from my small town had just walked up. “You scared me there, just now.” I said to him, since despite the fact that he was standing very close to me and smiling down, it didn’t look like he was about to make conversation. “Good,” he said, his smile getting wider and a little insulting. “You should be scared of me.” “Why, do you intend to mug me?” I asked, merely to make conversation with this intriguingly strange man, then wanted to bite off my tongue. Rule 29: Never give a person of unknown perversion an opening wider than a barn door. I got off easy: all he did was laugh very hard at that and walk off toward his own building, still laughing. Between chuckles he said, as he opened his building door, “See you around, baby.” I had been waiting for something like that, and answered instantly “Not if I can help it!” That caused him to crack up even more, and, blushing, I hurriedly got my door open and stepped into the vestibule. I could still hear his laughter, faintly, as I checked my mail and then climbed the stairs to my room.

The dinner was a great success, my beau had never had a homemade Louisiana white jambalaya and loved it. That evening our lovemaking was rougher than it had ever been (although it still lacked a great deal that I needed) and after we’d both come several times — me through masturbatory fantasy, but hey, it was better than being alone — I collapsed into a blissful lump on the bed. The bliss was short-lived. “Honey, would you please get me a beer? I want to sip it while I float off.” Argh! I wasn’t exactly this fellow’s slave and I knew there would be no retribution if I said no (he wasn’t the type that retribution would occur to, sadly enough) but I got up to get the beer anyway without complaining as I was experimenting with myself, finding out how it felt to serve him.

At that moment, it didn’t feel very good. Perhaps it had been all the wine I’d had at dinner, perhaps it was all the pot I’d smoked later, or perhaps it had something to do with the fact that I was still floating from a sexual high (though coming down quickly now that I was moving about) but I stumbled into the dimly-lit kitchen in my spunk-stained hot-pink thong (one of my lover’s few perversions: he liked to make love to me with it on, and get it all messy) without thinking to throw on a robe or a tee-shirt, opened the refrigerator, blinking in its sudden glare, and sleepily hunted around on the bottom shelf for a beer bottle. It took me awhile, because I didn’t see the one that was on the top shelf right in front of my face, but finally I had his bottle, and had acquired a second for myself. I had just shut the refrigerator door, and popped the lid off my bottle, suddenly needing a swallow right that second, when I turned around to face my window, which not only was open to the cool night air but hadn’t had the blinds or curtains closed down over it. How stupid of me, I thought, and walked over to the window to take care of the blinds.

Well, it was 3:30 or so in the morning, on a weekday night, and all the windows in the building across the street are, naturally, darkÑexcept one. Guess which one. And guess who is there, naked as a Tarzan who’d lost his loincloth, once again silhouetted in living color in the glare from his overhead kitchen light, his cock hard and in hand. Oh. My. God! The creep’s careful patience finally paid off after all these months! His assumption that I would one day get careless came true, just this one time and, of course, he wasn’t asleep during my moment of laxness. He was AWAKE, the bastard, and watching for me! Of course he would be peeping – God never gives me a break! And he saw it all, every detail, lit in the glare of my fridge: spunk-stained front of thong, small brown tits with red bite marks in them, big obscene ass, probably still striped and maybe even bruised, sticking out (blush!) as I bent over, rooting around for the beers.

And now he sees me looking at him, backlit from the nightlight over my range, once again unable to move, as he jacks off boldly less than three feet from me. He can probably even see my blush. His window is open too, I notice. We could have a neighborly conversation! My god, this is surreal. I hear the flip flip flip of hand against skin as he rubs the shaft of that magnificent cock (why couldn’t it have been puny and embarrassing to him?) faster and faster. He’s staring directly at me, into my eyes, and once again there is that disturbing rageful expression on his face as if he’s fantasizing about tearing me limb from limb. I wonder at that moment if he’s completely sane. Then suddenly he’s slowing down a little and I hear a very soft neutral voice (no “city” accent) say, “Bend over.” What? I don’t believe this! If he thinks I’m going to put on a show for him while my man waits for his beer in my bedroom and his girl sleeps in his bedroom, then he is insane. “Bend your beautiful sexy well-fucked face out the window, right now.” the voice orders. Now I feel as though I’m the one who’s insane because I suddenly want, in a renewed rush of drunken, stoned ardor, to comply completely with this madman’s request. I make a snap decision: I’m going to do this! (Rule #129: never make a life-changing decision when you are high on drugs.)

I’d never done anything remotely like this before, and laughing a little in nervous embarrassment I stuck my head and chest out the kitchen window as far as they would go. My head was about a foot away from his window, and I found myself staring directly at his dick. “Now open your fat, cock-sucking lips,” the voice ordered, and I do, then look up at his face. The insolent and triumphant expression he was wearing at that moment sent a shock of lust through me as my brain whispered to myself, “misogynistic bastard!”. It’s been so long since someone has looked at me in just that way. “Hold it open, baby,” he said softly and I widened my mouth as far as it would go. In for a dime, in for a silver dollar. He pushed his groin out through the window and with my leaning and his, all that remained between my open mouth and his cock was three inches or so of empty space. He began to jack off again, harder and faster, and I stared, a little cross-eyed, at his cock in fascination. His breathing got heavier and I could tell he was going to cum at any second, but I took a chance and half closing my eyes, make a kissing motion with my lips before opening them into a wide O again. As I reopened my mouth and stuck my tongue out and down, he came, his hot jism shooting all over my face, lips, tongue, and the inside of my mouth. I heard him say, still in that ever-soft voice, “take it you filthy whore!” and another thrill of lust ran through me.

I left my face motionless until I was sure he was finished, then steal a look up at him, licking some of his cum off my upper lip as I do so. He’s laughing down at me, and his expression, while still frighteningly malevolent, also holds a tiny shade of amusement in it. “Go to your lover, you little fuckwhore,” my peeping tom whispers to me. “He needs his beer.” He chuckled then, and I whispered back, in a friendly fashion, “I’ll just do that, pervert!” “Yeah,” he replied. “I’m the one who’s going to forget to wash the spunk off her face before bringing the beer to her lover!” I blushed and said, “Shit! you’re right!” which caused him to laugh again and say, “Go, you loose amoral woman!” I beam him a huge, conspiratorial smile then pull my torso back into the kitchen. As I rinsed and dried my face quickly at the kitchen sink, still not able to believe what I had just done, I glanced over to his window. He’s still there, watching me, and goddamn if he isn’t hard again! He shouldn’t be able to do that so soon after an ejaculation.

I hear my lover call from the bedroom, “Where’s my beer, honey?” and I yell back, “Coming, sorry! I got spaced out in the kitchen!” As I picked the beers up off the counter and headed for the kitchen door I heard faintly behind me what sounded like a fondly-meant comment, although the words used would seem to contradict the tone: “Lying fat-assed Bitch!” I couldn’t resist one more response, and standing in the kitchen doorway with the light of the range fully on my back, I bent over, arched, pulled aside the thong, and wiggled my big ass cheeks and the pink parts between them at him. A soft but vehement, “You. Fucking. Whore. You’re in more trouble than you can begin to imagine,” accompanied me out the kitchen door and into my lover’s arms. “You and which army?” I asked the peeper silently in my head, then remembered that that extremely strong body of his is something of a little army in and of itself. That thought made me shudder in a delicious alive way that I hadn’t experienced in quite some time and was beginning to think I never would.

That night marked the changing of the guard in regards to my attitude toward my peeping tom. I no longer saw him after that night as an annoying aspect of my life to be avoided at all costs; instead I started to look forward to the times when he was watching my windows. I kept the shades open all the time now, and when I knew the peeper was peeping, I’d change into an alluring or obscene fetish outfit (I had plenty of those left over from my more interesting past life) or just a thong and nothing else, and do my work about the house or at my computer in that. I made sure to bend over a lot, and wear purposefully small bra tops that my nipples would “accidentally” pop out of if I stretched my arms too far above my head. Or I might choose a very short cropped white cotton tee over a pair of thin white cotton shorts to clean the shower in. They invariably got all wet, I am such a clumsy cleaner, and when they did, they became completely see-through.

I grew more and more creative in the clothing I would wear (or not wear). Sometimes it was subtle: a pair of loose overalls and nothing else, that would just give him hints and peeks at my body; more frequently, it was something considerably more blatant. Once I put my one piece thong swimsuit on backwards: my tits hung out of either side of the cross tee and the tiny thong went strait up the middle of my bare pussy exposing the lips on either side of the material. This was one of those suits that looked like a two-piece in the front, with a deep V down toward the crotch, so it showed a lot of my ass crack as well. Another time I wore a regular top and a pair of knee-length shorts, which I pulled down enough so that my entire ass was exposed in the back. Other times, I’d wear a beautiful short black leather corset that cupped and shaped my bare breasts to look like two brown bullets. My big bottom hung out underneath the corset nicely, but what I liked best about it was it’s traditional effect: the teeny tiny waist it gave me. I already had a smallish waist to begin with and with the corset tightly tied, it made my medium-small breasts and wide hips look enormous by comparison. I’d wear that corset for long periods of time even though it was difficult to get a full breath in and it made bending and sitting very awkward processes, but I thought the peeper would enjoy the stiff, artificial and very 19th century way it made me move my body, as well as the obscene way it shaped it.

But creative clothing was only the beginning. I soon began to put on “shows” for him. Sometimes I’d stand nude with my back to a window and pull my asscheeks wide apart for a brief second, then let them close. Then I’d wait, wait, wait some more, and at an irregular interval, do it again. I could keep this up for several hours at a time, and I liked to imagine the patient peeper, waiting and waiting for that brief moment when my dark little anus and a peek of my pussy would come into view. I’d also play with my breasts in front of him, often placing painful and humiliating objects, like clothespins, on the nipples and then wiggling my tits so the clothespins would swing back and forth and hit each other. Or I might tie brightly colored strings very tight around the base of the nipples, and then tie the strings off to something silly, like the window lock or my refrigerator door. I’d pretend then to pull backwards, trying to get my tits free from their ties. I’d pull so hard that it really hurt, and tears would spring in my eyes, then look toward the window the peeper was peeping from, so he could see my pain. He never gave any indication that he noticed my efforts, but I was sure he did, and wondered constantly what he thought of it all.

I loved to dance, always have, and I made sure, from then on, to always do my dancing in the nude, or wearing simply an extremely short and humiliating frilly pink tutu that I bought in the little girls’ costume section of FAO Schwartz. I did my yoga positions, leg lifts, and other exercises in the nude, too, and held the more interesting positions for long periods of time. I bought some adult toys, and on infrequent nights would walk around with a large butt plug up my ass that had on the end that stuck out of my rear a slavering lustful doggie’s head. This was a special butt plug: true to its doggy theme, it had a knot halfway down it much larger than the rest of the shaft which, after inserting up my ass, made the plug very difficult to pull out. Before I wore it for the first time, I let it sit on my windowsill for a day, to make sure Mr. Peeper would know exactly what would be up my ass once it was set in place. And of course, I made sure he got to see the entire insertion. I crawled onto my kitchen table, ass up and facing out and slowly, with lots of lubrication, put that sucker up me. The whole process took about half an hour because it hurt like hell and I had to keep stopping to rest. When I got to the knot, I almost gave it up. But I preserved, and, as I pushed the knot in with one firm thrust, I looked behind me over toward his windows so he could see my panting and grimace of pain as my ass accepted the huge knot.

I didn’t wear the doggy plug a lot after that because it hurt so damn bad – getting it out was a bitch, too, but of course, I let the peeper see every uncomfortable and humiliating maneuver required to remove it. Easier to deal with were the nipple suction cups. They were little glass bell shaped cups that formed a vacuum around my nipples, when placed properly. They, too, hurt bad, and the longer I wore them the worse they hurt, but the result was worth it. When they were removed from my breasts the brown tips surrounding the nipple were swollen and puffy and the nipples themselves were long! Much longer than they ever were normally. This obscene visual effect lasted for several hours. I could make the nipples stay long, too, by circling their width with coil after coil of white string and then tying it off tightly. When I had my nipples stretched this way I’d often stand by the window and pull them up to my mouth to tongue them and suck on them.

Through all of this showing off, I was never given any sign by my peeping tom as to whether he liked my displays or not, except for the fact that even during the more extremely obscene acts, the ones I thought might turn most men off, he stayed to watch. One early summer’s day I grew even more daring: I left the blinds open and the lights on in my bedroom on a night when my boyfriend was staying over. I encouraged him to beat me hard that night, and he obliged by hitting me harder on my ass with his folded over belt than he ever had before. I found that I didn’t even have to fake any of the squeals and wiggles and attempts to move away from his punishment, as I thought I might have to. My boyfriend, to my surprise, was in a fiery mood that night. Every so often, when the pain was at its worst I’d glance casually to the side and stare out the window. I reasoned that if I were this peeper, at least as much fun would come from seeing the woman’s response to the whipping as would from watching the whipping itself.

When my boyfriend had decided that my ass was marked enough he fell upon me from behind and took me doggy style. His hard thrusts shook the bed, pushing me forward and causing me to bump my head against the headboard. At the moment he came, he had my shoulders pushed down to the mattress, although my ass was still being ridden high. I turned to look at the window, panting from my lovers thrusts, so the peeper would again see us both when my boyfriend came in me. Finally, after my boyfriend pulled out, I pretended to be in a sexual swoon and stayed in the same position he’d fucked me in, but turned myself a little so anyone looking in my bedroom window could see the cum dripping out of my cunt. I stayed that way for about ten minutes then went to clean up in the bathroom.

When I came out, I was surprised to see my boyfriend dressing. He kissed me and told me he had an early morning at the office and needed to go home where a fresh change of clothes was. I understood and in a way I was glad, because there was one more special thing I wanted to show my peeping tom tonight, and I didn’t think I could do so with my boyfriend present. When he was gone I walked nude through the house shutting off lights and closing curtains until only the bright reading lamp by my bed was still on. I checked to see if the peeper was still in position; he was. I propped some large pillows up against the side of the bed, so I could lean on them and be almost sitting up. Then I went into my bathroom, where the shades were drawn and very carefully wrote “your fuckdoll” in large lipstick letters on my belly, with an arrow pointing down from the words toward my bare pubes. I then wrote Hurt on one breast and Me! on the other. Finally, I put a white thong on and remove! d from the closet a large sheet of paper on which I had already written the words “I’m thinking about you watching me as I do this” in a bold black marker. With everything prepared, I walked into the bedroom, pointed the reading lamp toward the center of the bed, then lay back on the pillows, careful not to smear the lipstick. I placed the sheet of paper in an obvious spot on the bed between my widespread and slightly bent legs.

I lay there with my eyes shut for about five minutes, thinking, just as my sign said, about this strangely scary man, watching me from a crack in his blinds. I rubbed my breasts a little, then got my fingers wet and rubbed the spit on the nipple tips to make them hard. I moved one hand down to my thong and pulled it aside so that my dark colored labia were clearly visible. Then I stuck several fingers in my cunt to get them wet and started to rub myself, round and round, slightly above my clit (I couldn’t touch it directly to arouse myselfÑI had one of those very sensitive buttons). As I rubbed, I thought about the fact that a man I barely knew, a near stranger, was watching me do this obscene thing to my body, and I started to get aroused. I placed my other hand on my thigh and brought my upper arms together so that my tits, with the nipples erect, were pushed hard toward each other. My rubbing became more vigorous especially as I imagined the spectacle I was making of myself: tits squeezed together and pointed toward the ceiling, obscene red wording on my body, face and pussy turning a deep red, labia shaking crazily from the rubbing. I got very, very close and then stopped to let myself come down a little. I opened my eyes looking straight out my window, mouth panting, sweat starting to bead on my body.

Then a thought occurred to me: still staring I pulled my labia wide with one hand and then grabbed my clit hard between the thumb and finger of the other. Without letting myself think about what I was about to do, I pinched my clit hard between my fingers. The horrible pain brought tears to my eyes and I could tell by the way my facial muscles tensed that my expression became extremely distressed. I continued to twist my clit for a couple of seconds longer, then let go, with a sigh of relief. I would have given anything at that moment to hear what my peeper thought of that! But of course, I couldn’t. So I began the long, slow climb to orgasm again. It took me longer this time because my clit wasn’t cooperating too well, but a very tiny bit of direct light touching at the right time got me where I needed to be. My hips were bucking up and down on the bed when I felt the orgasm coming and I opened my eyes wide as the moment of intensity washed over me, staring straight into what I hoped were Mr. Peeper’s own eyes. Then I collapsed, totally spent on the bed, and lay sprawled there, my thong askew, for about fifteen minutes. When I finally forced my sleepy body up to get into bed, I shut off the reading lamp and glanced over toward the peeping tom’s window. He was still there, watching me, and I felt strangely secure. I fell asleep under his gaze.

Perhaps I ought to pause for a minute and explain to those of you who may be baffled by my suddenly exhibitionistic behavior just what got into me. Well, for starters, it was white and kind of sticky… All joking aside, there’s a germ of truth in this. Accepting a man’s sperm into my body profoundly affects me. This has nothing to do with orgasm, but it is about the way I’m wired sexually. In a basic, primitive part of me, I experience a man ejaculating into me or even just on me to be a territorial marking, similar to that a dog makes when he pees on a tree. “This is mine: stay away!” Of course, it doesn’t work that way today because the woman showers or douches the next day (or she swallows then chases it with a sip of water) and the marking is gone, but I wonder if back a million years or so ago, when man’s predecessors had a better sense of smell and much cruder hygienic practices, if sperm on a woman’s body wasn’t picked up by other men and responded to.

Whatever our original practices were, it makes sense to me that a woman as perverted and submissive as myself would feel that way toward sperm. The only thing is, if the ejaculator does not act on the knowledge that I am his, my feeling of his sperm being a mark or sign of possession slowly fades away. That’s exactly what had happened between myself and my boyfriend. Initially, when I felt that first hot spurt from his loins into my belly, I felt very intensely that I was his, and that I would do whatever he told me to. But when, over time, he acted, even though he was surface-kinky, as if he was entirely unaware of this dynamic and continued to treat me like a free equal that he had to respect, I lost the feeling of belonging to him. And as that feeling fled, so did my sexual arousal in his presence, although I was maintaining the appearance of it with masturbation and fantasies in the hopes that this would get me past a time of disinterest and into a future, wished-for, hot time.

With the fellow across the shaft whom I barely knew the exact opposite had happened. In fact, the feeling of possession seemed to occur in him even BEFORE the point of marking me. It seemed to have been engendered in him simply by the fact that he watched me (I see, therefore I own?), and then, perhaps it increased markedly when he saw me naked and exposed. But then… THEN… after he came his attitude became, if possible, even more presumptuous and possessing: calling me the sorts of names a man does not call the typical modern woman if he wants to keep his head firmly attached to his neck (and his cock in one piece, too!); ordering me about as if I was there solely to obey his whims; and in general taking the attitude that someone superior, demanding, and smug might take with a known underling. I had no coherent idea of who my Peeping Tom was — what his personality was like, what his tastes and interests were (besides sex and computers, that is), what sort of character traits (good or bad) made up his personality, and what set ethics, if any, he applied to his life – but I did have, based on my two brief encounters with him, a strong sense of his sexual persona (no, persona is the wrong word Ñ what I sensed goes deeper): he was one of the Homo sapiens “dogs” who understood what “territory” was, exactly what “marking” was, and applied this concept aggressively. I was to find out just how aggressively the next day.

The following afternoon I was sitting at my kitchen table feeling a wonderful cooling breeze waft in from the air shaft as I paid the bills, when a neat white paper airplane came sailing into my kitchen from the open window. It landed on my refrigerator. Before I went to retrieve it I looked across the shaft and saw Mr. Peeper at his kitchen window, clothed for once, arms crossed over his chest and a strangely smug smile on his face. This was the first “no-one is hiding” eye contact we’d had since that night several weeks ago when he’d dumped his load all over my receptive face. His smugness made me blush: once again, I couldn’t believe I’d actually done all of that stuff in front of his peeping eyes. I got up and pulled the airplane off the fridge, looked over at him questioningly (did he want me to throw it back? Hell with that – I have a lousy aim), then examined it more closely, turning it over in my hands. The underside had writing on it: a crabbed very tiny print in an ultra-fine ink. I sat down, unfolded the airplane, checked to see if peeper was still looking smug (he was), then started to read the tiny print:

“Nice show you put on for me last night, babe. Verrrry hot. Lose the boyfriend. He isn’t good for you and, as much as I liked seeing you lustfully beaten and then humped like the object that you are, I don’t want that guy’s dick in you. (I raised my eyebrows at this: he’s not possessive, is he?) Tonight, at 9:30, I want you in the following: corset. doggie plug. your highest heels. and made up like a slutty Puerto Rican whore. Go over the top. – Me.”

And that was all. I looked across the shaft and nodded at him. I would certainly dress up for him the way he that he wanted and put on a sexy “horny prostitute after a long day at work” show, that would be a hoot, but dumping my boyfriend just because some stranger I’ve spoken about five words to tells me to? I don’t think so. I would have to think carefully about that. While there was a compelling emotional logic to the idea that eating the sperm of a controlling man made me his and gave him the right to own and use me, I wasn’t so sure I could justify this mentally. My boyfriend was a decent sort, if a little dull in the sack. Yeah, I didn’t see our relationship going anywhere, as he lacked both the imagination and the desire and, especially, the personality to take me to the extreme places that I wanted – maybe even needed — to go, but he was good company, a warm body to snuggle up to at night, and a kind and thoughtful individual. Yep, I was really going to have to think about this one.

9:30 seemed to take forever to arrive. I had started my toilette early, as I was going for an unusual makeup look and wanted to have time to correct my mistakes. I’d run out to the corner drugstore and bought a deep red lipstick, some body glitter, some false eyelashes, some long red false nails, and some chi-chi hair ornaments, all of which I applied with great care, following the instructions to the letter, as I was fairly unfamiliar with such things. I washed my long thick hair and hand-scrunched it dry to give it lots of curls and volume, and then I teased the underside so it had even MORE volume. I found some old pancake makeup from the days when I wore that gunk and applied it profusely all over my face and neck. It made my skin look much darker because a decade ago, when I was buying that stuff regularly, I still had the remnants of a tan over my light olive skin. After it dried, I painted on dark cheeks, lips and eyes. The false nails weren’t too hard to apply: just glue and press, but the eyelashes proved to be hell to get on: after about six tries, however, I finally got them straight. I even drew a blatantly false beauty mark slightly above my lips with a black pencil. He said “over the top” and that’s what he was going to get.

I then applied my favorite perfume in profuse amounts to every crevice and crack of my body. I’d left all the windows open that night, and who knows, he might be able to smell it. Even if he didn’t, the scent would put my head in the right place. After wiggling into the corset and the butt plug (ugh!), I got out my highest pair of heels: a set of patent leather pumps with stiletto heels and locking ankle straps (yes, they came with little master locks) and which I could walk maybe ten feet in before getting a leg cramp or falling on my ass. I’d put those on at the last moment. I carefully rouged up and then smudged with tissue my nipples, cunt lips, bellybutton, and anus with the deep red lipstick also adorning my lips, and then, on a whim, made a little red dot in the middle of my forehead. OK, so now I was a Puerto Rican-East Indian whore: that would explain my weird, slightly non-Hispanic looks, lol!

On the non-rouged parts of my body I applied the garish body glitter (I’d chosen silver-purple so it would match my jewelry). I had decided to do a sort of strip tease for the peeper this evening so I wiggled into a tight red leather miniskirt with a zipper all the way down the back (it zipped open from the bottom, and I made sure enough of it was unzipped that you could almost but not quite see my bare buns and the doggy head) and a short, sheer, red, long-sleeved top that did not close in front, but had a thick row of red, fake-fur fuzz all around its edges. The top covered my bullet breasts with their bright red tips, but because it was completely sheer, it was merely a tease rather than a cover-up. I then put on sheer off-black thigh high stockings (can’t do a proper strip tease without those!), put on some cheap dangly rhinestone jewelry, looked myself over in the mirror, and decided I was ready. I looked slutty as hell, and strangely enough, also ravishingly beautiful. At least, I thought, if I were a guy I’d want to fuck myself! The horrible shoes went on, I grabbed a trashy-looking purse (which contained a pack of candy cigarettes, so I could make all the seductive smoker gestures), and I was ready.

I opened my bedroom blinds from side wall, then carefully crept out the door, so Mr. Peeper wouldn’t get a premature peek. In the living room I’d placed a chair in the middle of the floor facing the window. All the lights were on, and I sauntered from my little hall into that room with my hips swaying, my ass stuck out even more than it does naturally, and my head held high. I swung my purse on its strap back and forth to the tap-tap-tap of my heels, then dropped casually to the floor by the side of the chair. I plopped down in the chair as if I were exhausted from walking the streets all night, not bothering to be ladylike or cross my legs, but spreading them as wide as I could as I slouched down. I stayed that way for a few seconds then leapt up quickly with a surprised look in my eyes, as if I had forgotten something. (I had not had time yet to glance over to the peeper’s place to see if he was watching, but it was 9:30 so I assumed he was thereÑif he wasn’t and I was doing this all for nothing I was going to be pretty pissed!) I then knelt on the chair with my back to the window and by lifting my ass waaaay in the air and stretching as far over the back of the chair as I could I could just reach the CD player in the little stereo system against one wall. I pressed “on” and immediately the 25-minute dance version of La Vida Loca started blaring.

I “pretended” to get really into the music and started to dance to it in a mock-sexy way rubbing my hips and ass cheeks with my hands the way I imagined strippers did, pressing my tits together as I strutted around the room, and doing my very, very, best not to fall down in the heels from hell. Unfortunately, I did fall, shortly into the song, right on my fat ass, my legs going straight into the air, to which I yelled the only Spanish swear word I knew: “Puta!” but I told myself that added to the authenticity of the scene, and pulled myself back up in as ungainly and obscene a fashion as I could. I danced around a little more then started to slowly remove my sheer top, pretending to put it back on again as soon as I’d get one breast exposed, just like the I imagined strippers did. If this peeper has ever seen real strippers at work, he’s got to be laughing his ass off by now, I thought wryly, as everything I was doing was based on total improv. Finally I got the little sheer top off, and as it fell to the floor I tried shaking my tits back and forth vigorously like I’d seen other, far more talented women do. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get the rhythm quite right, and they seemed to go in all directions at once. I finally settled for just cupping them up in an offering posture and occasionally releasing them quickly to bounce around freely when the music got faster.

I had just placed one leg teasingly on the chair and was beginning to roll down a thigh-high when my friggin’ doorbell rang. What the fuck? I ran over to the spy hole to see who was there, and guess what? It was my boyfriend, unannounced, and looking not quite sober. He’d never come over before without calling, he just wasn’t the spontaneous sort, so I was intrigued. The peeper forgotten for the moment, I unlocked and opened my apartment door: I had to know why he had come. The drunken and completely natural double take that he did when he saw my new look was hilarious to watch. After I stopped giggling I said in my best accent, “Pleased to come in, Senor? You look to meee like you need a leetle fun!” Looking at me very strangely, but not laughing back, he came inside. “It’s all true then,” he said. “What’s all true?” “You know! Just look at you!” I looked at myself and said, “Huh? Oh, I can explain this.” “Oh, I’m sure you can,” he said, uncharacteristically sarcastic, “and I won’t believe a word of it.” “What are you talking about?” I demanded starting to get a little irked at this holier-than-thou attitude.

“Look, when I started to date you, I thought you were a decent woman, if a bit radical sexually. I had no idea I was dating a woman who sold her body in her spare time!” “You think I’m a prostitute?” I said in disbelief. He laughed cynically at that and said, “have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately?” “But that was just for dress-up!” I began explaining (I had absolutely no intention of telling him about the peeper, but women did dress up in this way by themselves “just for fun” to see how slutty they could make themselves look, and I was certain I could convince him that that’s all I’d been doing. I didn’t count of the fact that my usually reasonable partner wasn’t going to give me a chance.) “Look, you lying bitch! I know you’ve been fucking half the town because I met, just by chance, one of your numerous Johns in the bar I was at tonight!” “Wha–?” I started to say but he didn’t let me finish.

As he continued to rant, I went to the CD player and turned it off. “I got to talking with the guy next to me at the bar, tall fellow, dark hair, maybe you’ll remember him but I doubt it, you slut! He was pretty tipsy and started to tell me about all of the best whores in town. But his favorite, he said, by far, was the solo artiste – yes! In ever so glowing tones, he called you an artiste! – who worked at 261 Bleeker! I recognized the address as yours, of course, and grew curious because I didn’t think your building was the sort that would allow such trash to reside in it. I wanted to find out more, so I could WARN you!” he said ending on a desperate half-sob. I could do nothing but stand there with my mouth open. In my head I was telling myself, wait, wait till he gets to the part of his story where’s there’s proof that it’s not me.”

My boyfriend continued, “But then this fellow began describing in lurid detail someone who looked exactly like you – someone who WAS you!” “Now wait a minute!” I interjected angrily. “There are probably close to a quarter-million Italian, Hispanic, and Indian women in this town who look close enough to me to be my sister! Dark eyes and black hair aren’t exactly uncommon in this city!” “Oh it was you alright,” he continued. “Birthmark three inches under your right breast, dark spot just above your ass crack, always totally shaved cunt – and that IS unusual for this town! Most self-respecting women leave at least a token patch of hair down there, to remind us that they’re WOMEN, not whores!” He was getting angrier and angrier, I could see by the “most self-respecting women” crap. Where had he gotten that garbage from? The birthmark and the little dark spot (the latter acquired at age four when another little girl chased me around our backyard patio trying to stab me with a steak knife) were dead on, however, and were unusual enough marks that I knew this couldn’t be chance. Immediately I made the connection, and risked a seething glance over my left shoulder at you know who’s window. He was there in the kitchen, leaning out the sill as if trying to catch our conversation (not that it would be hard to do, my boyfriend’s voice was at a high decibel by now) and smiling beatifically. I glared at him, wished with all my heart that he would suddenly self-immolate, as urban legend has it that some people do.

In the mood I was in I’d laugh hysterically at the sight. It was one thing to tell me in a paper airplane to dump my boyfriend, it was another thing entirely to take matters into his own hands! He had NO RIGHT to interfere in my personal life in this way! He didn’t even KNOW ME! I returned to my body reluctantly and continued to listen to my boyfriend. Oh, this was really getting good! “And then…and THEN he told me about all the slutty, whorish things you do to him, and why you are his favorite! You FUCKING BITCH!” he screamed, and slapped me hard. I wobbled on my heels and nearly fell from the blow, but I caught the back of the chair in time. “Finish your story and then get out, ” I told him in icy cold tones. “But if you touch me once more I’m calling the cops and if you prevent me from doing that, I’m screaming rape at the top of my lungs. All the windows in my apartment are open. I’d advise you to think about this.”

My former lover glanced at my living room windows and saw I was telling the truth. He didn’t act surprised, however, so I assumed his “bar partner” had had the sense to drop back from his window when he’d heard what I’d said. At that second a crazy idea began to form in my headÑa way to get back at both of these bastards for what each had done to me. But first, I had to hear the rest of the line of shit that my boyfriend had swallowed. “So tell me, I egged him, “Just what obscene slutty things did this self-proclaimed John of mine say I did?” That got his anger going again. “First, cunt, he told me exactly how you dressed for him: in heels and a slutty corset! Of course I recognized the corset, you’ve worn it for me, but I’ve never seen you in those heels before! And then, he told me you also inserted, for his viewing pleasure and to stretch your slutty back hole out for him, a butt plug! With a fucking dog’s head on the end! Let’s see if he was right, bitch! Show me your ass!”

“My ass is no longer yours for the viewing, you creep!” I shouted back at him, getting genuinely angry. “I thought you’d say that cunt! You just don’t want me to see the evidence, do you?” With that, my boyfriend lunged at me and grabbed at my leather skirt, trying to pull it down, as I snarled at him to get his filthy hands off me and began backing up, pulling his bent figure along with me. We must have looked ridiculous. When he realized it wasn’t going to pull down he began hunting around for clasps and closures and before too long he came across the halfway undone zipper. With an incoherent yell of rage he yanked the zipper up, and, of course, saw the doggy butt plug, obediently in place. “WHORE!” he screamed again, and then began slapping my ass and the head of the butt plug. “FILTHY ROTTEN DIRTY WHORE WHAT DISEASES HAVE YOU GIVEN ME!?!?!?” he scream/slapped as I struggled to get away from him and then as suddenly as he had grabbed me he collapsed on the floor and started to sob.

I removed the almost undone skirt from my body then sank down trembling in the chair by the window. The peeper was right there watching this drama avidly, of course, and when he saw me looking at him, his face broke out in a broad smile and he gave me a little fey wave of his fingers and then a thumbs up sign. My boyfriend had covered his eyes as he lay sobbing, so I showed the peeper my middle finger and then mouthed the words “That was LOW!” at him. I swear he smiled shyly back at me, then shrugged his shoulders as if to say “Well? What’s a fellow to do?” That cold fucker! I was furious, but I tried to calm myself down so I could talk to my boyfriend in even tones. People sometimes listened to sense once they reached the sobbing stage. “Look,” I started. “I know that all of this looks pretty incriminating to you, but let me tell you the honest Ñ” “A whore doesn’t know how to tell the truth,” he interrupted. “It’s congenitally impossible for her. Don’t even bother!” This was really too much! “Alright you fucker! Believe what some asshole drunk stranger said about me over your close friend and lover’s own words! In fact, don’t even give her a chance to state her case!” I knew, as I resorted to this manipulation with this little male-child, that our relationship was now genuinely over.

But he was off running down his own track and hadn’t noticed my change of attitude. “You filthy cunt! How could you let him shit and piss on you mere minutes before you were to meet me the other night! All all for a few measly bucks! Have you no self-respect? And I’ve heard alllll about your three-hole orgies as well and how you fuck midgets, dogs, and even p-p-p-PIGS just to make a few twenties! Is money THAT important to you? I would have given you money if you needed it, gladly! But to support your f-filthy drug habit, you had to go walk the streets like the whore you truly are in your soul!” Oh this was so very funny! My peeper really had quite the imagination on him. I shot him another icy glare, and caught him once again, smiling broadly as he casually sipped a drink on his window ledge.

The crazy idea I’d had earlier came back to me, and a little piece of me inside changed forever. If my boyfriend was willing to believe I was a whore only from the words of a drunken stranger, well then why not let him think so. Why try to deal honestly with such a suspicious moron! And peeper over there, his goal seemed pretty clear: he didn’t want my boyfriend dicking me anymore! Well, maybe he’d achieve that in the long run, but right now, he was going to watch a dick show he didn’t bargain for. I hoped it would made him turn green and choke in envy! “OK, honey,” I said, beginning softly and sadly but then slowly, with each word, laying on the dripping sarcasm and scorn: “You caught me, you’re right. I do sell my body to strangers for money, to feed a very unpleasant habit. Hell, I need that stuff so much, I’d sell my baby to a sadist if I had to get my next fix. You know, lover, I had hoped to keep this nastiness away from you, but since you’ve managed to find out, well, we clearly can’t go on the way we have been. So how’s about a friendly farewell fuck for old time’s sake? I’ll cancel my 11 p.m. appointment, and you can even fuck me up the ass this time! OK? Lord knows it’s ready for you, and maybe you’ll get some of your aggression out this way. What do you say?” My words had the desired effect on him, “Of course I’ll fuck your skanky ass you bitch!” he snarled. “Pull out your doggy and lay across that kitchen table! I’m gonna take you just like that guy in the bar said he last had you!”

I stood up, but didn’t make a move toward the table. I coughed politely. My boyfriend was pretty thick. “Well, what are you waiting for, slut?” he demanded angrily. I said, offhand, as if meaning not to offend, “Well, there is the matter of a little gift? I suppose the man in the bar told you what I liked?” I held out my hand to him then, palm up, wiggling my fingers, so in case the peeper hadn’t caught our softer conversation, he’d know what was going down. “You filthy little slut!” my boyfriend said in amazement. “You filthy bitch!” But, he got out his wallet, to my surprise, and placed a twenty and a ten in my outstretched hand. It was at that point that my rage at the peeping tom reached the boiling point. Thirty bucks?!?!? Thirty measly bucks???? Is that all he told my lover I was worth?!?! God damn his shriveled soul! I decided I was going to personally and very slowly kill that man, and I didn’t care at that moment whether they’d put me away for life or even on death row for doing so. The satisfaction I’d get watching that lousy fucker scream would be more than worth the penalty! My boyfriend didn’t notice as I dropped the bills slowly onto the floor and bared my teeth at the living room window. Then I sauntered, with my best “professional” hip swing over to the kitchen table and laid myself face-down across it in as delectable a position as I could assume.

I made sure that the “anal action” would be clearly visible from the opposite building. “Would you like the honor of removing your replacement?” I asked sarcastically. “No, I want to see you pull it out, cunt! He told me it really hurts you!” “He was lying!” I told him in my drollest tone, and quickly pulled the damn thing out with a flourish, not letting a single sign of the terrible pain I was feeling pass across my face. “She’s all yours, lover!” I said coyly, wiggling my bottom with its distended asshole at him. Unfortunately, I hadn’t had much experience with anal sex in my life, in fact, I’d had exactly zero experience with it, and so it didn’t occur to me, until it was far too late and he was already moving in, to use lubrication. The next twenty minutes were sheer hell for me. I was able to keep from screaming or moaning during the first ten, but after that it was too much, and I began to scream as silently as I could (I did not want that asshole peeper to hear a sound of it!) and wiggle to try to get in a more comfortable position. Not only did I not find such a position but my wiggling only excited my ex-boyfriend more, and he raised his bonking tempo from vehement and vengeful to maniacal. “Oh god, Oh god!” I started to sob as the rapid friction against my splincter went on and on. He wasn’t that large of a man, as men are built, but he was making up for that lack of size tonight with ferocious energy.

Toward the end of this murderous experience I was flailing my head and shoulders around and happened to look over at the apartment across the way. My god, if the bastard wasn’t jacking again, and smiling right at me with that leering, angry look. The peeping dickhead, instead of being jealous (or maybe in addition to…) was getting off on my freakin’ pain! Of all the blows to my dignity that had landed upon me tonight, this was the absolute worst. I determined then that no matter how much it hurt I’d do the things that would get my boyfriend to come shortly. I did them, they hurt more than anything I’d ever experienced in my life, and he finally came with a loud obnoxious “YEAAAAH!” that probably could be heard five blocks down the street.

I had to glance over at the peeper at that moment. Even though I never wanted to see him again, I had to see what his expression was. He chose the instant I glanced over at him to ejaculate (he was timing it, that asshole, waiting for me to turn and look his way!) and his sperm almost made it across to my windowsill. I watched him as he came down and felt my boyfriend coming down at the same time. Then, when they both seemed quite finished I hissed, “Now get out!” apparently at my boyfriend but intending it for both of them. “GET OUT OF MY LIFE — FOREVER!” I lay unmoving on the table as my boyfriend zipped, collected his things from my bedroom, and then walked out. At least he had the decency not to slam the door behind him. I lay there long after the peeping tom waved a cheery goodbye at me, and went off to another part of his home, probably to spend quality time with his beautiful girlfriend. And then I began to cry, quietly and hatefully, and with an intense, burning shame. After a couple of hours, I got up, closed all the blinds and curtains for what I had decided would be the last time – I’d never open them again as long as I lived there and (I hoped) I wouldn’t be living there long – and then crawled into bed. Tomorrow was a weekend day, so I didn’t bother setting the alarm. I’d try to sleep as much of this pain off as I could.

The weekend passed uneventfully. I stuck to my apartment as much as possible, ordering in Chinese from the restaurant across the street, and making them send a glass of milk with the dinners so I’d have some for coffee the next morning. Ah, coffee… My one expensive vice. I’d live on potatoes and ramen noodles for a week to be able to afford my Blue Mountain, my Hunan, my Kona Private Estate. I drank a lot of coffee that weekend, and thought, and wrote (a vice as well, but a relatively cheap one). I did all this with the windows tightly closed, blinds down, curtains drawn, phone unplugged. After the hottest part of my rage had passed, after I’d spun some delicious fantasies of revenge in my head and on paper, I thought carefully about what I could do to put back together the pieces of my recently shattered life. The biggest problem I realized soon enough was my loss of trust in men. Not men I worked with, nor men I passed on the street, but men I might be interested in getting to know on a social/sexual/romantic level. Actually, to be absolutely honest, it was myself I didn’t trust anymore: recent events suggested that my taste in men was pretty atrocious. I never wanted to let myself near an attractive man again.


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