Chapter 1

I guess you never expected to hear from me. I’m Bess Carver, the woman next door to Sage, Florenz, Madeleine, and Belinda. Of course I had only seen one room of the house and then only through the window, like watching TV. So how did I get in? Well, I’m coming to that. I not only got in but I joined the writing group there publishing on the online dirty stories site.

I better start at the beginning. Before it was Sage’s (what a cool name!) room across from mine, there was Ibis. Ibis was beautiful. Slim and elegant. Dark hair--not sure if it was natural. She may have been a natural blond. She would roam the room naked in the evenings. And I was glued to my window. Better than TV. On several occasions (speaking of better than TV), she would have her BF over and I watched them screwing. That was when I started using a pair of opera glasses (better than the opera!).

After Ibis moved out, Sage moved in. He actually introduced himself to me when I was sitting on my back steps. He came up the alley and then into his backyard and said hi and then approached me where I was sitting smoking a cigarette. I was just sitting there nodding at him. I had already seen him in the altogether and there he was in front of me. Whew! But I was demure. Maybe too much so. I did indicate that I was a discrete person. Anyway there was the practically nightly show. That boy would whack himself silly. He seemed to stay hard all the time. He would orgasm, apparently, again and again. Probably the pot helped. Then the others started to join him. That’s when it got even more interesting yet. He would beat off while these two women’s legs were scissored around each other. Anyway, this went on and on. The boy jackin’ off for me, lurching around in ecstasy.

At some point, I thought maybe I wanted more than mere window sex, not that I was complaining, mind you. But I am getting ahead of my story here.

I would sit by my window as if watching a movie. I had a nice easy chair pulled up to the window. I would sit in the dark, naked, smoking cigarettes and sipping Jameson. I would masturbate in a more or less leisurely fashion as I watched--and smoked--and drank. Better then TV. Better then books. Never really been all that much of a reader. Voyeurism suits me. Sage would stand there before his window beating off. The others would be sitting around as the audience but never blocking my view. I was the audience officially unacknowledged but nevertheless meant to be included.

Sage would beat off, his hand flying, his penis oiled. He would pause from time to time, his penis pointedly erect--pointing upward stiffly--not to belabor the point. He was so obviously into it, so excited, so immersed and at the same time objectively performing. For me, no less. He would do it over and over, each time typically taking longer to orgasm. And between each bout, he would smoke some more pot, which revved him up, his drug-induced penis responding pluckily, his hand moving enthusiastically, pausing at intervals to display the oil-glistening member, bobbing and wagging.

And then there was Belinda! Oh wow! I know Florenz has already described her, since he writes these roman a clef stories for the dirty story web site. And now I do too, since here I am and here you are. Florenz has compared Belinda’s boobs to sacks of grain. Indeed! Watching her on her knees in Sage’s bedroom, her long breasts flying and swinging. She’s also I think the friendliest because she talks with me in the backyard. Really, I’m in love with her.

But for all that, after a while, I felt that I wanted to enter into a new level of participation. More than just spectator. I wanted to be watched. But on the other hand, I did not want to spoil the excellent show with an awkward interruption. I needed to stage my own event in a timely way. For one thing, I wanted to catch them when they were in the room across from me. If they were orgasmically exhausted, what if they were not interested in my performance art? And if I waited until their lights went out, how would I know they even knew I was on stage?

So then one evening, when I was seriously liquored up on my beloved and inhibition-reducing Jameson, I threw on the lights in my bedroom, a sconce near the door for ambient lighting and a floor lamp next to the window for stage lighting. I was naked but not yet in view of the window/proscenium. Hesitating. Another gulp of Jameson and, not wanting to miss my opportunity, strode on stage. Voila! The naked and the nude! My real self there in the window! I stood there a moment, one knee bent, as if thinking, and I could hear them whispering and then the lights in Sage’s room went out.

They were all in there when I did this: Sage, Florence, Belinda (my favorite, the well endowed one), and hairy lady Madeleine. The body builder lady who is their neighbor wasn’t there. She’s the one who comes over to fuck Florenz and hairy lady in front of me. Anyway, three of them were watching Sage jerking himself off, stroking enthusiastically while we avidly observed.

So I’m standing there and I light a cigarette and stand in front of the window as if casually savoring the tobacco. I guess it doesn’t matter than I am being ridiculously obvious, since the whole pretense of all these charades being unintentional is a charade. I put out the cigarette and fluff my bush a little. I look down at it: some hair on the insides of the thighs, some creeping up the belly. Should I have pruned it? Naw--they’re fine with it, I’m sure. Madeleine is plush with wiry dark hair. Belinda has a blond bush which is slightly transparent but abundant all the same. I jiggle my boobs up and down as if it is an absent minded gesture.

Then I sat down in my armchair facing the window. I poured another shot of whiskey and lit another cigarette and then threw my left leg over the arm of the chair and sat there, all spread out, and smoked and drank. My body was vibrating, almost shaking deliriously with the adrenaline or whatever it is that was flowing through me at the prospect of my secret admirers.

In this position, open to the world, center stage, I smoked another cigarette and sipped my Jameson. And then I took the plunge. I put my hand in my lap and pressed my fingers to my clitoris and madly masturbated. I don’t know how long it took but eventually I came and I have this dreamlike memory of melodiously groaning in the process--and even, it seemed to me, groaning from the secret gallery nextdoor!

And then one evening just a few days after, came my big break. Belinda! She walked over to me, where I was sitting on the steps of my back porch. Her arms swinging--a jaunty walk--with her long legs--wearing short shorts and a bright and bulging halter top and putting to mind Wonder Woman. No, really!

“Bess!” I love hearing her call my name. And she sort of shouts it and stretches it out--”Bess!”

“Hi, Belinda. You look pretty tonight.”

She made a humorous curtsy and said, “Thank you, kind lady.” Then she stood there in front of me, biting her lower lip and taking me in with her gaze. I blushed but I returned her look. She put her arms on her hips and took a deep breath and let it out. “How about this, Bess my dear, why don’t you come over to my house and join my housemates and me for a glass or three of wine and a joint? If you’ve nothing better to do, that is.”

I was on my feet already. And so a new adventure would begin--behind the looking glass.

We entered her house through the enclosed back porch and into the kitchen. I have to admit it was very neatly kept--clean and orderly. I’d never been in their house before, you know. So I was pretty interested.

I think everybody’s upstairs,” she said. “Follow me.” And we clambered up the stairway from the front hall as I ogled her svelte behind from behind. My heart was pounding, my breath came quickly. And it wasn’t the stairway doing it either. We turned the corner at the landing and there was the dark hairy lady.

“Look who’s here!” she called out, jubilantly it seemed to me, from the top of the stairs. “Welcome to our humble abode! Remember me? I’m Madeleine.”

“Hi again, Madeleine.”

This lady has hair in her armpits, poking mischievously out of the sleeves of her short-sleeved blouse. It looked pretty sexy, if you ask me. (Note to self: grow armpit hair.)

They invited me into Madeleine’s boudoir. She had a typewriter on her desk--a manual typewriter! “Cool decor,” I told her, eyeing the machina verborem.