Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Voyeurism, Slow,
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A newly single professor discovers the joy of watching, and finds it need not be a solitary pleasure.
Cindy lived in the house next to mine, one of a row of near-identical two story frame buildings on our suburban Boston street. I had met her, and her husband, Fred, a few days after I moved in, and noticed right away that she was lovely, with a certain look of fun about her, too. She wasn't actually flirtatious; she and Fred just seemed to be genuinely friendly, welcoming me to the neighborhood and getting acquainted, so I felt vaguely ashamed of my thoughts about her, which were frankly lustful. Yet I couldn't help myself. I had been a long time without a lover, and she was simply too attractive to ignore.
I probably would have spent even more time thinking about her, as I went on with the process of moving in and starting a new job and a new, unmarried life, if I hadn't been distracted by the activities of my fellow renters in the apartment upstairs from mine. I was certainly lonely, and was becoming accustomed to being single again, and I was very much inclined to find female companionship, so I might well have soon done something about Cindy. The sounds from upstairs, though, quickly seized all my attention.
It started, in fact, the evening after I had met Cindy and Fred. I was finishing up my dinner and absently scanning the newspaper, musing on how Cindy's braless breasts had moved under her Red Sox tee shirt. The shirt had apparently belonged to a younger and smaller sister, and the breasts could easily have belonged to a somewhat larger girl. My thoughts were moving pleasantly in an erotic direction - picturing how those breasts might look without the shirt and while moving beneath me, and what sweet sounds Cindy might make - when I realized that those sweetly urgent feminine sounds of pleasure and encouragement were not in my imagination, but were definitely, faintly, coming from somewhere nearby.
I put down the Globe, the paper and Cindy both forgotten in that instant, and stood up, listening intently, pushing the chair slowly away so as not to make any noise. Again I heard it, the words themselves unintelligible, but the pitch, the tone, the murmured syllables, unmistakably conveying passion, pleasure and growing urgency. I was electrified. My entire consciousness seemed focused on my sense of hearing as I strained to draw in those fascinating sounds. Moving slowly away from the kitchen table where I'd been, I realized the sounds were coming through the ceiling, and seemed to be stronger as I neared the hallway toward the back of the house. I padded quietly in that direction and sensed that the soft moans, little squeals and sighs were clearest as I approached the door to the back porch, though they were coming through the ceiling, also.
The couple above were approaching the end of their lovemaking, however, and their cries, her soprano voice and now, his deeper accompaniment, peaked and faded before I could move closer to their source. A few indistinct murmurs and a low, languorous, chuckle, then silence. I stood there a few moments more, my face lifted to the ceiling and my ears straining vainly for more, then I slumped and exhaled as I became aware of myself and of what had happened.
My heart was beating rapidly, even pounding, and my penis was rigid and aching in my pants. I tried to understand what I was feeling. Obviously I was sexually aroused, but it seemed all out of proportion to the faint and not-so-exceptional sounds I'd heard. I was excited, even thrilled, as if I somehow had done something dangerous. Or maybe not dangerous, but illicit and risky. That was it: I'd enjoyed hearing the couple above, almost as if I were participating in their coupling, but without their knowledge, and almost certainly against their will. If they knew, they'd be embarrassed and angry, perhaps labeling me a pervert or weirdo. If they told anyone else, I'd be publicly disgraced. I didn't care, though. It had been wonderful, and I wanted to do it again. Of that, there was no doubt.
Well, now. What was all this about? I'd never thought of myself as a voyeur. I'd looked at and listened to the usual porn, especially since it became universally available on the internet. In everyday life I'd sometimes caught sight of an exposed female thigh or even the occasional nipple, and I'd certainly enjoyed that. Not in the same breathless, riveting way I'd reacted to the sounds above my apartment tonight, though. Whatever the reasons were, it was inescapable: I was a voyeur now, and, I imagined, a voyeur I'd remain. I wanted to hear them up there above my bedroom doing it again. Not only that; I wanted to see them, too, if I could manage it without being caught. What if the male upstairs found out and wanted to fight? I'm not a weakling, but I had no idea what he was like. He could be a weight lifter or a black belt.
Clearly, the solution was never, ever, to be caught. As I continued to examine my feelings, I realized that while I definitely wanted to voyeur women or couples, I thankfully had no desire to voyeur males. Was voyeur a verb? I didn't even know. My thoughts were scattered, jumping crazily between topics. I did know, however, that there were millions of couples out there, and surely some of them were careless enough that I could see or hear them if I really wanted to. An entire new activity was opening up for me, and I was going to need some time to understand it all.
Apparently, during these fevered and confused thoughts, I'd found my way back to the kitchen table and seated myself before the remains of my dinner. I pulled myself together and forced myself to think more rationally. Obviously, there were issues to be dealt with here, and new pleasures to be examined, but the immediacy and intensity of the past few minutes were receding, and I could view what had transpired more coolly. I cleaned up my meal and went to bed, where I quickly fell into a deep sleep, shadowed by strange superimpositions of Cindy and the sounds from above.
I spent the next day on campus at my new office, attempting to prepare my lecture notes and organize my desk in anticipation of the upcoming semester, but made hard work of it. My thoughts constantly wandered to the sounds I had heard from the apartment above, and, more importantly, to how I could improve my ability to hear them. I left my office as soon as decently possible and hurried back to my apartment, bemused and self-conscious, but still determined to pursue my plan.
That plan, plainly, was to find places and methods for hearing and even seeing the lovemaking of my neighbors. I could think of nothing else. It seemed supremely important, if not entirely rational. The train ride and walk home seemed endless. Immediately on entering my apartment, I put down my briefcase and began. I went out onto the back porch of my apartment and checked the parking area behind the house, making sure my neighbors' car wasn't there. I listened carefully for the sound of movement upstairs. Hearing nothing, I eased up the back stairs from my porch to the porch above, until my head rose above the porch floor and I could see the back door of the second floor apartment. Next to the door was a window, which, if the layout of the apartment were identical to mine, would open into the bedroom. Perfect.
I looked around with my best imitation of nonchalance, hoping to appear as if I belonged there, and saw no obvious onlookers, so I climbed two more steps, bringing my eyes up to the level of the windowsill. With a little thrill, I saw that the curtains hung an inch short of the sill, permitting a clear view into the bedroom. I looked around again, nervously, as my next move would make it considerably more obvious that I was doing something out of the ordinary. Seeing no suspicious neighbors, I moved up to the porch floor on hands and knees and crept up to the window. In this position my eyes were comfortably located opposite the gap beneath the curtains and I could peer directly inside.
Now my hopes were answered completely, as I saw the bedroom laid out before me like a theater set. Against the opposite wall, at center stage, were a king size mattress and box springs resting directly on the floor, so that the surface of the mattress was perfectly positioned a short distance below my eyes. The bedspread and blanket were pushed down off the foot of the bed onto the floor. The sheets were rumpled and, I saw in a shock of titillation, spotted with the unmistakable signs of the lovemaking I had heard the previous evening.
I sank back onto my heels for a moment, to absorb what I had seen and the opportunities that were presented. After one more quick look around, I moved closer to the window again and examined the room, which turned out to contain only a few additional pieces of inexpensive furniture: a framed mirror over a dresser, and a standing floor lamp beside a chair just to the right of "my" window. With newly-developing awareness, I made certain that my face at the window would not be seen in the mirror by someone on the bed, and that the floor lamp, if illuminated, would not reveal me, outside. I could not be certain of the latter, but it appeared that the window frame would shadow me from the direct light of the lamp, making my features, in relative darkness, even more difficult to discern from inside the room.
Congratulating myself on my cleverness, and filled with anticipation of returning later in the evening, I backed away on hands and knees until I was again on the stairs, then turned carefully and descended casually to my own porch below. As I turned from the stairs toward my back door, I realized that someone was ringing my front doorbell, and might have been doing so for some time. Guiltily, as if I had been caught, I hurried through the apartment to the front door, where I could see the silhouette of my caller through the frosted glass. I quickly unfastened the latch and opened the door, and found myself suddenly blushing into the smiling, exuberant, and innocently sexual face of my neighbor, Cindy.
Of course Cindy immediately wanted to know why I was so flustered, but I knew I couldn't possibly confess to her the complex mixture of thoughts and emotions that were spinning through my mind. Her sudden appearance, when I was immersed in an activity I was sure she would find reprehensible, coupled with the memory of my earlier erotic fantasies about her, and the sheer arousing force of her presence, left me stunned and embarrassed. I feared she would somehow guess my thoughts, or I would blurt them out, and she would be shocked and contemptuous.
I finally recovered sufficiently to mutter vaguely about difficulty opening the door and waved my hand distractedly, inviting her in. She clearly didn't believe me, and grinned slyly as she moved past me, her unfettered breasts in their customary tee shirt lightly brushing my chest, perhaps by accident. I was in no condition to guess. I literally took a deep breath, attempted to gather my wits, and exhaled slowly, before following her into the kitchen, where she was already helping herself to a beer from the refrigerator.
She'd just dropped by for some company, she explained, as she expertly twisted the cap from the bottle, flipped it accurately into the wastebasket, took a full, unladylike swallow, sighed her appreciation, and nimbly hoisted half of her tightly denim-encased rear onto the edge of my kitchen table. Fred, it seemed, was working late as usual, and it was just too nice of an evening to sit inside at home, alone. I was left trying to catch up again, groping for a response while dealing with the movement of her mouth on the bottle and the way her thighs opened carelessly to me as she perched on my table.
I suppose I had been in a state of excitement for quite a while, with the goings-on upstairs, my explorations on the porch, and Cindy's own earlier effects. In any event, I seemed still to be unable to steer my thoughts away from erotic directions. As we continued to chat, Cindy quite unselfconsciously and myself less so, I found myself fixating on her mouth. She had that sort of small, sweet mouth, with lovely little-girl lips, that had always appealed to me. As I watched those lips move, I pictured them stretching to accommodate the head of my penis, then relaxing slightly, sliding slowly down my shaft. As one might imagine, that particular image was somewhat distracting, but I gradually pulled my thoughts into order and began to simply enjoy our conversation.
Cindy, the conversation revealed, actually was just as cheerful, sunny and open as she had seemed on first impression, but not simple. She also brought an educated, unconventional intelligence and a healthy cynicism into the mix. An artist, she had studied and thought deeply in areas about which I knew little, but her wit and depth of knowledge were apparent. I would come to find her intelligence to be as delightful as her sexiness, but for me her frank and intense sensuality was, at first, the overwhelming factor. Still, that late summer night in my kitchen, we talked long and widely, through a few more beers and a takeout pizza, and became friends.
There was always an undercurrent, it seemed to me, of sexual awareness. Of course there was no question of my own interest, but hers was harder to pin down. I've never been an especially accurate interpreter of female behavior—though I've certainly enjoyed watching it all my life - so I couldn't say exactly what Cindy was doing, but I constantly sensed that she was presenting her body to me. First a nipple, for instance, tenting the material of her shirt, then the fullness of her breasts moving in that classic, elastic bounce as she lifted her arms to emphasize a point, or later, the intriguing tilt and sway of her slender hips as she moved away from me to the refrigerator for another beer. As time went by I was increasingly convinced she was doing it on purpose, even if I couldn't say how.
Eventually, with the beer gone and the pizza long cooled, we slowed down and simply kept company with each other, speaking infrequently and sharing relaxed silences, listening to the night sounds outside. Finally, we heard Fred pull into the driveway next door, and we walked somewhat muzzily to my door, where she unconsciously, sleepily kissed me and went off home.
I stood, bemused, fingering my lips where they had touched hers, and watched her go. So many things were happening in my life, and particularly, it seemed, in the possible revival of my sex life. First, a sudden and exciting voyeuristic bent discovered. Now, a growing friendship with a young woman who fired my most intense erotic impulses, and who just might, I sensed, be interested in sharing those impulses with me.
The question was: where was I headed with all this? Toward the solitary pleasures of surreptitiously observing the passions of others, or into the complications and passions of a relationship, still only barely hinted, with my lovely, married, neighbor? Which did I really want? Which could I really have?
Finally I had to laugh at myself, and the soap opera that seemed to be running itself in my head. It sounded like one of those romance novels for repressed spinsters, rewritten for a lonely, recently divorced, and slightly drunk male. Nevertheless, there might be some interesting days ahead. I gathered up the bottles and pizza, and went down the hall to bed. Not, however, without listening for sounds from upstairs.
The next morning I awakened and immediately, without thinking, listened for the sounds of intimacy above me. The sounds that were coming through the ceiling, though, were those of breakfast, not bedsprings, so I got up and tended to my own preparations for the day. Just as I was gathering my papers to leave, I saw the couple from upstairs going down the back stairs and out to their car. I'd scarcely seen them before, and so hadn't really remembered their appearance. Now, though, I was considerably more interested, and peered intently out at them.
He was handsome, I supposed, in an ordinary way. Well built and moving easily, he looked like a former athlete who had kept himself in shape. Blonde and tan, he was a contrast to his partner. She was exceptionally pretty, at least from a distance; a fair-skinned brunette whose hair hung past her shoulders and shone lovely in the morning sunlight. Her waist was very slender, flaring into graceful hips and fine legs. She walked firmly, with long strides, strong and lithe. I guessed them both to be in their late twenties.
All in all, a fine-looking couple, and certainly an attractive target for my - what? Vicarious lust? Invasive but benevolent intimacy? Simple, harmless voyeurism? Sick, disgusting perversion? I couldn't say, though I certainly meant them no harm, and devoutly hoped they would never become aware of my interest. As to sickness or perversion, I suppose no one ever sees himself as the villain, no matter how twisted he may appear to others. I could find no self-disgust in myself - just an eagerness to pursue this new thing, and impatience for the coming evening's events.
Watching her decorously clad thighs move under her skirt, and seeing her knees modestly held together as she lowered herself into the car, I thought about the fact that I had already heard her make sounds she thought unheard by anyone but her lover, and that soon I might see those thighs, bare and thoughtlessly spread; those knees, lifted and parted to give access. That I would soon become her secret, unknown lover, and she, mine. What would she think if she knew?
I remained at the window while they started their car and drove away, turning those thoughts about and examining the feelings they generated with newfound relish. With a start, I realized that time had passed, and hurried to finished gathering my papers. Smiling inwardly, I made my way out the front door and down the walk toward the street, only to meet the other recent source of excitement in my life.
Cindy, in yet another tee shirt, was coming down the front steps of her house to pick up the morning paper from her lawn. She flashed me that memorable grin, bent over for the paper, and skipped back up the steps, thus allowing me another memorable sight: her lovely ass, this time without denim or any other covering, with an entrancing blond tuft peeking out at me from the tender juncture of those bouncing globes.
Frozen in place, I took a moment to confirm to myself that it had truly happened, and further, that it had been no accident. In the instant after I had spied that stunning little bit of fur, bouncing up the stairs, there had been just the faintest hint of a merry giggle, cut short by the closing door. I could only grin myself, in imitation of Cindy, and turn to walk away, shaking my head in wonder and happy gratitude.
I covered the distance to my train, and the commute to campus, in a pleasant state of anticipation and mild arousal, and somehow did my day's work in the same warm fog. As soon as my untenured status allowed, I was out of my office, striding down the street to the station, back on the train toward home and the events of the night.
Much has been written, fictionally and factually, about "the first time" which is supposed to be thrilling or at least important. If all worked out well, if circumstances and my neighbors cooperated, tonight promised to be another "first time" of sorts for me. Somehow, despite all the years that had passed since my first, first time, I found myself as eager, nervous, and impatient now as then. I tried to be calm, to attend to other, ordinary matters, and to maintain an adult attitude of patience, but truthfully I could think of little else, as the late summer twilight fell and the sounds and activities of the neighborhood segued into evening mode.
My housemates were indeed at home upstairs, their tread - heavy for him, light for her - clearly audible along with fainter sounds of their voices. I forced myself to prepare dinner and attempted to eat, but made little progress. Sitting at the table, staring at my cooling plate, I heard kitchen sounds begin above me and realized that hours would pass before anyone would be going to bed. Embarrassed by my own impatience, I disposed of the uneaten meal, poured myself an unaccustomed scotch, and fell into the chair before the television. I was still there an hour later, the drink gone, along with another, and the television muted to let me check on sounds from upstairs, when my doorbell rang, shockingly loud, levitating me from the chair and halfway to the door before I realized what was happening.
It was Cindy, of course, complete with tee shirt and that amazing grin, both of which aroused pleasantly disturbing memories of that little blonde morning tuft and giggle. Additionally she had, in no particular order: two six-packs of very good beer, two erect nipples, a pair of extremely short denim cut-offs, and a pair of nervous, vulnerable eyes. Fred, she informed me in a voice less casual than she probably wished, was working late.
The situation was, as they say in the military, untenable. On the one hand, this appeared to be the quintessential, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She was here, she was clearly lonely and ready, she was everything I could desire in a sexual partner, and it could be oh, so very good. On the other hand, a brand new personal experience was in the offing upstairs. They were up there, my neighbors, just above me, and they were in all likelihood going to have sex together tonight, soon, within hearing and in plain sight. It was something I had anticipated with more pleasure than anything in a long, long time. But I could not watch them while Cindy was here.
It got worse. Cindy wasn't simply a desirable potential sexual partner; she had become a friend. Right now she was vulnerable, and probably here for some less-than-ideal reason involving her relationship with Fred. Lovemaking with her tonight simply was not permissible. But, if I didn't spend time with her tonight, when she obviously needed my company, I would not be the friend she deserved - that I wanted to be - and, and, I would probably never, ever, have another opportunity to have sex with her. Since sex with Cindy was something I had come to desire greatly, and since our friendship regrettably had precedence over present desires, my choice became clear: I was required to keep company with Cindy tonight, not have sex with her, and forgo my voyeuristic plans for the evening.
All this consideration of the situation had taken only a few seconds, and Cindy hadn't noticed my distraction. I smiled and made her welcome, said I had no plans and would love some company, sat her down in the living room, and ordered Chinese. At this rate, we were going to work our way through the fast-food spectrum in less than a week. Anyway, we settled on the sofa to talk while we waited for the food to arrive.
I wasn't really possible for Cindy not to be attractive and provocative, but the natural, exuberant sexuality of the previous evening was subdued tonight. She was still trying, as when she came in, to offer and invite casual carnality, but her heart wasn't in it. I could see her determination fading into the wistful vulnerability I'd sensed earlier. Just couple of beers and a few gently probing questions were enough to let her open up. Her eyes brimmed over and the sad tale poured out.
Nothing particularly original, as she herself acknowledged, but painful all the same. Fred was never there, Fred had nothing to say, Cindy was always alone and had no one with whom to talk, and the love seemed to be slipping away. The old, sad, lonely story. She related her tale simply, with occasional sad little smiles and sniffles. She brightened up briefly to inhale most of the Sichuan chicken when it arrived, but a full stomach and another beer soon had her drowsy, sighing and yawning.
I pushed aside the food cartons, slid down the sofa to her, and put my arm around her shoulders, cradling her head against my chest, in the traditional comforting pose. She sighed deeply, and snuggled closer. A few more sighs, a snuggle or two, and she was quickly, deeply asleep.
What male hasn't found himself, at one time or another, in this situation? A classic dilemma, particularly when the female under one's arm is someone new. From my angle, looking down at her, the softly upswept girl eyelashes, the downy cheeks, and the pink, slightly parted lips, were the picture of lovely tenderness and vulnerability. Warm puffs of her breath touched my chest, and the unmistakable fullness of her breasts pressed insistently against me. Her slender, tanned legs were just slightly splayed as she relaxed in sleep, and the low waist of her cutoffs arched across her pelvic bones, offering a shadowy glimpse down along the secret curve of her belly. My free hand was poised to reach all these treasures and more. I was filled with conflicting yet related urges to hold, shelter and protect her, but also to awaken her with intimate caresses, carry her into my bed, and gently ravage all that tender flesh and warm femininity.
On the other hand, my arm was falling asleep, my shoulder joint was painful, and I was going to need to urinate very soon. I couldn't ravage her, at least tonight, I couldn't fix her problems and probably shouldn't try, and I really wanted to find out what my neighbors upstairs were up to.
Not being a saint or a superman, I did what most ordinary men would do. I held still long enough to make certain she was truly asleep, then slowly, carefully disengaged. I eased my numbed arm from around her, listening for any change in her breathing, then leaned her against a pillow and quietly backed away. I took a moment to admire her as she lay there, a slightly rumpled and softly snoring angel, then hurried off to the bathroom to get rid of all that beer.
I returned to check on Cindy once more, rubbing my aching shoulder and tingling arm, and saw that she had swung her legs up onto the sofa, lying curled up like a child, sleeping just as sweetly. I threw an afghan, crocheted by my ex-wife - who would have been horrified - over her, and tiptoed away.
Where I went, of course, was down the hall, out on the back porch, and up the stairs, to look in on my neighbors. To my great joy, I could hear the unmistakable sounds of passion coming down to me as I started to climb. Apparently my virtue and patience were to be rewarded after all. I had comforted a friend, had not molested her in her moment of vulnerability, and had passed the time pleasantly and even generously with her, until the objects of my interest upstairs were ready to, well, perform for me. Clearly, I was worthy to enjoy the pleasures awaiting me at the top of the stairs. I grinned fatuously to myself.
Granted, the drinks and the beers and the residual excitement from cuddling Cindy were affecting my thinking, but I did feel excited, relieved, and even somehow justified, to finally go up those stairs and peer through the window at my unsuspecting neighbors. I could hear the soft voice of the female cooing in rhythm with the persistent creaking of the mattress and springs, and my mind filled with fevered images of what I would see in a few more steps. My heart was pounding, my erection was a bar of lead in my pants - but I still had enough sense of my situation to be amazed at the degree of my excitement.
I stopped for a moment, just short of the step that would give me a view through the bedroom window, to gather my senses and calm down. I took a few deep breaths, laughing at myself on some level, but aware that I really did need to get a grip on my feelings. It came to me that this was what people were talking about, when they spoke of being 'thrilled'. This was a thrill for me. And hang the consequences! I took one more step up.
As my eyes rose above the windowsill I saw, under the curtain and through the open window, a sight that was more even than I had hoped for. My lovely, dark-haired, lady neighbor was astride her lover, her back and beautiful bottom turned to me, impaled on his penis, all her secret places revealed to me, as she squirmed up and down on him, her sweet juices shining on him and on her, her opening stretching and flexing as she moved up and down, taking it in and out and in. Her buttocks flexed and clenched as she rode, her back arched and bowed, and her shining hair tossed and waved like a flag of her passion while her sweet voice wordlessly sang her pleasure.
Overwhelmed, entranced, I found myself kneeling at the window, having crossed the landing from the stairs unaware, my fingertips on the sill and my eyes to the gap. My lady was trembling now, moaning and crying as she neared her climax. Her lover added his own deeper note, and I felt myself moving in sympathy with him into her even as I watched her move on him. Behind me, a tiny sound! My lady paused, poised above him for an instant, with his penis just barely inside her. Had she heard it too? Would she turn and see me? But then she plunged down on him, moaning and grinding against him as he thrust and twisted and spurted within her.
Then: "What in the Hell are you doing!"