Steven Grant lay smothered in darkness, above him a high and pallid ceiling; at this late hour the tiny and dense crests of stucco constellated into images subject to most all of his whims—here the plump animalian head of Taweret, mouth absurdly agape with glee, there a wicker basket, toted by a disembodied hand, conveying, he hoped in a sort a dreamlike fashion, a sundry selection of baked desserts—and if he passed mere seconds unblinking, this grey stippled sea would burgeon fantastically from the point of his focus. This tiredness, the roar of silence and thought against his arid system of nerves, was an unyielding foe and bitter companion. The common question—the tedious trial:
Could he rebel the night long?
The light cotton of his shirt clung damply to the small of his back and his thighs, legs momently compelled into restless motion, rubbed stickily, sweat-glazed, against one another and the tangle of sheets wherein the hours hereto had watched him negotiate in vain with the midsummer heat. His Soul he could feel sinking into and through his mattress. He had not a little doubt that it was rebellion he embodied.
It was upon the stroke of One that, bleary eyed and staggering, having untethered his ankle from his bedpost and scratched with a sort of self-sympathy at the oppressed skin, Steven rose from his bed for a cup of tea.
The steam billowed against his lips and the apples of his cheeks, and in rising diverged into two flocks: that which joined obediently with his breath in passing into his nostrils and warming him from within, and those rogue tendrils eddying about the rest of his face and dissipating beyond. In this moment, despite the inherent discomfort of his exhaustion, he supposed that peace was within his reach. As he stood at his window and absorbed dully the picture of night—the juvenile trees, embedded iteratively along the narrow street, with their foliage aflutter and stirring phantasmagoric ripples into the puddles of lamplight below—the checkering of tall dozing windows on the adjacent building—the slim expanse of sky served to him upon the sundry rooftops, the pale twinkle of infinity peering over the various pitches of mansard and gable—he was impressed by a sentimental fondness toward it all.
It was these meandering sentiments that ruptured at the illumination of one window, and a casual curiosity which at first engaged him. He anticipated a small exhibition of domesticity, or perhaps a glimpse of a displaced party taken home with the intention of revival. An occasional late night was not unheard of in his neighbourhood, and such was his equally occasional mild entertainment; the dark, with all its peace and solemnity, possessed also many little and bizarre exhibitions of humanity.
The blinds of the window were lifted, Steven noted. He could see all: a bed was set against the windowed wall, so that the head of its occupant would be reposed level with the low sill—they could peer upward at the starlight, or leave ajar the casement and have the whispers of a summer breeze cool their nose and skim lengthwise their body—the pillows were neatly arranged two on either half, on one side of the bed stood a small square nightstand of dark wood, atop it a book and a few imperceptible items—
There were a great many particulars to be seen yet! Steven’s browsing could have happily continued were it not for the form of a woman entering into view. This was precisely when the seconds slowed their course and a new layer of sweat began to form upon his skin (whether it was cold or hot he couldn’t tell; he felt it, by the accompaniment of his racing heart, to be a cold and fearful sweat, yet his skin and the pit of his stomach were afire.)
Steven saw first her legs, long and elegant and full, padding to the bedside; as they glided into frame he expected and hoped and prayed that soon the hem of a nightgown or shorts or—god, forbid! but at least—a pair of panties would appear and let him off the hook. But delivered to him was only more smooth brown skin, none left to the imagination but the delicate folds of labia concealed only by a cloud of soft hair.
He cursed faintly, imagining. The cup cradled in his hands began to slip. More heat, blossoming in his cheeks, burning in his ears—spreading across his hand, running down his arm—
“What am I doing ? What am I doing,” he exclaimed, abruptly righting his tea cup and backing away from the window. He ran a hand through his tangled curls, tugging lightly at the tendrils of hair residing at the nape of his neck. The deluge of tea now cooled rapidly with such exposure to the air; its final drips itched at his elbow and soaked a patch of his shirt against which his arm had been tucked cozily. If he had felt uninspiring before, he now felt downright pathetic. His cock was half-hard in his pants—and his conscience reproved him for it.
“It’s wrong,” Steven argued aloud, pacing to the kitchen to retrieve a towel. “That was wrong.”
The darkness was newly and relentlessly swallowing, viewed through pupils full from the light of the streetlamps and lucid window scene as well as the arousal pumping through him. He left off the interior lights, for he was loathe to see himself or the clutter of his home, for he wanted to be a phantom without identity shifting discreetly in the night to escape his niggling and bodily shame. With each step, the smooth, slinking contact of his pants opposed his efforts. He dabbed at the stain in his shirt haphazardly, then leaned over the sink to cool his face. The cold water cascaded through his fingers, glimmering here and there an echo of the lamplight beaming inward; he focused his attention on the numbness spreading over his palms until the beating of his heart retreated from his ears.
The bed was right there; nearer, surely, than the window.
Steven would lay down, continue his tossing and turning; perhaps he would fall asleep—only the Gods knew when and where he would awake then, but at least he would be, still, a respectable man. At least he would be unguilty of the deeds he desired with every fibre of his being to commit.
He moved, despite himself, to the precipice of the window; that is, the verge of being privy, once more, to that secret scene. She would be gone, or the lights would be out, the blinds closed—this is what he hoped (again: prayed) for. He rubbed a nervous hand over the back of his neck.
The scene was changed, indeed!—though he started slightly and a blush of embarrassment tinged his cheeks, it was one far more awkward than fervent. Of the various and unspeakable possibilities that his mind had entertained, his expectations were subverted entirely.
A man now lay in that window-framed bed—or hovered, rather—beneath him the woman whose legs and hips and neatly trimmed pubic hair had minutes ago tantalized Steven to moral ambiguity. If Steven’s gaze had not, at first, lingered in disappointment on the unfamiliar man’s broad back, he might have missed her, but for her legs spread to either side of the muscular waist obstructing his view and her hand raised to the crown of her companion’s head, fingers entangled in his blonde hair.
Steven watched, simultaneously weighed down by a sense of dejection and enspirited by a sort of curious pleasure, as these two handsome strangers embraced. He followed with his gaze the woman’s small and slender hands as they massaged up and down the body of her companion—wherever they touched Steven could feel his own skin tingle with suggestion. It was as though it were a performance meant solely for him; a small and faraway stage and its elusive little actress. Seeing her limb by limb, he thought, feature by feature, was a kindness to his sanity—to see all of her all at once would kill him, he was sure.
Soon the lovers’ lips parted; Steven’s cock twitched as the blonde head ducked below the woman’s gently rounded jawline—her face! lolled with easy pleasure against the pillows, eyes closed, mouth parted. She was beautiful beyond Steven’s comprehension in this aspect, too; her hair was short and curled tightly about her head, her features (while, of course, lacking in strict detail because of his distant vantage) formed a picture of candid benignity—there was a sweetness and a cleanness about her that charmed his person in addition to exciting his anatomy.
In his trance he let his hand slide leisurely down his abdomen, the aim to readjust his straining erection, but at the touch of his own fingers, the pressure of his own palm, a soft whine fell from his lips.
He truthfully didn’t know he was capable of making a sound so desperate.
Instinctively, Steven cast a nervous glance over his shoulder. Only his empty flat loomed behind and, unjudged but for his dwindling conscience, he returned to his view.
Kisses were trailing over her collarbones, now descending; they lingered ravenously at her breasts. Steven could hardly wait his turn. He wondered if her lover was using his teeth; he longed to—use his teeth, that is—he consoled his empty mouth by clenching his jaw tight.
As soon as her breasts were revealed to him, his previously groping but restrained hand slid below his waistband; with the other he clumsily pulled the fabric down his thighs, freeing his erection.
“Oh, god,” he sighed. “Look at you .”
He began, slowly at first, lazily, to stroke himself, leaning nearer to the window in an attempt to gain clarity of the new expanse of skin, to find character in it—certainly, women were organic! they must have some imperfection—a freckle, could he make it out? The little hairs that trailed downward from her navel, where were they? He coveted the details, desperately! Yet he had before him everything he could have ever dreamt of.
His eyes were wide and dark with lust, gaze eagerly flitting across her form. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, pulled it inward and pinned it between his teeth—the bright pain shot sparkling through the delicate nerves of his lips and down to where his hand pumped steadily, quicker now, over his cock.
Her back arched—her lover finally settled between her thighs, mouthing hungrily at the sensitive skin and lapping at the folds of her pussy.
“Oh,” Steven sighed. “Oh, that’s it.”
Her brow furrowed with pleasure, mouth falling further open in a delighted gasp.
“Shit.”
Steven’s hand came to a sudden stop. He braced himself against the window sill and shut tightly his eyes. Here he stood for several seconds, balanced on the edge of bliss, brow furrowed and shaky breaths passing in and out of his lungs. His fingers were wrapped tight around the base of his cock—he could feel it throbbing against his hand, and dared not move an inch for fear of losing control and finishing what he felt had only started.
She was squirming desperately now. When Steven opened his eyes once more, he saw her thighs clenched around the pleasuring man’s head, her hips canting upward, chasing her lover’s tongue, chasing her own pleasure.
He recommenced his self-pleasure at a more tentative pace, savouring the gliding pressure of his grip, now and then sweeping his thumb over the head of his cock (it was slick with pre-cum and impatiently sensitive—with each teasing stroke he let out a soft moan.)
His attention returned to her face, flushed bright with need, suspended in a state at once so relaxed and so vitalized. Her full lips drew him in—he felt an effluence of saliva wash over his tongue as he imagined how it might feel to lick deeply into that sweet, hot, panting mouth—he slurped gracelessly at the drool threatening to spill over.
Oh! Fuck me—please.
The words took shape so clearly Steven could almost hear them.
At first it seemed her lover intended to continue his ministrations without heed; his hands found purchase on her hips, thumbs digging imperiously into the ample flesh. Steven felt something like panic, like dismay, bubble up within him. It dawned on him, briefly, that he would in all likelihood never have a chance like this again.
“C’mon then,” Steven urged quietly, after only a few seconds delay. “Look at her, she’s gagging for it. Give it to her.”
Then there was an intermission, a small commotion of limbs—the positions were reversed; she was above now, thighs (the inward surfaces of which, as well as the supple creases where the flesh of her thighs pushed up against her groin, glistened with spit and sweat) straddling the man’s hips. Her arms reached behind her, presumably to brace against her lover’s legs; face now cut from the scene, her breasts hovered in Steven’s topmost view—gravity transfigured them gloriously, rounded them anew though they were rather small and youthful. And at centre stage, in the midst of the rolling topography of warm brown flesh, was her delightful little pussy, with its lips, discrete as they were, spread around and sinking slowly, deeply onto her lover’s cock.
Steven’s mouth filled again with saliva at beholding her squirming hips and the mere intimation of the pink, stretched-out threshold of her vagina—its dripping with desire—and, deeper still, the warmth and pressure of its embrace (it looked so delicate, so tidy from without—Steven could hardly believe that it could be stuffed so full). This time, instead of swallowing it back, he parted his lips and spit, wetting (accidentally) the back of his hand and (on purpose) the tip of his cock—his palm, still grazing over and again its sensitive underside, smeared the slick fluid across his shaft, such perfect viscosity sweetening the already divine friction. He groaned loudly, eyes rolling back, and the nether muscles of his abdomen twitched as his hips jerked forward.
With his free hand Steven brushed back the stray curls that had unfurled over his sweat-glistening brow; he was breathing heavily now, mouth agape in an expression of ecstasy and awe. He quickened his movements; with each stroke of his fist warm thrills of pleasure radiated through his limbs. He could feel the pressure building, the invulnerable placidity of impending orgasm washing over him. He imagined her unto himself—her pussy, neat and clean and ready to be made filthy—her mouth, sucking at his skin, panting in his ear, moaning his name—the taste of her—the smell—the texture of her against his tongue—
“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Steven moaned. His cock pulsed in his hand, hot cum spilling over his fingers and painting the window sill and wall. Try as he might to keep his focus glued to her form, his eyes once more rolled back in his head and fluttered shut to bear the tidal force of his orgasm.
“Bloody hell—” Steven clasped a hand to his chest in astonishment, heaving breaths slowing beneath his palm; he backed hurriedly from the window. “I can’t believe I just did that.”
His surroundings rematerialized: the swirling darkness against his starstruck eyes, the groaning oscillations of the bedside fan and its feeble breath leafing through the pages of a nearby book—the oppressive heat and attendant beads of sweat rolling down his spine—the cum dripping over his knuckles, his softening cock encircled by trembling fingers.
“I’ve just had a wank while spying on my neighbour,” he muttered faintly, wincing at the sound of it. Hurriedly, he sought again a towel to wipe clean the disgraceful mess he had made of himself. “Makes me a bit of a pervert, doesn’t it? Peering into women’s windows at night? Getting off watching…” His eyes lost focus briefly as the lewd scenes flooded back to him. He shook his head defiantly. “A new low, Steven, is what it is.”
As he stood a moment longer lingering in the silence and shame, his body was possessed by a looseness that, at last, lured him back to bed.
Steven lay smothered in darkness, above him the high and pallid ceiling; at this lonely hour the crests of stucco constellated into images subject to a concoction of guilt and satisfaction—all around was a mosaic of her .
He breathed in deeply through his nose as a bashful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, letting the butterflies of exhilaration journey up his esophagus and fill the cage of his ribs. He felt strangely intoxicated by his deeds, somehow giddy and sedated simultaneously; although his limbs were heavy with exhaustion and his soul cringed with remorse, he could not (and did not wish to) evade the obscene visions delivered to him by his overstimulated imagination. They seemed designed both to mortify and indulge him.
The fan ushered a breeze toward the bed and it whispered across his bare chest, eliciting a smattering of goosebumps across his skin, reawakening the nerves, making him feel ticklish. Steven ghosted his fingertips down his sides and hummed contentedly. He told Sleep that she could take him. He closed his eyes.
His fingertips were brushing over the ridges of his hip bones—they traced along the dark hairs below his navel.
Thoughts of her: squirming and blushing on his tongue…
Go to sleep, he commanded.
… keen fingers tugging mercilessly at his hair…
That’s enough.
… her heat emanating into his mouth—
“Gods forgive me!” Steven sighed with a desperate grimace, and, for the second time that night, found himself pulling his pants down his thighs and taking himself into the palm of his hand, pretending the embrace was that of a soft, warm stranger across the way.