Watching Me, Watching You Read online

  She shook her head, her eyes flaring, knuckles burning whiter on her purse. ‘Your secretary told me you were having lunch here. My name is Mabel Hughes. I need you to find out if my husband is cheating on me, Mr Janson!’

  The last part came out in a gush, blowing warm and wet over me and my meat. I took a swig of straight black coffee, washing down the last of the shoe leather. ‘What makes you think the gob’s cheating on you?’

  ‘I-I just feel that something’s wrong. Arthur’s been acting strange lately, coldly towards me, unfeeling. Almost as if …’ Tears sprang into her jaded orbs, glittering like zirconias. ‘As if he doesn’t care about me, or our marriage, any more!’

  Tony waddled over with the tab. The guy had a lot of nerve, to go along with a whole lot of gut. ‘You having the pie, Henry?’ He leered at the dame. ‘Coconut cream – fresh and moist.’

  ‘The only thing fresh and moist around this dump is your mouth, Tony,’ I countered. I picked up the bill, wiped my nose on it. ‘One bowel movement is all my doctor allows a day, anyway.’

  Tony’s greasy face clenched like a monkey’s fist, but his oily eyes didn’t leave Mabel’s cleavage for a moment.

  I dug into my pocket, flipped two-bits and a thumbnail of lint onto the table, along with a cent tip. Then me and Mabel made tracks for the door, hit the street, headed for my office.

  It was a sunny day, hot, not a breeze to speak of or bask in coming off Lake Michigan. I let Mabel lead the way, slipping in behind her. The sun lit up her thin dress like a cooch show, giving me a pleasant view of her surprisingly shapely body. Trim waist, taut buttocks, long, slender legs and sculpted ankles. My outlook brightened. The gumshoe racket was as grim as any other capitalist enterprise circa 1932.

  Doris, my secretary, dusted herself off and took her leave for lunch as soon as we set feet inside my two-room office on Front Street. I ushered Mabel into the inner sanctum, pointed out a chair to her, flopped down in my own faded leather one behind the battered metal desk.

  ‘I-I’m afraid I can’t pay you … right now, Mr Janson.’ My prospect tanked right in front of me, eschewing the wobbly wooden client chair.

  She bit her lip, bounced her eyes off the floor. I slumped further down in my chair, perforce to sliding right out and showing the dame the door. But then she suddenly brushed her dress off her shoulders with a couple of bold strokes. The garment sagged to the floor along with my jaw. Mabel had forgotten to slip on any underwear today – she was as naked as a newspaper baron’s greed, right there in front of me.

  I gaped, eyes riding up and down her alabaster-coloured and textured physique like tourists in the Board of Trade Building. Her breasts were high and taut, cupcake-sized with prominent cherry tips. The ginger patch of fur between her legs proved she was no dye job. Her nude body trembled only a trifle.

  ‘Will you consider this a down payment, Mr Janson?’

  I rehinged my jaw, resocketed my eyes. ‘H-Henry,’ I gulped. ‘Call me Henry.’

  She cruised around the desk, breasts bobbing, stomach and thigh muscles rippling, pussy glistening. Money was what I needed, everyone did. But sex was what I wanted, with everyone I could get my hands on.

  I jumped to my feet and grabbed the glowing white and red quail in my arms, mashed my masculine mouth-flaps up against her soft, scarlet-hued lips. She tossed her arms around my rugged form, and we melted together, kissing passionately. For a woman worried about marriage infidelity, she had a wacky way of expressing her concern.

  But I was a man of action, not philosophy. You offer me a tasty treat on a silver platter and this ginzo’s gonna take it, not stop chewing on it till he’s spent the last of his hunger. I ran my hands down Mabel’s curved back, over and onto her mounded butt cheeks.

  She moaned in my mouth, gave me her tongue to taste and entwine, as I squeezed her buttocks, plied the hot, smooth, humped flesh. The room temperature soared another hundred degrees. My clothes had to come off. It was the fashion of the day.

  Jacket, tie, shirt, pants, and underwear joined Mabel’s dress on the floorboards. She ran her fingers through my chest hair, feeling my throbbing desire against her belly, seven inches and swelling. I grasped her breasts, coveted the pert, perky pair, fully tuned her jutting nipples into our mutual lust.

  ‘You-you understand I wouldn’t do this … unless it was for the good of my marriage?’

  Her eyes were glassy, her voice thick and husky. Her logic had more holes than Hoover’s recovery plan.

  But I wasn’t there to debate, or judge. My cockhead was doing all the thinking for me right then. I bent my dome down and pushed her tits up, swallowed a rigid, rubbery nipple and sucked like I was leech-lipped.

  Mabel moaned and tilted her head back, her body and breasts shuddering in my mitts, her crimson-coated fingernails biting into my shoulders. I vacced one nipple then the other, bouncing my head over and inhaling and tugging. My cock was a length of molten steel pulsating between us, mushroomed hood poking at the crinkly fur of her soft, wet spot.

  I mouthed and mauled her nipples and breasts until the one pair shone, the other pair reddened with feeling. Then I dropped to my knees on the hardwood, hands tracing the slightly starved hourglass of Mabel’s figure all the way down. I’m known as one of the dirtiest dicks in the business. There isn’t any length I won’t go to for my clients. I went pussy-length for this one, with my tongue.

  ‘Oh! Yes!’ Mabel cried, as I licked wet and wide all though her downy copper fur and along her puffy pink lips.

  She tasted ten times better than anything Tony could serve up, steaming, hot and juicy. I gripped her buttocks and flat-out painted her pussy, tongue-stroking over and over like a tomcat grooming his mate before digging my licker right into her slit, deep, squirming it around inside her pink tunnel.

  Her buttocks quivered between my fingers, breasts jumping overhead. She was as ripe and tangy as a Florida orange. I was about to pay some lip service to the swollen pink nub of her clit, when she suddenly yanked me to my feet by the hair, sprawled herself out on my desktop.

  She lifted her legs, gripped her tits, gazing crazily up at me. I went for payment in full, grasping my iron erection and poking the helmeted tip into her pussy, plunging metalled shaft home.

  We both spasmed and groaned, my cock buried in Mabel’s velvety heat and wetness.

  ‘Fuck me, Henry! Fuck me like my husband’s fucking some hussy!’

  I wouldn’t have used quite those words. But then I’m not a pulp scribe, I’m a real-life dick. So I used my manly skills, grasping Mabel’s thighs to my chest and pumping my cock back and forth in her pussy.

  I rocked her to and fro, rattling the furniture and the frail. She moaned, the desk creaking. Her tits shuddered in her hands, butt cheeks rippling against my thighs, body bouncing to the pussy-pounding rhythm of my prick. The wet smacking of heated flesh against flesh echoed in the stuffy confines, faster and faster.

  I thumped, humped, grunted, groaned, my cock churning a fire in the hole. Then I bucked and blasted, blazing with joy. Mabel shuddered wildly on the end of my shooting rod, glaring up at me with eyes gone crazy as the Bonus Army.

  The dame informed me that she’d told her hubby with the suspected cheating heart that she was going out of town to visit her parents in Joliet. She gave me a picture of the lug, his home address. I tired the curb two houses down from the yellow home on the sycamore-lined street just after five that afternoon, settled down in my car seat for some surveillance.

  At 6.12, Arthur arrived home from work. He drove a green, two-door Ford fresh off the assembly line, sported a pinstriped chocolate-brown suit and a tan fedora. His black moustache was waxed, his black hair pomaded in style under the fashionable lid, his nails were neatly clipped and there was a shine on his shoes any buffer would be proud of. He looked, all in all, plenty prosperous, compared to threadbare Mabel. I dashboarded the binoculars when he let himself into the house – subject confirmed.

  Object spotted, when a doll cli
pped down the sidewalk on a set of high heels, headed for the Hughes’s hutch. She was tall, titted, long-legged, wearing a light blue silk scarf over her glossy black locks, a dark blue dress that she filled out fine front and back, pale blue hose and dark blue shoes.

  She was a rhapsody in blue, making me want to burst out singing her praises. But she had her mind on other man-matters, taking a sharp right onto the flagstone path of the Hughes’s house, walking up to the door and entering. Brazen and blatant as Mae West at a church social.

  I rubbed my chin, my dick. There was only one way to find out for sure. They don’t call us peepers for nothing. I shelved the binocs and scooped up the Speed Graphic off the seat next to me, then set sail in pursuit of the dirty truth, ready to picture it. It was another bright, scorching summer day. Unlike the lady in blue, I tried to limit my conspicuousness, by hustling across the street and the front lawn, in back of the house. I shouldered the wall, gripping my camera, inching along.

  The first window was the bathroom – nothing to see and click there. A window down below looked into the basement – nothing going on underground.

  I sprouted sweat, the camera slipping in my hands. The backyard was a neatly trimmed patch of grass walled in by a whitewashed board fence. I was hidden from most of the neighbours. I sidled under the next window at half my normal height, instantly heard grunting and groaning spilling out over the sill. Bingo-bango!

  I spun around, crouching, peeked over the ledge and in through the lace curtains of the open window. Arthur was on top of the no-longer-blue woman, banging her like a Barnum & Bailey parade drum.

  ‘Proof-positive,’ I exhaled, shunting the camera up over the windowsill and focusing in on the lust-birds.

  Arthur’s well-cut suit and the woman’s well-tailored dress were distant memories on the red-carpeted floor of the well-appointed bedroom. The man’s pale, heaped buttocks clutched in fourth gear as he drove dong-long into the laid-out woman. He was grasping her partially flattened breasts at the sides, smearing her lipstick and make-up with his tongue. She had her lithe, ivory legs wrapped around his wasp-waist, her long, strong arms around his broad shoulders, bouncing in rhythm to the guy’s urgent thrusting, meeting his frantic licker with a lush, pink, swirling mouth-organ of her own.

  I gave the sexual performance an A – for adultery.

  ‘Yes, Arthur! Make love to me, Arthur!’

  ‘Oh, Harriet! I love you, Harriet!’

  Dialogue, to go along with the lewd action, the squeaking steel springs sound effects.

  I got ready to shoot something other than my load.

  Then a hand clamped down on my shoulder.

  I just about launched out of my shoes and into the sky on an Icarus trajectory.

  I jerked my head around and stared into Mabel Hughes’s blazing high beams.

  ‘You caught him cheating, didn’t you!?’

  Her Plain Jane face was contorted with anger. ‘Uh, see for yourself.’

  She pushed me aside with the strength of a woman scorned, and screwed, looked into the bedroom at the sex scene thundering on unabated. Then she swung around and hissed ‘Damn him!’ tore my pants open and ripped my cock out. ‘Fuck me, Henry! Cheat with me! While we watch them cheat!’

  Her see-through green dress came off just as easily the second time around, plunging down like the stock market circa October 24, 1929. Mabel was brilliantly bare in front of me all over again. She turned back to the window, stuck the gleaming white moons of her butt out at me.

  I stared at her ass, as she stared into the open bedroom window. The hot sounds of sex gusted out from inside the house. My cock quickly filled the heated distance between my loins and Mabel’s butt, out there in the open air. I probed her ginger bush with my boiled cap, hit her dripping pink tunnel with engorged member, shafting her pussy to the balls.

  The bed creaked faster, the groaning coming more urgent inside. We didn’t have any time to lose; I didn’t have any shame to sacrifice. I gripped Mabel’s hips tight as she was gripping the windowsill and slammed back and forth inside her, almost rocking her right into the home.

  Our breath came in hissing, teeth-clenched gasps, so as not to disturb the frenzy on the other side of the wall, which we were both watching and emulating. Arthur thrust wildly into Harriet, their naked, entwined bodies bouncing higher and higher on the dancing bed.

  I wrenched my hands off Mabel’s hips and shot them in around her arched body, grabbed onto her flapping tits. I crushed the succulent mounds in my sweaty mitts, clutching the dame close to me, cocking her pussy to beat the band. She shuddered with each and every shunt of my dick, her overheated body bouncing against mine.

  Perspiration dewed the both of us, all over. I bit into her slender neck, inhaling the scent of her hair and body, churning her cunt. She gripped my hands on her tits, pulled on her own hard, pointing nipples, glaring straight ahead at the torrid bedroom scene that had vengefully inspired the torrid backyard scene.

  ‘Oh, God, yes, Arthur! Fuck me! Fuck me!’ Harriet screamed.

  ‘Oh, God, yes, Henry! Fuck me! Fuck me!’ Mabel rasped.

  We two adulterous lechers went at it hammer and tongs. Arthur beat me to nirvana by a ball whisker.

  The guy bellowed, blasted, jerking on top of Harriet, jumping around in her arms and legs as he let loose in her pussy. She just about raised the roof with her echoing shriek of ecstasy, getting orgasm as good as she was getting his orgasm.

  It was too much for this X-rated private eye. I torqued Mabel’s silken tunnel at full ramming speed, then erupted inside her in a mind and body-blazing burst, jolted and jolted hard and repeatedly by blistering joy. The woman receiving my sperm salute in great gushing gobs didn’t hold back, either. She spasmed against my shivering torso, up on her toes, coming and coming and coming.

  Then confronting. ‘You cheated on me, Arthur!’ she raged through the window. ‘You cheated on me!’

  Arthur leapt off Harriet like he’d taken a cattle prod up the ass. He stormed over to the window and yelled at the naked woman in my arms, ‘We’re divorced, Mabel! Get that through your head! I’m a remarried man!’

  My cock shrivelled inside my crazed client.

  ‘Why do you cheat on me, Arthur!?’ she persisted hysterically, grasping at the man’s hands, at the straws of what once was. ‘Forcing me to get even! Why can’t we be together – just the two of us!?’

  Arthur shoved Mabel’s claws back through the window and slammed the wood-bordered pane down. ‘Leave my wife and me alone!’ was his closing statement on the whole wacky matter.

  I took a step back. My cock fell out of Mabel like the bottom out of the Oklahoma real estate market. I tucked and buttoned, scooped up my camera and scooted away from that home sweat home back to my parked jalopy. I jarred screws loose rocketing away from Mabel and her delusions of marriage.

  I’m a hawkshaw, not a psychiatrist. I handle cases, not head cases. There were more of us dicks in the phone book. My hunch was Mabel would be making the rounds. I pitied and envied my colleagues.

  Temptation Lives Next Door

  by Beverly Langland

  Alison Thornton hated the idea that anyone would label her a pervert. Yet, Alison was a voyeur. Ever since she had first moved into the neighbourhood and spotted the young beauty who lived next door she had suffered from the same compulsion – the overwhelming urge to take just one more look out of the window.

  Alison was a twitcher, a birdwatcher of sorts, and the particular bird who currently had her enthralled was a young woman named Lucy. Despite Alison’s reservations, her arousal when spying on the girl was genuine, and on more than one occasion, she’d given in to her imagination and found herself masturbating. Girls like Lucy were off limits to a woman like Alison, and all the more exciting for remaining (just) out of reach. OK, so Lucy was over 18, but ultimately Alison was still violating her trust.

  Lucy had become an obsession. As she watched the girl spread out on the sun lounger, supposedly in th
e seclusion of her own back garden, Alison couldn’t resist slipping her hand inside the waistband of her knickers. Sometimes she just liked to stand watching with her hand nestled against her sex – poised for action, feeling her clitoris tingling beneath her fingertips. She considered this a test of resolve, a promise of things to come. Most days she could – and would – tease herself for hours without giving in to the urge to move her fingers. Other times, the digits would seemingly curl inwards of their own volition and then, of course, the onward journey would be inevitable. Alison had always been a prolific masturbator even at the height of her affairs. She was, she supposed, highly sexed.

  Now, Lucy was off to university and when she left, Alison would be bereft. Only that morning they had chatted, the younger woman full of excitement about finishing college. As she listened, Alison was thinking of other things – nasty, dirty things, thoughts she was certain would make the girl blush. In Alison’s mind, whatever Lucy’s age, she would always remain an innocent, an angel. Considering the many boyfriends she’d seen visiting next door, complete innocence seemed unlikely, but Alison didn’t like to let reality mar her vision of perfection.

  Lucy’s head was tilted slightly to one side, her blonde hair cascading over one shoulder like a golden river heading for the valley of her cleavage. The freckles that lightly dusted the tops of her breasts were not visible from this distance, though when the two were talking, Alison often found herself counting them when she should have been looking at the girl’s face. The breasts themselves were rather small and sat high on Lucy’s chest, above the kind of washboard-flat stomach that is only achievable by the young and dedicated. To complement this, she had legs long enough to put a catwalk model to shame.

  Lucy’s eyes were closed, her face turned towards the sun as she lay enjoying its warmth. The distraction in next door’s garden meant it would likely be one of those days where Alison wouldn’t get anything done. She knew she should get back to work, knuckle down, but the temptation to sneak just one more peek would be too great. She would always find some excuse to get up from her desk and then she’d wander back to the window. Now, as she peered around the curtains, she saw Lucy had positioned the sun lounger to offer her a perfect view. The girl’s tiny bikini offered little protection from the midday sun – nor from her neighbour’s prying eyes. She had one leg raised with her thighs parted slightly. Alison stood watching in silence as Lucy lifted her right hand and brought her fingers to rest on her bikini briefs. There was a small movement, innocent surely, but Alison couldn’t help imagining that beneath the costume Lucy’s clitoris had stirred.