The Lone Window
This story contains sexually explicit scenes.
The night air was brisk as he walked down the sidewalk. He’d been working late and time had gotten away from him. He was usually home by this hour, working fervently at his desk, trying to add flavor to one of his stories. Even now, his mind raced with thoughts and ideas on his newest fiction effort. He’d heard some novelists, were observers – they wrote what they saw. Others relied totally on imagination. He preferred writing from personal experience. Unfortunately, a scene in his latest book was a bit beyond anything he’d been privy to: what was it like to peek in a stranger’s window? He had no idea.
He ambled along, and the soft light illuminating the street flickered, followed by a popping sound. The burst made him jump. The light flickered out. It was a dark night. Cloud cover prevented the moon or stars from shining. The only visible light was from the back window of a nearby cottage. He had walked past that cottage every day for the last five years.
The occupant of the home was a dowdy looking woman who seemed to care little for her appearance. The few times he had bumped into her he’d been cordial, but the woman always averted her eyes, as if contact could sear her.
Another day, the thought may never have entered his mind. But there was the problem of the novel. He hesitated only a second. It would give him an idea about what a man would feel like when peering through a stranger’s window.
He tiptoed to the side of the house. His heart pounded so fast he feared a heart attack. This burst of adrenaline must surely be part of the intrigue. Every sound reverberated, echoing three times as loudly as normal. Even the crunching of leaves beneath his feet could give his presence away. He stepped gingerly, waiting after each step to hear the yell of discovery.
After a few minutes, which ticked like interminable hours, he reached the window and was gratified to see how easy it would be to peer straight in. Thank goodness for his six-foot height.
He wasn’t prepared for what he saw beyond the window. He blinked several times. Standing in front of a mirror was the woman. The sight would be ingrained in his mind for some time to come.
She stood like an angel in white gossamer. She loosened her hair from the strict bun she always wore, and it flowed freely to her waist. The soft candlelight in the room picked up highlights of burnt red as her chestnut mane tumbled in waves over her shoulders. The glimmer of light silhouetted the woman’s form beneath the gown. Her ample breasts hung freely, and her nipples strained against the light fabric. Her waist was clearly defined. And as she turned, the light through the translucent fabric, allowed him a glimpse of the triangular thatch of chestnut hair that topped her rounded thighs.
As she looked at herself in the mirror, her hands crossed over her chest and rested on the upper arm opposite the hand. She let her hands glide down and then back up again as if warming herself against a chill. Then, as her hands continued to warm, he sensed a palpable change. Her eyes closed and her body began to sway to some imagined tune. She turned left, she turned right, and with each movement the gown caught her form and outlined it further.
His breath caught in his throat and his mouth watered. He knew he had enough to write the portion of his novel, and he should turn to go. But he could not move. He was locked in place. Her siren swaying hypnotized him.
She stopped suddenly and again faced the mirror. He watched as she reached to her breast and surrounded the nipple. She examined both breasts, letting the fabric pull taunt across them. From his vantage point, he could see both the nipple and its mirrored reflection. He felt the stirring in his loins and wished it were his hands cupping her breasts. He wished his were the hands that pulled the fabric to accentuate her body’s form.
Beads of moisture formed on his forehead. Was it the anonymity, or was it the idea of watching her as she thought herself to be all alone that stirred him to this height of arousal? He was uncertain. He only knew he wanted to watch, wanted to follow her intent to whatever end would come.
Her right hand moved down her abdomen and came to rest over her pubic mound. She only touched herself there briefly, and then she pulled away. He feared she was finished. He waited anxiously, willing her to continue.
She grabbed the gown in her hands and began bunching it up little by little, exposing more and more of her thighs. He realized with a jolt that he was holding his breath. With the final lift, she allowed him unfettered sight of her womanly treasures. His exhalation caused a mist to form on the window, and he again felt the panic of discovery. But she continued to examine herself in the mirror, and he could still make out her form, and he realized he was not found out.
She removed the gown completely and stood naked before the mirror. Her beauty was nondescript and possibly evident merely because of her naturalness, her seemingly unawareness of self-consciousness. His composure was, at best, minimal, and it was threatening to unravel completely. She sat then, on the floor, still facing the mirror, legs bent at the knees, spread openly. She leaned back on her elbows and her head fell back. In this languid position she continued her onslaught of self-discovery.
Instinctively, his hand went between his legs. His mounting desire raged inside his pants.
His eyes never left her, for fear of missing some small nuance of touch, and he wanted to lap up everything. She reached forward, letting her eyes follow her movements in the mirror. Her fingers breached the soft protective hair covering her Venus mound. As she opened herself to her own reflection, he could make out the shadings of pink and mauve. Where his mouth had once been watering, it was now completely dry. His need became palpable as the throbbing in his groin signaled an almost spontaneous eruption.
Her small fingers found their destination, and with the knowledge of self, she began to rub in a slow circular pattern. She arched her hips up to the mirror, and her head fell back in the state of oblivion.
He watched without blinking, staring as she delved a finger deep within herself, only to bring it out damp with her moisture. Her body began to gyrate, her hips up in the air supported only by her feet. She moaned louder and louder, audible even through the window. She rubbed, faster, then slower, then faster again. Until, with the power of humanity, her body found sweet release. Her primal scream symbolized the current that flowed through her. She froze, suspended in orgasm; her hair swept the floor behind her, her body poised in supplication to some unknown deity above her.
And then she fell back to the floor in exhaustion. As her climax had mounted, he felt his own swelling, and the exploding of his own seed overwhelmed him. He muffled his voice, still knowing somewhere in the recesses of his mind that what he was doing was probably illegal and unethical.
He looked down and found an odd pleasure in the wetness that spread across the front of his pants. At that moment he looked back, and the woman stood and slipped the gown back over her head. He watched as she gathered the candle, turned to the window, smiled, and snuffed out the light.
Copyright © 1998 by Desdmona.