By R V Raiment
Copyright 2004 RVRaiment (rvraiment@yahoo.com)
Surfing on the PC in the corner of his room Martin has truffled out another page of cyber-porn and watches as an
on-screen nymph fellates an anonymous cock of intimidating proportions. Shelving the secret disquiet at his own
comparative smallness and already serially aroused, Martin drops a hand toward his aching, bulging flies, raps
his knuckles on the projecting keyboard rest and curses.
Another icon tempting he double-clicks it, calls up a fly-out demanding registration and payment. An
impoverished undergraduate, he never does sign up, only flirts with titillating homepages like a finger tracing the
puckered halo of a sphincter it knows it may not enter. He cannot, of course, afford to.
Parents not unsympathetic to his poverty sometimes sub him, but their improving his jerking-off facilities is
beyond his asking. Their interest in his love-life is already fixed by age and temperament, limited to wondering
when he’ll find the ‘nice girl’ he hasn’t yet begun to look for, and dreaming of grandchildren.
It is not that he chooses or prefers just to watch, not that he elects only to be a peeping Tom at the cyber-window
of the Net. He has fucked in this room, usually girls too drunk and too affectedly world-wise to care, who seldom
return for more than one tryst. Still young, and in that semi-permanent ache of arousal which somehow defines
those years, he must slake his appetites somehow.
Mindful of the clock he now logs off, stands up and begins to undress, dumping his clothes by the big double
bed. Only early evening yet, it is very warm and private in his rented room, and the weight in his balls now urgent
of release, he prefers to masturbate them with his kit off.
Lying on the bed, warmly glowing cock in hand, he cannot help thinking of Ellen. A jewel of a landlady, charging
low rent for a room that is spacious, always warm, the activities within it quite unquestioned. “No drugs,” she’s
told him; “and no noisy parties. Otherwise it’s up to you.” And she means it. “I was young, too, once,” she’d
added, and he’d fully understood the implication.
Not that she is old, now. Indeed Ellen McDowd still bears more than a passing resemblance to Marilyn Monroe in
her prime; except that the lovely lost Marilyn did not attain the statelier Ellen’s years. And had she done, it must
be said, she might not have worn those years as well as Ellen, having that form of buxom-ness at the last which
too easily tends to over-weight. Ellen older better resembles the Marilyn younger, and has taken pains to stay
that way.
She sometimes disconcerts him. Taking pity on his loneliness she serves him coffee in the kitchen, supper in the
lounge. In that orderly, always gently aromatic kitchen which gleams cleanliness from every antique pine and
chromium surface, he can hardly keep himself from watching as she bends and reaches, buttocks and breasts
thrusting pertly at the fabric of her clothes, and in the lounge it can be worse.
Sometimes she’ll sit with him on the sofa, show him photographs of holidays and three husbands – the first
deceased, the other two divorced. Gravity and the natural tendencies of deep, soft upholstery, inevitably sink
their bodies closer. Her shoulder, arm, the swell of her hip warm against his own, her own full, stockinged thigh
pressing naturally against his leg, his nostrils are full of the sweet, clean scent of her. And when she sits in the
facing armchair he works hard not to stare at that to which her crossing legs and the angle of the seat demand
attention.
Martin in bed and cock in hand it is often Ellen’s smiling ghost which writhes disconcertingly naked in warm
corners of his mind, no matter that he does not look for it. Attractive, kind, barely old enough to be his mother, it
feels wrong. And that makes the rest of it worse.
Cock and absorbent cast-off briefs in hand now, he lies upon the bed in semi-darkness, curtains closed. The
room lit by the PC screen alone, he tries not to gaze toward the fitted wardrobe. Taking up the whole wall on one
side of the room, a metre deep, it has one door with an ‘iffy’ hinge which remains un-mended and which, unless
locked, always hangs ajar. Sometimes, as suddenly now, there is a pinpoint of light in its darkness.
Martin looks away, feebly resisting, the urgent demand of his impatient, thick-swollen cock hotly pleading desire
over guilt and discretion. Shame on his face, cock jauntily expectant, it is only a few moments before he is
padding bare-foot over the floor, the weight of his penis swinging before him as if in a dance of excitement.
Carefully, quietly, he eases the door aside and steps into the wardrobe, seeking the warm Narnian gateway that
lies beyond his few hanging clothes. The partition wall at the back is inexpertly built, the tiny hole in the
plasterboard flanged with debris, the inside of a screw-hole for a screw that did not take. And through it he can
see her.
A back view first, as she undresses at the sink, her discarded skirt a dark splash on the toilet seat. Slender
fingers reflected in the bathroom mirror slowly unbutton her crisp cotton blouse and discard it, then, reaching
behind her perfect shoulders, unclip the white brassiere.
His angle of view – slightly upward – affords but a fleeting glimpse of breast curve and nipple and his focus shifts
quickly to the hands sliding into the waistband of her briefs. She bends as she coaxes them down, glorious
moons of her ass towards him, warm sphincter peeking, secret valley yet invisible.
He watches her turn to the Victorian splay-legged bath in the centre of the room, admires the full, fruitful
roundness of her breasts and the tawny dark triangle of her groin.
Now she’ll pause, one white foot upon the bath rim for inspection, and in the lifting she reveals her most intimate
self to him, discloses ripe pink petals of a flower still darkly mysterious. Satisfied that the skin of that foot is as
flawless as the rest she lowers it and raises the other, repeating her exposure, whilst he leans sweating on the
studding wall and trembling.
In the bathtub she stands facing towards him, lifts the antique telephone mixer handset and sprays herself down,
soaps herself thoroughly, suds trickling enviably from her heat-hardened nipples, slicking and folding down soft
curve of abdomen, leaking into her garden. She soaps herself there, too, then showers again before subsiding
languidly into the steaming water with a sigh of pleasure that whispers into his balls.
A strange regime, her toilette, but almost invariably the same, and he is too aroused to wonder at it, too full of
guilt for peeping, invading her privacy.
He finds it hard to understand that a woman with such a face and body remains unmarried, entertains no male
guests that he knows of, and wondering if she’s gay adds an extra frisson to his peeping. But she is not.
The Mr McDowd whose name she kept had been a pleasant, amiable mouse of a man, whose modest wealth
proved his only lasting attribute. Gentleness, per se, is not of course a weakness, yet Ellen seems invariably to
have attracted gentle men whose gentleness * was * born of weakness, moles of men drawn blinking confusedly
into the world she lighted only to retreat from her brightness.
Her first had never sought to leave her but had lived as a man unable to believe his luck, till all-too-soon he had
driven his car into a solid stone wall, his reported driving consistent with that of a man asleep at the wheel. For
that she occasionally feels remorse, latterly convinced that it was perhaps her own passionate appetites which
had so far exhausted him. Her second and third had each abandoned and divorced her, both citing
irreconcilable differences, each too scared to admit the truth that they feared they would one day enter her
devouring ever-hungry vulva never to emerge again. A 12 inch strap-on plastic phallus being offered to his anus
had been the final, rather solid, straw for number three.
Alone in her comfortable Georgian terrace for far more of the time than she wants to be, wary of fortune-hunters,
surrogate-mother-seekers and dangerously incautious one-night-standers, Mrs McDowd has found salvation –
Mrs Butterick and technology.
In life, if not appearance, Mary Butterick is a clone of Ellen, a cock-and-loving-arms-hungry divorcee too-often
disappointed.
A small island of mature pulchritude in a sea of bouncing, hip, arse and tit gyrating children, they first met while
cautiously cruising in a night-club. Otherwise un-approached their tentative conversation at the bar enlivened
with the discovery of similarity and led to a friendly rapprochement begun with drinks at Mary’s home.
And Mary Butterick had books, and toys the like of which Ellen had not encountered till desperation drove her to
that attempt to enliven the defeated penis of Mr McDowd the third. Discouraged then, she had not persisted, but
Mary had. And, over a period of weeks, drinking and talking, deeply confiding, they examined the toys together
and dipped, giggling like schoolgirls, into the sexual recipes and fantasies of literature.
Bringing each other the gift of togetherness, each delighting in the other’s responsiveness and happy vitality,
they began to vie with each other as to who could bring to a subsequent meeting the most challenging, hottest,
steamiest toy or tale. Gasping at times, laughing at times until the tears flowed, hugging each other in the excess
helplessness of laughter and excitement over-spilling, they were drawn ever closer.
Quite how the next step was ventured neither of them can remember. One moment, a book and shared
inheritance between them, each gazing upon the other with an aching hollow in her belly, then, hesitant at first,
but hungry, dry of throat and trembling as if with fever, they both undressed where they stood, in the perfumed,
cosy, living room.
Manoeuvring into contact with each other, neither quite knowing where to begin, clumsy and uncertain, from the
moment skin kisses skin theirs became a dance in slow motion as of two curvaceous clouds melding effortlessly
into one. Kissing Mary on the lips unleashed in Ellen hunger only sharpened by the warm soft shock of tongue
meeting tongue and mouth-moistness joining.
To Ellen’s touch Mary’s sisterly breasts were hard-peaked mounds of miracle, and the gentle fingers caressing
her ass, gently drawing the cheeks apart, had that softness of a dream like the tingling in her valley.
A mute, questioning look, and cheeks as soft as Ellen’s own slid gently down from breast to curving belly, swept
softly through dark curls and rested between her thighs. Mary’s tongue lapping at her sweet engorgement,
probing wet and sweet and firm to find that glorious little hardness, circling it moistly, tripping it gently, flicking and
tilting and lapping, Ellen arched backwards with a sigh, but now restrained her, her hand soft and firm in Mary’s
golden hair.
A frisson of fear, for Mary, so committed now, the taste of Ellen perfume on her tongue, her own cunt hurting with
new want, softly fattening, warmly filling. But Ellen drew gently away, and smiling, face and body glowing,
descended now, drawing Mary to the floor, positioning herself the better for Mary’s tongue to find her clitoris and
the better to nuzzle and to delve, herself, in the other’s softly perfumed garden.
Two peeping buds, two small sweet sisters, two tongues creaming small pink confections with saliva, the cheeks
of each hot between embracing thighs of the other. Full womanly curls soft tickling their chins, mouths closing
hungry around full lips of labia, seeking and teasing the butterfly minora with flickering tongues, dancing like
fireflies, sparkling with heat in the warm, sweat-moist darkness.
Each into the other, as if at a signal, their tongues dove probing and questing and rolling and curling and
slithering around, then shafting like cocks in the way they remember. Pulsing and pushing and hungrily delving,
mouths wrapping and sucking and drawing and blowing, chins bunting the bone between sweet cunt and ass,
were suddenly wet now, gloriously wet now, with mouth-wet and cunt-wet of flowing effusion of liquid deliverance.
Trembling and arching and bucking electric, faces slipping in liquid and heat, each felt the tingling, feather soft
breath of that last exhalation, that sigh of fulfilment, whispering and feathering on warmth of wet cunt as they
came.
Dwelling softly on the pleasure, afterwards embracing in the warmth of Mary’s bed, they know they are not exactly
gay, the pulsating purple cock retaining its magic for both, but in the absence of the right one, and weary of the
search, they have found a something extra and they like it.
And it is Mary, in student services, who sends the students to her. Sweet boys on the threshold of manhood, just
old enough to think they’ve crossed it, undergraduates new to Uni neither finding accommodation in its limited
halls of residence nor knowing anyone well enough to share, Ellen meets their temporary housing needs by
renting out the room.
And it is they who meet her needs, too, now, and Mary’s.
Naked on her towel-covered bed, Ellen glances at the outsize flat-screen of her own, state-of-the-art PC and
tinkers to find the recording. The finely detailed living colour playback of her stripping and bathing itself excites
her, loving both herself for herself and in image as a stranger.
And the cameras show her strangers, too – Martin bathing, standing dick in hand at the john, male and female
visitors in their own moments of privacy. Carole – a girl he desperately wants to fuck but has not yet - has bathed
here, at his invitation, and of necessity of course has used the john. The perfect peaches of Carole’s arse are
among the favourites in Ellen’s archives.
Cameras in his bed-sit, too, watch him dress, undress, even masturbate, providing her with pleasure, and when
he has his pussy so does she, the combining warmth of room and bodies tending early to result in discarded
bedclothes. Sometimes she is moved by his youthful desperation, sometimes moved to giggling by the bouncing
of his small and slightly spotty rump, the clumsiness of his endearments.
Running the recording of her bathing again she runs another in a parallel window and reaches down to touch
herself and play.
The image is strange, predominantly green, green-tinted whites and blacks, dull cream haloes of iris round the
brighter white of his pupils flashing when they catch the pinhole beam of light from his surveillance point. The
night-vision camera in the wardrobe shows her the trembling and jolting of his green-white buttocks, the
sometimes frantic to-and-fro sliding of the pale hand round his bulging cock, made satisfyingly larger by elements
of lens distortion. One cyclopean eye peers at her blindly, jolts and stammers as he groans, fountaining
delicious white.
As tremors of pleasure begin to form waves of wanting in her Ellen hears the doorbell ring and waits, naked and
hungry on her bed of towels, cunt moist and slick in ready expectation, listening for Mary’s foot-tread on the stairs.
RVRaiment
Copyright 2004, Richard V Raiment (RVRaiment@AOL.com)
All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or in part without written permission from the
author
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The Voyeur
Copyright 2004, RV
Raiment
(rvraiment@yahoo.com)
All rights reserved. Content
may not be copied or used
in whole or in part without
written permission from the
author.
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Raiment
(rvraiment@yahoo.com)
All rights reserved. Content
may not be copied or used
in whole or in part without
written permission from the
author.
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