Abandoned Building Homeless Voyeur

The first time she noticed him was about six weeks ago. It was an unusually muggy night, the kind even Bombay is unused to. She had woken up just before dawn, sweating despite the ceiling fan being on the high setting. Damn this weather! She still needed a couple of hours of sleep before going to work. Maybe opening the window would help. She opened the curtain and threw open the window. There was no breeze whatsoever.

She was about to turn around when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. It was a man, sleeping on a pile of sand in the abandoned building across the street! Instinctively, her hand reached for her breasts, and made sure she was fully clothed. She looked carefully. His legs were bare. Was he naked? The moon came out from behind a cloud and she saw he was wearing shorts and a dirty t-shirt. He looked like an old man. Probably a homeless guy squatting in the abandoned building. She shrugged and went back to sleep.

In the morning, the man was gone. Maybe he was just a drifter.

Two nights later, when she got done talking to her fiance and turned the living room lights off, she noticed movement in the abandoned building. She tiptoed to the window along the wall, staying out of sights. And yes, there he was again. And he was looking right in her direction. Immediately, she ducked, but then realized that it was too dark in the room for him to see her. She went to the kitchen, and watched him through the glass squares in that window. He was just lying down on a pile of sand.

After that, she always checked to see if he was around. He was, most nights. Although he stayed behind a broken wall. And he did seem to be watching her.

That discovery gave her the creeps. Should she do something? Complain to the building security or maybe the cops? She had mild claustrophobia so she generally preferred to keep curtains open unless she was changing or had just gotten out of the shower. But if this guy was going to be watching her all the time....she wasn't sure she could do it. She explained the situation to her fiance over Skype. He didn't seem too bothered. "Honey, the guy is across the street. And just watching. Don't show him anything private. That's it. Poor guy is probably just admiring you. If he starts following you around or something, then yeah, call the cops. But for now, relax. You're moving out in a few weeks anyway."

So she tried to ignore the Watcher, as she had now started thinking of him as. He was always gone by the morning, so it's not like he was trying to watch her shower or something. He had probably just found this abandoned building a good place to sleep in, and yes, maybe he liked watching her. So what? She knew she looked good. He was neither the first nor the last guy to stare at her.

But she wanted to be sure about what and how much he could see. So one Saturday afternoon, she looked out her window to make sure he wasn't there (he never was during the day) and walked across the street. She was athletic, so had no trouble climbing over the barbed wire fence. Once inside the compound, she walked up the concrete stairs to the fourth floor. What she saw of her apartment made her realize that yeah, it really wasn't a big deal.

From his position, he could only see the couch and an easy chair in the living room, and the dresser drawer area of the bedroom. He could not see the entrance to the bathroom (which was attached to her bedroom). The wooden window meant he couldn't see into the kitchen. And he definitely could not see the part of the bedroom where she usually changed. In fact if this building had not been abandoned, whoever would have bought this apartment would have been able to see the same. And in Bombay, where space is at a premium, you often get such views. There was no need for her to freak out just because the Watcher was some sort of a poor manual laborer. She had gone back home fully assured.

Back to her last night in her apartment. She walked out of the kitchen, sat on the couch and started watching TV. But she couldn't concentrate on the screen. Her heart was racing at the prospect of what she was thinking of doing. Then she tried to remember the first time she was tempted to do such a thing. The genesis of the temptation lay in one of the most heart-rending scenes she had ever had the misfortune of witnessing.

A little over three weeks ago, she was coming back from a friend's party at night. The taxi stopped in front of her building. She was about to get out when her eye wandered to the abandoned building's compound. There he was! That had to be him!

He was gingerly climbing over the barbed wire fence. Just looking at the guy, she felt pity. He seemed mildly malnourished. Not emaciated, but certainly far from healthy. She guessed he was about 60. But he looked weaker than most 60 year olds. He was wearing a dirty lungi, which was folded around his bony thighs. The shirt looked like it hadn't been washed in ages. This was the guy she had been worried about? He couldn't even hurt a fly.

"One hundred and twenty rupees, madam." the taxi driver said.

She reached into my purse and took out the money. Again, she felt a pang of guilt. Here she was spending 120 rupees on a cab ride. And the Watcher, by the looks of it, probably didn't spend that much on his clothes in a year.

Living in Bombay, you are inured to abject poverty and destitution. This city doesn't hide its flaws, doesn't push its less fortunate citizens into the background. It doesn't particularly take care of them either. But as opposed to Delhi or Bangalore where there's a figurative moat separating the poor from the rich, in Bombay they exist side-by-side. The fanciest mansions are next to the most wretched slums. The pavements near the poshest of malls and designed showrooms have the homeless living in makeshift tents. Beggars, young and old, knock on the windows of cars at traffic signals asking for money in amounts so meager, it couldn't pay for the fuel the car burns just waiting at that signal.

If you're an upper middle class Indian living in Bombay, you either learn to willfully if callously ignore the plight of the poor, or you sign up for manic depression. We in Bombay don't need our own Jacob Riis. We see every day how the other half lives. We just prefer to turn a blind eye to it.

But occasionally, something breaks through. For her, it was what happened next.

She paid the cabbie and was about to get out when suddenly, a portly police constable lumbered past the door. He had noticed the Watcher climb the barbed wire fence, and pulled him off it. She heard a loud stream of invective as the well-fed constable slapped the poor old man a couple of times, and dragged him to the pavement. She watched aghast at how the constable was manhandling the old man as if he had committed some grave felony.

She heard the old man try to explain, through tears, the fact that he was simply going into the abandoned building to sleep. But the fat cop would have none of it. He kept slapping and dragging the old man down the street, causing a great deal of commotion.

Later, she would berate herself for not standing up for the old man. If she had just gotten out of the cab and scolded the constable, things would have turned out differently. As a privileged, educated, articulate and attractive Indian woman, her word carried weight on the streets of Bombay. If she had raised her voice, the constable would have let the old man go. But she just sat in the cab, staring at the scene like other privileged Indians around her.

That night, she described the scene to her fiance in detail. But he didn't seem to be as affected by it as she was. He made a few polite noises in response, said the right words to express his agreement, and then turned the topic towards which car they should buy for her when she moved to the bay area. She couldn't blame him. He was a world away.

"I need a drink" she said to herself as the scenes from that night replayed in her mind. She needed to calm her nerves. She usually didn't drink too much. But tonight, it might help. Especially if she was serious about going through with her plan.

She went to the kitchen and the only alcohol she found was brown rum a friend had brought over during a get-together. She didn't like brown rum. But it was that or nothing. She looked in the fridge. No mixers. She had emptied out almost everything from the fridge the previous day.

She grabbed the bottle and a glass and returned to the living room. Ice, she thought to herself and fetched it too. She poured ice and rum in the glass and took a sip.

Disgusting! But she didn't have any other option, drink wise. She braced herself and took a big swig. Then another. And soon the glass was empty.

She thought back to the first night she had done something like this. It had been completely impulsive. And the catalyst had been a joke from her fiance.

She brought up the topic of the poor old man and the constable again. And her fiance was more intent on describing to her his trip to Napa valley with some friends.

"You need to stop obsessing over the old man, sweetheart. Bombay is full of millions of such stories. You can't afford to get depressed every time you see an act of injustice."

"I know, but I feel so bad for the guy. I wish I could do something to make his life better."

"You wanna make his day? Flash him! One look at your awesome tits and he'll be ready to face a thousand more beatings from cops."

"You're such a perv!"

Obviously, it was a joke. But for some reason, the idea got stuck in her head. The old man had been watching her, albeit non-intrusively, for several weeks now. She had taken the utmost care not to be seen in a compromising position. But let's say he did see something. It really would make his day, wouldn't it?

And what was it going to cost her? Nothing. He was too poor to own a cellphone, so it's not like he could take pictures and post them on the internet. Nor could he tell her friends or family about it. Maybe she really should flash him.

Thoughts of this sort kept running through her head for a couple of days after her fiance made the joke. Then one night, she came back home from work late. Her last few days in the office were bound to be hectic. She plonked herself on the couch and turned the TV on. Flipping channels, she came across American Beauty. It was one of her favorite movies. She kept watching it.

Then came the erotic scene where Thora Birch exposes her boobs for her neighbor. Obviously, the actual skin display was censored by the scissor-happy Indian channel. But she had seen the movie many times on DVD. She knew how it happens. And that got her thinking about her fiance's joke again. The Watcher would definitely be there. Maybe she should just flash him.

She kept watching the movie and weighing the pros and cons of pulling a Thora Birch. In pros, she would make a sad underprivileged old man very happy. In cons....nothing. By the time the movie ended, she had convinced herself to do the unthinkable.

She walked into the bedroom. And unlike every night, she didn't close the curtains. She was sure he'd be watching. She hoped he'd be watching. Was she really going to do this, she asked herself. Yes came the answer. But she couldn't bring herself to face her voyeur like Thora Birch did. She decided to turn her back to the window, take off her top and bra, and then flash him.

She got up, took her night clothes out of the closet. Then with her back to the window, she started unbuttoning her shirt. Every button seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. Her heart was beating so fast, she wondered if the Watcher could hear it. Slowly she unbuttoned the shirt. Then it was completely open. With great effort, she slipped the shirt off and let it fall to the ground. There she was, standing in just her bra. The Watcher could see her bare back.

And suddenly, panic gripped her. What the hell was she doing? This was insane. Instantly, she turned around and ran to the window. She felt her boobs bounce as she ran, and couldn't help wondering how they looked to the Watcher. She reached the window with a quick sprint and closed the curtain. She was breathing heavily as she slumped to the floor. She sat on the floor, breathless, for at least five minutes.

Then she got up and slowly looked out of the window through the crack between the curtains. What she saw disgusted and enchanted her. The watcher was on his back like always. But she could clearly make out some motion near his crotch. Not only had he seen her in her bra, he was also masturbating to her. She felt strangely violated and a bit peeved. But then she thought to herself, of course he's going to jack off. That's what men do. Isn't that what her fiance had done in the early days of her dating when she wasn;t ready to go all the way? He'd get her naked and then jack off on her tits.

She kept looking at the Watcher masturbate, hidden behind the curtain. Finally he seemed to have cum, although she couldn't be sure. The motion stopped. She shook her head, changed into her night clothes, and tried sleeping. But she couldn't sleep. And hour later she got up and spied on him through the crack in the curtain again. God! He was masturbating again! She felt like a pervert watching him do that and jumped back on the bed willing herself to sleep.

She finished her second drink as she replayed the events of that night in her head. That night, she had set out to flash him, but had chickened out. It was kinda planned, but it didn't really happen. As she sipped on the disgusting rum, she thought about the other night, when it had been more impulsive.

This was just a week ago. She had come home, watched TV, and then before sleeping had gone to the bedroom to change. After that American-Beauty-driven night, she had been to chicken to try a repeat. Also, she didn't want him to realize she was flashing him on purpose. What if he turned up at her doorstep? Okay, that was impossible, given all the security in her building. They'd never let a guy like him through. But still, what if he waited for her on the street, interpreting her actions as some sort of a come-hither? So she'd given up on the idea.

That night, she closed the curtains. She took off her shirt and trousers. And was about to slip on her night clothes when she heard her cellphone ring in the living room. She could just get dressed and then go answer the phone. She knew that the Watcher had the best view of the living room, especially the path she'd have to take to get to her phone. And then, in a split second, she decided to go for it. Give him another glimpse if he was lucky enough to be watching.

She ran to the living room, clad in just her bra and panties. Not exactly Bohemian, she told herself. She had worn skimpier bikinis on the beaches of Goa. This was a perfectly normal set of bra and panties. Still, her heart was racing as she ran to get the phone. It was her mother. She answered it, and ran back to the bedroom.

Talking to one's mother is the best way to rid oneself of any kinky impulses. Her mom was just calling to remind her to pack the extra cables for the DVD player before she shipped it to Surat. The phone call lasted just a minute or so. But by the end, she had gotten over her exhibitionist impulse. She put on her t-shirt and sweatpants and opened the curtain to show it to the Watcher, in case he was waiting for something more. Then she turned off the lights and tried to sleep. But again, she couldn't.

Again, she sneaked to the bedroom window and looked at him. And again, he was jacking off.

For the next few days, she did her best to not think about the Watcher at all. She was busy enough with other chores. But as the clocked ticked inexorably towards her last night in her apartment, she heard a voice telling her to do something more. To well and truly make his day. Or night. Or month. That morning she made a fairly detailed resolution. She considered telling her fiance but decided to save it for a face-to-face conversation.

And now she found herself in the moment, wondering if she had what it took to go through with it.

She chugged the remaining drink and grimaced at how bad it tasted. By now the alcohol had made its way into her bloodstream and she felt light-headed. She also felt a lot calmer than before. That's it for the rum, she decided and took the bottle back to the kitchen. She poured the remaining rum into the sink and threw the bottle into the trash can. Then she returned to the living room, trying to mentally prepare herself for what lay ahead.

She stared into nothingness as she told herself that she was doing something nice and kind. Yes, there were other ways to be philanthropic. But he would certainly appreciate this a lot more.

Finally, she got up. Showtime, she told herself. But is he still there?

She went to the kitchen and sidled up to the wooden window. She looked through the glass and saw he was still there, behind the wall. Okay, this is it. Now or never.

She walked out of the kitchen and went to the bedroom. She turned the light on, and threw a quick sideways glance towards the window to make sure the curtains were open. Then she moved to the mirror near her bed, directly in front of the window. She was standing at the spot that was the most visible part of the bedroom for the Watcher.

She looked in the mirror, and saw her own face staring back. She was tense, but also slightly excited. Could she really do this? Should she really do this? She had a silent conversation with the face in the mirror for a couple of minutes. She resisted the temptation to look out of the window and squarely at the Watcher.

Finally, she took a deep breath and thought to herself "HERE GOES!"

She put her fingers into the elastic waistband of her red skirt. Then she turned to the right facing away from the window. She wasn't sure if she did this to look away from him or to give him a good view. Then she slowly started pushing her skirt down.

THEM

He drew his breath in rapidly. She was taking her clothes off! Without closing the curtains! He watched with rapt attention as her fingers pushed the skirt down and her perfect buttocks became visible. The panties were black. They appeared to be made of a mesh like material. Lace, I think they call it, he thought to himself. Eventually the skirt reached her ankles and she stepped out of it. And then just stood there for a few seconds. Keep standing like that my dear, he thought. I love how your butt looks.

Well, the skirt is gone, she thought to herself. Now he could see her in her panties. Her fiance loved these lace panties. Whenever she wore them, he kept them on while they made love, just sliding the crotch to the side to enter her. She wondered if the Watcher knew what lace was. Ok, next, the top. She loved this top because she thought it made her boobs look bigger than they actually were. She crossed her hands in front of her and slowly started raising the top. She turned 90 degrees to the left so she was sideways to the window again.

Wow, he thought. She is taking her top off! And slowly. This was even more magical than the other nights. His hands took his dick out of his shorts and started jacking off. As she raised her hands grabbing the edges of the top, first her flat stomach came into view. Then the bottom of her white bra. Then her lovely boobs. And then her shoulders. He realized with a pang that in all this obsession over tits and asses, he had forgotten how he had a shoulder fetish in his younger days. He loved biting women's shoulders, licking them, grabbing them while he made love. And this young lady sure had perfect shoulders. Her head disappeared for a second as the top covered it. Then it reappeared. He could see her expression was far from normal. It seemed almost....horny! He was so caught up in her expression that it took him a while to look at her bra-covered boobs.