Beyond Walls

The third squeak decided it. Rolling gently off the bed I padded across the cold tiles of the room to face the mottled wall adjoining our neighbour, staring at it, contemplating my one true vice. 'Aural voyeurism' I called it: the act of listening in to other people's intimate moments. Whether pianissimo or forte, it turned me on intensely and I sought every opportunity to share others' sexual gratification, basking amid the symphony of love with my hand shoved indelicately between my legs as I chased after their orgasms with one or more of my own. Twisted maybe, but part of me nevertheless. If I denied such urges, would I be less of a woman? Less human? Or would the urges find some other way to surface? Like in dreams, maybe?

A sigh from behind the wall ended my philosophising and I paced to the en-suite to fetch a tumbler then found a suitable spot in the entrance hall, just out of sight of Adam. Should he wake, I wanted plausible deniability. It felt deceitful to keep this dark side of myself hidden from him and there were so many occasions when I felt I just needed to blurt it out into the open. He was going to become my husband, and spouses didn't keep secrets from one another, did they? Or did they? I was fairly sure he'd understand, but each time I plucked up courage to build it into the conversation, I bottled. Maybe I wasn't ready to fully admit the level to which it defined me. Or maybe deep down I was just a coward. I pursed my lips. One day.

The wall was a little rough, as if it had been rendered with some low-grade ballast and then directly painted. That was sure to make it more difficult to obtain a clean sound, but the fact I heard the squeaks and that sigh so clearly without the aid of the glass meant there was little chance of the wall being anything more than three or four inches thick.

Before committing, I paused with the rim of the glass grinding against the uneven surface. I knew who resided next door as we'd exchanged a nod when returning from breakfast. By all outward appearances she was the archetypal moody daughter on holiday with her sun-worshipping mum and gran, for some reason choosing a family vacation over staying at home with her boyfriend and unrestricted access to the drinks cabinet. Maybe the lack of father figure had something to do with it. At dinner I'd noticed just a faint untanned ring as the only evidence of her mother's prior status.

Like all regular young women in our image-conscious, media-soaked world, this particular screenager spent much of the time when not in the pool absorbed with her iPhone, presumably communicating with friends or plugged into music. Her attire was always chic at dinner and verging on skimpy poolside. I swear I caught Adam surreptitiously checking her out over his sunglasses a few times as she stepped shimmering from the pool in that clingy black two-piece separated by an impeccably toned stomach. And if her mother was anything to go by, the good looks would continue well into her forties.

Of course I was jealous of her youth and the natural, effortless beauty I didn't have a decade further down the line from her. I'm not naïve enough to think Adam doesn't window shop, and if I was blessed with her perfect body I'd damn well flaunt it too. Maybe envy or the prospect of discovering the formula for youthful exuberance was part of the reason I pressed my ear to the cool glass: I wanted to check out the competition and find out what made her tick. Well, that was my justification to give in to those dark urges of mine.

In the early stages of listening, it was always difficult to conjure an accurate mental map of what was going on. The physical layout of the room was usually easy to visualise because it would be roughly a mirror image of ours. But the nuances and detail of what she was doing and how she was arranged could only be ascertained through careful interpretation of the sonic reflections that bounced off the walls and were channelled to my ear.

The first thing I noticed as I tuned into the room was that she was trying to be discreet, and not entirely succeeding. There were a few periods of silence punctuated only by the odd whimper and reluctant bed springs as she rearranged her position. Based on the fact her infrequent soft sighs were clearly heard, I pictured her on her back, naked like I was, legs gently parted, knees slightly raised from the bed, heels digging into it as her fingers played through the wiry, charcoal strands of pubic hair that covered her mound. I could always refine the imagery later, but that was a good start.

In my mind's eye, each little sigh or gasp was the product of her digits finding the tiny button nestled in her inverted vee and giving it a stroke. She'd rub her fingers either side of the little pearl, pulling back the hood to expose its shiny surface, then let the cover retract as she guided her fingers deeper between her impossibly trim thighs, seeking the start of her wetness. Droplets of moisture would no doubt pepper her bush, glistening in the afternoon light.

My makeshift speaker dutifully amplified a sharp intake of breath, and a lump caught in my throat. Intuition led me to believe she'd slipped a finger inside her wet estuary to test the waters and liked what she found. Maybe she was fondling her breasts too, tweaking her nipples alternately with one hand while she explored herself with the other. I couldn't help but join in, my spare hand massaging the soft flesh of my chest. It responded accordingly, the cap hardening as I pinched it, shooting hoops of electricity into my body.

She exhaled a couple of times, clearly aroused. It reminded me of a segment from Sadeness on the first Enigma album. And then there was silence. Had I spent too long procrastinating and missed the build up? Had she come? It was difficult to tell. I strained to hear, repositioning the tumbler, slightly disappointed that the exhalations could signal the end. Then I heard a faint clicking noise, a repetitive tap tap tap; perhaps contact with her wetness. I waited, playing various scenarios in my head, trying to work out in which position she was oriented and what she was touching. My free hand continued to glide up and down my body, lighting up whatever it touched as my imagination took hold.

The tapping was drowned by a loud couple wandering past our rooms, animated voices and heels echoing in the sparsely decorated corridor. I waited out the interruption and, when the din eventually faded, tuned in again, finding just silence from my neighbour save for the occasional creak from the cheap bed.

Then there was a vibration noise. I gripped the tumbler in anticipation of perhaps some action from a toy she'd brought with her. I never went away without mine, maybe she was the same. But the vibration was short-lived, followed by a void before the tapping resumed. It took a little while to dawn on me that it was fingernails against the screen of her damn phone. I rolled my eyes. Youngsters and their inseparable technology!

Presuming she was done and merely exchanging pleasantries with one of her girlfriends back home, I prepared to give up to go and finish the job I started earlier in my own bed, when I froze. With my ear zeroed on the glass for optimum sound transmission, there could be no other explanation for what I had heard, but my brain wouldn't accept it. It simply refused.

A few agonising seconds passed as I tried to convince myself that it had been a figment of my overactive imagination. I held my breath as I listened, just in case it was a reflection of a noise I had made as I readied myself to return to bed. She tapped her phone's screen again a few times then the sheets rustled as she changed position, shortly followed by the familiar sound of fingers in a sticky pussy.

The walls really were paper thin and the clarity the glass afforded was tremendous. I loved being this close to the action. It was the next best thing to being in the room with her, watching her stoke her fires, legs akimbo, eyes closed, mouth apart as she became lost in self-discovery. I touched myself, reinvigorated, finding my entrance moist and inviting despite being some way from orgasm. The girl's phone vibrated again with an incoming text message. A few taps, then further nothingness as my thudding heartbeats consumed me. I could hardly breathe with the anticipation.

My insides somersaulted as the shutter sound from her phone's camera greeted my eager ear and brought a whole new slant to my invasion of the dirty minx's privacy. My ear burned and mind raced with possible scenes as she posed for the lens: hand cupping a pert breast, a close-up of an erect nipple, fingers in her mouth, or inside her slippery pussy. All captured, digitized and transmitted to her ecstatic boyfriend sitting at home, solid cock in hand, waiting impatiently for the next instalment. Maybe he was egging her on, or sexting what to do or photograph next, the technology bridging the distance until they could once again physically join in carnal heat. Perhaps he was taking selfies of his own arousal and sending them to her as she lay barely a few feet from my ear. The possibilities were endless and my body was as rigid as her boyfriend's weighty erection.

I imagined her spread-eagled on the crisp, starched sheets, knees raised, splaying her lips for the camera, tapping in "Look how wet you make me xoxo" and sending it. Although she was still quiet, the noise level was gradually increasing as she became bolder, which suited me perfectly. Little gasps and the repetitive clicking of sticky wetness that accompanied masturbation were all magnified and directly injected into my head thanks to the wonderful properties of the glass in my hand. Consequently, my body was on high alert, a million tiny messages swarming through me, flicking on pleasure receptors, each one responsible for passing the information to its neighbour until my entire body throbbed and I had to resume pinching, squeezing, stroking, and probing to appease it. I began to lose myself in my senses as my fingers danced.

Another text came through. Did this one contain an image of a hard, veined dick smeared with pre-come, designed to drive her wild with desire for her man back home? Perhaps he had his hand encased around the thick shaft, fat head swollen in readiness, desperately wishing to pierce her outer defences and glide into her silky confines. Or was it a photograph of his semen splotched onto his belly, unable to contain himself after he'd seen the pictures of her juicy insides? Whatever the content, the bed complained as she shifted position, preparing for the next shot.

Her breathing sounded further away so I surmised she'd moved onto all fours. Had I been blessed with x-ray vision I'd have been able to look straight at her upturned bottom. The camera obediently seized a similar vista, freezing the action and forming an imprint in my mind. In my version of events she was looking back at the lens with a sultry pout, strands of dark hair clinging to her cheek with perspiration as the phone in her outstretched arm recorded the view of her flawless behind and the wet treasure open below. There was a brief flurry of tapping as she typed something like "This is all yours when I get home xoxo," and hit Send.

A dull thud greeted my ear as the phone hit the bed. Clearly she needed both hands to masturbate and, judging by the ferocity of the shuffling and squishing, I gathered she was close to exploding, staring at the hastily discarded phone screen through half-closed eyes. The picture of her boyfriend's proud length would penetrate her mind as she imagined it endlessly pounding into her from behind. Feeling his hands on her upturned bottom, fingertips digging into her flesh, pulling her toward him as she was impaled time and again, panting his name.

The imagery it conjured was not unlike a scene from one of my dreams. With no knowledge of this man at the other end of the phone, I was lost in the power of his anonymity. What would it feel like to be this girl when she returned into his welcoming arms? To be whisked back to his place, thrown on the bed and fucked as if the week apart had been a year. To give herself fully to him. To feel his weight bearing down on her and be able to do nothing but revel in the fabulous sensation of relinquishing control. I almost cried out at the vision, catching my exhalation just in time as I slid two fingers between the folds of my wet pussy and up as far as I could reach, jamming my palm against my appreciative clitoris, crushing it rhythmically to mirror the action in my head.

With one ear and as much concentration as I could muster, I listened as her fingers circled her pleasure centre and drove inside her tumbling wetness, her breaths turning staccato. Mouth agape, I buried my hand between my legs then retrieved my fingers coated in nectar, slathering the juice I found there all over my bare lips on their way to seek my hard clit. I joined her, flicking and circling to delight my energised body, letting out a series of taut sighs of my own.

The noise from next door was subdued, which somehow made it more incredible. The pillow muted her gasps, but the wetness inside her slit was obvious as fingers rapidly entered and exited her distended lips. I was equally wet and closed my eyes to transport myself into her room for the final stages as she imagined the sensation of being ruled, breasts squashed against the bed, the breaths forcefully expelled from her body every time his pubic hair slammed against her buttocks while he filled her. The heat and motion of her fingers sawing back and forth simulated the manner in which her tunnel deformed to accommodate his girth as he pistoned her tender folds.

I knew how it felt. I loved how it felt. That tidal wave rising inside, senses merging, flashes of white-hot light firing from the deepest recesses of her brain, shooting out to engulf her body. The pressure mounting every second until there was nowhere for it to go but outward. The crest of the wave swelling, its white peak dwarfing every other emotion as it reared to its apex, broke and began to crash into her shoreline.

Her sighs intensified and the bed creaked, hand no doubt a blur, just before she let out a muffled cry and came. There was no mistaking it. I froze as the frantic movement next door ceased, her hard panting returning only after a long pause. Her mind would be filled with the steely shaft she could see on the phone's screen, imagining it wrapped snugly in her velvety pussy, clamped and released amid the well-oiled clockwork of orgasm, drawing his seed up and into her hungry womb. She would be flooding the bed and it was so exciting to witness both her crescendo and finale. I was spellbound, my body stiff except for my fingers working hard to bring about my own release.

A text arrived but she must have ignored it, or didn't hear it as her body was wracked with the rolling waves. I pictured her still upturned on the bed, a sheen of sweat clinging to her lithe frame, fingers buried deep inside as clear sap continued to drizzle out under the influence of gravity, coating her hand and forearm.

I was thundering closer to orgasm, approaching the point of no return, blood hammering between the glass and my ear as I started to give in to my body. But I'd missed the window for climaxing alongside her and that thought bubbled up to the forefront of my mind. It played on my conscience and began to filter into every blood cell, giving each one a reason to delay my release for just a little while longer, with the promise that the wait would be well worth it. Just a temporary lull in my high octane hormones to dip them below danger levels, with the aim of returning to bed and bringing myself off there next to Adam, close enough that he would be sure to wake and join in. I'd found over the years that a gradual, tiered build up to final release almost always had the edge over a race.

With steely resolve I opened my eyes and forced myself to slow. It wasn't easy. Every atom in my body had been given the green light and wanted nothing more than to fuse me into a sexual shell with nuclear potency. But I dropped it down a notch, steadily inching away from the brink.

When I heard her collapse into the bed and exhale then roll over, I relaxed a little more, maintaining a low level of finger movement between my legs, feeling myself drifting away from the rim of my personal volcano. I could hear sticky noises from my neighbour which was probably her either lazily feeling her spent pussy or stretching strings of come between her fingers. The camera shutter fired again, so either way I guessed the next message would be captioned "Look what you made me do. Want this on your face next time? xoxoxo".

I pictured that very scenario easily, as it was one for which I was intricately familiar. Sitting astride a man, suffocating him with dripping folds as he licked with furious abandon at the silky flow, both feeling and hearing the excitement between us soar. How I wished it were me.

How I wished it were me.

I smiled to myself, extricated my fingers and smelled them, then ran my tongue over one. Delicious and creamy. I was so excited, in that weird limbo between having control and losing it, knowing that the right thought, the sexiest glance or the perfect touch would once more send me careening toward the precipice. My neighbour's breathing was slowing. She was clearly spent so I broke away from the wall, stole to the bathroom and replaced the glass, then sashayed back into the bedroom, approaching the prone form of Adam.

He was now on his back, snoring softly, gloriously naked. I grinned. To hell with letting him sleep any longer, he had a job to do. As gently as possible, I clambered onto the bed and straddled his feet, shivering with excitement as I first let my soft folds barely graze him, then allowed his big toe to dip inside. Biting my lip I let the moment own me before slipping his glossy toe from my juicy ravine, crawling gingerly forward past his legs, past the currently limp object of my desires, and reaching his torso. Continuing, I grabbed the headboard and inched onward, raising myself as I neared his chin, eventually coming to rest above his face, knees either side of his ears. I could feel his even exhalations tickling my wet lips and just waited there, savouring the moment of power, wondering if my heady aroma would act like a pleasant version of smelling salts or if I'd have to smother him to get his attention.

Within thirty seconds his predilection for my taste made him stir. His eyes flickered open and after a moment of taking in the landscape, twinkled as he fully registered the situation. I hoped he wouldn't have any pointed questions about the reason for my arousal. To make certain, I took the initiative.

"Hi sleepy head," I cooed. "Been thinking about you lying there all naked. Fancy a snack?"

Maybe I bent the truth a little, but never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, his hands snaked up over my thighs and he gently pulled me onto his outstretched tongue.

That was the spot! My body jumped as soon as his lips met mine and I was transported to heaven. He probed my drooling entrance, drawing out the juices so they could be slathered over my bare pussy and used to delight my engorged clitoris. His tongue fluttered over my most sensitive jewel and I began to pant lightly, gripping the headboard. Flicking rapidly left and right, then lazily circling the spot, he lapped its edges before pressing the flat of his tongue against me. My breathing became more erratic. Of course he knew me well enough to back off and prolong the frustrating desire, slipping his tongue inside once more to savour the fruits of his labour before journeying north to the exposed peak of my womanhood.

He pulled away for a moment, his voice edgy and lips shiny: