Peeping Jonathon

Jonathon couldn’t see her face, only the slim, sexy legs dangling on the side of the sofa. He peered through his apartment window, squinting and cursing at himself for not buying the binoculars that were on sale last week. Her skirt rode high on her thigh, a mini-skirt that reminded him of the schoolgirl fantasy he’s had for decades. Her stockings were opaque; they resembled the look of argyle socks that were knitted with extra length. He admitted it didn’t sound too sexy, but as far as he was concerned, they required garter belts. That’s all he needed to know; if something required garters, it was sexy. As much as he tried, he couldn’t see if she wore any panties. Everything about her made his dick hard.

Her living room was always tidy, perfectly arranged, not even a pillow out of place. She had a lawyer’s bookcase next to the leather sofa and he wondered if that was her profession. No matter, he was still hard even if she was a lawyer. In fact, he didn’t know anything about her except that she loved to lounge in stockings and short skirts, sometimes with a bra, sometimes without. Every night around seven the lights in her apartment come on and he hides behind the blinds, in his dark bedroom, oil and dick in hand.

He knew she had long black hair because, on occasion, she would move into partial view as if to tease him with the possibility of seeing the face to go along with the luscious body. Every now and then, she would stand up and walk into another room, but never into full view. Her face was still a mystery. Again, he cursed at the fact that her shutters weren’t completely open. At least he could enjoy the view - however limited - of her lying on her side, feet over the armrest and her delicate arms caressing her knees and thighs.

Many times Jonathon entertained the possibility that she, just once, might please herself. It was an irritating mystery as to why she never did. Months of hope without the slightest satisfaction! He never saw any men in her apartment. For an instant he questioned if she were a lesbian, then smiled. Jonathon often wondered if she just used her sexy lounging as foreplay before scurrying off to bed and masturbating there. With his luck, she would touch herself in the one room he had no visual access to. Nevertheless, his mind traveled to the secrets her skirt hid, and he jacked off as many times as his body would allow.

Every night she was home, Jonathon peeked through his blinds. Week after week his curiosity grew: he wondered who this woman was, what she did for a living, what she was like in person and in bed. Several times he tried to dash out his door, down the stairs and across the street in hopes of bumping into her. However, each time he did, he only found himself in a sweat. Disappointed and exhausted, he would bump into the old bag lady by the door asking for money to buy her next bottle of booze. Damn those stairs! He tried the elevator once, thinking it was faster, but it seemed every tenant was going out. As the elevator stopped on every floor, he anxiously and cordially smiled at the people who had no idea he was in such a rush.

When he rented the upscale apartment on the ninth floor it was for the view from his living room. It looked out onto a serene pond – man-made, of course – that calmed him down after a hard day’s work. He never expected to find the treasure his bedroom window offered: a beautiful woman who would tease him to orgasm each night as he played peeping tom.

Jonathon was obsessed. He turned down invitations to “happy hour” with friends – little did they know he had several happy hours at home – and avoided the idea of dating. When he walked down the street, every woman he looked at was one with long black hair. Sometimes he would go for a walk around the time she was expected home, hoping to catch a glimpse, or better yet, bumping into her. His timing sucked.

The last time he tried, he stood out in the rain like an idiot – if only he had a dog as a reasonable excuse to be out in the rain with no umbrella. He made a mental note: buy binoculars, on sale or not, and buy a dog. Jonathon wondered if he was on the verge of being a stalker; she became his obsession. He felt the need to jack off just thinking about her. Sometimes at work, he would walk into the men’s room and play with himself, thinking about the strange, yet sexy argyle stockings he would love to feel and the mini-skirt he would love to peek into, if just to satisfy his curiosity of whether or not she wore panties. Then his mind raced to the kind she wore. He imagined she were the type that didn’t wear any so she could be accessible at any moment. He could please her, he thought.

One weekend, the lights were off in her apartment from Friday to Sunday. He tried masturbating to his vast collection of porn but he couldn’t get his dick up. Frustrated, he drove to the red light district in downtown Frankfurt. Of course, it rained. The streets were busy that night; there must have been a convention that weekend since chic businessmen crowded the peep shows and titi bars. Jonathon decided to walk into a brothel. He hadn’t been in one since he moved into the apartment. One hundred and fifty euro later, he had blue balls. It was the longest weekend of his life.

Walking home that evening Jonathon bumped into the bag lady that smelled of rotten feet and alcohol. Once again, she opened her hand and asked for change. Jonathon couldn’t stand her and wondered why someone didn’t do something about getting her into a shelter or finding her a new building to beg in front of. He paid too much money every month for her to be his welcome home audience. As he walked away from her, he stopped and felt a bill in his pocket.

He turned around and gave her the twenty euro with a condition. Later that week, he bought several disposable point and shoot cameras and told her another twenty euro would come if she photographed every person who entered the building across the street. Surely even an old drunk could take a picture. One of them had to contain an image of the woman he could not stop thinking about.

When Jonathon entered the photo lab he was excited by the possibilities. After three days worth of photographs, he felt hopeful that she was somewhere on the film. He did not notice the woman behind the counter because he focused on the prints in front of him. Instead, he paid quickly and dashed toward the exit.

“Excuse me,” said a voice. Annoyed, Jonathon turned. “I’m the owner of this lab. I developed your film and… “ Jonathon froze; her hair was midnight black and her face, delicate and pale like that of a porcelain doll. He looked into her eyes. They were sea green and reminded him of the Bahamas, mysterious, clear and alluring.

“Yes…” he answered.

“I’m curious as to why all eight rolls of film happen to be photographs of the entrance way into my building. Is that a coincidence?”

Jonathon smiled. His heart raced. “No, actually it’s not,” he replied.

She gave him an inquisitive look. Jonathon wasn’t sure if he answered correctly, but he had found her, the mystery woman whose long legs and sexy lounging introduced him to a new level of sexual excitement.

“I’m working on a project, actually,” he said. “I’d love to tell you about it…over coffee perhaps? You might be able to help me in fact.”

“Really?” she answered. She stood there for a moment -it seemed like eternity - then walked around the counter towards him. Yes, this was she, he thought, recognizing the mini-skirt. Jonathon waited for a reply, nervous, numb and undoubtedly hard.

When he looked at her, he could not stop thinking about her panties. His palms began to sweat. “My name is Jonathon,” he said as he walked over to her - discreetly wiping his wet palm on his pants - arm extended to shake her hand, trying to be polite, but yearning to experience the feel of her skin. “My name is Paulina. Pleasure to meet you,” she said with a smile. “No, the pleasure is all mine,” he replied.

The End