Spying

It was nearly twelve-thirty. He could safely surf for porn only by staying up late, and by remaining very quiet so his mom didn’t know he was staying up late. The noise of the television from her room -- on Mark’s left -- had died away about an hour before; the noise of late-night phone chatter from Lara’s room -- on Mark’s right -- had ceased perhaps twenty minutes ago. Now all was uncommonly still in the house. Not a creature stirring except Mark and his dick. He was excessively silent, therefore, when the new picture loaded, and he found that the perpetually grinning blonde, impatient for him, had instead stuck two fingers into her perfect pussy. All he did was lick his lips and groan inwardly.

That was when he heard the noise.

It was low and quick, and emanated from the left wall of his room. His mother’s side then. Mark stared at the wall and listened, his hand frozen on his dick. Was she awake?

Seconds later he heard it again: a low, deep, buzz that sounded kind of like . . . kind of like a moan.

Surely not, he thought. As quickly as he dared, he arose from his seat and moved toward the wall. There, again. Definitely this time. A low moan.

But what kind of moan?

Mark was fifteen when his parents separated, sixteen when they divorced, his dad having taken up with a much younger, twitch-ass secretary named (of all things) Ms. Parfait. He remembered the truly awful times following their break up, when his mother locked herself in her room, and he sat outside her door and listened to her crying within. He only brought himself to knock on one occasion, and the knock went unanswered. It was okay -- he knew he could not have comforted her anyway. The sounds he had heard now reminded him of those black days.

But Mark knew that the sounds now emerging from his mother’s bedroom were not sounds of sadness, but of arousal. Experience told him in no uncertain terms: these were sounds of sex.

Well, perhaps not first-hand experience. He was not utterly without a sexual history. He’d felt up his girlfriends, and had been felt back. In eleventh grade Jackie Trailer had actually jerked him off. At her house, in her living room. With her policeman dad in the next room. But nothing he had ever done, with any girl, qualified him to recognize genuine feminine sexual arousal. Still, he had heard enough porn queens make the fake sounds to recognize the real sounds when he heard them. The fact that it was the real sound -- real sexual arousal -- excited him. The fact that the sound came from his mother . . . well, that excited him too, though his excitement also worried and disturbed him not a little.

None of these emotions could alter the mind-rocking fact that his mother -- his mother, in the next room, seemed to be getting off. And, unless she had smuggled in some man he didn’t know by some means he knew nothing about, he was pretty sure she was getting off alone.

The thought fascinated him. How ironic was this? Here he was, secretly masturbating, trying desperately not to be overheard by his mother in the next room, who was, in fact, in the next room, masturbating! He then realized, suddenly, that he had never let go of his cock during this entire investigation, and that his cock was still hard. Then came the real shocker: he was aroused, and his mother was aroused, at the same time, and in nearly the same place!

Mark’s hand jumped away from his penis as though it were some unholy thing. He looked about him, almost in a panic, wondering what he should do. There was his lovely blonde, still smiling and fingering herself on his desk. There was his alarm clock: twelve thirty-seven now. There was his bed. He really should, he thought, turn off the blonde, set the alarm, and get to bed, pronto. But . . .

Something to listen with, something to listen with . . . There! An empty juice glass, on his nightstand. Crouched by the wall, the mouth of the glass to the wall, his ear to the bottom. Yes. Yes, sort of. He could hear something, but couldn’t be sure . . . Into the closet, that was the answer. The back of his closet might be a thinner wall, might bring his ear closer to the action. (Action? he thought -- You pig!) He speedily moved away old shoes and fallen clothing from the closet floor and flattened himself against the back wall. If Lara were to see him now, it would confirm her lifelong impression that he was a freak.

Listening, listening . . . There! Another moan, and what sounded like words, rapid words. There! Another, this time a quavering moan, as though she were trembling. Mark’s dick, which had begun to lose some of its attitude, now stiffened up again at the sound. You . . . Pig! he thought. He couldn’t believe himself. He would leave it alone, wouldn’t touch the damn thing. There! There! A long one -- oh my gosh -- a loud one . . . How did Lara not hear that one? How did the rest of the neighborhood not hear it? It seemed deafening in the stillness. Now, subsiding, subsiding . . . and silence.

Silence, that is, except for the pounding in his temples. Mark’s heart was hammering, his mouth was dry. His cock -- against all codes of human decency -- was still rigid and throbbing. He couldn’t explain it, didn’t want to think about it, was thoroughly ashamed of himself. But for the better part of twenty minutes he remained, crouched uncomfortably against the wall at the back of his closet, his ear glued to a jelly jar, listening for more. Eventually he heard a new sound: soft, repetitive buzzes that told him she was asleep. His little audio porn show (you pig!) was over.

Tiptoe-ing gingerly around his room, Mark turned off his computer and his light, took off his shirt and climbed into bed. Once there he had a long and spirited argument with himself.

Wow. Mom was masturbating. My mom.

No shit, Dick Tracy.

Yeah, but . . . it’s just, weird.

What’s weird? Everybody masturbates. You masturbate, she masturbates.

Often?

Like you don’t masturbate often? Christ, you could hold the record.

Well, yeah, but I’m eighteen and I’m not getting any.

So? She’s forty-one and she’s not getting any either. And, unlike you, she used to get some on a regular basis.

Well, but . . . So why does it bother me?

It doesn’t bother you, jerk-off -- it excites you.

It does not.

Hello? Is your dick hard?

Yeah but --

Is your dick hard? Right now?

But I was hard anyway. I was looking at porn.

Uh huh. Over an hour ago, you mean. And you’re not thinking about porno right now, pal.

Well, I’m not going to do it. I’ll just go to sleep.

Self-control? You? Don’t make me laugh.

True to his word, Mark turned on his side and tried to go to sleep. A good hour or so later he gave up, rolled onto his back and grabbed his insistently erect penis. While he stroked, he made himself picture the lovely, smiling, fingering blonde girl. But his head was full of his mother’s low, trembling moan minutes later, when he shot his hot sperm all over his belly.

The next night he found himself waiting for the sound. And he was not disappointed. Halfway through an excellent photo set of two “Young Amateur Lesbians,” the soft but insistent sounds came buzzing through the wall again. Mark lost no time on this occasion, but instantly shut down his computer and returned to the inside of his closet, straining to hear. As the indistinct muttering and moaning fell upon his ear, he was somewhat surprised, and a little ashamed, to note that his cock grew hard again. He had tucked it away inside his underpants, but after a few minutes of indecision he pulled it out again, and rubbed it softly as he listened. He told himself that it didn’t matter that it was his mother’s pleasure he was reacting to. It could have been a total stranger, or his sister, or even his grandmother in the next room, and he still would be excited. The fact was that these were sex sounds, from a female, and his cock simply didn’t care which female they were coming from.

That didn’t account for the mental pictures he entertained, which he could not drive from his head -- of his mother’s naked body on the bed, of his mother’s face rapt in pleasure, of what her fingers were doing to herself. But his shame and confusion were certainly not enough to make him stop stroking.

As before, his mother’s session lasted about twenty minutes. As before, he crawled into bed with a hard on, and jerked himself off before going to sleep. As he slipped away, he found himself wondering what had caused his mother’s sudden urges, or, if they weren’t so sudden, why he had never heard her doing this before.

His sister provided the answer the next day, by asking him if she could “borrow” his CD player. The request, offered in uncharacteristically humble tones, caused him to remember that Lara’s own stereo had blown out a few days before in an electrical storm. He suddenly realized that each night, every night, while he surfed for porn on the net, the accompanying music was always a steady thump-thump of bass from his sister’s room, and that that sound had been absent the past two nights.That meant, he realized with a shock, that his mother might have been masturbating right next to him for months, maybe even years now, without his ever knowing it! The realization so took him off guard that he agreed to Lara’s request, even though he knew he’d never get his portable stereo back again.

The realization also caused him to avoid his mother’s eyes, and to redden with shame whenever he noticed that she too had breasts -- big, heavy ones -- and a large, round ass. She was his mother, yes. And she drove him to school, and made him lunch, and rumpled his hair and clucked over his report cards. But she was also a woman. She had all the necessary equipment, and often, in the dead of night, only a few yards from his own bed, she liked to play with it.

III.

The next night the familiar thump-thump of his sister’s late night tunes was back, and he could hear no sounds from his mother’s room, nor did he try to. After a week or so, he had managed to push all the confusing and unwelcome thoughts about her from his head, and was more than a little relieved that his little fit of perversity had subsided. Sure, he still wanked regularly, and stayed up until the wee hours downloading and fantasizing and stroking, but at least his dirty mind was full of younger women, women not related to him, and he had stopped blushing and stammering whenever his mom hugged him, or when she appeared in the kitchen in her nightgown each morning. Mark congratulated himself that, whatever desperation had caused it, his twisted and unholy desires for his mother had been safely buried.

They might have remained so but for an unexpected discovery, and an exceedingly wicked idea.

One Saturday morning his mother had asked him to clean out the garage, and halfway through his reorganization of the tool bins he found something: a tiny little thing, inconsequential in itself, something which his dad probably bought years before. They already had one installed on the front door, so this must be a spare. It would never be missed, he thought guiltily.

It was a peephole, the kind you use to see who is knocking at your door. Two small metal cylinders fitted with lenses, adjustable to the thickness of the door (or, thought Mark,the wall ). He turned the little cellophane package over and over in his hands, thinking.

His mother was gone, away shopping. She would probably be gone until the afternoon. Lara was at work, of course. He probably had time to . . .

No, put it away. It’s disgusting, the things you come up with. Leave it be.

Well . . . there was no harm in looking. After all, he was alone in the house -- no telling when that would happen again. If he ever did want to install it, it wouldn’t hurt to find a place for it.

Mark ignored his protesting inner voice and mounted the stairs, all the while telling himself that he was only satisfying his curiosity. That yes, there was something sneaky about it, but it wasn’t dirty, only curious. His fingers clutched the little brass object tightly as he passed into his mother’s room.

It smelled of lilac or jasmine -- some soft, subtle scent, emanating from candles or potpourri or something. Without turning on the light he cast an eye over the room -- the slightly tousled lavender bedcovers, the big, rumpled pillows, the wicker clothes hamper. The fine powder coating his mother’s make up table. The framed photographs on the wall, of himself and of Lara when they were babies. Twin babies, once utterly alike, who now had nothing in common.

As he stepped into this familiar yet foreign space, Mark suddenly realized that the room had somehow changed for him. Here, after all, was the “scene of the crime.” His mother had sex with herself in this room -- in that bed, where he had seen her sleeping a hundred times, where he himself had so often slept when he stayed home sick from school, and spent the day watching cartoons from the luxury of her soft, feather comforters. The room, which had seemed plain enough before, had now acquired some new electricity, some new vibrant energy, which could unaccountably harden his cock in his pants just by his stepping into it. Before he realized what he was doing he was pressing the pillows against his face to breathe in his mother’s fragrance: a cool, shampoo-ish smell. He gingerly pulled back the covers and examined the sheets, and even pressed his nose to the places where he thought her crotch must be when she lay on them.

A peek out the window, to make sure no one was in the drive, and he had dug into the clothes hamper, fishing out from the masses of skirts and blouses a large off-white bra, a crumpled pair of hose, and a pair of silky panties. Tentatively at first, then more determinedly, he sniffed at each of them. The hose exuded a plain nylon scent, but the bra smelled powdery and pleasant. In spite of himself, he imagined her large, powdered breasts filling them. God, was she really this big? His own mother? All the guys at school made a big deal over Livia Barfield’s tits, which she was so proud of exhibiting in tight shirts and low necklines -- but Livia was flat compared to this! These were boobs, all right -- double D’s at least. Hell, did they make double E’s? F’s even?

And the panties -- they bore the most exciting scent of all. Mark didn’t know what to expect; the closest he’d evr gotten to real pussy was to stroke one inexpertly through a pair of blue jeans. What he got was a very rich, very warm scent, musky, exceedingly personal. So thick was the scent that he could almost taste it in his mouth. Again and again he took long, deep drags at it, his dick growing ever harder in his pants, his internal critic protesting louder and louder inside his head.God, you are so sick, dude, it said, but he ignored it and sniffed on.

He was thoroughly excited now, and rubbed at himself through his jeans absently as he plunged the undergarments deep inside the hamper. A second thought, and he retrieved the panties, hiding them away in his own room before he returned to search the bedside cabinet. The first drawer contained nothing of interest: old Reader’s Digests, cough drops, a crossword puzzle book. It was in the bottom drawer that he struck gold, and his smoldering fantasies burst into roaring flame.

In the bottom drawer, buried in a tangle of scarves and belts, Mark found a long, rubbery dildo. It was about eight inches long, with a head like a real dick on one end, and a grooved red knob on the other. Mark was peculiarly delighted to find that, when he twisted the knob, the whole length of thing throbbed and emitted a high-pitched electronic buzz. This was perhaps the oddest sort of arousal he had ever known: he was holding the dildo -- no, the vibrator! -- that his mother used to get herself off with. This big rubber dick had been inside her pussy, God knew how many times. She fucks herself withthis. The whole concept was incredibly, incredibly thrilling. He sniffed the thing from top to bottom, even ran his tongue lightly down its length, hoping to detect some remnant of his mother’s pussy. He was terribly disappointed to smell and taste only latex rubber.

Nevertheless, the discovery of the big false penis decided him. Careful to replace the thing back in its hiding place, Mark fought to ignore his better impulses and began searching the right wall of his mother’s room frantically. There had to be some place, some spot where she wouldn’t notice it . . . Fortunately the wallpaper was very busy: a scrolling and curlicued Victorian pattern, loaded with twisting shapes and lines. Surely there must be some spot in all of that frill where he could hide the lens of the peephole.

There, in the center of the wall. A place where two edges of the dazzling wallpaper didn’t meet quite right. He could hide it there and she would never see it. What was more, the place looked like it would line up with his closet on the other side of the wall! He could drill a small hole to make sure, but he was almost certain the other side of the peephole would be inside his closet -- right where he had knelt to listen to her, moaning and fucking herself -- fucking herself!

Maybe he should put it higher, where he could stand . . .? It would save him a few cricks in his back.

That was it. He would put it in, watch her (you revolting sicko) doing herself a few times and then take it out. Yes. He could glue the paper down over the hole and she would never know.

Just a few times he’d watch her, that was all. Watch his mother, sliding that long rubber dick into herself, and then he’d remove the peephole. He had to do it, had to see. If he hadn’t found the vibrator he could have let it go, but now . . . Only a few times, that was it. It wasn’t dirty, just curious. He had never imagined his own mother used a dildo. It was incredible, unbelievable. He had to see.

Ten fifteen. There was plenty of time yet. He could install it and still finish the garage before his mom got back. But he had to act fast.

Mark’s cock stayed hard all the way back to the garage. It remained so, throbbing away inside his underwear, the whole time he drilled the holes, and fitted the peephole in the wall. It did not slacken until after the work was done, when he hurried into the bathroom and jerked himself off using his mother’s panties.

IV.

FILE “PJ” [“Pervert’s journal”]

Kept on computer, transposed into Wingdings 2, double-zipped under a password.

Thurs, 27th. 1:13 A.M.

Watched X for the first time tonight. Disappointment. She just went to sleep. Guess she was tired after a hard day’s work. Shot my load at Big Titty Cumshots site (Celeste covered with Peter North’s cum -- MMMM!!).

View is adequate, though not enough light (?). Framed at left by X’s bedside table, at right by her bathroom door.Cannot see into bathroom!! Adjustment of lenses may be necessary.

Fri, 28th. 12:47 A.M.

Again, straight to sleep. Bummer.

Sat, 29th. 1:32 A.M. (NB: Henceforth, all times A.M. unless otherwise noted)

Watched X masturbate for 20+ minutes tonight!!! Could not see much. Hands under covers most of time. I think she arched her back when she came. Shot my load in my hand while watching.

NOT ENOUGH LIGHT! What can I do??? Full moon in two weeks time -- maybe more light will come in through blinds?

Sun, 30th. 9:45.

Fell asleep watchingBloodsport last night. Duh.

Mon, 31st. 1:03.

X played with self for almost a half hour. Saw her open the bottom drawer of bedside table, but couldn’t see dildo. Could see left tit pretty clearly for a while -- think she had the covers back while she was dildoing. LET THERE BE LIGHT!!

Tues, 1st. 2:27.

Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow. Fucking great tonight! X left bathroom door open and light on -- got a good view. She masturbated under the covers for a while -- maybe six or seven minutes. Then she pulled the covers back and got out the dildo!!