The Lady & the Voyeur

He'd made love to her a hundred times.

He'd held her, opened the delicate seam of her lips with his tongue; delved into the mysteries of the sweet fire in her mouth as no other man had ever done. He'd had her on the stairs; the kitchen counter, in the gazebo during a hard summer rain.

They'd taken long, luxurious baths together, laughing in the bubbles until she'd straddled him in the big tub, sinking down onto his hard shaft and turning his laughter into thick moans of pleasure.

And she'd cum for him, all silk and fire and liquid heat for his hands and mouth and cock.

But tonight, for the very first time, he was going to see her.

Walking along an alley that her directions said would lead him to a 7-foot high privacy fence, Jack smiled at the thought. She had asked him in her erotic email invitation to take this route, parking three streets away from and behind the home she was caring for while a friend was on vacation, and taking the simple twists of several connected alleyways to find her.

Finding her, he thought, had been nothing less than a miracle. Meeting in 12-point New Times Roman type on a cold computer screen in a chatroom where thousands of people no doubt wandered in and out, what were the odds that he could have found someone so...perfect?

He'd been online for six months when she'd come along, fairly savvy about most things in modern cyberworlds, and surprisingly fairly jaded...wondering if all he would ever find would be hot, fast, nameless orgasms on the other end of the line. Sure, that was fine enough...he'd done it himself and enjoyed it immensely...there had even been a few women (except the one who'd turned out to be a man, of course...god, was he ever glad the guy had told him BEFORE anything had gone on between them sexually) he considered friends; they were sweet and demure or hot and lusty, and just damn nice people.

But her...well, she was both. Teasing, playful...smart, had a heart as wide as the Internet and a wit to match. She could be sweet as dark chocolate in his mouth, or cool as fresh butter...or hot as hell. Being with her was nothing short of incredible each and every time he saw her online...each new roleplay like a roller coaster ride...making his stomach drop every time her username showed up on the Active Users list.

He'd said hi initially just because he couldn't resist a woman whose profile said, "Educated, successful writer; happily married; looking for smart men who love to play" and then used "LuvsNymphomercials" as a user name. Their acquaintance began when he'd sent her a little chuckle and told her he loved a woman with a sense of humor...and then he'd learned to love all sorts of things about her.

After their second chat, which ended in the most spectacular sexual roleplay he'd ever had the luck to be a part of and an orgasm which was so intense he'd nearly woken his wife two rooms away, she'd given him her real name. Nicole.

Since then, they'd talked about their lives, held hands, she'd listened to his pain and he to hers; and most importantly they agreed that neither was willing to destroy their marriages and families by having an affair, and that their relationship would forever be a fantasy on the screen.

A month before, he'd asked her nervously if she would consider speaking with him on the phone...he was in heaven when she'd said yes, and then realized that true heaven was the sound of her voice, which was as infinitely varied from sweet to siren, as she was. He'd never heard a voice like that.

Then, two weeks later, she'd sent him a rather steamy--and mysterious--email, telling him that she would be in town to do some house sitting for a friend, and would he like to come over; she had something very special for him.

He hadn't been able to do more than email her with the reply that he would be there at any time and place she asked. In the last two weeks, she'd been conspicuously absent from their regular chatroom and would only respond, "patience, darlin," when he emailed, asking where she was; why she wouldn't speak to him online.

So now here he was, his hands sweating, feeling as high as a sixteen year old kid again, cock so hard he was afraid he'd split his fly open--he felt like a piece of steel forged into flesh. He didn't know if he'd ever been so aroused...so happy and excited and terrified all in one glorious rush. He liked the feeling...but then, she didn't inspire many feelings in him that he didn't like.

It had been perfectly dark an hour ago and now he wandered purposely through this darkened crosshatch alleys of suburban paradise. Backyards, some demurely shielding their beauty behind garments of fences, lined the alleys. Here and there the yawning mouths of garages were open, swallowing minivans and lawnmowers and the dark night air. Bicycles and skateboards; a baseball mitt, sandbox toys and swingsets were abandoned and empty, awaiting another gorgeous summer day and the children who would enjoy them.

Rounding a corner onto what she had listed as the last alley, Jack brushed by the heavily laden arms of a stocky lilac bush. The scent was thick and sweet, and he found himself pausing for a moment, taking the luxury of the aroma into his lungs and closing his eyes for a moment.

"Close your eyes....take a deep breath..."

Every time she typed those words to him, his heart tried to crawl up into his throat and his body tensed, cock pulsing with feverish energy--her toy, waiting to be petted; knowing the pleasure of her stroking...

"Here we go..."

And then she'd start spinning another fantasy for him--always something new, some little surprise waiting...he'd want fast and hot and somehow taking clues from their conversation before the games began, she'd sense it and make him crazy with slow, teasing and sweet. Or he would come to her half asleep or with his body aching or his mind muddled with the complex problems of his life and she'd tell him a joke or tease him, verbally sparring with him until he'd awakened or come out of his self-imposed shell to really talk to her; tell her what was wrong. Then she'd be his friend, giving advice...asking the right questions...making him feel...perfectly right again.

Taking a deep breath, he made his way around the lilac and the fence was there...fifty feet ahead...7 feet of tall, blonde wood freshly built. The scent of newly cut lumber mixed with lilac, and Jack thought he might stop breathing. He hadn't known a fence could make a man so hot.

Nicole would love that, he thought, wiping his hands down the outsides of his thighs. He would have to remember to tell her about that...

If he could speak when he finally saw her.

She knew things about him even his wife didn't know. He and Nicole had agreed not to make their emotional attachment stronger by trying to have some kind of cyber love affair...they both wanted pleasure and took and gave it...the rest was a deep, loving friendship, but it was so much safer to tell her that he had always been a closet voyeur (not that he'd hung out in many closets...he just had never had the nerve to try to live out that particular desire in his life) and that he hated his sister in law's dog (the nasty little mongrel thought his bedroom was Central Park), and that he'd had an insane crush on some neighbor woman five years ago whose name still escaped him (she'd made that forgotten crush into one hell of a fantasy last week). She knew his favorite color, the brand of underwear he bought, and what he thought of the PBS version of "Jane Eyre"...and she knew he was crazy about her. If the two of them hadn't been married, he would have tracked her down, tied her to some bed, and given her one devastating orgasm after another until she agreed to be his wife. But such were the intricacies of life.

The fence loomed ahead of him, gleaming dull yellow like an autumn moon under cloud-banked skies, a beacon. The gate was locked, as she said it would be, with a chain and combination lock...he could hardly see the tiny numbers and the chain, thank god, bumped around but didn't rattle in its protective neon-plastic blue sheath. His hands were shaking. When the lock slid open, the ends of the chain parting to admit him to paradise, he had to stop again...take another breath.

He didn't know what to expect. She might be just on the other side of the fence, in the pool she'd mentioned (laughingly telling him that he would probably be so engrossed with lust that he might fall in if he weren't careful) or waiting in the house. Her directions had ended at the combination for the lock. So slowly that he wanted to scream, he moved the gate open.

Disappointment slipped over him. The backyard was large, with the requisite pool and changing room, patio, grill, beds of roses blooming yellow and red in air that was beginning to become mist. A table had been placed in the center of the patio, whatever was atop it covered with a dark blue cloth. And the house, an interesting mix of flagstone, natural log, and smooth wood plank painted a warm rose, looked out at him through big windows gleaming like black ice in the night.

The house faced away from him. To his left, beyond the patio, its double sets of elaborate French doors were closed; unshaded, bracketed by potted miniature fruit trees laboring to birth tiny lemons and oranges and scenting the air with a citrus tang. The pool to the right was a deep, pure aqua blue lit by small underwater lights; otherwise the yard was dark. The fence surrounding the property and the trees which nearly lined the whole interior perimeter provided an incredible privacy that made him feel as alone and secure as if he were indoors.

He thought for a moment to leave but nearly as quickly as he'd decided it he turned, secured the gate with its lock now inside, and walked silently into the yard. Nicole's invitation stated plainly that he was to arrive no earlier than ten-forty-five p.m. and no later than eleven-fifteen. Looking at his wristwatch in the pale moon and mist glow, he assured himself that he was, indeed, on time: eleven-oh-six. He would wait the requisite nine minutes, to see if she had given him the time frame because she hadn=t been sure of the precise time of her own arrival.

Moving silently to the cleverly inlaid stone patio, Jack could see only dim gray shadows behind the glass. Turning away from the house, he realized that only one chair had been placed beside the table at the center of the patio. Even more odd, he realized, was that the chair was not the usual sort of pressed plastic or wrought iron, but a piece of furniture completely inappropriate for the out of doors. It was an obviously expensive lounge chair upholstered in nubby, toffee-colored fabric and, aside from the table, the only piece of furniture. Smiling, Jack was fairly sure that she'd put the chair here for a good reason and he wasn't about to question anything she did. He decided instead to settle in and wait.

Sinking into the comfort of the chair, Jack noticed again the dark blue cloth covering up whatever was piled in the center of the table. A night breeze moved across the yard, teasing a corner of the cloth up and folding it back upon itself. Beneath what appeared to be finely made linen, the creamy white corner of an envelope gleamed against the blue. A little nudge with one finger and Jack's heart took a fast slide into his throat when he saw his name written there. His hands shook opening the thing; sliding out the single piece of stiff, creamy stationary.

"Comfy, darlin?

You should find everything you need on the table--except me, of course, but I'm coming soon. Relax. Take a deep breath. Then open them again and I'll be there. XXXX"

Moving the linen cloth, he found beneath one thin, gold rimmed plate of exquisite antique china. On its pale surface were three water crackers, spread with what he knew was a mixture of brie and sun dried tomato, another three smeared with cream cheese and perfectly smoked, thinly cut slices of salmon, and a final three decorated with tiny dollops of sour cream, perfectly salted caviar, and a tiny shower of freshly ground white pepper.

Jack's mouth watered, but his other appetites came screaming to the fore, far ahead of simple physical hunger. He'd described this scene to her weeks ago, when she'd asked him about his favorite fantasy. The bottle of wine--a beautifully crisp white he'd had only once six years ago--was open and cooling in a small bucket of ice beside the plate. At nearly two hundred dollars a bottle, he'd never splurged on it again, and couldn't believe that she'd gone to such lengths to make this fantasy a reality.

A tall, delicate crystal wineglass was lying mouth down on a small square of white linen, waiting to be filled. A china dessert plate bearing a matching gold rim completed the meal with a selection of small, hand-dipped truffles...a treat he'd told her that he loved and he had no doubt that they were from the same small chocolateier he ordered them from twice a year.

Another item on the table nearly had him bursting into laughter in the dark quiet of the backyard: a neatly folded stack of thick, brand new hand towels. Four, to be exact.

He nearly had a hemorrhage. The thought of her purposely buying and folding and laying out those luxurious, neat little towels...knowing that he'd use them for...well, for cleaning away the evidence of the passion she aroused in him. It was nearly more than he could bear.

Pouring himself a glass of wine, he savored the taste on his tongue--more than cool but not icy, and even better than he'd remembered.

The last item on the table was odd...a speaker, a bit larger than a deck of cards--very ultramodern and sleek, tailing a thin wire back toward the far side of the house, with another wire leading out of it and into a set of very light headphones.

Hell, she'd done all this, Jack thought, utterly surprised and pleased by her--again. Might as well have a bit of mood music as well. Taking another bit of wine onto his tongue, he thought for the thousandth time of how she might taste. Setting the glass down, he leaned back into the chair, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, trying to still his hungry impatience.

When he opened them again, she was there.

Past the room closest to him, which was still smothered in darkness, a second room--a study, he thought--was glowing with light and the presence of the woman who stood in the midst of it, facing him.

She was perfect. Everything he'd known in his mind--and still a new delight. Tall, with a figure lush with feminine curves, big, gorgeous breasts, and hips he wanted to grab and hold on to for dear life. Her hair shone like dark, burnished copper in the light, pinned up in a soft mass of curls.

She was staring straight at him, smiling, and he felt a shaft of heat so potent at her first glance that he thanked the saints he was sitting down.

"Nicole."

She was his fantasy. Every delectable inch of her. As if she'd heard him through the glass and space between them, she lifted her fingers to her mouth, blowing him a little kiss.

Jack was halfway out of his chair, his gaze still riveted on hers, when she turned her face away, glancing over her left shoulder, smiling, and all his blood froze when a man appeared just behind her. Dropping back into the chair, Jack let his breath out in a hard stream, understanding now her true gift to him.

The lady was fulfilling his fantasy--making him a voyeur.

A wave of erotic awareness rose in him, wrapping him in its hot, wet power, stunning him so that for a long moment he could neither move nor think. As if looking at her through depths he could not fathom, he finally relaxed back into the hold of the chair, shaking, finally understanding that the power she had in his life was not just some scrap of phantasmic dream, but real power--and he realized, too, just how much trouble they would both have been in, if they had met personally. Hell, he would have been lost. As it was, he wondered if he were still breathing.

Watching the little drama inside--her, beautiful, poised and elegant, wearing the emerald green dress he'd thus far seen only in his imagination, allowing the man to slide her wrap from her shoulders--Jack decided that he'd have to find a way to send his fantasy woman ten dozen roses--for NOT seeing him.

Maybe it was his tender nature, or maybe just the fact that he was a man and, when sufficiently aroused, tended to think with the head in his southern hemisphere rather than his northerly one, but whatever the reason, there had been a dozen times over the last months when he'd been ready to pack his belongings and go in search of her, finding her, and fucking her until neither of them could stand. Times when his life--his reality life, as she called it--were so gawdawful or just plain dull as dishwater that he'd wanted to cross the line....for just a moment; an hour. A touch.

She'd politely rebuffed him the first time he'd mentioned it, scolded him lovingly the second. Nearly ripped him a new one the third time. Smiling, Jack watched her moving around inside, laughing--teasing her date, he imagined from her looks and smiles--the way she always teased him into mindless bouts with ecstacy. She had been the one to keep him grounded, even through cyber play and hours of the kinds of pleasure most men only dreamed about on the telephone. While he'd floated, delight and what could nearly pass for worship of her keeping him afloat, she'd made certain they'd both kept their lives intact. He could have fucked it up for everyone--himself, her, their spouses and children--but she hadn't let him.

Shaking his head, Jack reminded himself to thank her for saving their lives, and took another sip of wine. Inside, Nicole was serving her date a glass of something that he was somehow sure was excellent but not what she'd given to him. And a plate of hors d'oeuvres--again, good choices, but a step below what she'd prepared for him.

Nicole slipped away to the big wall of bookcases, playing with a stereo system while the man sipped wine and enjoyed the feast prepared for his mouth, as well as the one before his eyes, and Jack nearly raged with jealousy. The sway of Nicole's hips in the cling of the green dress was nearly more than he could stand...and clearly, her date felt the same. She turned her head to look over her shoulder at him again, smiling and making some humorous comment, making the man laugh. Then she turned back to the stereo, snapped a few buttons, turned a few dials....

And her voice, with Miles Davis in the background, floated to him through the speaker.

"You like Miles?" she murmured.

Jack felt himself melting at the tone in her voice...the purring growl of sex and female that made him so fucking insane every time he spoke to her. The man made some reply in the affirmative, but Jack could only focus on Nicole...the sway of her body, like a flicker of green fire.

"You'll excuse me for a moment, won't you, darlin?" she smiled, sauntering away...and toward Jack.

Jack watched, mesmerized, as she left the room, and could barely make out her silhouette as she made her way into the dark back room of the house, making his fists clench with the need to go to her; to make her his with his hands and mouth as he had so often with his mind...his words.

When she didn't appear, he nearly growled in frustration...then a very faint, yellow light came on in the far right corner of the house, just behind the glass, and Jack realized she'd lit a candle. It was small, its light faint, but she stood behind it, her focus entirely on him. Bending to her left just a little, she spoke into what he guessed must be another of the little speaker-like devices, and he could hear her sexy purr as clearly as if she were standing next to him.

"Hi, baby," she murmured. "I know you can hear me but can't respond and I know that's making you crazy..."