an act of voyeurism...............

Looking out towards the sea I am reminded of the first time that I spoke to Ms C. I know her so well now, and so intimately, that it is almost impossible to believe that not so long ago we were strangers.

It would have been about a two months after my arrival in the village when Ms C and I exchanged more than a polite ‘Good morning!’. Then, one day, perhaps playing the part of the good neighbour she stopped me in the main street to inquire about my weekend.

“I noticed that you had a… visitor,” she said, trying her best not to sound too inquisitive.

Mists were still rolling up the hill that day too, and a chill clung to the air. 
 Ms C's cheeks were flushed and there was a look in her eye that told me she was more than merely curious about my infrequent visitor. I had seen that look often enough in women’s eyes to immediately understand its implications: Ms C was in an advanced state of arousal. Though I wasn’t sure how, it was clear that my neighbour knew a lot more about the nature of my recent activities than would have seemed possible. Unless, I thought, she had somehow seen more than she should have? There had been a moment, in the kitchen, with my cock firmly lodged in Mrs T’s throat when I’d had a vague sense that we were being watched.

“You mean Mrs T?”

“I thought she might be your… cleaner,” offered Ms C.

“Actually I believe that she’s an accountant. But no, she doesn’t do my accounts. Or clean for me.”

“A friend then?”

The windows in my kitchen are large. In the evening the sun streams in and washes across the old scoured table. I had considered putting up blinds of some sort but there are no windows to overlook mine and there is a substantial wall of greenery between my garden and my neighbours. As such anyone wishing to see what I get up to in that room would have to go to a great deal of bother. It had not occurred to me, until then, that Ms C might be prepared to do just that.

“A friend, yes!” I confirmed, keeping my tone casual and light.

I had been greatly amused by the thought of Ms C hiding in the bushes to watch as I bent Mrs T across the kitchen table to fuck her with a recently peeled cucumber – straight from the fridge… of course.

“I was thinking of having blinds fitted on my kitchen windows,” I said, trying not to grin – and mostly succeeding.

“You wouldn’t happen to know of anywhere local I could have those made?”

Ms C had paled a little then. I had thought that she might scurry off down the road without a backward glance, but stood her ground – if a little unsteadily. Her palms, I suspected had begun to sweat. She wiped them, unthinkingly, on the hip pockets of her jacket. I smiled, and commented on the weather, and gave her no other clues that I knew she had watched me fuck my visitor – and from several different angles, if my memory served correctly. Quite unconsciously I believe, and in stark contrast to the slight look of disapproval in her eye, she licked her upper lip, and adjusted her posture so that her little breasts appeared to lift in my direction.

“Blinds…” she intoned, almost absently.

“Oh I probably wont bother with blinds. The kitchen isn’t easily overlooked, and it’s not as though I make my morning coffee in the nude. Well… not often at least.”

The way she had avoided my eye at that moment, suggested to me that she had also watched me wandering around naked in the mornings. But I doubted that anything had made quite such an impression as the sight of Mrs T, still bent over the kitchen table and gushing violently after a long fist fuck. She would have seen that and more I was certain, perhaps even watched as Mrs T was forced onto her knees to clean up the mess she had made.

Because I couldn’t help but like Ms C, I made a mental note to always at least pause in the kitchen on the way to the quiet room in future. My neighbour, I was sure, would appreciate such a gesture. From the flutter of her breath and angle of her hips as she stood in front of me that day, I had no doubt that she had very much appreciated what she had seen so far. The scent of her arousal betrayed her thoughts, and I could almost taste the wetness of her cunt, even in the crisp morning air.

Ms 
C had been divorced for almost a year, and the veneer of quiet respectability that she had spent her life cultivating had, very obviously, begun to show some signs of fraying. Her recent voyeurism was not the only sign of the ‘moral decline’ of Ms C. Once or twice a week she could clearly be heard attempting to rouse herself to orgasm. It was an oddly restrained sort of rhythm that she generated on what I imagined was a very old and poorly sprung bed. The headboard softly tapped out the same dull beat on the wall as she (I imagined) pressed too long, and too desperately on the little shaft of her clit. The sounds would continue for a while only to stop abruptly and with a sigh of the bedsprings.

Perhaps I ought to have given more consideration to inviting Ms C to join me in the quiet room. But it is a very small sort of village (in so many ways) and I considered it unlikely that Ms C would have been able to endure the sort of gossip that a visit to my house might generate. Besides I had promised myself that I would not over-commit my time to ‘teaching’, and Mrs T was already a very demanding pupil.

“Definitely no blinds,” I said.

“What?”

“No blinds… on my kitchen windows. If anyone wants to look… let them I say. What’s the worst they are going to see after all…? And if they do see… something… who cares?”

She had blushed then. But a smile traced across her lips, and her eyes shone a little brighter than before.

“Mrs T has promised to visit me again tomorrow evening… around seven. She was very… anxious that we… didn’t leave it too long between… visits.”

It was an invitation of sorts, and Ms C knew it. I have to admit that I rather looked forward to her seeing us… again.

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