And it’s for him. The Serial Killer. The guy with the eyes that always seem as though they’re covered in gauze. The one I’m urging to masturbate with my mind, even as my sanity begs him not to. Don’t, I think, at no one in particular.
But then he strokes one hand over himself, long and slow, and I forget I’ve ever had any thoughts about anything at all, ever.
It just looks so good. The way he does it, all nice and easy as though he’s got all the time in the world and he’s absolutely not stood in front of his own window right now. In fact, I think he’s kind of leaning against his window, which seems even ruder somehow. He’s pushing into the glass, one hand stroking and stroking over his cock, until the flesh there is as slick as I feel.
I don’t mind admitting that the sight excites me. It makes me think of dirty things, like maybe he got some lube before he started, and is now spreading it all over himself. Or possibly he licked his palm when I wasn’t looking, and all that slipperiness is his spit, getting worked and worked into his stiff cock.
Though neither of these ideas is as hot as the one that occurs a moment later: that maybe it’s his own lubrication. He’s so turned on that he’s leaking thin streamers of pre-come, and, if I was just a little closer, I’d be able to see it clearly.
I want to be closer. I want to take that cock in my mouth, and suck until he’s even slicker. I want him to moan for me the way I know he’s moaning now – head back, mouth open, body vibrating with the kind of pleasure I’ve never experienced.
His hand tightens on his cock to the point where I’m sure it should hurt, but the roll of his hips says otherwise. He’s practically fucking his fist now, lips moving around words I long to hear. Are they dirty, those words? Is he saying a stream of hot things to himself, to urge his orgasm on?
I like to think so, but it’s hard to tell, when it’s someone like him. I can’t imagine him saying stuff like yeah, suck me off, baby, but then again I could never have imagined him doing what he’s doing.
Fucking himself, where anyone could see. I mean, it’s three o’clock in the morning, but that doesn’t mean anything. The drunk girl from 9G often stumbles home around this time, and I bet she’d have to walk right past his window to get to the entrance. Even if she’d have to stand on tiptoe to see in, it’s still too exposed.
Unless maybe he wants to be exposed, to her. Maybe she stumbles through the courtyard and then right into his apartment, to do all the things I’d never dare to: suck him and fuck him and let him come all over her, God, I want him to come all over her.
He’s going to do it now, I can tell. His hips are jerking and he’s biting his lip and the head of his cock looks so red and swollen, as though he’s just about to burst. Go on, I think, go on, as he rubs himself faster and faster, thumb sliding over the slick tip on every upstroke, body shuddering and shuddering.
I can almost taste his climax, can almost see it arcing from the head of his swollen cock, but it seems as though it’s never going to come. He can’t get at it, in a way that makes me just ache for him. My entire body feels strung taut and raw, but it gives this one extra pulse for him. This little shiver of something that gets me closer to the glass, that makes me dare to drop my bunched hand one inch closer to my breast.
It must be as bad for him as it is for me. My nipples just feel so stiff, so tense with pleasure that I’m not willing to spill, and between my legs there’s that same sensation magnified a thousand times.
Liquid is soaking into my little sleep shorts. My sex swells against the material, tight and aching for release, but I can’t, I can’t. I’m in darkness, but I still can’t.
It’s too much. I have to be satisfied with watching and imagining a million dirty things – like him finally spurting all over my spread cunt – and even those are too much. They make me a pervert, a person who could rightly be called a voyeur, though I confess I didn’t really know what being a voyeur meant, until now.
It’s like I’m inside his skin, as his cock leaps and his entire body ripples, that firm hand of his slowing a little on his cock as the first thick pulse of come eases out over his fist.
The second is stronger and he seems to go rigid when it hits – as though the pleasure’s too much. And then the third spasm hits and it is too much, it’s definitely too much, because he puts his free hand to his mouth and bites down so hard I feel an answering pang of pleasure go through me.
It’s so intense that for a moment I’m sure I’ve climaxed too. I’m absolutely drenched down there, and all of these little aftershocks are jolting through me – though, when he finally moves away from the window, I know I haven’t gone over.
I know because this great aching void opens up in me, unresolved, unsatisfied, untouched. And though I try to step back and think of other things – the shift at the grocery store I’ve got tomorrow, the one dirty tape I possess that I could masturbate to now, if I so chose – I can’t.
It’s too late. He has me now.
I see him in the hallway getting his mail, but shamefully pretend I don’t. I go as far as to pretend we’re actually strangers, and have never so much as exchanged a nod of the head. Instead of the truth, which is still utmost in my mind:
I watched you masturbate last night.
I think the words at his back, as he turns and begins to sift through whatever letters he’s received. Probably bills, I’m sure. Maybe a leaflet from a charity he donates to. Possibly a subscription to a really innocent and normal magazine.
Like Horny Voyeurs Monthly.
Because that’s what I am, isn’t it? I stepped out of my life of supermarket working and TV watching and dying a little inside every day, and I watched with bated breath as a man did something sexual to himself, in the ostensible privacy of his home.
Even though it’s not really privacy at all now. I mean, he had to know that wasn’t private. He must have understood that I could see him, that anyone could have seen him, even though I rarely see an open curtain in this place.
But when I push those words into his back and he doesn’t even turn, I start to think otherwise. He didn’t secretly want someone to see him. And whatever connection I’m imagining between us is just that: imaginary. None of this is actually real. I’m just a loser who spied on someone, and he’s actually a really cool guy who has an amazing job, like software developer.
Those glasses he wears? They’re not dorky. They’re … they’re hipster.
And that’s what I’m thinking when he closes the metal door of his little post box – not three times, like Kayla claimed – and starts in my direction. Hipster, I think, cool and unattainable and awesome, as he strides towards me in slow motion. Those eyes, like something blurred beneath a mist-covered pane of glass. Those cheekbones – God, did he have cheekbones like that before? I could reach out and cut my finger on them, if I ever dared to do anything like touch him.
Which, of course, I won’t. I can’t even bring myself to meet his gaze when it flicks to me for just the barest second – like maybe he can’t help himself. He wants to be aloof, I think. He needs to pretend that all of this is just something I dreamed up, one night when I couldn’t sleep.
Only that one darting look says otherwise. It flashes out of him, as bright and sharp as he is dark and