by Don Elliott
Lesbians!
It had to be, Mr. Crispian thought. Two girls who were just roommates or good friends might kiss each other now and then, he figured. But they wouldn't kiss on the lips, the way these two were doing. And they wouldn't go in for buttock-grabbing and breast-squeezing.
Well, well, well! A pair of dykes on the second floor! And no blinds at all on the windows!
How about that, Mr. Crispian asked himself! How about that!
He stared at them in bulge-eyed fascination. In all his years of window peeping, Mr. Crispian had never seen two girls making love to each other. He had seen one girl making love to herself, writhing on a rumpled bed with one hand gripping her breasts and the other one caressing herself. But that wasn't the same thing at all.
The two girls were getting undressed, now. They were stripping each other.
Mr. Crispian's apartment was a few floors above theirs, at just the right height so he could see deep into their room. Even when they stepped back from the window, he had a clear view of the bed where they obviously were going to act out their rite of forbidden passion.
They were taking each other's sweaters off, now. And the jeans were dropping. Bras. Panties.
They both were nude. Mr. Crispian clenched his jaws in tense fascination. Beads of sweat burst from the skin of his forehead. His heart was pounding so frenziedly that he was afraid it might leap through the cage of his ribs. His eyes were trained unwaveringly on the nude duo in the second-floor apartment.
They were built very differently.
The girl with the reddish-orange hair was shorter, plumper and cuddlier. She had a girlish, soft-bodied look to her. Her breasts were large and round, tipped with tall nipples rising out of pale aureoles that were so big that even at this distance they seemed oversized. Her stomach was curved and fleshy. Her buttocks were plump mounds. Her thighs were solid and round.
Next to her, the brunette Lesbian looked almost like a boy. She was tall and lean, with narrow hips and a slender waist. Her breasts were small and pointed, hardly more than two little swellings on her chest. Mr.
Crispian had watched a thirteen-year-old girl getting undressed across the way a few months before, and the brunette Lesbian's boobs were hardly bigger than hers. The brunette's buttocks were flat and boyish, with little sensuality to them. Her body looked muscular, energetic.
Mr. Crispian understood. It worked the same way with Lesbians as with ordinary people. One partner was masculine-looking and dominant, the other one was feminine, yielding, and soft. Mr. Crispian nodded. It was always useful to learn things about other people. If you were too shy to get out and mingle with the rest of the world, you could learn by sitting in your room and keeping your eyes peeled.
The naked Lesbian girls were going over to the bed, now, Mr. Crispian saw.
They were lying down together.
They were starting to embrace and kiss. The brunette was definitely taking the upper hand in the lovemaking. She had her mouth against the redhead's big soft breasts. Mr. Crispian could see that she was pulling on the big nipples. The red-haired girl was wriggling voluptuously, moving her hips as though inviting a lover to take her.
The brunette's right hand found its goal. Her fingers closed on warm, throbbing flesh. The redhead kissed the tiny breasts of the brunette and cupped the flat, hard buttocks.
Then the dark-haired one was wriggling down the other girl's body, and kissing as she went.
Mr. Crispian watched avidly. He could imagine the busy lips doing their work, flicking back and forth over tingling skin. The redhead lay flat on her back, passively accepting the situation for a while.
Then she seemed to come to life. She pivoted, and the two girls arranged things to their mutual satisfaction. Their limbs thrashed wildly as passion embraced them.
Mr. Crispian imagined that he could see the atmosphere in the Lesbian's bedroom growing steamier and steamier by the moment. It seemed to him almost as though he could hear the harsh gasps and pants of lust at this distance, the creaking of the bed beneath the two twisting, jiggling nude female bodies. He could almost detect the redhead's perfume, she being the more feminine of the two.
Almost. Not quite. But he had a well-developed imagination, Mr. Crispian did.
The redhead across the way was well developed in other ways, and all that development was being put to good use now. The brunette was riding high on her. They plunged and bucked, bodies intertwining, legs sliding between passion-charged thighs, hands grasping for sweat-shiny breasts, chests heaving, eyes slitted.
Now the brunette was on top, just the way a man would be. She lay over the redhead's body. Mr. Crispian could hardly see the redhead at all--just the top of her head, and the outstretched legs. The dark-haired girl covered her almost completely.
The brunette was undulating, body churning, breasts rubbing against breasts, leg to leg. Mr. Crispian felt himself growing hot under the collar. He watched the brunette's lean, flat, pale buttocks moving steadily, and tried to imagine the sort of sensations that must be coursing through the two Lesbians as they surged toward the peak of their illicit lusts.
His hands were shaking. Sweat rolled into one of his eyes, blurring his vision for a moment. Irritably, Mr. Crispian dabbed at the eye with his handkerchief.
He saw feminine flesh grinding together in a wild onslaught of passion. What was it like, for them? A sensation of delight as a soft body pressed against another soft body, hard nipples rubbing, stomach's going sideways in ecstatic stimulation?
Now they were quivering. Trembling. Shaking.
Reaching the culmination, Mr. Crispian knew.
The brunette half rose as though electrified and fell back into the welcoming arms of her soft-bodied breasty playmate. They lay still.
It was all over.
The girls had had their fun.
Mr. Crispian sat stock-still, his nerves wound up so tightly that they were silently screaming. What he had seen tonight was far more provocative than simply watching a nude girl doing calisthenics or brushing her hair in front of a mirror. He had witnessed a sizzlingly erotic scene, and now he felt the impact on his own nervous system. He was ferociously worked up.
He knew what he ought to do. Go out and get himself a woman, that was what. Get ahold of her and use up all the energy that had been building up in him while peeping at the Lesbians.
But he couldn't do that. He was afraid.
It was years since he had last slept with a woman. His courage had long ago left him. He preferred to hide in the darkness of his own apartment, skulking away where no other human being could intrude.
He looked across the courtyard. The brunette Lesbian had gotten up from the bed and walked to the window. He saw her framed in the window, her breasts still heaving. He tensed. Could she see his eyes peep through the slit in his blinds?
But she wasn't coming to look for him. She didn't even know he existed. She was simply glancing out the window, He saw her framed in the window, her breasts like little points of flesh, some curves in shadow, contrasting with the paleness of her skin. Then she turned the light out. There would be nothing further for Mr. Crispian to see tonight.
What will I do now, he wondered?
I know, he thought. I'll take a walk. A nice brisk walk five or six blocks in each direction. That'll help me get some sleep. And tomorrow night I'll have the blonde to watch again, and maybe the high school girl and the Lesbians too.
Mr. Crispian got up. He put a light jacket on, for it was past eleven o'clock, and he was perspiring from what he had just seen; at his age he didn't want to risk getting himself a chill.
He went out. Down flight after flight of stairs and out into the street.
He walked quickly, heading nowhere in particular. He smiled to himself as he walked, thinking about the Lesbians, reliving in his mind that glowing scene of forbidden passion that he had been privileged to see.
Yes, Mr. Crispian thought happily, things
were definitely looking up.
He was in for a highly entertaining season of window peeping.
CHAPTER SIX
Ellen Dawson rolled to one side, pulling herself free of her ex-husband. Ray lay there grinning up at her in satisfaction.
"That was good," he said. "Oh, Ellen, baby, you're absolutely the most."
She shrugged. Nude, she stood up and walked toward the window. She stood behind the drawn blinds, letting the fresh, cool night air waft over her lust-heated body. Ray got up and walked over to her. He nuzzled his lips against the nape of her neck. His hands slid lightly over the firm mounds of her buttocks. Then hands moved them upward under Ellen's arms and clamped over her high jutting breasts.
"Don't," she said irritably.
"Don't what?"
"Don't put your hands all over me. I'm perspiring. I want to be left alone."
"But you're so good to touch, Ellen." He squeezed her breasts a little harder.
Like a woman plucking some unwanted caterpillar from her dress, Ellen forcefully took his hands and pulled them away from her breasts. She kept her back turned to him. Now, with their lovemaking over and all passion spent she felt guilty, stained, polluted. She should never have given herself to him tonight. Anything that once might have been alive between them was dead and ought to be allowed to remain peacefully in the grave.
"Go home," she said. "Its getting late. I want my sleep, Ray."
He cupped her bare buttocks again. "Let me stay here with you, Ellen."
"That's impossible."
"I won't even try to love you. I just want to sleep next to you all night."
Ellen sighed. "This is stupid, Ray. I'm divorcing you. You've got to make the break and get out into the world on your own. We're through. I'm sorry if it sounds cruel, but that's the way it is."
She opened the blinds a little to let the cool air through. Ray Dawson fell to his knees in back of her. He pressed his cheek against the silken-smooth mound of a buttock. Then he put his lips to the swelling rise of soft flesh. He clasped her around the hips, spreading his hands out on her thighs, and kissed her buttocks.
Ellen scowled. What a pest he was! She didn't want to hurt his feelings, but he kept asking for it.
He loved to be downtrodden and scorned.
She tolerated it while he kissed the firm satiny cheeks for a moment. Then she pulled his hands away from her thighs and shook him off, stepping free of him. Pointing to the pile of his discarded clothing, Ellen said brusquely, "Get dressed, Ray. Go home."
"But-"
"Go home. You want me to call the police? You want me to file a complaint saying my ex-husband is molesting me? How would that sound."
He made an almost feminine pout. "I'm not your ex-husband yet," he whined. "I'm just your separated husband. Please, Ellen, pretty please-"
"You make me sick. Get out."
He didn't move. He remained in a position of supplication on his knees before her statuesque nude form. Ellen looked at him in disgust. She caught him by a thin wrist, tugged him to his feet, and pushed him toward his clothing.
Looking ruefully at her in defeat, he began to get dressed. Ellen watched him, standing with her arms folded across the bare hillocks of her breasts and her legs apart and planted firmly. His eyes never left her. He was hungry for the magnificence of her body. But he had lost her, and the sooner he came to admit the fact the healthier it was going to be all around.
When he was fully clothed, he came toward her again, hands reaching for the taut globular womanflesh of her body. Ellen put up a hand and brushed him aside.
"Let me hold you again," he begged.
"You got all you deserve tonight, and more than that," she said. "You boffed me, didn't you? Isn't that enough? Now you have to cop a feel too? Get out, Ray. Get out and find yourself another woman, and stay with her." She patted herself. "You better take a good long look at me, because you aren't ever going to see me like this again. Or touch or kiss me as you did. I mean that, Ray. From now on I'm going to listen to what my lawyer says about having relations with you. Verboten, you hear. Now go home."
"Ellen-"
"Out," she said, and shoved him toward the door.
He was just a bundle of bones. She didn't have any trouble pushing him through the door. She locked it behind him and walked slowly back toward her bedroom, thoughtfully rubbing her bare breasts.
It had been a mistake to give in to him, Ellen told herself. My lawyer would flay me if he knew.
I'm just too damned softhearted to live.
But what was done was done. She shrugged. He had come here, he had begged and wheedled a tumble out of her, and she had given it to him. She had given it to him in his own special way, too, complete with a nice healthy whipping that had stirred up strange, disturbing lusts within her in the process of turning him on.
But this was absolutely the last time she would play with Ray Dawson, she told herself. He'd just have to face up to it. They were finished, that was all.
Ellen glanced at the clock. Past eleven o'clock.
Well, there went her plan to get a lot of extra sleep tonight. But she'd still be able to catch up a little on her rest, assuming there were no more unexpected callers. Before she could go to bed, though, she would need a shower. That was the trouble with men. They got you so bothered when they loved you. It was always such a sweaty business.
A quick shower and Ellen felt cool, crisp, and clean once again. She popped herself into bed and switched off the light. For a little while she lay awake, wondering in a troubled way what would happen after she was married to Jim McHughes, if Ray still kept coming around looking for a little action. Jim would quickly teach Ray who her current husband was. But it could get pretty violent. Jim might beat Ray to a pulp. Jim couldn't control himself sometimes, when his temper ran loose. Poor Ray. He was such a schmoe. She didn't want anything serious to happen to him, though.
She made up her mind to let Ray know the risks he was running, the next time he came around here. If there was a next time, of course.
Ellen nestled against her pillow. She cupped one hand cozily over her bare breasts and let the other one rest on her cool thigh.
Sleep took her.
When she woke, she felt as well rested as she had in many months. She was cheerful, almost exhilarated. She got to the office bright and early, ready to face any sort of challenge the day might throw at her.
But her good mood didn't last past the first office break of the day.
Bad news presented itself fast.
Bad news went by the name of Paul F. Brubaker, who was her boss. Mr. Brubaker was a pudgy, red-faced, fiftyish man with thinning brown hair. He had a wife somewhere in the suburbs, but he didn't make a point of being particularly faithful to her, and he went to bed with his prettier employees as often as he could swing it.
He had been sleeping regularly with Ellen for more than a year, now. She wasn't happy about it. Ordinarily, she would never have let herself get into a fix like that. But he had moved in on her at a time of crisis in her life-about the time when she was breaking up her marriage to Ray Dawson, and before she had met Jim McHughes.
Ellen had been pretty confused about life just then, and Mr. Brubaker had seen his opportunity. With a paternal-sounding, "Tell me all about it, dear," he won her confidence. He took her out to dinner and used up most of a fifty-dollar bill wining and dining her, and it was a good investment for him, because by the end of the evening Ellen was in a boozy, self-pitying mood and needed company. When Mr. Brubaker offered to see her home, she accepted. Then it seemed proper to invite him in for a little while. He accepted. They had a drink or two. And then, of course, he had her.
Some time after that, Jim McHughes appeared on the scene. Ellen no longer had any need of Mr. Brubaker. But she couldn't get rid of him. He was her boss, after all, and he made it quite clear, without actually coming right out and saying it, that if she nixed his bedroom privileges he
would nix her job. As simple as that.
Ellen didn't want to lose her job. Not yet. After she married Jim McHughes, she could quit and laugh in Paul F. Brubaker's face, because Jim's paintings were in great demand, and he made buckets of money. But there's many a slip on the way to the altar, and Ellen didn't care to jeopardize her economic security until that ring was actually on her finger. This was a good job. It was hard work and a headache, but it was also damned good pay, better than a hundred fifty a week, or about twice what she'd probably get if she had to find herself a new job at this point. She needed the money. She hadn't been able to save a dime during the years of her marriage to Ray, and now her legal expenses were running high. Divorces don't come cheap.