Another car came into the car park shining its lights across me and the car I was watching. It scared me and I ran for the road. At home, in what was becoming compulsive behaviour, I stripped off my clothes and gave myself a huge climax.
When my husband came home, I reverted to the little housewife, cooking him some supper and watching television until bedtime. Did I mention I’m married? No? Well, I am. But I never really saw the television screen; my thoughts remained in the car park.
At the office the following day I simply could not get the scene in that car from out of my head and I began to hatch a curious plan.
After work, I ran straight upstairs and quickly changed from my office suit into some old jeans and a big sloppy jumper. I decided I would also wear a pair of boots that I used for gardening. Downstairs, I found hubby’s long waxed cotton coat. When I wore it, the hem fell to my feet and effectively hid the fact that I was female. With this old baggy coat covering my curves, I resembled a small man.
I set out to walk the dog.
But the car park was empty.
I risked waiting around, knowing my husband wouldn’t be home for well over an hour. But no one came. I was gutted; all that planning and nothing to show for it. My jeans were too tight to put my hands inside the pockets. I wondered why manufacturers bother to put pockets in girls’ jeans; they are just about useless, especially when the jeans are as tight as I like to wear mine. Then it occurred to me that if I had been able to get a hand into a pocket, I would have also been able to touch myself between my legs. Not that it would do much for me that night, except frustrate me even further. But it made me think about what I might wear in future to facilitate such a thrill, because I was sure to find another car sooner or later with a couple in it who wanted to be watched.
I returned home disappointed, still thinking about ways to peep without being identified as a woman. After supper I spent some time looking through my wardrobe trying to find just the right pair of trousers, but everything I owned was too tight for my purposes; so tight that it was impossible to even slip my hand inside the waistband. I eventually came across an old pair of open-crotch tights that I had only worn once to thrill him. He liked that sort of thing. But they gave me an idea.
Sorting through my trousers again I found a pair of tight-fitting trousers that had been ruined by grass stains the previous summer. I went to my sewing room and, using the tights as a pattern, refashioned the trousers like open-crotch tights. Leaving only a waist band and four strips of material to hold up the legs, it left my entire crotch open and very exposed. Unfortunately the trousers were white so I quickly mixed some dye and changed the colour to a very dark blue: navy blue much like the sort of colour of trouser a man would wear for walking at night if he didn’t want to advertise his presence. I washed, dried and ironed them and then I tried them on as soon as my hubby left for work. I stripped off my dressing gown, and, looking in the mirror, I pulled the trousers up and fastened them around my waist. I admired my work. I looked so damn sexy, only the slim pieces of material covering my otherwise naked bum. The holes at the back and sides were totally superfluous; I didn’t need to open them up at all; that was just vanity.
Did I dare to go out wearing nothing but these cut away trousers under his old coat? I fetched it from the cloakroom and, standing in front of my mirror, I slipped it over my shoulders. Just a T-shirt covered my upper half. I had no bra because that would emphasize my bust and I wanted, for once, to hide my tits.
I fastened the coat to the lowest button, just below my knees, then stood up to see if it was obvious that I was not the man I pretended to be. My hand slipped into the false pocket, felt naked skin and sent shivers down my spine.
I walked out into my garden, still completely safe, but the sensation of having my pussy bare under the old coat made my skin goose. I wanted to leave the property and get into the woods, but I had to get ready for work so reluctantly went back indoors.
A quick shower and I set off to work. I hated every minute of the day; it seemed as if this evening would never come. I normally love my job in the centre of Dublin, but today it seemed so pointless and such a waste of my precious time; time that could have been spent looking for young couples in cars.
I raced home faster than I should have done. I hit ninety miles an hour along the by-pass in my eagerness to get home to those cut-away trousers and hubby’s old coat. My heart was beating so fast, like a teeny Jenny on her first date wondering if she will give in to him and become a woman. I wasted no time on the usual cup of tea. Nothing was going to stop me now. I dashed up to my bedroom, stripped off my suit and my undies, and located the trousers hidden in the back of my wardrobe.
I pulled them up around my waist. I couldn’t help notice the way they framed my gee, exposing it so nicely. My bum looked so round and cute and just as exposed. I felt and looked so sexy. I just knew this was going to be the night!
I wrapped my almost naked body in his coat; the hood pulled up over my head hiding most of my long blond hair. I called the dog and went out through the gate. It was as if I was someone else instead of the respectable house wife and career girl I had always thought myself. I felt like a tart; a brazen little trollop.
My hands were busy with the dog lead until I reached the woods. Then, as soon as I had released the lead, my hands went into the special pockets, both sides slipping directly onto my bare flesh. I could feel the heat emanating from my exposed cunny. I could even smell the aroma that only made itself apparent in the bedroom; that musky smell of a woman in heat, ready for whatever her man desired of her, wanting everything he has.
I cheated the poor dog in my haste to get back to the car park, only to be disappointed. Not a damn car in sight. I sat at the same picnic table, but this time my fingers had ample access to my hot wet bits. I had to be careful not to make myself squish. But it was so good being able to do this in a public place but feeling hidden from view by this big old coat. I waited for at least half an hour before the lights of a car pieced the gloom of the forest, searching as they swung around, coming to a stop only a few yards away from where I was sat. I prayed it was not just another dog walker parking his car. I realized I was holding my breath waiting to see what happened next, my finger automatically stroking the naked flesh hidden under my coat.
The interior lights in the car came on as someone opened the door, then the other door opened as well. In the dim glow cast by the small light I could just about make out a man and a woman. The front doors slammed shut, then the back doors opened and they both climbed in, onto the back seat. The back doors closed. The interior light faded and all was dark and very quiet.
Not wanting the dog to give me away, I tied its lead to the picnic table and crept toward the car. I was almost there when suddenly the interior light flickered on again. I stopped dead in my tracks. Had they seen me stealing forward to peep into the car? Was the light an indication of the door being opened, or was it, as I hoped, lit to reveal and exhibit what they were doing to any dirty old man in an old coat that happened to come along? Or in this case, a dirty young woman?
Frozen to the spot, I watched them sitting in the back and snogging like a couple of teenagers; his hands exploring the front of her shirt, the bottom of it coming open as he eased his hand further up, onto her breasts.
Creeping closer, both of my hands went to work inside the coat and worked on my wet lips, bringing me quickly and dangerously close to a climax. My feet crept forward of their own accord, delivering me closer to the pool of light surrounding the car until I was right against the side.
Her tits were naked; glowing white in the illumination of the interior light. His pipe, out of his fly, stuck up like a big red beacon. Her small hand was wrapped around it, making it look even bigger than it was. They were still locked in a kiss, oblivious to anything other than their desire for each other.
They broke the kiss and his eyes locked on mine. He smiled and whispered something in her ear and she turned her head
towards me, smiling, telling me it was OK to look; it was their intention to give a show to whoever was lucky enough to be present.
My fingers were working overtime doing what I should have done in the private of my boudoir, not out here in this dark and dangerous car park. They at least had the security of the car around them. I had nothing, not even the dog who was tied to the picnic table back at the edge of the woods. But the fear of getting caught just made the situation more exciting and my fingers responded by working even harder at bringing me off. I had to forcibly restrain myself because I shouldn’t come. Not out here, it was just too risky.
He lifted his bum up as she pulled his trousers down; then her skirt went and she was struggling to get astride him. She managed to get herself on to his lap and he looked up at me as she slid down, impaling herself on his big hard cock. Her face was a picture of sinful lust as he penetrated her. He reached out towards me. My heart nearly stopped. I thought he was going to open the door, but he pressed the window winder and the window opened an inch. And he asked me to show her my cock. What the hell did I do now? My disguise had worked too well; he really thought I was a dirty lad.
Thank goodness my head was above the level of the roof so the light didn’t shine on to my face. He would have seen the bright red of my blush as he asked me to expose myself to his loosebit. I had no choice but to ignore his request. I didn’t have a cock to show her; all I had was a neatly shaved cunt.
Her hands locked behind his head as she rode him. She turned her head to peep at me. Her lips were red from their passionate snogging; her mouth slightly open in an inviting way. ‘Please show me your flute,’ she said.
Realizing I had a choice to either run or to expose my “flute”, I reached down and undid the bottom button of the coat. The next button followed, then another. My fingers kept undoing the buttons. Until all of them were undone, and so was I. My heart was hammering inside my chest as I pulled the coat open, exposing my naked flesh to two complete strangers. Her gasp was completely audible outside the car because she saw what was under my coat.
His eyes popped. They certainly didn’t expect to see a glistening wet smooth gooter staring back at them; nor did they show any sign of being put off by the fact I wasn’t the man they expected. It was, in fact, quite the reverse. My fingers still poked through those wonderful holes in the pockets, stroking my so inflamed desire as I watched them go at it like hopping rabbits. The car bounced and she rode him to a climax. He grunted, stiffened and pumped her full. She was gasping with both lust and from the energy she was expending.
My legs almost collapsed from under me as my climax hit me so hard and from so deep down, it took all of my strength with it. I managed to hold onto their car to prevent myself from falling to the ground. My face touched the glass of the car window.
She opened her gobbler and vocally joined me in sweet shuddering fulfilment.
I then quickly buttoned up my coat and went to fetch poor Darby, tied to that table.
About the Story
I was an exchange student in Scotland one year in college, but found myself heading over to Ireland and Dublin when I could. I felt more connected there, either because I’m half-Irish on my father’s side (and his parents came straight from Ireland), or maybe because I like a dark pint of Guinness and James Joyce is one of my all-time favourite writers (go Molly Bloom!) I did spot a man looking into the windows of parked cars at a park there, and I thought: Why are peeping toms always men?Women like to watch too, maybe more so; but they watch behind closed doors, not in public. I’ve been fascinated with the motivation of the peeper; read Orrie Hitt’s I Prowl at Nightor The Peeperfor excellent investigations of the kink. In certain ways, Hitchcock’s Rear Windowis about the urge to look into windows, hoping to see something tawdry and illicit.
I haven’t been back to Dublin in ten years but I am planning a month-long trip in 2011. Maybe I’ll stay. Anything is possible in that city.
With a Vengeance
by Sean Black
BY THE TIME I’D realised that Sinead was crazy, I was naked on the roof of the Gresham Hotel. A few hundred feet below on O’Connell Street taxis jockeyed for position and grim-faced commuters threaded their way home. Sinead, meanwhile, was backing towards the lip of the roof, her long coat open to reveal a black basque, her long black hair being blown in every direction by the swirling wind, her tongue darting over perfect white teeth as she coaxed me towards her as my momentarily proud erection shrivelled away in the freezing wind.
‘Come on, Declan. What you afraid of?’
‘Aren’t you cold?’ I’d asked her.
She let the coat drop from her shoulders. ‘Yeah. That’s why I want you over here. To warm me up.’
I took a step forward. Like I’d been doing, in one way or another, ever since I’d met her. Knowing that it was the last thing I should be doing, but unable to help myself. Not just because she was crazy, but because twelve months before I’d even met her, I’d changed her life for ever.
It was a dank Friday night in late November. The rain was bouncing off the road as I drove home. Surface water and fallen leaves made the surface slick. By the time I saw the man walking along the side of the road towards me, it was too late. A second later there was a thud and then for a fraction of the next second his face was staring at mine through the windscreen. Then it was gone as the windscreen shattered, and his body rolled over the top of the car.
I braked as hard as I could, the pedal tapping against my foot as the ABS kicked in. I blinked away the shock, but the spider-patterned glass in front of me did away with any illusion that I’d imagined what had just happened. I opened the door and stepped ankle-deep into a puddle of water.
The road behind me was quiet. No other cars. No cries of help. Nothing besides the sound of wind and lashing rain.
I worked my way back along the road. The numbness, the unreality of the whole thing was starting to ebb away, replaced by a rush of thoughts. I hadn’t seen the man. I’d had no chance of avoiding him. But I’d had a pint after work. Two pints in fact. Shamefully, I was suddenly grateful for the silence.
Edging my way along the side of the road, I shouted into the storm. ‘Hello? Can you hear me?’
There was no reply. Headlights appeared coming from the direction I’d been travelling. I waited for the car, a silver VW Passat to stop, but it didn’t even slow down. In fact, if anything, it seemed to accelerate.
There was a ditch that ran parallel to the road. That’s where I found him, one leg bunched up to his chest, the other splayed out. His arms were stretched out over his head. I climbed down beside him. As soon as I saw his face I knew he was dead. His eyes were open. His mouth was open too. I grabbed his wrist, and checked for a pulse. Nothing. My heart was pounding. His was stopped.
I stood there for a good few minutes. Hoping that someone would pull over to see what was going on and make the decision for me. None of them did. I counted off ten sets of headlights flashing past in either direction before climbing back out of the ditch, and getting back into my car.
I fumbled for my Blackberry and punched in 999, asking for an ambulance to come, saying that I thought I’d seen someone knocked down by a white van which had kept driving. They asked me to stay with the victim but I pretended like I was losing the connection and hung up.
Then, I drove home.
The accident made the news; a mention on the main news and a couple of follow-ups in the nationals before sliding down to the local weekly and disappearing from view entirely. There was an appeal for witnesses and mention of a white van. My lie’s easy acceptance didn’t make me feel smug, only more guilty if that was even possible. The fear of being caught gradually abated, replaced by recurring insomnia, a low-grade melancholy, and a spasmodic urge to tell someone. With the alcohol out of my system, I could have walked into any Garda station and told them how it had been an accident and how I had panicked. I’d probably have gotten a fine and a few points on my licence. That seemed in
adequate, and, anyway, I wasn’t looking for the slate being wiped clean or absolution. In truth, I didn’t know what I was looking for other than to not feel the way I did.
A year to the day, I stood on the front step of the dead man’s home. I had my speech to the man’s widow all prepared. But before I could knock, the door opened. She had jet black hair and dark blue eyes. She was wearing a crushed-velvet dress which clung to her hips. There was a slit near the top of it which exposed the cleavage at the very top of her breasts. She noticed me looking and, rather than giving me the look I’d become used to from Irish women, that look that suggested I was beneath contempt, she smiled. She smiled and for that second I forgot why I was there.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
‘Sorry, Mrs Byrne?’
‘You must be looking for my mother,’ she said, turning on her heel and walking back inside the bungalow. Unsure of what to do next, I stood there and watched her.
At the door into what I guessed was the lounge, she turned back round. ‘Are you going to come in then or are you going to stand there staring at my arse?’
I stepped inside, closing the door behind me.
‘What was it you wanted anyway?’ she called from inside the other room.
From the moment she opened the door, what I wanted had changed. I wanted her, and I sure as hell wasn’t likely to have her by telling her I was here to apologise for knocking down her father.
‘I’m from the council.’
It was the first thing that came into my head. ‘We’re offering home insulation grants to the over sixties,’ I said, stepping into the room where Mrs Byrne was watching television.
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