The Accidental Voyeur

I couldn't help myself. I'd never seen a man's body before, so I just couldn't help it. There he was, getting changed in his bedroom and I couldn't look away. I was rooted to the spot, watching from the window of my own bedroom. A voyeur. A spy. A peeping Tom... or whatever the female equivalent is called.

It's John; my next door neighbour. Completely unsuspecting and completely unaware of his hidden watcher, he calmly walked into his bedroom, pulling his t-shirt over his head as he strode confidently in. His bedroom, yes. His inner sanctum. His haven. The only place in his entire house, where he's guaranteed privacy. Free from the prying eyes of his parents, his sisters, his entire family. But not free from my eyes. And I can't tell whether it's this invasion of privacy or that sudden, unexpected... foretaste?

Yes. Foretaste. The implicit promise of more. I've seen bare chests before, obviously. It can't be this that caused the quickening of my blood, the catch in my throat, the surge in my... It can't just be his chest. It's the fear, the anticipation, the hope... the hope... that his jeans will follow.

He crossed the room calmly, dropping his t-shirt to the floor and opening up his wardrobe. A fresh shirt is selected and tossed onto the bed, and I hold my breath in fear that he might put it on and leave again. But a fresh pair of jeans was also selected and deposited by the shirt. He crouched out of sight for a moment, leaving me anguished and bereft before reappearing with – oh, yes! – clean underwear and socks. Oh, please don't step outside the range of this too limited frame, this tiny window into your private, private world. I want to see. I want to see everything.

He closed his wardrobe door and stood in front of the mirror for a long moment, studying his reflection. I wonder if he's being critical with himself. Studying his slim frame and wishing for more muscle, perhaps? Or admiring his upper body?

The mirror offered me a grand perspective – both front and rear, at the same time. His back and his chest are displayed to my own critical judgement and I reflected that while he possibly could use some more muscle definition, he doesn't suffer from the lack of it. He is lean and powerful. Like a cat, or... or a wolf. Yes, like a wolf. I had never before seen any kind of feline grace in him, but now I think that there is perhaps something canine in him. Slightly clumsy, but lithe with it.

With a half-formed feeling of solidarity, I unbuttoned my shirt to expose the front of my own upper body to the afternoon air, then unhooked my bra and allowed both shirt and bra to hang off my shoulders. My fingers skated lightly across my erect nipples. And I thrilled to that sensation, as he continued to undress.

He kicked off his shoes, then unbuckled his belt and slipped his jeans down over his hips. He continued to watch himself as he straightened up and stepped out of them, then kicked them away. His legs are strong and corded, I noticed and I thrilled to this further revelation. I know his leanness isn't that of a runner, because I never see him run. I never see him jog. But he walks for hours and hours. He has a dog the he exercises daily and he never, never, never tires.

I found myself staring at his crotch and I lick my lips in anticipation. He was wearing tight boxer shorts that fit the curve of his buttocks perfectly. So perfectly that from behind, he might as well already be naked. But in front... for the moment, I had to content myself with the sight of his penis, still contained within its pouch. Within its nest, I couldn't help thinking. The metaphor appealed to me. I could see how it curled outward and downward and I wondered how comfortable it was. And even as I thought this, he slipped both hands inside the waistband of his boxers and adjusted it. Rearranged it. Found a more comfortable resting position.

It was pointing upwards, now. Still curling slightly, but pointing upwards and held flat against his body. There was less of a bulge, but the shape was more clearly revealed and I couldn't help thinking how much better... how much nicer... it looked, that way.

"He moved his penis," it belatedly occured to me. "Even as I watched, he put his hand on his bare penis and adjusted it." Such a simple thing to do. And presumably, so commonplace that he doesn't even think about it. But such a private thing, despite that. I closed my eyes and replayed that tiny little movement, that tiny little change. And in my imagination, it became... more... Did his hands linger on it as he adjusted it? Did he, in fact, really need to use both hands? Did he caress himself? And was it slightly bigger after he had made the adjustment?

I opened my eyes again, just in time to see him slide his boxers down and step out of them. He slipped off his socks at the same time and straightened up once more, and for a long moment, all I could see was the unbroken expanse of flesh that ran from the back of his neck right down to his heels. My eyes travelled slowly, lingeringly, right down his back. His spine, his ribs, his buttocks... his calves, his legs... and back up again.

His buttocks. His bum. His arse. I tried out each word in my head hesitantly, before settling on the last one. Yes. His arse. Such a surprise to see it look so... so firm. So juicy. I couldn't help smiling to myself as it occured to me that it would be so nice to take it in my hands and squeeze it... to bite it, even. Mmm. To have him lying on a bed before me... face down so I can sink my teeth in just enough to leave a mark, then to move back and watch that mark fade away. My mark. Mine. On his arse.

I tore my eyes away from his arse only with great reluctance, but I reminded myself that there was more to be seen now. Now he was naked and standing in front of a mirror and I wanted to see everything... and I could see everything. I could see his penis.

It wasn't pointing upwards, any more. Freed from the constraints of those tight boxers, it was hanging freely and pointing at the floor. There it was. I'd never seen a penis before. Even just a couple of minutes ago, when it was still covered up, I hadn't really seen anything new. I had, after all, seen countless boys in trunks at swimming pools, or on the beach. But I had never before, had the inclination to really pay attention. Never looked. Never thought of looking. Never seen a semi-naked boy since I started thinking of them in sexual terms. Until now.

He was looking at it, himself. Admiring, it, studying it... almost as if he too was fascinated by it. As if he too, was seeing it for the first time and committing every little detail of it to memory. Its crown of dark, curly hair. Its shape. Its vibrant colours. Still looking at it in the mirror, he turned to the side and revealed it to me in profile, now. It looked bigger somehow, from that angle. He faced the mirror once more, and the foreshortening effect robbed it once more of girth and length, but then he turned in the opposite direction and revealed the other profile to me.

His hands had hung by his sides so far, but then he raised one and cupped the dark pouch that hung just behind his penis and fondled it caressingly. I wondered if he was checking for lumps. He could have merely been examining himself. I knew this, but it was just about possible that he was... It was possible that he might be about to... Perhaps this was a prelude to... Perhaps...

And then my doubts were gone. He really was! His other hand came up and closed slowly and tentatively round the shaft of his penis and started to massage it very gently and tenderly. He was, I realised, about to do what I had hardly dared to hope for, but had thirsted for since he had first stripped off that t-shirt. Still standing in profile and still watching himself, he began to masturbate. To... play with himself. To... wank? Yes. To wank. It was a good word. He was wanking, even as I watched him.

I stared intently as his cock swiftly filled out and straightened up and his hand tightened on his shaft and started pumping violently. His other hand clamped on his testic... on his balls and adopted the same rhythm of his wanking. Squeezing and squeezing. I wanted him to slow down. I wanted to watch him in intimate close-up. I wanted to see every twitch, every squeeze, every caress. I wanted to see his glans being revealed in all its angry, red finery as his foreskin slipped back over the ridge, then forward again to cover it. Back and forth, back and forth. I wanted to see it all.

I saw myself taking over. Oiling him and coating his cock... yes, his cock... with his own juices. I saw myself stepping up behind him and pressing myself up against his naked body, then reaching round to grasp him. I saw my own hand sliding down that slippery pole and teasing out every single gasp and twitch and...

His hand left his balls and travelled up his stomach and chest to find a nipple and circle it lovingly with a fingertip. His other hand stopped its pumping and left his cock to travel down between his legs for a moment. His mouth parted, his eyes closed and his hand returned to his cock to pump it swift and hard three times, then travel back down again. His eyes clenched tight, then opened once more. And then he looked up and suddenly, shockingly, he doubled up and dropped to the floor, clamping both hands around his groin.

I saw his cock vanish beneath those hands, even as his entire body dropped out of sight and I stepped forward in surprise and concern. Had he hurt himself? He had certainly been very energetic and I couldn't help thinking that maybe he'd caused some damage. And I stepped closer to the window to try and look into his room.

His face appeared at his own window without warning. I gasped and stepped back, but it was too late. I had been seen.

For a long moment, we stared at each other. He looked angry and embarrassed and humiliated, all at the same time. I could see these warring emotions on his face, from just a few feet away. He was crouched down, hiding his lower body from sight, while I was revealed in my entirety. I struggled to think of something to say that wouldn't damn myself further. I wondered if he was still erect.

His eyes shifted, slightly. A brief glance downwards, then back up at my face. Then again. A longer, more lingering look this time. I glanced down to see what he was looking at, and realised that he was looking at my bare breasts; my nipples erect and pink and betraying my own arousal. In shock, I grabbed my shirt and closed it over them.

I looked back at him, just as the irony hit me and I couldn't stop myself from smiling quickly. His own, answering smile was just as quick and I was relieved to note that the colour was fading slowly from his face and the anger was gradually being replaced by a more questioning... more appraising look. I let the edges of my shirt go, but otherwise stood still. He looked downward once more, but saw nothing more immodest than the valley between my breasts. He looked at my face once more. I summoned up my courage and opened my shirt... then slipped both shirt and bra off my shoulders. And then, slowly... very slowly... almost like he was ready to take flight at any second... he stood up and revealed himself to me once more.

I looked down at his cock... no, his penis... it had softened while he had crouched down out of sight. I smiled at it, then cupped my breasts, like I was offering them to him. It occurred to me that for the first time ever, someone was looking at my nipples and admiring them sexually and so I encircled them with thumbs and forefingers. And as I did so, I watched as slowly... very slowly... his penis twitched, filled out and gradually became a cock once more.

And only when it was fully erect, did he put his hand on it again, and allow me to watch as he brought himself to a powerful, beautiful orgasm.