12 Days of Kinkmas – Day #6: ‘Through The Window’

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Michelle González, thirty eight, mother of two boys, wife to Sebastián González, stood in her loose black night dress in front of the open window in her bathroom.
The room around her was bathed in a mellow orange glow, light from the bedroom window directly opposite their bathroom.
It was His bedroom, Michelle knew, a teenager no older than eighteen. Every summer he and his family – his mum, a short grey haired woman with kind eyes, and his younger sister, mousy brown hair and a face younger than she appeared – would appear. A home away from home, the mother described once to Michelle, the two out the back seeing to their respective gardens.

Michelle never spoke to the daughter, their timelines never seemed to sync, but the son she saw at times through the open window. Sometimes she could see him curled up in his bed against the wall while she brushed her teeth in the morning. Other times, when she’d open the bathroom to let the steam out while she bathed her son Alejandro, she’d spot the son sitting on the aged wooden floor, watching from the television that must’ve been facing him from beneath the bedroom window. It was comforting in a way, listening to her child play while the background noise of voices drifted in through the window. She would sit and try to guess what he was watching, who was starring and what the plot was, while she washed her son’s hair. In a way it felt comforting, having this male presence, while Sebastián kept busy hours at the office.

Other times the son would still be watching television when Michelle came back to the bathroom for her own bath. She would close the bathroom window, of course, heart in throat, petrified of being seen, of her body being glimpsed by someone other than herself after motherhood has had its way with reshaping her figure, but the that orange glow was ever-present in the space. Sometimes, Michelle would even use the glow as her own candle in the darkness, enjoying having one foot in the dark and another in the glow.

Now Michelle González, thirty eight, mother of two boys, wife to Sebastián González, stood in her loose black night dress in front of the open window in her bathroom.
The room around her bathed in a mellow orange glow, light from the open bedroom window directly opposite their bathroom.
Michelle stood in front of the bathroom window – screen free and open, to get some of that sweet, sweet air through – washing her face, preparing to bathe. The children were in bed relatively early and she had time to soak in the tub before time got away from her.
As she turned off the faucet and dried her hands, she heard the bedroom door through the window open. He stepped in, dressed in black jeans and faint blue collared shirt, Michelle noted, unable to turn from instinct that was her curiosity.
As he closed the door behind him, the faint blue collared shirt was off and tossed in a corner in the room, revealing his pale torso and dark patches of body hair trailing down his stomach.
Senses kicking in, Michelle reached forward, fumbling for rubber handle on the window. By this point, the son was down to his boxers, grey with black stripes. Michelle’s hands slipped, knocking the handle and causing it to clack loudly.

Deathly silence followed.

He looked up to where the sound came from, his grey eyes alerted, and found Michelle standing still, no where to shrink away to and die of embarrassment.
His eyes met hers in silence.
They regarded each other a moment, both frozen, unsure whether to laugh it off or nod and apologise and close the window and be on the way and then feel cheeks burn with shame and fear and guilt, riding the residual wave of anxiety.
Michelle couldn’t explain what happened next. For days afterwards, she would ruminate, turning every moment over in her head, examining aspects she thought she knew all along, basically re-evaluating her own mind.
She couldn’t explain why she lifted her hands to the tied velvet knot around her waist, nor could she explain why she undid it, letting her loose nightgown fall to the floor. Was it an act of anxiety, seeking validation, attraction to this son or was the problem more insidious, a rotting root in her life, in her marriage that she never picked up on until after the fact?
Michelle from the future could never find the answer to these questions, instead boiling the act down to a lapse of judgement, a moment miscalculated.
Michelle of the present stood in front of the open window nude, conscious of her stretch marks around her waist, of her perceived misshaped breasts, of the fact her pubic hair was untouched and untamed – and yet, Michelle González, thirty eight, mother of two boys, wife to Sebastián González, stood defiant to her thoughts, stood exposed to this son, for reasons she would never quite fully understand.
There was a pressure forming in her chest as she stood in front of the window. It knotted its way around her organs, twisting and turning and burning. Any minute, Michelle thought, I could breathe and my ribcage could snap in half.
Her breasts, the only things she could find that she liked second to her eyes, only added to that pressure from where they rested.
Through the window, the teenager stood watching, his chest as still as the bed next to him.
In a heartbeat, he removed his shirt. Michelle cast her eyes to the bathroom, her breathing kicking into gear, her hands starting to tremble, something whispering into her ear to look up. She did.

He was unzipping his jeans and tossing them aside.
It had been quite some time since Michelle had seen another person’s penis.
It was semi-hard, still reaching its full length.
From where Michelle stood, she could see a faint fuzz of pubic hair.
Trimmed, she thought, unable to move her eyes from looking through the window at it.
As Michelle regarded the head – smooth, large, uncircumcised (she knew, as Sebastián’s was) – she found her mouth strangely salivating. She could feel a little bit of saliva pooling in her mouth and with that realisation, her cheeks burned as if blasted from the sun.
Yet despite the heat radiating outward from her cheeks, something was drawing Michelle along to touch herself. A maddening itch pulsating out across her body, screaming for help. An ache so distracting that Michelle stopped her travelling hands to pinch her stomach, where her stretch marks left reminders of an age long past, just to feel something.
A pinch of bite-sized pain didn’t help the ache; it only brought it to the forefront of her mind.
Before her, He had gripped his cock, finding rhythm.
Michelle found the pinpoint of her ache, her clit, and began to trace her fingers along gently. How long it had been since she masturbated, since she came, she had not known. Days? Weeks? It was without Sebastián though, that much she knew.

Her fingers slid down her slit while her thumb-applied pressure on her clit, just the way she liked it.
She had a toy, she thought in that moment, hidden in the second drawer beside the bed in the bedroom, but she couldn’t leave. She didn’t want to. Her body was frozen; her eyes glued to how He was massaging his cock, bringing his hands over the shaft upwards then back down.
His eyes were open, watchingher intently, scanning downwards over her exposed body to her hands.
One hand lifted instinctively to her right breast, rolling her nipple between her thumb and index finger. This happened in almost of an unconscious state, as Michelle watched the hypnotic movements of the teenager’s hands across his cock.

Her mind caught up to her act when her nipple was stretched to her limits, her breast taking shape with the pull from her hand, stretching outwards the window.
Whatever possessed her to reach across to the bath beside her and pull up the hairpins she left for her own bath time, she did not know. But before she could find a reason, any reason, they were attached to both of her nipples, digging in tightly, like a fingernail pressing downwards into flesh.
This must’ve excited the teenager, for his rhythm quickened. His cock, now fully hard and held tightly, throbbed in his palm.

How long they watched each other, him teasing himself, massaging, pulling, stretching, her teasing, circling, pulling at her lips, Michelle did not know, nor did she care to know. She needed to come desperately, her body covered in a thick layer of sweat, the room boiling even in the soft glow.
The teenager tensed, his body coming to a screeching halt. Michelle could hear his stifled moans as his cock, jerking on its own upright, vein down the shaft throbbing, ejaculated.
At that precise moment, Michelle couldn’t wait any longer, couldn’t tease any longer, she slid two fingers inside herself. Her body seized into a spasm, her orgasm crashing over her warm and dizzying and ferocious.
An image came to her in the throes of pleasure, crawling up to him on her knees to suck the come coated cock of his just to taste him, but the thought was soon washed away with another feeling. Guilt.

Shakily, she closed the bathroom window and pulled the blinds down.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Twisted Voyeur


I’m a voyeur, it seems. Maybe even twisted to some people’s standards. And maybe those people are boring, but it’s all subjective.
Take for example, the concept of sniffing panties. I don’t do that. I know how to push my kitten to turn her on and I can inhale that delicious scent just like that. 
I do Inhale her perfume. Because it makes me think of her. And because when I’m down or lonely, I go to her jumper or something and inhale. 
But like, if someone did sniff panties, that’s their thing. And when I hear someone, like in my circle of friends, react to the concept, I think to myself why? We’re animals. Smell is a big thing to us. 
But a twisted voyeur I am. I like to watch people. People make me curious. And my mind is all sorts of an erotic Rear Window. 
I guess I’ve always been interested in psychology and I’ve always been interested in behavioural patterns.
And then there’s the idea that I’m in someone’s space. Maybe making them, if not uncomfortable, then making them think about why they are uncomfortable? What reason? 

For some reason I like taking something of yours and corrupting it. It’s a weird sort of Sadism.
Say you’re undressing in your bedroom, free to be a goof, whatever. And then I’m by your window, or I materialise from thin air. To slowly take what freedom you have, to take the last personal space you have, and violate it with my wandering eyes. 
What space are you bound to? What rules are you bound to then? When that space is taken from you and you are left naked and trembling.
My mind is tired and wandering. The point I’m making is: I’m twisted, psychological and fascinated by people. And how they behave behind closed doors. In their bedrooms. What secrets are in their drawers? What toys? What kind of underwear? What lingerie? How do they sleep?
I hope that when you’re in your personal space next, that this post comes to mind. I hope you feel the concept of being watched. You should tell me what that’s like. 

Late Night Voyeurism 

  

Late Night Voyeurism
I sometimes look at some men and women and wonder what turns them on. I can’t help it. Psychology, sexuality – they’re big parts of me.

And it’s not simply thinking what are their sexual drives, it’s how do they behave? What makes them tick? What are their thoughts and desires? How do they behave in the bedroom? What do they prefer? Lace, satin, silk, cotton – what makes them unique? 
The thoughts, they go on and on. Sometimes, like now, as I sit in the lounge room of my quiet house at 12-26am, my mind moves to the lives of others? What do they enjoy? What are they doing at this hour? Nothing is sacred with me, nothing is untouched upon. I guess you could call it perversion. I would call it intrigue. But then again, you are reading the words of a guy that writes dark erotica based on Disney characters. 
I know my life, I love my life. My family, my ideals. But what are the ideals of others? What starts their engine that tears them through the day? 
And will they pick the black lacy panties? Does he or she sleep naked? If not, what are their views on it? I just don’t know. But in my mind, I house an infinite number of universes for these fictional people and I wonder. 
How about you? Do you wonder? 

The time is now 

  

I am the entity that lives in your closet. I’ve been watching you for some time. Waiting until the right moment. Until you were at your weakest.

Why, weakest? So I could have you rise above and soar – like the wild wolf I’ve seen inside you. The one that likes to talk dirty to herself as she masturbates alone.
You’ve heard me once or twice. Fumbling about getting comfortable as you slip out of your teal cheetah print panties. I’ve inspired thoughts from your childhood. Something about shadows visiting you in the night. No matter.  
Come to me, child. Come to the wardrobe where I lay in wait. Slip that skimpy nighty off and let me see that skin of yours. The one those false Angels have clawed at on nights. But you and I both know that they were weak and undeserving. You know you have been waiting for the monster to take you to a nightmare. So: undress. I’m waiting. Can you hear my breathing? Listen closely. 
Undress. We have the time. 

What, you thought I was kidding child? Start to undress this instant. I don’t like to be kept waiting. Tonight is the night I can invade.

Are you staying still? Undress yourself for me now, you will do as I say. Don’t make me tell you again. I’m watching you, child, I know when you will be completely naked. 

There we go. All the way. There we go, there’s that trimmed cunt. Just the way I like it. 
Kneel for me, child. Swear your allegiance to me. I am the monster you begged for as your juices spurted across the sheets of an evening. Where is that animal now?
I have waited long enough. It is time now. It is MY time. All those men that have come before – they will not compel you like I will. They will not claw you like I can. I will make you float, dear girl. 
With upmost force I will possess your body with a pleasure beyond your world. Beyond your knowledge.
Understand you will not simply moan, you will scream so hard you will not recognise yourself. Understand you will come so hard you will gasp to push out that scream. 
Watch your sweet pale body rise above the floor as I open these doors. Watch as all reason leaves your mind, as it drives you mad. Watch as your breasts sting from my strikes, as the delicious bruises you have prayed for while laying in bed – the prayers that invited me in – appear on your breasts. Is the sting dizzying?

Watch as your juices smack against the carpet below. Once, twice. Three times. Your sweet cunt is flooded, child.
One last thing: do not be afraid of me. I mean you no harm. I will release you as an ascended being. Broken and bruised – but alive. Ascended. Your mind — opened. 
This moment has been a long time coming. 

Exhibitionism and Voyeurism

Exhibitionism and Voyeurism strike a cord with me that I can’t quite explain. But I wanted to talk about it because I’m just about to slip out of my clothes and crawl in besides my honey.

Nakedness thrills me. I love the idea of just laying against my cool sheets, feeling my skin kiss that fabric. I like the idea that my pet may check out my ass, apparently a great feature of mine.

I have flirted with exhibitionism in my past. I’ve fooled around in cinemas and enjoyed a frolic in the park. I’ve strangled my pet in her car, while folks could easily see. I get off on the idea folks might watch but I’ve got a taste for more.

Not all the time, I’ll say. I’m a private man and more often than not, I think my affection for my pet should be between her and I only – in our own little slice of heaven.

But does the thought of exposing her in private arouse me? Mm, somewhat. I will admit to growing excited at the thought of the world seeing her treasures but more often than not, I want her for one person only: myself.

And yet, the idea of making her let out those sweet and soft moans while a neighbour watches her – when I know fully well that she is mine to devour – is arousing. It stirs me. It’s an intriguing thought, to think I want that aspect, have engaged in that aspect. That a part of me wants to share her hardening nipple with the neighbour as a sign of Dominance – as if I’m saying “see this fucker? You can’t have this. I’ve claimed her”

It’s all so sensual and erotic and just liberating and I want to share this with her — and the world.

I guess I’ll file Exhibitionism and Voyeurism under ‘the Beast’ tab, for it seems raw and animalistic and a part of that animal – my own kinky Mr. Hyde.