Passion Peeper (1965)

by Don Elliott

  Passion Peeper

  By Don Elliott

  IH-482

  Year: 1965

  Publisher: Idle Hour

  Country: USA

  Media: Mass market paperback

  THIS IS AN ORIGINAL IDLE HOUR BOOK

  SIN SCENE!

  J. Martin Crispian was totally preoccupied with the scenes of sin that were to be uncovered everywhere in the apartment building. Peering from behind drawn shades, he saw every sadistic act of perversion, the gratification of unspeakable fetishes. By spying from his window, day after day, he knew the depraved truths, the sordid shadow lives of tenants who dwelled in the degenerate apartment complex, wallowing in their evil rituals. The practitioners of lust would have sickened anyone-anyone but Crispian! For him, peeping had become a vocation that separated him from reality. In The Encyclopedia of Sexual Behavior, William R. Reevy writes: "The tendency of the male to voyeurism is so well known that Kinsey makes the statement that 'There are probably very few heterosexual males who would not take advantage of the opportunity to observe a nude female' ... voyeurism is admitted to by the great majority of adult males...." But if Crispian was sick, what term could describe his neighbors?

  CHAPTER ONE

  The blonde girl was getting undressed again with the blinds open. Mr. Crispian caught his breath sharply. The blood began to pound at his temple. He was trembling slightly.

  In a short while, he knew, he would be treated to the sight of her bare, luscious body! The ripeness of her breasts, the plump, delectable rounds of her buttocks, the firm columns of her thighs with their golden reflections.

  He waited feverishly for the blonde girl to denude herself before his staring eyes.

  Mr. Crispian knew that you could get into serious trouble with the law for being a Peeping Tom, of course. He didn't care about that. Or, to put it more accurately, the fact that he ran the risk of getting into trouble made it all the more exciting and stimulating to Mr. Crispian.

  Window peeping was, so to speak, Mr. Crispian's only hobby.

  For the last twenty years Mr. Crispian had lived in a big, old apartment house in a rundown section of town that once had been high class. The building had been constructed in the shape of an immense U around a deep central courtyard. The apartment that Mr. Crispian lived in was along the left-hand bar of the U, facing inward toward the courtyard. Because the building was so tall, the apartments facing the courtyard didn't get much in the way of sunlight, but Mr. Crispian didn't worry much about that. He didn't need sunlight. His kind of life thrived best in the dark.

  He worked all day at the same dreary clerical job he had held for thirty years or more. When he came home at night, he fixed a simple dinner for himself and then sat down by the window to indulge in his one and only interest in life: window peeping.

  Mr. Crispian had never married.

  Mr. Crispian had not been to bed with a woman for many, many years.

  He was a small, colorless, uninteresting man who had never had an adventure worth a second thought, never really been in love, never bet on the horses, never played the stock market. His life, to an outsider, would seem pretty much of a blank. Even to Mr. Crispian it was a blank, for he kept his inner torments hidden, as much as possible, even from himself. His one .purpose in the universe seemed to be staring across the courtyard into the other windows.

  There were three or four windows on his approximate level that he watched with special interest. In those apartments, the people were a little lax about pulling down the blinds at night. Sometimes Mr. Crispian was treated to the dazzling view of a rounded white buttock, or the breathtaking sight of a ruby-tipped breast. Mr. Crispian had extremely good eyesight, and he had seen many interesting things in those windows.

  But of all the windows he watched, the window directly opposite his own was by far the most fascinating for him.

  It was the window of an attractive young woman in her early or middle twenties. She was a tall, willowy blonde who dressed very well, when she was dressed. Mr. Crispian sometimes met her going in or out of the house on weekends and shot her a quick, embarrassed glance.

  When she was alone, she hardly ever bothered to roll down the window blinds. Some evenings she would get undressed at nine o'clock, some evenings as late as eleven. Mr. Crispian would sit entranced by his window, waiting for the arrival of the magic moment.

  She would peel off her garments one by one, as though performing for him, hanging each item of clothing carefully in her closet before proceeding to take off the next. Finally she would be completely nude.

  That wasn't the best part of it, though.

  When she was totally naked, she would do a series of calisthenics. Her body would be in motion, breasts bobbing and heaving, stomach thrusting, buttocks pulling taut. That was a sight to see! She would twist and gyrate in full view for a long time, while Mr. Crispian's keen, admiring gaze took in her full, perfectly-formed breasts, her gently rounded stomach, her white thighs with their golden highlights, and her firm softly curved buttocks. She would be naked in front of the window for perhaps as much as fifteen minutes. On those nights, Mr. Crispian went to bed content with what he had seen, emotionally satisfied.

  There were other nights when the young blonde woman had male visitors, though. Mr. Crispian didn't get his free show on such nights. The men would invariably draw the blinds, cutting off the view from the little man across the courtyard.

  Mr. Crispian had become almost as familiar with the blonde girl's beaux as he was with her voluptuous, erotically provocative nude body. One of her visitors was there as often as all the rest combined: a broad-shouldered, burly young man with unruly black hair. There was also a slim, red-haired fellow with a crew cut, and a rather chubby man with thinning brownish hair. There were also others who visited only once, but the black-haired man was there two or three times every week. He saw none of the other men more than once a week, some of them less often.

  It was early in the evening, now, half past seven of a spring night. The sky was light with lingering day. Mr. Crispian greatly preferred the wintertime, when the darkness descended early. It was very much easier to see into an apartment against a background of blackness than against the twilight haze of a spring night.

  But he could see her fairly clearly, even tonight. The blonde girl had her blinds up. Mr. Crispian watched her as she moved around in the apartment. It was still too early for anything interesting to happen, he thought.

  It was only quarter to nine. She never undressed before nine o'clock, except on rare nights when she wanted an early bath, and right now she was wearing a smartly tailored suit.

  The minutes ticked away. Nine o'clock drew near.

  She began to take her clothes off.

  She unbuttoned her jacket and hung it away in the closet. Mr. Crispian's heart pounded furiously. In his mind's eye, he was already racing ahead, seeing her nude, doing her calisthenics, the white, heavy globes of her breasts jouncing before his dazzled gaze.

  Now she was unzipping her skirt, stepping out of it, carrying it to the closet.

  Soon, he thought.

  Soon she would be naked once more. That would be the glorious moment! That would be what he lived for!

  There's that creepy little pervert again, Ellen Dawson thought in annoyance, as she started to pull her slip over her head. There he is. Just like Old Faithful.

  Glancing across the courtyard, she could make out the gnomish little face peeping from behind the drawn blinds of the apartment facing hers. Ellen knew that Mr. Crispian was there. She had seen him often enough. When they happened to meet in the lobby of the building, he would dart a quick, nervous, embarrassed glance at her. He was a real creep, Ellen thought.
Sick, sick, sick!

  But she didn't draw her blinds closed. Even though she knew that Mr. Crispian was staring at her, Ellen kept herself on display. Perhaps it was because Mr. Crispian was staring at her. In some way, it turned her on to let this lousy little old voyeur peep at her. She regarded it as an act of charity. What did it cost her? You threw a nickel to a beggar or a bone to a dog. And you let the creep across the way get his cheap thrill by looking at you.

  There was more to it than just generosity, although Ellen didn't like to admit it. The fact was that she had always enjoyed showing her body off to an audience. It was the opposite side of the coin from peeping. Mr. Crispian got his kicks from secretly staring at a woman's exposed nudity? Okay. Ellen Dawson got kicks from exposing herself.

  She pulled her slip off and carried it toward the closet to hang it up.

  All she wore now was a pair of stockings, her brassiere, panties, and her garter belt. She could imagine the creep across the courtyard getting really hot, now. Ellen smiled. She turned to face the open window. Give him a good show, she thought; let him see so much that maybe he'll drop dead from apoplexy and disappear from the window.

  She unhooked the bra. The cups fell away from her firm, ripe, rosy-tipped young breasts.

  Ellen had beautiful breasts. Magnificent breasts that were large, ripe, and lush, set high on her chest and close together, with a deep, enticing valley between them. They had developed early. She was wearing a brassiere when she was ten years old, and by the time she was thirteen she had two neat little apples of breasts. In another couple of years they were more like melons.

  Her boobs had been so big when she was fifteen that she was afraid they'd be ugly by the time she was twenty-five. She feared that they'd sag and droop like the breasts of fat old women. But now she was twenty-four, and her bust line was as spectacular as it had been in the middle of her adolescence. There wasn't any trace of a droop or a sag. Though her bosoms were so large, she still could get along without a brassiere and not look sloppy. The boobs stood up and out from her chest even with artificial supports removed.

  Ellen faced the window. She took a deep breath, making the white, flame-tipped globes of her breasts rise in even more astonishing fullness.

  Take a good look, creepo!

  She smiled. She put her hands over the twin warm spheres of voluptuousness and massaged them with her fingers, tenderly, playfully. Her nipples were growing hard, now. They always did when she stripped in front of her window audience. They were turning into little pinkish-red turrets of hard nubby flesh standing away from the upper curves of her breasts. Ellen's fingers trapped the rigid nipples for a moment.

  Then she rolled her white silk panties down.

  Inch by inch by inch, down over the broad flaring hips, down over the deep-socketed navel, over the first golden reflections.

  She was naked, now, except for the stockings and garter belt. They framed her loins and buttocks, a band of elastic at the top setting off the line where the plump cheeks sprang from her back, and the stocking tops below marking mid-thigh level. The tautly stretched bands of the garters were pink against the paleness of her thighs.

  Ellen turned, giving the hidden watcher across the courtyard a full view of the firm, deliciousness of her bare buttocks. She brought one foot up onto a chair, making the firm cheeks even tighter, and examined her ankle to see if it had swollen at all, since she had turned it slightly that afternoon. No. No swelling. She put her foot down. Then she unhooked the garters from her left stocking and swept it off. The right stocking followed.

  Only the garter belt remained to cloak her nudity, ever so slightly. Ellen swung round again, facing the window, giving Mr. Crispian a full dazzling look at all of her.

  Time for calisthenics, now.

  Time for the exercises that kept her body young, vibrant and beautiful.

  First the toe-touches. Ellen brought her legs together. Then she raised her arms high over her head, a gesture that made the jutting mounds of her breasts flatten out as she stretched them. And then she brought her arms sweeping downward to touch her toes.

  The deep-set globes of her breasts leaped and jiggled about as she swung forward, then upward, again and again. The heavy bowls of flesh swayed and jounced. The firm muscles of her stomach grew firmer.

  Ellen counted off twenty touches of her toes. Good. Now the deep knee-bends. Hands on hips. Down! Down! Feel those buttocks getting tight! Yes! Down! Down!

  Twenty-five deep knee-bends. Okay, she thought, straightening up. Sweat was making her body glisten, now. Droplets of perspiration ran down into the valley between her breasts. They ran out onto the fleshy globes themselves, dropping into space from the tips of her nipples.

  Back-bend, now. Legs spread apart, good and wide, give the peeper a red-hot view. Fine. Now reach back, hands behind the back; try to grab your ankles. Back-back-breasts sticking up toward the ceiling, muscles quivering all up and down your body, thigh, stomach, back and buttock muscles. She could practically feel him staring at her. Let him stare, she thought! Let him stare.

  With a grunt she straightened up. Push-ups were next. They were good for those pectoral muscles. Kept the boobs from dangling and sagging. Ellen was a bug on physical culture. At twenty-four, she looked no more than eighteen years old, and she wanted to go on looking eighteen years old for as much of the rest of her life as possible.

  She flattened herself out on the floor, breasts crushing into the carpet. Then she began to lift herself. The big bare globes of her boobs tumbled straight below her, the tips of them touching the floor. "Up down. Up-down. Lift the bazooms clear of the floor, let them down to touch again. Up-down.

  There were three or four more exercises in her nightly routine. The whole works lasted about fifteen minutes and left Ellen breathing hard and shiny with sweat. Which was fine. It tightened her muscles, kept excess flab from forming in the places where she didn't want to be flabby, and opened her pores to cleanse the insides.

  The next thing on the docket was a bath. Ellen was having company tonight, as usual, and she wanted to be clean and sweet-smelling to greet him. Not sweaty from exercising. So she picked herself up and walked across the room into the bathroom. She gave her bare buttocks a little wriggle for the benefit of the peeper across the way.

  She stepped into the tub and turned the water on. It began to swirl around her feet. Ellen stretched out luxuriously in it and leaned back, closing her eyes.

  The warm water crept up.

  Up around her thighs. Up to the hips and then to the hard-tipped globes of her breasts.

  Ellen relaxed. In a little while, Jim would be here. Jim would seize and caress her breasts and put his lips to them. Jim would stroke her thighs and reawaken her sensuality, his masculinity drawing her as a moth to a flame. But that ecstasy was still an hour or more away. Now she would relax, drifting in the warmth of the bath.

  Her hands crept to her breasts, cupped them lightly, played with the nipples.

  Life was good, Ellen thought. If you were young, happy and attractive, the world was your oyster. It was just the pitiful creep who hung around the edges of existence who missed all the fun. Like the voyeur across the way, glued to the window, his eyes drinking in every detail of Ellen's nude and golden body.

  Mr. Crispian had no complaints. Mr. Crispian felt well satisfied with his night's activity at the window.

  He watched the blonde girl disappear into the bathroom. He knew that the show was probably over for tonight. After her bath, she would put on a negligee, which meant no more nudity for him, and sooner or later one of her boy friends would show up, and the blinds across the way would be drawn. So he had had it.

  He straightened up and tugged at his collar. He was hot and perspiring from what he had seen. The exercises, in particular, heated him up. To see her bending and writhing, her big round breasts flopping around, the breasts that were so fantastically beautiful they seemed unreal, that was an overpowering sensat
ion for Mr. Crispian.

  Some nights, when the blonde girl disappeared from view, he would remain at his observation post, staring at other windows. But not tonight. He had had all the excitement he needed, tonight.

  He walked across the room, shaking a little from the impact of his peeping. He closed his eyes.

  In memory he relived what he had seen.

  The gradual stripping. The body proudly bared to him. The high, rosy-tipped breasts. The flat stomach, the firm thighs, the dazzling gold.

  And she was so shameless, Mr. Crispian thought!

  She had turned toward the window to undress. She must do it deliberately, he decided. There could be no other explanation. Some people accidentally left their windows open, but that was a matter of forgetfulness. They didn't proceed to face front and strip in front of the window. If they noticed that the blinds were open, they would close them.

  Not this blonde, though. She had been front and center, stripping for an audience. She had been looking right at the window, all except once when she turned her back, and that could have been deliberate too, to show off her luscious buttocks.