Passion Peeper (1965)

by Don Elliott

  "But that's just my point," she said. "Of course it isn't your fault. It shouldn't be considered a matter of faults. We're both free adults. We ought to be able to sleep wherever we please. After we're married, I think we should stay faithful to each other. But until then-"

  He shook his head. "I can't agree with that."

  "Please, Jim. Don't spoil a lovely evening."

  "But-"

  She shut his mouth in the best way she knew how. With her kiss. Her tongue lanced deep into his mouth. At the same time her hand slid rapidly down the front of his body and then she had him. He was relaxed., but not for long. Ellen moved her hand teasingly a few times, and he responded with the incredible instant virility that was so characteristic of him.

  The conversation was over. More urgent matters had to be attended to.

  He rolled over, and his body was above hers. Ellen grinned up at him, her eyes wicked, shining with invitation. He smiled back, all tension forgotten.

  Her body bloomed for him.

  Yes, she thought. Yes. This was the life. She felt sorry for all the people who were missing it, like that poor creep across the courtyard who got his jollies by staring at naked chicks from a hundred feet away. How could he even say he was alive?

  The big man on top of her lunged.

  Their bodies pressed.

  Gasping and panting, Ellen Dawson clung to him, her body sensitive to his manhood, and as her hips gyrated in the feverish rhythms of love she closed her eyes and let joy engulf her once more.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mr. Crispian had not always been a voyeur.

  That is to say, he had not always been only a voyeur. He had always liked to stare at pretty women, and in that he was not exactly unique. But there had been a time when his peeping had formed only a part of his sex life and not the entire bulk of it. That is to say, he had been more or less a normal individual once.

  But that was a long time ago.

  It was hard to imagine it, looking at him now. You looked at J. Martin Crispian, and you saw a tired, washed-out little man in his fifties, and it was impossible not to think that he had always been a tired, washed-out little man in his fifties It took real imagination to picture Mr. Crispian as, say, a smudgyfaced boy of nine, hunting frogs at the edge of a country pond. It wasn't easy to think of Mr. Crispian as a fourteen-year-old, just turning into manhood, surging with the vigor of new adolescence. It wasn't a simple matter to realize that this shell of a human being must once have had dreams and ambitions and yearnings, that he might have thought of founding a family or of running a business or of being elected senator. No. It was a tough challenge to look at Mr. Crispian and realize that he was as alive as anybody else, with memories, a past, and longings that had not been satisfied. It was too easy to think of him simply as someone who had appeared on the face of the earth as a tired, washed-out little man in his fifties.

  But he had changed. Life had him behind, but once he had been a living, breathing human being, who wanted to be Somebody.

  The trouble was, he was shy. He had been a slim, short boy, and he grew up to be a slim, short man. Nobody noticed him, ever. He could get lost in a crowd even if there were only two other people in the crowd.

  He didn't have much force or vigor. The trouble was, it seems, that all the vigor had been drained out of his family by the time he was conceived. Mr. Crispian was the youngest of eight children. The other seven were all girls. He grew up in a house of women.

  Mr. Crispian's father had once been a rip-roaring, rambunctious hellion, who could sleep his way through a mob of women and come out raring for more. But he had worn himself out with early exploits. By the time Mr. Crispian was born, his father was fifty-twoyears old. It was impressive enough that the old boy could still sire a baby at that age, but he was still pretty well burned out by then. He didn't pay much attention to the baby boy of his late middle age, especially when it became apparent that the boy was going to be spindly and shy. His father died when J. Martin Crispian was eight-years-old, and after that there were just women in his household.

  Eight women. A tired, run-down mother in her fifties, and seven sisters. The oldest sister was almost twenty-five when he was born. She had been married a couple of times already. Now she was divorced and living at home again. Then there were other sisters, ranging down to one who was only eleven years older than Martin.

  His sisters had been accustomed to going around the house naked most of the time before he was born, since there were only girls in the family. They didn't let the presence of a young brother inhibit them any. Wherever young Martin turned, he found a naked sister.

  He shared a bedroom with his two youngest sisters. By the time he was six, they were seventeen and eighteen. They had big breasts and even bigger backsides. His life was full of their jiggling boobs, their fleshy buttocks. They had no shame. He'd be brushing his teeth to go to bed, and one of them might come into the John and plunk herself down.

  No, he didn't need to be a voyeur then. Naked women were all around him. It was a boring sight, because it was so common. Flesh all around.

  The third-from-oldest sister was a little retarded mentally. Because she was so slow-witted, she didn't go out with boys. She was about twenty-five when Martin turned ten, and she was very frustrated. So she would play with him. She would come naked into his room at night and put her hand into his pajamas and rub him back and forth.

  "See how you get?" she would say, laughing. And she would take his hand. "Put it here. Squeeze my boobies. I like it when you squeeze my boobies."

  Martin was frightened and ashamed by these attentions. He knew it was wrong to let his older sister touch him like that. Even though it felt good when she rubbed him under his pajamas, and when he squeezed her big, firm breasts.

  Then she started making him put his hand over her legs to stroke her. She was warm and eager. He was shocked by that. She would lie on his bed next to him and move her hips back and forth while holding his hand trapped; she would gasp and moan, and her big buttocks would jump around, and then finally she would let out a long sigh and lie still.

  When he was about eleven, she tried something else. She took his pajamas off and caressed him. Then she pulled her nightgown over her head and lay down on his bed She tossed her legs, and he stared.

  "Get on top of me," she ordered.

  "No-I don't think we ought to."

  "I want you to."

  Around the household it was understood that this sister was to be humored, because she was slow-witted. Martin didn't want to hurt her feelings. So he lay down on top of her naked body. She was big and warm and fleshy, and he was small and thin; it was like a minnow lying down on a whale. She put her hand on him and tried to guide him to her.

  "Here," she kept saying. "Over here."

  He was too fragile to be able to do her any good. She made him move, approach and retreat. He was terribly embarrassed. And then suddenly his oldest sister came bursting into the room. She slammed him in the face so hard it knocked him to the floor.

  "What do you think you're doing?" she screamed at him. "Of all the disgusting things!"

  He got a good beating for it. They hit him so hard he cried half the night. They didn't punish the sister who had seduced him, of course. She was a moron. But tie was supposed to know better.

  It wasn't fair, he thought. How was he supposed to know that he wasn't supposed to put himself into such a position? With everybody running around naked in the house, it was hard to know what was right and what was wrong.

  The memory of the beating stayed with him. He was forever frightened that his dumb sister would try something like that again, and he would get another beating. But she never tried it another time.

  He was afraid of sex, now. Afraid of naked women. Afraid to touch bare breasts or to use his hand too freely over a woman's body.

  The next time a woman made overtures to him, it wasn't one of his sisters.

  It ca
me about through his lifelong habit of staring at women. Not that he had been staring very hard. With all that naked female flesh running around his house, Mr. Crispian didn't have any of the usual small-boy curiosity about the bodies of women. He knew all too well what a woman's body was like, and some times wished he didn't.

  This happened when he was thirteen years old. He had just about reached his full growth, now, although he didn't realize that fact yet. He stood about five feet four and weighed a little over a hundred pounds. He didn't need to shave yet, but otherwise he was on the threshold of adolescence.

  It was a fiercely hot July day. He was riding the bus home from the library about half past eleven one morning. There weren't many other people on the bus. But there was a woman sitting across the aisle, and he found himself staring at her.

  She must have been around thirty. He wasn't very good at judging ages, but he figured she was about as old as his oldest sister. She was a dark-haired woman, rather plump. Almost fat, as a matter-of-fact. She was wearing a white blouse and a dark green skirt.

  Two things about her caught Martin's attention as he sat there with his armload of books. For one thing, she was sitting with her legs crossed, and her short skirt had ridden all the way up to the middle of her thighs. He could see her legs. She wasn't wearing any stockings, and he had the feeling that she might not even be wearing any panties.

  That excited him. Even with all the women naked around his house, the sight of the plump woman's calves and thighs across the aisle of the bus excited him. After all, she was a stranger. The others were his sisters. He had spent all his life with them. They didn't have any novelty about them. But this woman had a strange fascination.

  There was a second thing that fascinated the thirteen-year-old boy. The plump woman didn't seem to have any brassiere on, either. He found that awfully hard to believe. Every woman wore a brassiere when she was in public, didn't she? Yet the evidence was hard to deny. Perspiration had pasted the plump woman's white blouse to her skin in front, on this hot summer day. Martin's staring eyes could detect the dark circles of aureoles under the blouse, and the small mounds of nipples right in the middle. He was sure that he was actually seeing her breasts under there and not just the pointed tips of a brassiere.

  No stockings? No panties, maybe? No brassiere? She really believed in comfort, didn't she?

  He couldn't take his eyes off her. The bus jounced along from stop to stop, and the plump woman's unbound breasts jounced right along with it. He watched her. And after a while he became aware that she knew he was watching her.

  She didn't seem annoyed about it. She smiled pleasantly at him, as though saying: Nice little boy, go ahead and peek all you like. But Martin was embarrassed. Hastily, he pulled his eyes away from her and aimed them at the floor in front of them.

  He kept them there for two stops. Then, gradually, he raised them again. The woman did a provocative thing. She stretched and yawned. Since her eyes were closed while she was yawning, Martin was able to take a good, slow look at her bust. The yawn pushed her breasts out against her sweat-soaked blouse, and this time there could be no doubt about it at all. She might just as well have been sitting there naked to the waist. The outlines of her breasts were clearly lined through the blouse, two big globes of flesh tipped with dark, hard, upstanding nipples. No bra. No bra at all.

  Martin planned his next step with care. He was wildly excited at the thought that this woman would go into public dressed so casually, even on a hot day. He knew that in another three blocks the bus would have to make the big curve at McAllister Boulevard. So he carefully arranged some of his library books so that they would fall from his lap onto the floor when the bus turned.

  The bus got to McAllister Boulevard. The driver swung it in a sharp left turn. Three books went skittering onto the floor. Martin got down to pick them up.

  While he was on the floor, he took a good long look up the plump woman's skirt.

  She made it easy for him by uncrossing her legs at that precise moment and crossing them the other way. So he saw quite a lot. He saw the undersides of her thighs right up to the place where her buttocks began, and he saw the little crease that ran horizontally along the bottom of her buttocks. He was right that she wasn't wearing any panties. None at all.

  And in the moment when she was uncrossing and recrossing her legs, Martin saw a lot more. Then the view was cut off, leaving him blinking and dazed on the floor of the bus. He picked up his books and sat down again.

  He felt the excitement surge in him. He was glad that there were books on his lap, because otherwise it would have been embarrassing to have his excitement revealed so publicly. He glanced across at the woman. She was smiling at him again. She seemed to know that he had seen under her skirt, and she didn't care.

  She didn't care at all! That was the astonishing thing, Martin thought.

  Another two stops along, she got up and started to walk toward the exit. A sudden impulse struck Martin, and he got up too, ever, though his own station was still another dozen blocks away.

  He didn't want to lose sight of her. He had a wild hope that if he followed her as she walked through the streets, there might be a sudden gust of wind that would sweep her skirt up around her waist and give him a clear view of her big round pink buttocks. He found that thought terrifically exciting-the idea of seeing a woman's naked backside right out in the open street. Seeing your own sisters running around the house wasn't interesting at all. But in the street! That would be something worth walking a few extra blocks for!

  So he got off the bus with her.

  The moment he got off, he knew that he was bound to be disappointed. There wasn't enough wind blowing to flutter a handkerchief, let alone to lift a woman's skirt higher than her thighs. He had wasted his time, and he was going to have to walk all the way home from here for nothing. He thought of stepping right back on the bus, but it was gone. He stood there in the fierce heat, regretting what he had done.

  And then the plump woman turned around and said hello to him.

  He wasn't expecting that. He had just been standing there at the corner where the bus let him off, and she had been a few steps ahead of him. waiting for the light to change; she seemed to notice him, and she turned to him, those big breasts jiggling inside her blouse, and she said, with a soft, sweet voice "Hello."

  "H-hello." He wanted to run.

  "What's your name?"

  "Martin," he said.

  "You don't need to be afraid of me," she said. "I'm Jenny. Come walk with me. Martin."

  He was too frightened to do anything else. Tucking his many books under his arms, he strolled along beside her. His head just about came up to her shoulder.

  She said, "Hot weather, isn't it?"

  "Sure is."

  "Makes you feel all hot inside." She laughed. "You were looking at me, weren't you?"

  Martin did not answer. His cheeks were blazing a hot scarlet.

  "You don't need to be afraid of me," she said. "I don't mind that you were looking at me. A woman likes a man to give her the stare. It's when they stop looking at her that she starts to worry."

  No one had ever called Martin a man before. And she had seemed to mean it. He clutched his books tightly and strode along stiff-legged beside her.

  She went on, "But you were looking real hard. What's the matter, you've never seen what a woman looks like under her clothes before?"

  This time he did not keep silent. "Sure I have!" he blurted. "Plenty of times!"

  "Really, now!"

  "My sisters," he said. "I've got loads of sisters."

  "So you know what a woman's built like." She chuckled again. "You're a real man, aren't you? Let me ask you, Martin, how'd you like to have a glass of nice cool lemonade?"

  "Well-"

  "My place, it's right over there, three steps away. Come on in. I've got a whole quart of lemonade in my icebox waiting for somebody to drink it."

  He was too
shy to say no to her. So he let her steer him right into her apartment. It was a small place-just a living room with an adjacent bath and kitchenette section, and a little bedroom. He put his books down on a hall table and stood restlessly, in confusion and fear, wishing he had never gotten off the bus. She was busy at the refrigerator, with her back turned toward him.

  When she turned around again, there was a tall glass of lemonade in each of her hands. But she had also unbuttoned her blouse all the way down the front. It was hanging open far enough for him to be able to see the inner globes of the big, soft-looking, pale breasts, and even the corner of one dark pink aureole.

  "Whoo-ee!" she exclaimed. "Such weather! Here, Martin. Here's your lemonade." The blouse fell further open as she handed him his glass. He got a clear view of one huge round hard-tipped breast. He was very excited, now. The fact of his excitement was apparent. He was standing up, and without books to shield him.