Passion Peeper (1965)

by Don Elliott

  He gulped his lemonade.

  Then she said, "Now you do me a favor, okay?"

  "What?"

  "I'm all sticky from sweating. A fat girl liked me, I sweat a whole lot. Suppose I give you a wet towel, will you swab me off with it?"

  He shrugged a noncommittal answer. She turned away from him again, took a towel, and held it under the cold water tap until it was soaking. She wrung it out and handed it to him. Then, with a warm smile, she casually slipped out of her blouse and stood bare-breasted in front of him.

  Her breasts were huge, but they weren't sloppy or dangly. They were big, round and hard. She was a fairly fat woman, and she certainly couldn't be called pretty, but she had a terrific pair of boobs on her.

  He was a little frightened by the exposure of her nakedness. He felt that he was her prisoner here. But he dabbed the towel at her breasts, on her back, and under her arms while she hissed in pleasure.

  Then she seized one of his hands and clapped it to her left breast. Crispian remembered, a couple of years ago, how his slow-witted sister had done almost the same thing to him.

  "Squeeze it!" Jenny hissed. "Grab it tight! Oh, do you know what it means to be lonely? Come here and sit down next to me." She swept him to the couch, her big breasts jiggling and swaying. Her face was flushed, and her eyes were narrowed to little slits. "I'm not so ugly, am I?" she asked. "I don't smell bad, do I? Do I?"

  "N-no."

  "Then why can't I get a man? Be my man, Martin. I need one so bad."

  She caught his hand and thrust it under her skirt. He felt her all naked under there, the warm round stomach with its folds of flesh, the heavy thighs, and the heat. She pushed his hand to her. Then with her other hand. She began to unbutton his clothes and unzip him. Her hand dove and seized him.

  "You're a man all right," she murmured. "How old are you, fourteen, fifteen? That's old enough. Plenty old for Jenny, all right."

  He didn't want to tell her that he was only thirteen. He didn't want to tell her that he was scared half out of his wits, either. So he just glided along with the situation, letting her run the whole show as she had been doing since she had said hello to him at the bus stop.

  She stripped off the skirt that was her only garment. He stared at her big, generous, naked body. It was almost funny to think that half an hour ago he had deliberately knocked his books off his lap so that he could steal a quick glance up her skirt. Now he was free to look at every inch of her body, the big heavy breasts and the huge rounded buttocks, the solid pillars of the thighs and the shadowy contours.

  Then she stripped him, too. He didn't like that much. He felt ashamed of his skinny, half-developed body. Even around his sisters, he tried to hide himself as much as possible. Being naked in front of a strange woman-well, it was almost like being naked in front of the girls at school, and he would never let that happen to him.

  He couldn't keep it from happening now. She took off even-thing he was wearing. Then, laughing heartily, she put her hand on him. He had never seen himself so strong. When she closed her hand, squeezed, he became vastly excited. She moved her hand. It made him feel funny.

  She was breathing hard. Her breasts were leaping around wildly. Her huge body was oiled with sweat.

  "Into the bedroom," she panted.

  The next thing he knew, she was lying sprawled out on the bed with her legs tossed, and he was on on top of her, cushioned on the meaty softness of her, wallowing around on a continent of flesh. He wasn't sure what to do. But she was running the show. She took him to her.

  It felt good. It felt wonderful.

  She let out a long, low sigh of contentment. "Oh, Martin, honey, you don't know how much I need that. Just move around, now. That's it. Oh, oh, God, that's good! Oh-"

  He rocked and ricocheted. At first he moved so fast that he fell away several times. But she seized him and took him back, and after that he was more careful. He was getting the knack of it quickly. His thin body moved fast. She put her hands on his skinny buttocks to push him closer against her. He moved faster and faster.

  She was making strange moaning sounds, now. And he could feel her body wriggling.

  Weird sensations rushed through him. His cheeks felt hot. He had to close his eyes. He pressed his head down against the mountains of her breasts. Suddenly he felt as if somebody had slapped him in the small of the back, and an instant later there came a kind of vibration, and he clung to her, dazed, as he let go for the first time in his life.

  When it was over he felt tired and embarrassed. He got off the fat woman and could hardly bear to look at her body after what he had done. She fixed more lemonade for him while he got dressed. She was still naked. Her enormous breasts danced like melons in front of his face.

  "Don't forget the address, you hear?" she told him. "You're a real man, now. And anytime you want a man's kind of fun, why, you just stop here."

  He got out of there fast, snatching up his library books.

  He felt stunned and confused. He knew that he had left childhood behind in that moment of ecstasy, and that frightened him. He was afraid that he might have formed some sort of habit, or that people would find out what he had done. Yet he had tasted passion, and he had enjoyed it. He was all mixed up, a thirteen-year-old, no longer a virgin, who didn't know what it was all about.

  He ran all the way home. When he got to his room, he closed the door and prayed for a while, in in case he had committed a sin. Then, he took off all his clothes and washed himself very carefully. And afterward he had a tall glass of milk and sat down to try to figure out what it all meant.

  Forty years later, J. Martin Crispian still wasn't sure. But he had never forgotten his introduction to sex, He had never forgotten the frightening and yet fascinating truth that if you stare at a woman's body, she may give herself to you in eager ecstasy.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The next night, the creep was watching her window again. Ellen Dawson wasn't surprised. He was always there, night after night, sitting behind his blinds across the courtyard. That was something you could count on, like Tuesday coming after Monday. He was Old Faithful.

  Didn't he have anything else to do in the evenings, Ellen wondered? Didn't he ever go out to play pinochle with the boys? Didn't he ever have company, a woman in his room, maybe? Didn't he prefer sometimes to sit and stare at his television set, instead of squinting out his window?

  No. Apparently not. He was always sitting there, waiting for her to strip.

  The poor creep, she thought. He was really hooked on peeping, wasn't he?

  Well, she wasn't in the mood to give him much of a show tonight. She was too tired for that. Last night had been a busy one. Jim McHughes had stayed until almost four in the morning, and he had taken her three times. Getting loved three times by Jim McHughes was like making love nine or ten times with any other man. He really used a woman up when he got to her.

  So they had rolled over in the clover until the small hours, and when he left, Ellen was as limp as jelly. What a man! She had grabbed a couple of hour's sleep, and then it had been time to go to work.

  That had been rough, too. Ellen worked at a theatrical booking agency. All day long the phone jangled, with indignant people wanting to know this and that and treating you as though you were just part of the machinery. And you had to be polite to them, of course, or get kicked out on your bottom. It was a taxing job even for somebody who was well rested when she got to work. And since Ellen was usually up half the night with her men friends, the job was twice as hard for her. This particular day had been really brutal. She wasn't sure how she had managed to get through it.

  And to top it all off, her husband, her soon-to-be-ex-husband, had phoned her three times, pleading and whining for a chance to see her. She had turned him down, of course. But it was emotionally exhausting to have to argue with him.

  Finally, Ellen had stopped off for dinner at the little Italian restaurant where she ate five or six nights
out of the week, and then she had come home at half past eight. She didn't have the strength to go through her round of calisthenics, and she was willing to bet that the creep across the way enjoyed her back-bend exercises most of all. She rarely skipped the exercises but tonight would be an exception. She had had enough exercise last night in the arms of Jim McHughes to last her a week, anyway.

  So she would simply undress, a treat for the creep, anyway, and take a nice relaxing bath, get into bed, and read the mystery novel in the new Cosmopolitan until ten o'clock or so. Then it would be lights out For once, she'd have more than eight hours of sleep under her belt when she showed up at the office tomorrow.

  Ellen started to undress.

  Happy dreams, creepo!

  Off came jacket and skirt. She hung them in their places. Ellen was a neat girl, always had been. Off came blouse. Off came slip.

  She glanced toward the window. It seemed to her that she saw a quick movement in the window across the way, the Peeping Tom, hastily ducking out of sight. Ellen grinned. She turned her back toward the window and slowly, provocatively, began to pull her panties down.

  She rolled them down over her flaring hips, rolled them down another inch to bare the adorable dimples just below the small of her back, then another couple of inches to display the beginning of the luscious cheeks. And then the full cheeks came into view, firm, plump, delectably squeezable mounds of taut youthful flesh.

  Take a good look, creepo!

  Reach your hands across the courtyard and grab yourself a feel!

  Ellen smirked. She stepped out of her panties. Then, just for the hell of it, she bent forward and touched her hands to her toes a couple of times. Her buttocks were still aimed toward the window. That gave the creep a good view of what she had. She could imagine him biting his nails in a dither of vicarious desire.

  She straightened up. Enough fun and games for tonight. Quickly, Ellen stripped off her brassiere to bare the double globes of her voluptuous breasts, and got her stockings and garter belt off.

  She headed into the bathroom and let water run into the tub, warm and soothing.

  The bath felt fine. The warm water walled up around her breasts and loosened all the tensions that the day had instilled in her. She got out and toweled herself dry, looking at herself in the bathroom mirror, seeing the pink-and gold nudity of herself, watching her breasts jump around as she moved the towel.

  It was good to be pretty, she thought.

  And good to be young.

  She padded back into her bedroom and slipped a shortie nightgown on over her nakedness. She didn't bother with the panties part. The nightgown came down to her hips and didn't hide anything in particular, but Ellen had never really been concerned with hiding anything. Half her buttocks were exposed, and also her upper thighs, and you could see the ripe globes of her breasts through the filmy fabric.

  She picked up her magazine. She switched on the nightstand light and got into bed. She opened the magazine to the right place. The doorbell rang.

  Oh, no, Ellen thought. Her first guess was that the creep from across the way, the window peeper, had gotten up enough courage to pay her a visit. After all, she wasn't expecting any company tonight. So who else could it be? Maybe he was disappointed at not having gotten a view of her body during a calisthenics session, so he was coming around to register a complaint.

  She was half amused at the idea. Ellen was always on the lookout for new adventures.

  She got out of bed and walked toward the door.

  "Who is it?" she called.

  "It's me," came a low, half-murmuring voice. "Ray. I came to see you Ellen."

  Ellen stiffened. Anger shot through her. Her husband! Her stinking weakknead nothing of a husband!

  "I told you I didn't want to see you," she said sharply. "I meant it."

  "I couldn't stay away, Ellen," he answered in a whining tone. "Please let me in. Please."

  "You're a pest, Ray."

  "Is it my fault I love you?"

  "You're still a pest," she snapped at him through toe closed door.

  "I'll get down on my knees to you, Ellen. Just let me in. Please, darling!"

  She scowled. She knew that it was just what he wanted to get down on his knees to her. That was the kind of character he was. He loved to be punished. He loved to be kicked at, literally or figuratively.

  What the devil, though. She didn't have the heart to turn him away. Besides, her bath had made her feel a whole lot more invigorated. It might be amusing to have Ray here for a while. He was always good for laughs.

  "All right," she said.

  She opened the door.

  He stepped into the room. She was wearing nothing but her shortie nightgown, which left her thighs and buttocks exposed and her breasts hardly covered at all, and she was even more provocative that way than if she had answered the door in the nude. The effect on the man who entered was immediate and emphatic. He gaped at the luscious contours of the woman who had been his wife, and opened his mouth in a wordless little gasp of surprise and delight.

  Ellen closed the door behind him, giving him a view of her firm round buttocks as she did so. Then she turned to face him.

  "What do you want?" she asked.

  "To see you. To touch you. To make love to you, Ellen. That's what I want."

  "We're almost divorced."

  "But we're still man and wife. Until the papers come through, Ellen."

  "You know what would happen to our divorce if anybody found out you were coming here to visit me? They'd throw it right out of court."

  "I can't help that," he said. His eyes were glittering as he surveyed her almost revealed body, the forbidden contours at the rim of her shortie nightgown, the pink cheeks of her buttocks, the heavy globes of her breasts scarcely concealed at all. He said, "I want you so much, Ellen. I wish I hadn't lost you."

  "You wouldn't have, if you hadn't been such a damned fool. But then you'd have been somebody else, wouldn't you? Stop staring at me like that!"

  "Put some clothes on, if you don't want me to stare at you. You're practically naked."

  "You really want me to cover myself up?" she asked, grinning a little.

  "Not really," he said. "Not at all. Ellen, could I have a beer?"

  "I guess I can manage that," she said.

  She went to the refrigerator and got a can of beer out for him. She kept the beer on the bottom shelf, and she had to bend over all the way to get it. That made her nightgown ride midway up her back, completely exposing the bare white mounds of her buttocks to him.

  Ellen could practically feel Ray Dawson's gaze passing over those twin mounds of sensual flesh. He never could take his eyes off her. He was a creepy sort, she told herself. Almost as creepy as that peeper across the courtyard, more or less.

  She opened the beer and handed it to him.

  She watched him as he drank it, thirstily, greedily, as though he hadn't had a beer in months. He was a good-looking guy, she thought. Always had been, always would be. That was why she had married him in the first place. She had let herself be befuddled by his looks.

  He wasn't ruggedly masculine, in the style of Jim McHughes. No, not in the slightest. Ray Dawson was slim, almost delicate, a graceful man with long tapering limbs, a fine-boned face, and a deep red hair that he kept trimmed in a close crew cut. He was as agile as a dancer, and he had a kind of glamour and dash to him that had swept Ellen right off her feet.

  That had been five years ago, when she was nineteen. It had taken a year for the dash and glamour to wear off. Then she had discovered Ray Dawson for what he really was: a pretty boy, a weakling, a zero. Even so, she had tried to paste the marriage back together every time it started to come apart. She forgave him for everything: all his little lies, the other women, the petty vanities. But at last she couldn't take it any more. She moved out. More than a year and a half had gone by since Ellen had left him. She had gotten a separation at first, but now
the divorce was almost final.

  Ray wouldn't accept the fact that he had lost her. He kept coming around, kept whining like a lonely puppy. She didn't love him any more, not a shred, but she was woman enough to take pity on him. She had slept with him whenever he asked her, even after the separation, even after the divorce papers were filed. She knew that she was probably going to sleep with him tonight, if he wanted it.

  She wondered what was going to happen after she was married to Jim McHughes. Would Ray still come around, trying to snuffle up a little on the side? If he did, would she give in to him? And what would happen if Ray and Jim ever collided head on? Jim might kill him. Jim was the kind of man who had that sort of temper. There could be a real explosion if Jim ever suspected her of cheating on him with her first husband.