Chapter 5
Mr. Crispian, huddled behind his window across the courtyard, was wondering what was going on in there.
He felt a little cheated tonight. He had gotten a glimpse of the blonde girl's naked body, true enough. He couldn't complain about that. She had undressed right to the buff in front of her open window.
But she hadn't done her calisthenics. She had robbed him of his nightly view of her wonderful body writhing and wriggling through the exercises. He particularly missed the one where she planted her feet flat on the floor and spread her legs and bent over backward to try to grab her ankles with her hands. That one made her breasts point to the ceiling, and gave him an unequaled view of her.
No, tonight she had skipped the exercises. She had taken off her clothes, allowing him to look at her supple, voluptuous nude body, and then she had gone into the bathroom for her nightly bath. The bathroom had a frosted window, so he couldn't see anything there.
Mr. Crispian had had another brief peek at her a little while later, when she came out of her bath. He had watched her put on a nightgown that didn't hide very much of her nudity. Then she had disappeared to get into bed, apparently. He couldn't see her bed from his vantage point.
Next, company had arrived. It was one of the regulars, the thin redheaded man with the crew cut who came two or three times a month. Mr. Crispian had watched them kissing. That was a hot one! He had seen the redheaded man grab a good handful of the blonde girl's bare buttocks, beneath her little nightgown. Then the blonde had taken off her gown altogether, and Mr. Crispian had sat forward on the edge of his seat, tense, hoping that he might actually see them make love.
He had seen lovemaking once, only once, since he had taken up the hobby of window peeping. The blonde girl's most frequent visitor, the burly dark-haired man, had loved her standing up, right by the window, and for once he had forgotten to pull the blind. Mr. Crispian had seen the whole thing. Her sharp eyes had seen him going to her, as he held her with her buttocks facing the window and tipped up a little so that Mr. Crispian could see the action and the two pale globes of flesh. He had seen, with his sharp eyes, the passion-distorted face of the blonde girl as the dark-haired man moved to her again and again.
Mr. Crispian had been so excited that night that he was unable to sleep. He had remained awake, seem" in his mind's eye the whole scene replayed again and again. But tonight he wasn't going to get a repeat. The red-haired fellow stripped to the waist and then he pulled the blind, shutting off Mr. Crispian's view.
Half an hour had passed since then. The blind had remained drawn.
They were loving, he thought. He was on her, or maybe she was on him. Their bodies were moving, and they were riding off to passion.
Lonely in his miserable sickness, he acted out in his mind the scene that he knew was going on across the courtyard. He stewed in the juices of his own sour frustration for a while.
Then, realizing that he had seen all that he was going to see of the blonde girl for this evening, Mr. Crispian began to survey some of the other windows that had produced scores for him in the past.
They were lit up. It was past ten o'clock, and he had a clear view into many apartments. He glanced at the one on the fifth floor. Two months ago, he had seen a naked woman in that window. True, it hadn't exactly been a sight for sore eyes. She had been about fifty, he guessed, fat and untidy-looking. But she had been naked. He had seen her big, long, dangling breasts, her dimpled, jiggling buttocks, and the pot of her stomach. For Mr. Crispian, who measured his life in such adventures, even that glimpse of sloppy, middle-aged nudity had been a triumph.
He hadn't seen her again in the nude. But he never gave up hope, once he scored with any window. If a woman would walk around naked in front of a window once, she might do it a second time. But there was no action up there tonight, Mr. Crispian saw. All he could make out was the blue glow of a television set. He wouldn't see any flesh.
His eye roved a couple of apartments over. Only last week he had had a real thrill there-a teen-age girl, dark-haired and beautiful. Up till now, the blonde girl right across the way was his most dependable and most attractive peeping victim. But this teen-ager had really sent his blood pressure soaring.
He had seen her around the building over the past few years, had watched her grow up and fill out. But he had never spied on her. Now and then, he had caught sight of her moving around in her bedroom, but she had always been fully dressed. All the same, he continued to survey her window, just on the off chance that some night he would be rewarded.
The reward, when it came, was spectacular. She appeared in the window totally nude. She was standing in front of the dresser, with her profile to him, and she was brushing out her lustrous black hair.
Thanks to the mirror on the dresser, Mr. Crispian got a perfect double view, front and side at the same time. The profile showed him her flawless figure, narrow at the waist, flat at the stomach, with her breasts high, firm and jutting out straight in front of her, and her buttocks curving attractively. The mirror showed him both breasts at once, twin round hills of delight tipped with small, dark-hued nipples.
He had watched her for fifteen minutes as she tirelessly ran the brush through her hair in stroke after stroke. Then she had finished brushing her hair. She turned and faced the window, and he got a direct view of the flat young stomach, the mounds of breast-flesh, the jet-black beauty of her. She was about fifteen or sixteen, Mr. Crispian guessed, and her body had the perfection of early maturity.
She had pulled the blind. And it was like a cloud shutting off the sun. Each night since then he had hoped to catch another glimpse of her, but no luck. Now he looked hopefully toward her window. It was dark.
She's out on a date, Mr. Crispian thought with the bitter jealousy of a loveless man. She's in a parked car somewhere, on the back seat. Her date is unfastening her brassiere. He's putting his hands on her breasts. Squeezing them. Playing with the nipples. They're like little buttons, hard and round. Now he's taking a nipple in his mouth. Drawing on it. She's gasping. She's still a virgin; this is the first time anybody's ever done this to her.
And now the date is pulling her panties down. She is exposed.
He's opening his pants. She gasps a little. She's afraid because he's so strong.
He moves toward her. He arranges her limbs and positions her.
Then he puts himself into position.
"Be gentle," she whispers. "This is my first time, you know."
"Yes. I know, darling."
He just goes just a little way. He retreats almost completely. Then he pushes again, a little further. His hands are holding her breasts. Her buttocks are bare against the upholstery of the car seat. She wriggles around. Excitement is taking hold of her. He's going to make a woman out of her! She thrusts herself against him.
There's resistance. She keeps on pushing, though. So does he.
Suddenly the barrier dissolves, and he's there; she's holding on tight to him and her eyes are closed; she's afraid and in love all at once, and he moves around, going further and further Mr. Crispian shook his head. He clenched his fists so hard that his nails dug into his palms, and pulled himself out of his fantasy of imaginary sex in a parked car. For all he knew, the dark-haired girl was at choir rehearsal tonight, or a basketball game, something completely innocent.
Sweat ran down the peeper's body. His eyes roved the other windows, hungry for a score.
Hey, now! What's this?
Second floor. It was the apartment where the Andersons had lived. Old Mr. Anderson had dropped dead in January, and the widow had moved out a month later. The apartment had been vacant for a while, but Mr. Crispian had heard that some people were moving in.
The light snapped on suddenly in the apartment. Mr. Crispian saw two figures.
Two girls.
They were standing in a bedroom. There was no furniture in the room except a bed. There weren't any blinds that could be drawn, because they hadn't been put up yet. The apartment still had that raw, not-quite-lived-in look. The open window, unguarded by any kind of barrier, radiated a blaze of sudden light into the courtyard.
The girls were kissing.
They were in a tight embrace. Mr. Crispian watched, startled by what he saw. This was a quiet, middle-class kind of house. They didn't get any beatnik kinds here, any Bohemians. Yet these two young girls, framed in the window, were unmistakably kissing. There was a brunette and a kind of red-haired-girl, and the brunette had her hand between their two bodies, obviously holding the other girl's breasts. And the other one was rubbing her hand over the brunette's blue jean-covered buttocks.
Lesbians!
It had to be, Mr. Crispian thought. Two girls who were just roommates or good friends might kiss each other now and then, he figured. But they wouldn't kiss on the lips, the way these two were doing. And they wouldn't go in for buttock-grabbing and breast-squeezing.
Well, well, well! A pair of dykes on the second floor! And no blinds at all on the windows!
How about that, Mr. Crispian asked himself! How about that!
He stared at them in bulge-eyed fascination. In all his years of window peeping, Mr. Crispian had never seen two girls making love to each other. He had seen one girl making love to herself, writhing on a rumpled bed with one hand gripping her breasts and the other one caressing herself. But that wasn't the same thing at all.
The two girls were getting undressed, now. They were stripping each other.
Mr. Crispian's apartment was a few floors above theirs, at just the right height so he could see deep into their room. Even when they stepped back from the window, he had a clear view of the bed where they obviously were going to act out their rite of forbidden passion.
They were taking each other's sweaters off, now. And the jeans were dropping. Bras. Panties.
They both were nude. Mr. Crispian clenched his jaws in tense fascination. Beads of sweat burst from the skin of his forehead. His heart was pounding so frenziedly that he was afraid it might leap through the cage of his ribs. His eyes were trained unwaveringly on the nude duo in the second-floor apartment.
They were built very differently.
The girl with the reddish-orange hair was shorter, plumper and cuddlier. She had a girlish, soft-bodied look to her. Her breasts were large and round, tipped with tall nipples rising out of pale aureoles that were so big that even at this distance they seemed oversized. Her stomach was curved and fleshy. Her buttocks were plump mounds. Her thighs were solid and round.
Next to her, the brunette Lesbian looked almost like a boy. She was tall and lean, with narrow hips and a slender waist. Her breasts were small and pointed, hardly more than two little swellings on her chest. Mr.
Crispian had watched a thirteen-year-old girl getting undressed across the way a few months before, and the brunette Lesbian's boobs were hardly bigger than hers. The brunette's buttocks were flat and boyish, with little sensuality to them. Her body looked muscular, energetic.
Mr. Crispian understood. It worked the same way with Lesbians as with ordinary people. One partner was masculine-looking and dominant, the other one was feminine, yielding, and soft. Mr. Crispian nodded. It was always useful to learn things about other people. If you were too shy to get out and mingle with the rest of the world, you could learn by sitting in your room and keeping your eyes peeled.
The naked Lesbian girls were going over to the bed, now, Mr. Crispian saw.
They were lying down together.
They were starting to embrace and kiss. The brunette was definitely taking the upper hand in the lovemaking. She had her mouth against the redhead's big soft breasts. Mr. Crispian could see that she was pulling on the big nipples. The red-haired girl was wriggling voluptuously, moving her hips as though inviting a lover to take her.
The brunette's right hand found its goal. Her fingers closed on warm, throbbing flesh. The redhead kissed the tiny breasts of the brunette and cupped the flat, hard buttocks.
Then the dark-haired one was wriggling down the other girl's body, and kissing as she went.
Mr. Crispian watched avidly. He could imagine the busy lips doing their work, flicking back and forth over tingling skin. The redhead lay flat on her back, passively accepting the situation for a while.
Then she seemed to come to life. She pivoted, and the two girls arranged things to their mutual satisfaction. Their limbs thrashed wildly as passion embraced them.
Mr. Crispian imagined that he could see the atmosphere in the Lesbian's bedroom growing steamier and steamier by the moment. It seemed to him almost as though he could hear the harsh gasps and pants of lust at this distance, the creaking of the bed beneath the two twisting, jiggling nude female bodies. He could almost detect the redhead's perfume, she being the more feminine of the two.
Almost. Not quite. But he had a well-developed imagination, Mr. Crispian did.
The redhead across the way was well developed in other ways, and all that development was being put to good use now. The brunette was riding high on her. They plunged and bucked, bodies intertwining, legs sliding between passion-charged thighs, hands grasping for sweat-shiny breasts, chests heaving, eyes slitted.
Now the brunette was on top, just the way a man would be. She lay over the redhead's body. Mr. Crispian could hardly see the redhead at all--just the top of her head, and the outstretched legs. The dark-haired girl covered her almost completely.
The brunette was undulating, body churning, breasts rubbing against breasts, leg to leg. Mr. Crispian felt himself growing hot under the collar. He watched the brunette's lean, flat, pale buttocks moving steadily, and tried to imagine the sort of sensations that must be coursing through the two Lesbians as they surged toward the peak of their illicit lusts.
His hands were shaking. Sweat rolled into one of his eyes, blurring his vision for a moment. Irritably, Mr. Crispian dabbed at the eye with his handkerchief.
He saw feminine flesh grinding together in a wild onslaught of passion. What was it like, for them? A sensation of delight as a soft body pressed against another soft body, hard nipples rubbing, stomach's going sideways in ecstatic stimulation?
Now they were quivering. Trembling. Shaking.
Reaching the culmination, Mr. Crispian knew.
The brunette half rose as though electrified and fell back into the welcoming arms of her soft-bodied breasty playmate. They lay still.
It was all over.
The girls had had their fun.
Mr. Crispian sat stock-still, his nerves wound up so tightly that they were silently screaming. What he had seen tonight was far more provocative than simply watching a nude girl doing calisthenics or brushing her hair in front of a mirror. He had witnessed a sizzlingly erotic scene, and now he felt the impact on his own nervous system. He was ferociously worked up.
He knew what he ought to do. Go out and get himself a woman, that was what. Get ahold of her and use up all the energy that had been building up in him while peeping at the Lesbians.
But he couldn't do that. He was afraid.
It was years since he had last slept with a woman. His courage had long ago left him. He preferred to hide in the darkness of his own apartment, skulking away where no other human being could intrude.
He looked across the courtyard. The brunette Lesbian had gotten up from the bed and walked to the window. He saw her framed in the window, her breasts still heaving. He tensed. Could she see his eyes peep through the slit in his blinds?
But she wasn't coming to look for him. She didn't even know he existed. She was simply glancing out the window, He saw her framed in the window, her breasts like little points of flesh, some curves in shadow, contrasting with the paleness of her skin. Then she turned the light out. There would be nothing further for Mr. Crispian to see tonight.
What will I do now, he wondered?
I know, he thought. I'll take a walk. A nice brisk walk five or six blocks in each direction. That'll help me get some sleep. And tomorrow night I'll have the blonde to watch again, and maybe the high school girl and the Lesbians too.
Mr. Crispian got up. He put a light jacket on, for it was past eleven o'clock, and he was perspiring from what he had just seen; at his age he didn't want to risk getting himself a chill.
He went out. Down flight after flight of stairs and out into the street.
He walked quickly, heading nowhere in particular. He smiled to himself as he walked, thinking about the Lesbians, reliving in his mind that glowing scene of forbidden passion that he had been privileged to see.
Yes, Mr. Crispian thought happily, things were definitely looking up.
He was in for a highly entertaining season of window peeping.