The Watcher

First Anita adjusted the drapes, casually, naked from a long, hot shower. Out of the corner of her eye the lights from the apartment opposite flickered on as she heard the bedroom door open and shut behind her.

He was there again. But as she came closer to the window to catch a glimpse, the light was extinguished, and her heart fell a little. No audience tonight. She sighed and turned to her husband, standing in the doorway, removing his sweater.

“Ready?” He asked quietly. She nodded, when the doorbell rang.

“I suppose I’ll answer it, you’re hardly dressed appropriately.”

They shared a small smile before Alan turned and headed downstairs to see who it was.

Standing on the doorstep was a young man, he couldn’t have been more than twenty, leaning cockily against the doorway. He could have been a friend of their grandson’s. He looked familiar, but Alan couldn’t place him.

“Hello” said the visitor. “I’m Tom.”
“Hello…” replied Alan, confused.

“Can I come in?”

“I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“I’m a friend of your wife’s.”
“I’m sorry, but we-”
“It’s fine. I won’t outstay my welcome.”
Before he quite knew what was going on, Alan had stepped aside to let the young man enter. Tom headed towards the bedroom as if he had made regular visits.

Anita turned at the sound of footsteps, and was greeted by the boy, the impertinent voyeur, admiring the fall of her breasts against her chest.

“Tom.”
“Anita.” She said dumbly, her face flushing red. He didn’t seem embarrassed at all. He held out his hand, eyes on her arms which she had crossed over her breasts in surprise.

“I was worried.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve noticed you arguing. Closing the curtains. And I was worried. That I wouldn’t get to see.”

“We always kiss and make up, don’t you worry about that.” Anita replied, certainly not thinking straight.

“Excellent. I’m not going out ’til 11.”

Tom lifted his arms and pulled off his t shirt. His bare chest seemed to glow golden in the evening sunshine. His hair was long, his arms muscular. He reminded Anita of that actor who played that man in that film with the superheroes in. The one she thought about when she was in the bath, imagining him plowing into her as she washed her hair.

Tom sat down on the bed and cupped his hand over the fork of his jeans. He looked tantalising.

Shaken from his stunned silence, Alan bounded up the stairs and strode into the room.

“Get the fuck out of my bedroom.” He said, standing protectively before his wife to hide her nakedness.

Tom glanced over at him, and raised his hand.

“Don’t, Anita.”

Alan was outraged.
“Get out. You have no right to be in my wife’s bedroom.”

“ Why not? I dream of fucking her every night. I’ve watched you fuck her more than enough times.” He replied, coolly.

“My cock gets hard just thinking about her body,” Tom went on. “Why wouldn’t it? Look at her. Look at you.” He turned to Anita and added apologetically. “You’re stunning. Your breasts, your stomach. You’re stunning.”
“You’re thirty years too late for stunning, boy.” Alan laughed. “Not even in your lifetime.”

Tom stood up and walked up to the still naked Anita. He towered over her.

“You are entirely beautiful. He should tell you that, every day.”

“I do.” Alan said, some of his fire extinguished.

“He did.” Anita said sadly.

Tom looked at Alan.

“Why don’t you kiss her?”
With a face of confusion, Alan walked to the side of the bed and kissed his wife’s lips. Tom shook his head.

“No. Not like that. Have you ever kissed a woman before? Have you ever made her toes curl?”
Alan looked indignant.

“I let you into my home-”
“Yes. And I have watched you fuck your wife this past year. And she has watched me stroke my cock and wondered who I am and why I watch you and what’s in it for me. I watched your lights gradually diminish and it hurt me to see it.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Alan blustered, all the while knowing the exact moment he had last touched Anita’s naked body. It was months ago, he could barely picture the sight; age and loss had diminished the memory of his luscious wife. And he didn’t even know why they had stopped. Tiredness? He knew he had never stopped thinking Anita beautiful or desirable. But he was so tired…

Tom brought his hand to the fork of his jeans, bulging visibly, and continued.

“Watching the two of you fuck, knowing the history of love and adoration that was there turned me on, it drove me wild. I want to watch you fuck her like you used to. I want to watch your bodies writhing in ecstasy up close. I came here with every intention of fucking your wife.”
Sitting himself on the corner of the bed, he began unbuttoning his flies.

“I came here to fuck her and feel her body because after a year of privilege I can’t stop thinking about her. But the months that followed, in which I never once saw you embrace, or even kiss her has changed that. What I really want is to watch the two of you fuck. I want to see Anita’s face as she climaxes, I want to be able to hear her moaning and be able to conjure the noise when I leave here. I want to watch you pleasure her the way she should have been pleasured for fifty years.”
“Does she get a say in this?”

Alan still felt as though he ought to be protecting his seventy four year old wife’s virtue. But this was what Anita wanted, why wouldn’t it be?

She reached out and stroked Alan’s arm, tracing down to his waist where she hooked her finger into his belt loops and tugged him closer to her.

“We have an audience. We have a show to put on. Fuck me.” She said in a low voice.

Alan still looked unsure, wary of the louche, masterful presence in the corner of his bedroom, whose eyes rarely strayed from his wife’s body. Her glorious, undulating body. Her curves and furrows and sweet, succulent flesh that had enveloped him time and time again.

It was as though he was seeing her with new eyes, and though he hated knowing that Tom was responsible, he was also grateful.

“Oh Anita. My love… My everything. I’m sorry. I love you.”

She only smiled, and began to undress her husband, a mix of leisurely, sensual tugs and urgent passionate need to see his naked body, his clutches of grey and white chest hair, his arms which had held her each night since the night they married.

Naked, Alan linked his fingers through his wife’s, pressing his lips to hers, and then to her neck which smelt of deliciousness, of Shalimar and sweat and the imperfect wash of human skin and it was as if he had never truly appreciated it before. It awakened the animal, restless need in him, and he grabbed he,r pushing her gently against the wall to hold her in place as he felt her breasts, thighs and arse greedily. Her grasp on his cock was equal, and when he moaned at her touch, she moaned too.

They quite forgot about their impertinent visitor, smiling in the corner, his cock in his hand, settling down for his private show.

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