I have A Room With A View though this is no Merchant Ivory production; no Helena Bonham-Carter, no Daniel Day-Lewis, neither Judi Dench nor Maggie Smith, not even Denholm Elliott or Julian Sands. No, mine is far more Hitchcockian, more Rear Window with me as both Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly; all cocktail dresses, taffeta and décolletage and an itch that I never seem quite able to scratch.
I am a curtain twitcher. A busy body. A peeping tometina, if you wish. A pair of prying eyes and a mind filled with the certainty that everybody else’s business is my business. Every community has me, every community needs me. I keep you all safe from the petty vandalism of exuberant youth and pour scorn on the debauched, depraved behaviour of my neighbours. Without me standards would slip.
Four panes of glass to separate, to insulate me from the world. Beyond an oval of urban park, decorated with a meandering path and an insubstantial collection of trees and benches, hemmed in on all sides by my near neighbours. Here we come to walk our dogs, to take our government prescribed hour of outdoor exercise, to meet strangers, neighbours and friends for socially distanced conversation, to perch precariously at either end of paint flecked and rotted wooden benches as we grumble about our days, before, once again, retreating behind our solid doors to become shadow puppets passing across lighted windows.
If I should sneak a peek I’m sure to capture someone going about their daily business impervious to my attentive gaze.
See.
There.
Striding across the green bedecked in corduroy and tweed is Mr Gordon Porter. A puffed up hunk of meat swollen by his own importance; flesh flushed from a toxic combination of high blood pressure, 12 year whiskey malts and years spent propping up our local bar whilst demanding we all pay attention to his objectionable opinions.
And there is Arabella, Mrs Arabella Porter. The only person I know who averts their gaze to pick up dog shit. Queen of the twinset and pearls brigade; nose permanently upturned, make up more appropriate for a Victoriana porcelain doll, and that blow dried helmet hairstyle so adored by the ladies of the Tory Shires. If you put her in a police line up alongside Edwina Currie and Norma Major you could have hours of fun playing spot the difference.
I’m sorry. I’m going to stop there. I’m English and as such my stories are full of English idioms and cultural references. I know it’s inconvenient but that’s just the way it is. Sorry.
Until very recently I was European but 52% of the residents of these sceptred Isles decided that I can’t be that any more. So briefly I was British but it seems that my Celtic cousins are quite reasonably a bit disappointed with being endlessly ignored and lectured, and so, it seems that every day I diminish and become a little less. So now I am merely English and eventually I shall become just a flyspeck of history and will be forgotten and ignored.
But I digress, so let us return to Gordon and Arabella, and if you should return just a little after dark then we can settle in together and see what we might discover. Don’t worry, I’ve got a couple of spare pairs of binoculars, it will be almost like being in the room with them, you won’t miss a thing. Theirs is the 3rd and 4th window from the left, ground floor, the room with the plastic covered seating, floral wallpaper and Royal Doulton decorating every surface. If you focus in on the fringed shepherdess lamp. That’s it. Now just a little patience, I’m sure they won’t keep us long.
Into the assembled chintz ambles a naked body clutching a half filled tumbler. Well it appears naked from my vantage point, though truth be told he might be wearing socks, possibly even socks with suspenders.
Gordon isn’t much improved by the removal of clothing. The fine spiders web of capillaries in his face seem more pronounced, his head a small flushed boulder set atop a somewhat larger and altogether more fluid torso. His chest covered in a thick silver down of hair that all but obscures the smallness of his nipples wobbling atop his moobs. Below which his paunch, definitely more whisky barrel than tight six pack, hangs slightly at his belt line until disappearing into the thick, untended undergrowth of his pubic hair which all but obscures the unimpressive collection of soft dangling objects collected between his thighs. Certainly, no blackbird was going to get fat feasting on that wriggling little worm.
He turns, revealing a surprisingly shapely and lightly haired arse, his hand caught in raising his glass to his mouth as his lips move in conversation. I crane myself sideways trying to get my first glimpse of her but the angle isn’t there and she remains tantalisingly hidden from view. I flick back to him. The glass has been raised and he’s guzzling the contents in quick gulps as he stares off towards the hidden side of the room.
Gradually she reveals herself; backlit in silhouette at first until, as she steps forward, exposed in her near nakedness. She’s a little dumpier than I’d imagined with a thickness about her hips that would have been a blessing during childbirth. The skin about her neck has a light crepe paper wrinkle, her heavy breasts showing the effects of gravity’s downward pull, her nipples and areola merged to create teardrop birthmarks to decorate her swaying flesh.
She’s near naked, her only concessions to decorum being a pair of black satin gloves that cover her arms fingertip to elbow and a harness about her flared hips from which a slender 8″ dildo protrudes with determined insistence.
Gordon stiffens as she steps close, his fingers tight about his glass, a tremble on his thighs, a flit of his eyes across her flesh. A gloved hand reaches out to relieve him of his near empty tumbler as the dildo tip grazes playfully against the inside of his thigh.
Arabella treats herself to a small sip of the amber liquid, her free hand trailing down to between Gordon’s thighs to cup the soft, squidgy ball sacs well concealed amongst his rampant underbrush.
It’s hard, dear reader, to keep proper watch through a pair of binoculars. Hard to flit between the triple attractions of Gordon’s reddening face, Arabella’s lascivious lip and the steady, demanding, insistent kneading of her fingers as they manipulate swollen, cum filled sacs. But, for you, I will do my best.
She places her cheek on the soft fur of his chest; mouth moving, words caressing his skin, satin clad fingers abusive between his thighs, squeezing insistently at his trapped plums. His mouth parted, moaning at her ministrations, eyes watering, cheeks flushed with alcohol and desire.
She captures his small white worm, lays it across the black satin of her palm, fingertips digging into its base, tugging persistent and relentless, feeling it grow at her touch. Elver. Slow worm. Snake. A floppy white thickening and engorged piece of flesh wriggling against the sheened fabric.
Her mouth finds his nipple. Sharp, well maintained teeth bite viciously into the softness of his moobs, wetness glistening on his cheeks, the worm near erect twitching determinedly at each touch. Balls squeezed hard. A sobbing cry filling the room. Cock grasped, wanked, the whole of her hand gripping his length, her hand rapid in its insistence.
And then there he is, as she requires him, swollen and engorged, stiff and attentive, hard aching muscle pulsing against her fingers.
Stepping away from him, her hand caresses the length of her plastic cock and when she pulls it free she’s holding what looks like a metal curtain ring between her fingers. I know, dear reader, sometimes I can be a little dumb, a bit slow on the uptake but I’ve been redecorating my home and it certainly looks like a curtain ring to me. A curtain ring that she slides over his swollen worm head and works down his length until it sits tight around the blood thick base. It seems a bit small; curtain rings come in a variety of sizes and I’m wondering why she didn’t chose the next size up. Some lubricant might have helped but she seems determined to force it on him dry despite the obvious gasps of suffering, the facial gurning and bodily twitches that have overtaken his body.
She strokes him gently; the back of one finger running upwards from his Adam’s Apple to his chin, her other hand delicately teasing the underside of his engorged, trapped cock. Slightly raising herself, looking into his eyes, she slides her smooth plastic cock alongside his throbbing, veined meat, using it to tease his entire length as her finger rests, dainty beneath his cock head. She’s talking and he’s nodding; his mouth agape, spittle about his lips, a small touch of terror playing about his eyes.
She steps away briefly, returns clutching something metal, thin and slender; a hat pin maybe, a kebab skewer. Her fingers are back about his cock squeezing as she slowly squats before him, brings her eyes level with the singular eye staring expectantly atop his manhood. No longer a slit; now an oozing, gaping wound, another fuckhole for her to abuse.
The metal spike slides easily into his wetness, pushing down the tight track of his urethra, millimetre by millimetre, a metal spine for his already straining flesh. She’s fucking him slowly, back and forth, the stainless steel coated in his precum, each stroke a little deeper, a little further, fingers massaging at his tensed tighten balls as she penetrates him to the core.
Six inches of metal driven into his cock. Well nearly. His worm, even in its current resplendent and engorged form, can’t quite accommodate its full length and the liquid bejewelled tip protrudes noticeably from his head. She stands, their twin cocks caressing each other, runs a satin hand across his face, dirtying her fingertips with his sweat and tears before placing a hand upon his shoulder and guiding him to his knees.
Cock tip to mouth. Mouth to cock tip. The upturned point playing about his upper lip, running along it, forcing it upwards to reveal teeth and gums. A wide mouth, a big mouth, so eloquent when holding court on his favourite barstool with a tumbler in his hand now burbling and gurgling as that pretty dildo teases about his parted lips. She strokes his hair, his metal-spined cock twitching at her every touch as her hand drifts to the back of his head, guiding him forward, pushing her maleness between his spreading lips as he suckles hungrily like an unfed baby.
He bobs forward, taking some of the length on his tongue, lips tight about its surface, an inch or maybe two exploring his dribbling oral cavity. She places her hands on her hips, harness cutting into the fleshiness of her bottom, eyes fixed on his indifferent efforts. Bobbing and sucking, uncommitted, barely allowing the fake phallus to enter the heart of his soft, wet mouth. Surely this isn’t his first time. Surely he’s knelt before her before, swallowed her before, had his throat filled and ravaged before.
She starts to move, hips rocking forward and back. Her hand straying to the back of his head, guiding him forward, pushing him down, fingers grasping at the short tufts of hair, pulling his lips down the length of her cock, pressing her tip into the back of his mouth. Insistent now. Demanding. Skewering his mouth over and over. And he’s fixed, helpless, pinned on her length. Heaving and drooling as she starts to smash into his beetroot, tear stained face. Nose squashed, lips bruised, each thrust jerking him as he encircles her hips with his arms and clings to her bucking form.
She’s relentless. Merciless. Pummelling at his face in a frenzy of ferocity. The long list of his crimes being punished by her malignant phallus. Her own face darkening through the effort, breasts bouncing in unison with her hips, flopping against her rib cage, teeth biting hard at her lips, her flesh rippling as she slams herself against his gagging mouth until, with one last thrust she pushes him free to sob pitifully on his hands and knees at her feet.
I don’t know about you, dear reader, but I’m quite exhausted from watching them. Certainly, they seem to be quite overcome with their exertions and for a few moments we all take a bit of a break to gather our breath. To be honest, Gordon seems dazed, barely aware of his surroundings and Arabella has to pull him back up to his knees. He’s looking a bit worse for wear; his eyes bulging, spittle and drool decorating his chin and chest, the light decoration of capillaries about his face now a sunburst glaze and even now he seems unable to quite recapture his breath. Maybe if he should cum it might have a restive effect on his battered and trembling soul.
Arabella, it seems is of the same belief. Helping him to his feet, she kneels before him, carefully places his twitching cock on her palm and gently grips the tip of the hat pin/skewer. The slowness of the withdrawal is excruciating; millimetre by millimetre the liquid coated metal eases from his cock, each tiny movement causing his entire body to jerk uncontrollably until with one final delicate tug she pulls it free and his abused meat pulses in gay abandonment before her face.
He begins to spurt. Thick ribbons of sticky white semen jetting from his fucked hole. Hanging in the air before splattering across Arabella’s face, her neck, her tits. An involuntary, uncontrollable tribute to the loving care and attention that she has showered on his undeserving worm. His hips jerking as cum seeps into her eyes, trickles down her cheek, decorates her hair and nostrils, leaving her cum coated and resplendent.
There is more. I’m sure you know that. I’m sure you appreciate that she will want to savour the taste of all that sticky goodness and that strap on dildos get to fuck other fuckholes besides mouths. Besides her sloppy drenched cunt has been throbbing quite insistently throughout and what use is a husband if he doesn’t use his tongue to pay homage to his wife’s divine wetness.
So yes, there is more, but like Jimmy Stewart my own itch had become quite unbearable and it is near impossible to tend to it properly whilst holding binoculars to your eyes. So there we shall have to leave it; me splayed and displayed in the wicker chair beside my bed as Arabella ensures that Gordon is thorough in completing his husbandly duties. But maybe, just maybe, you might be so kind as to join me again one evening and we can scour the view together to see what other delights my neighbourhood has to offer.
I’ll be waiting.
