Gwen picked up the mail from the mat, closed the front door behind with her foot and flicked the switch, turning on the main light. She dropped her coat over the back of the hall chair, next to the phone and stepped into the living room, kicking off her shoes and wriggling her toes in the pile of the carpet as she went. It had been a long day, stressful and she was inordinately pleased to be at home in her warm apartment at last. The mail was dropped on the settee, ready to be gone through in a short while.
She wandered into the kitchen, opened the fridge and poured herself a cold glass of chardonnay from the opened bottle that was covered beads of condensation over the green glass, stored in the door shelf. The remote to the sound system was on the granite kitchen worktop, handily placed so that she could hit the ‘on’ button and have her music choices waft from the speakers set into the ceilings of every room.
She returned to the living room undoing the buttons of her blouse one handed. Dextrously, she prised the buttons through the holes, one by one eventually leaving the front to flap open, still tucked into the waist band of her skirt. The glass of wine was placed carefully in the centre of a coaster on the small occasional table beside the settee, freeing both hands to deal with the awkward zipper at the back of her short skirt. She wriggled and allowed the garment to land around her ankles for a brief moment before she picked it up then folded and placed it on the settee, the white blouse followed, leaving her to stand in her bra and panties.
Gwen sat, grabbing the mail to read as she folded her legs under her bottom and wriggled into a comfortable position. The half a dozen envelopes were all bills except for one from her mother. Gwen could almost predict, to the word, what her mother would have to say. John was in town and asking after her. She hoped she was eating enough, not working too hard, was having time to practise the piano etc, etc, et al.
She put the unopened mail down on the small table, next to her glass of wine which she picked up and sipped, grateful for the rejuvenating effects of the ice cold alcohol. Gwen began to relax and allow the stresses of her day to leach away.
She hit the ‘on’ button of the television remote control, making sure the volume was down to nothing and then, dimmed the lights with yet another remote device. The little luxuries appealed to Gwen and labour saving devices ranked top in her shopping criteria.
The program on the television was another of those interminable cooking contests. The food always looked fabulous, but for most people who avidly watched, was far too impractical. The ingredients were not readily available on the supermarket shelves for one thing and even less people had the time or imagination to produces the haute cuisine.
Still not quite comfortable, Gwen reached around her back and unclasped her bra, pulling it off to lie on top of her skirt and blouse. She eased her breasts, pushing them up and together to overcome the confining pinch the under wired garment imposed on them. She encouraged blood flow with a soothing massage that stimulated her skin. It was an unconscious, relieving action with nothing more than relaxation on her mind, a bit like the pleasure of wriggling your toes after removing high heeled shoes.
The uninspiring television served to provide an alternative source of light to the dimmed main lights as she lay back and wound down.
After some while, and feeling drowsy, Gwen rose from the settee, hooked a finger into her high top panties and pulled them down and off, stepping out of them one foot at a time, bending at the waist. She hung her panties on a crooked finger as she carried them to the bathroom on the way to a pre-bed shower. They landed in the linen basket, discarded until wash day.
Gwen showered, pulled a towelling robe around her damp body and returned to the living room. She emptied the wine glass in two gulps and switched off the television and lights. Gwen went to bed and fairly shortly, was sound asleep.
He crept forward, trying not to disturb the bushes too much. The window was just above head height in his crouching position. He didn’t want to be caught as a shadow or silhouette as the lights went on. From a poacher’s pocket of his overcoat, he pulled out his new periscope, bought at a sport shop for just this purpose but designed for another.
He fitted the sculptured rubber face mask over his eyes, a modification of his own. He has also covered the glass with a non-reflective film. It didn’t affect the quality of vision but would prevent the lights glinting back. Snapping the rubber head band into place, he waited for her to switch on the lighting. He felt secure from observation. He had chosen a good place from which to view her and the curtains were opened enough to allow him a great vantage point. The shrubbery protected his back from the distant road and overlooking neighbours. The cover of darkness and his black long-coat and woollen hat, offered little for anyone to see against the dark brickwork, just in case anyone should be curious enough to look when the lights went on.
He settled and waited, expecting her home any minute now. The time seemed to tick interminably by, slowly, each second seeming a minute long and every minute an hour. He shivered a little. The evening air was cooling rapidly. He had a moment of anxiety, thinking his breath might be seen if it got cold enough to show as steam. He pushed out a breath and was relieved to see that it did not condense.
It was, in reality, only ten minutes or so that he waited, during which time, his attention wandered, his mind imagining her naked body between his hands, his lips sucking on her erect and hard nipples, his cock deep in her body, spraying her guts with his spend as it pumped deep inside her body.
Suddenly the lights flicked on, snapping his attention back to the task in hand and temporarily blinding him as the bright light refracted from the angled mirrors of the periscope. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the star lights from his retina. It lasted only a few seconds until his vision cleared. He was able to see her lay her coat over the chair in the hallway. He watched as the mail hit the settee then saw her turn and go into the kitchen and out of sight. The slut came back into the living room shortly afterwards, a glass of wine in one hand while she undid her blouse with the other, button by button from the top down. It flapped open, giving him a precious glimpse of her white lacy brassiere, hiding underneath.
In anticipation, he licked his lips, hoping that she would take all of her clothes off and allow him to see her smooth body without hindrance.
It looked as if his wish would be granted. Her skirt came off, quickly followed by her blouse. The bitch had matching underwear, lacy panties with a high waist band that followed the contours of her hips in an exaggerated, very white coloured, ‘V’. The bra pushed her tits up and out, enhancing their shape. She sat facing him on the settee and folded her legs up.
He licked his lips again and fumbled for his zipper. His excitement was making him clumsy. He took a deep breath or two to settle his nerves and gain control of his digits while he had a ringside view of her as she settled into a comfortable position.
Then she flipped through her mail, turned on the TV, dimmed the lights and took a slug of her wine. The flickering of the reflected TV showed on her skin making it lok as if she was changing colours like a cuttle fish does.
He managed to get his hardening cock out as the dirty bitch was unhooking her bra. And then, almost causing him to spew his cum in his hand, she grabbed her fantastic tits and seemed to mould them, just for his viewing pleasure. Pressing them together as if beckoning him to tit-fuck her. He rubbed in a steady tempo, not wanting to lose his load too soon. This was better than he had expected, very much better than the telescope in his bedroom had been, which was really, much too far away to get the real feel of being up close and personal. This was like being in the room with her. He could almost smell her perfume. Almost taste her dirty cunt in its white, lacy cocoon. Almost feel her tits as he moulded them in his rough, calloused hands, just as she was doing.
And then, joy of joys, she stood up and pulled her panties off. She had turned and had her back facing him. He gaped at her smooth white arse, loving the contours and unblemished skin. His patience was rewarded as she bent and picked them up, flashing her cunt lips from between her perfectly rounded arse cheeks, before turning to show him her partially shaved, dirty, filthy cunt. A line of dark hair, an inch wide, went vertically from her honey pot to some way short of her belly button.
His tongue protruded from between his lips as the tension in his balls built to boiling point.
The dirty whore was swinging her soiled pants as she walked out of the room. His cum splashed over his fist and would stain his new long coat. Mission accomplished. He had got his first really good view of her. It fired his imagination of having her writhing beneath him while he pinioned her with his monstrous cock.
He had scuttled back to the Janitors lodge before Gwen retired to bed.
Diary entry.
Friday 8th.
The periscope worked better than I though it would, I swear she knew I was there, otherwise, why the show of being a dirty little fucking whore? I am going to fuck her senseless soon.
He waited the next night, hidden in his carefully chosen place in the flower bed. His periscope scanned backwards and forwards, but the fucking whore didn’t come home.
Not wanting to completely waste the night, he walked around the apartment block, looking for likely places where he could hide and hopefully find another horny looking bitch, for the days when she didn’t show.
Most of the apartments were in darkness and of those, where a light was on at ground floor level, only one offered enough cover for him to conceal himself. Frustrated, he returned home to write in his carefully kept diary.
Diary entry,
Saturday 9th.
The cunt didn’t show. I waited for hours in the freezing cold, but she had other things to do. She will pay for that…
Diary supplement,
Saturday 9th.
She came home at two in the morning. I managed to get there in time, but she had a bloke with her. That fucking whore screwed him on the settee before chucking him out. I managed to find a new spot so I can see into her bedroom. She has the biggest dildo I have ever seen, it’s black. She fucked herself with it for ages after lover boy was thrown out. She really liked that black cock going in and out. She really is a dirty little whore and that wimp couldn’t satisfy her. I wonder if she is a nymphomaniac.
Gwen’s evening had been okay. Her escort was a nice looking man, reasonably well educated and informed. He was able to converse on most topics and proved to be quite charming in an old fashion way. Their visit to the theatre and then a nightclub had been pleasant, but not devastatingly exciting.
However, he wasn’t quite as hot a lay as his body suggested he might be. His technique needed some attention and, although she had managed to get off, to a degree, mostly on the thrill of having a man inside her for a change, she couldn’t wait to get rid of him and jump her trusty black wand. “Mister Reliable” would finish off what Greg, her escort, had started, but wasn’t up to the task of completing. Typically, he carried baggage and didn’t have the strength of character to handle a career woman who knew what she wanted in the sack and had the presence of mind to grasp the opportunity. Like so many before, his own insecurities rendered him vulnerable to a sexually charged and motivated woman and, instead of taking the lead and being masterful, was content to follow and meekly comply with her wishes.
Mister Reliable did in fact, do the trick, set on his highest setting, she was soon creaming as she rammed him into her body. The combination of her sex being stretched and filled with the outsized dildo, a mental image of a huge black man fucking into her and a finger tip, lightly rubbing her clit, brought Gwen to a satisfying orgasm. Her immediate needs sated Gwen dropped off to sleep.
Dimly, as she drifted off, she was aware of a movement at the window and a slight noise, but the need for sleep overcame her momentary curiosity.
Gwen’s job, as a musical historian at the University, didn’t leave her much time for socialising. Often, she worked way into the dark of night, transcribing old musical scores and sheet music. Some of the stuff from the Tudor period was notated in unfamiliar symbols, it took time to learn and almost as much to transcribe into modern bar format. The lyrics were often in Latin or old French. That was bad enough, but not something that couldn’t be overcome, but it was as if the score was also Latin or some ancient language, just beyond her grasp often enough.
She was one of only a handful of people throughout the globe who had the ability to interpret the strange collections of notes and guess where the writer was going to go. It was made all the harder where bits of the velum sheet music were missing or too stained to be legible and come up with a complete piece. It was a lonely occupation, but one she enjoyed. Getting a score, recently discovered or hidden for centuries gave her a thrill. She would be the first to hear the music, lost to generations, before it was published to the wide world.
Most of her sex life had happened during university years. A lot of that time was lost to boozy weekends and parties that should have satisfied the urges of a single woman for the rest of her life. But, as is so often the case, once explored, the desire becomes more refined and specialist in taste. She liked uncomplicated sex, preferably with someone she would be unlikely to see again, a casual liaison of mutual gratification, when both parties got what they set out for and then, went their separate ways.
She had only ever had one serious relationship, the John from her home town, the one her mother never failed to mention in her letter. Why did she keep on about him? Did her mother fancy him herself perhaps? Didn’t she know he is a creep with all the style and panache of a cat’s fur-ball?
Their relationship had lasted a little over a year. The man was a total wanker and kept losing his load way before she even got started. But, worse was his weakness, he would cry at the drop of a hat. Gwen learned to hate him in their time together.
She liked her uncomplicated life, preferred her own company and enjoyed having the space of her apartment to herself. She had enough money and really, needed nothing else. The encumbrance of a partner would have cramped her style far too much to be born.
She was lucky enough to be attractive, so her predilection of “stranger sex” was not a problem. When the desire took her, she would party at one of the many bars and clubs in town and invariably, have a male partner for the evening.
It was a lifestyle her mother could not understand, coming from a generation where the little lady was housewife, with all that, that involved.
His job really couldn’t have been more suited to his choice of life style. Being janitor of this apartment block brought him into contact with women and ladies. In his off kilter mind, the difference between ladies and women was only a matter of age. The elder, were ladies, definitely, the younger ones, women, and fair game as far as he was concerned.
His distinction didn’t have an age boundary as such, possibly thirty something or forty perhaps, but at some undefined age, the change over came the woman and she became a lady. A shrink would probable diagnose him with a Mother fixation and be probably quite near the truth.
If he were able to reason his thinking objectively, he would have found the difference to be those he found attractive and those he didn’t. A lady was something to be revered, respected and obeyed even. But, a woman was there for his gratification, a sex object for him to use and abuse as he saw fit.
The ladies, by their elevated position, were treated as if they held an in invisible mantle, motherhood or the teachers from his school days. He treated them with a deference stopping short of doffing his cap, but it wouldn’t have been out of place as he thought it. The women though, were treated with a distain, he almost felt superior to them. These bimbo’s were hardly worth his attention, but they would be a handy screw if the occasion ever presented its self.
Gwen, at number 39 was definitely a woman and as such, was the object of his desire.
Diary entry Monday 10th
Gwen seemed pretty tired tonight when she came home. She didn’t even pick up her mail, just stripped in the bedroom and dived into bed. The mirror in her bedroom needs to be moved a little, have to see what I can do about that, her bedroom window is a bit risky. I saw most of her, but not all. She is a dirty fucking slut cunt. Fucking her dildo after that wanker she brought home, must have taken it out of her. What she needs is a real man to fuck her stupid.
A new cunt moved into number 4, another fucking blonde with big tits and a short skirt. She might be worth keeping an eye on. I think she will be a regular one to show her self to me. The dippy bitch hasn’t got a clue about her boiler, might be a way into her dirty filthy drawers. She also made a pass at me. Would you believe that, she hasn’t been here more than a few minutes and already, she’s offering her self. What a cunt!
Detective Oliver made a note on his pad. ‘The next diary entry has a seven day gap in it. ‘The diary is intact.’ He said to himself and could only surmise that the perpetrator didn’t have anything to say.
Moving around the Janitors ‘complimentary’ flat had left him feeling definitely soiled. So much pornography was pasted to the walls that is was hard to see where one poster stopped and another started, like a huge collage of women’s genitalia and mammary glands.
The DVDs that universally, were also pornographic in nature, were stacked in untidy heaps on the floor amongst the rotting detritus of food wrappers, burger packs and paper cups, advertising Coke in red and white logos. The Janitor was a walking advert for heart problems DS Oliver thought to himself.
How this pervert could live like this was beyond DS Oliver, but the diary, with all the sordid details faithfully recorded, was the absolute clincher. He found it hard to understand why anyone would chronicle their perversion in such detailed long hand.
He flipped a page of the scruffy document and continued to read as the rest of his CSI unit rifled the dwelling for any forensic evidence they could find. Already, many bags with tags were lined up against the wall for removal.