Eroticon Voyeur

Eroticon Voyeur
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ISBN:  9781780802145
Author:  J-P Spencer
Word Count:  74,547
Format:  eBook

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Eroticon DesiresEroticon Desires
Eroticon DreamsEroticon Dreams
Eroticon FeverEroticon Fever
Eroticon HeatEroticon Heat
Eroticon JusticeEroticon Justice
Eroticon SecretsEroticon Secrets
Eroticon ThrillsEroticon Thrills

Through the peephole I looked directly into the bedroom. At once my heart began to pound. Eva lay naked on the bed, dozing in the heat, her voluptuous body revealed in all its glory...

Some say that, deep down, there's a voyeur in all of us. Given the chance, it takes a strong man or woman who can turn their back on the intimate secrets and the downright dirty deeds of others.

Eroticon Voyeur presents another collection of the hottest erotic memoirs from this and any other era. From Fanny Hill to The Sex Files, here are the watchers and the watched - men and women behaving very badly indeed.

So I had solved the mystery of the Chestnut Room. It was reserved for the exclusive use of women Henry found attractive so he could have the pleasure of spying on them. Obviously he trusted me to keep quiet about his little hobby. Regrettably, it never occurred to me to do otherwise. I admit that my overriding feeling about the whole matter was - who was going to be next?
   'I'm thinking,' he said to me a few days later, 'of renting out the guest room on a short-term basis. Would you mind?'
   I pretended to consider the idea. 'That depends who you were thinking of renting it to.'
   'I'll place an ad. We can interview the candidates together.'
   And we did. For form's sake, we made small talk with a couple of men before undertaking a gruelling programme of interviewing the female candidates. There were a lot of them, for Henry had placed several advertisements in women's magazines and the rent he was asking was remarkably low. 'What's the catch?' asked a keen-witted legal secretary and we promptly crossed her off the list. Not that it mattered - she had legs that would have done no favours to a piano stool.
   The funny thing was, when we reviewed progress in the evening we said things like: 'Julie enjoys Tarantino movies - that's good' and 'That one's got a wicked sense of humour.' Neither of us actually came out with the things we were really thinking, which were: 'Wouldn't it be great if her bush was the same red as her hair?' and 'Nice tits - I wonder what they look like outside her Wonderbra.'
   When it came to it, we both voted for the same woman - a surly, lugubrious Swede with either a low IQ or a poor command of English. But what did those things matter? Eva was built like an old-fashioned centrefold, with more curves than a switchback railway, as they used to say. So what if she'd left her personality back in Stockholm? She had the kind of tits and ass that thrust themselves into your attention despite the sloppy sweater and shapeless tracksuit bottoms she wore. Her hair was a honey-blonde thatch that rippled like a sunny wheat field and her eyes were the startling azure of a cloudless summer sky. Even the sulky downturn of her mouth had the pout of pure sex. Imagine those plush pink lips around the shaft of your cock! I certainly did - and I've no doubt Henry did as well, though it was not something we openly discussed.
   The deal was that Eva would stay for a month while she attended a summer school to improve her English. She was vague about her movements after that - she might want to remain in London, she might not, it all depended. What it depended on was left hanging in the air and, frankly, it didn't concern me. I was only interested in four weeks of ogling her ripe body.
   From the start, things could not have gone better. Eva was not the sociable kind and appeared to have no friends on her language course. Neither did she want to hang out with us. Instead she spent a lot of time in her room. On her first night she wolfed a bowl of salad and some bread in the kitchen and then took to her room with two bottles of Coke and a tumbler full of ice. Henry and I collided in our haste to get into the study.
   I'd assumed that the pair of us would have to take turns as spectators. Ten minutes on, ten minutes off maybe. Time enough for a quick hand-job between bouts of voyeurism. But, once inside that stuffy cubby hole, Henry unveiled a surprise by removing a second picture from the wall - a pen-and-ink drawing of the Old Vic circa 1950, as I recall - to reveal a second spyhole. Perfect.
   It was a hot evening and Eva was in the bathroom, splashing around behind a half-closed door. We couldn't see anything but there, on the counterpane of the bed, were the vest and jeans she had been wearing in the kitchen. My heart was galloping with anticipation.
   The next second she was in the room, not nude but half naked in old-fashioned white knickers and a tan bra fraying at the edges. Her body was even more sleek and lush than I had imagined. As she walked towards the bed I tried to memorise every dynamic curve of her form, as if this was my one chance to look at her. This was stupid, of course. I had weeks ahead of me to enjoy such a sight and, in that time, I came to know all the rounds and hollows and glistening folds of her magnificent shape. But that first time, when she was covered more decently than any woman on a Riviera beach, was the best.
   Well, not really the best for there were other things that happened, as you'll see. But the first impact of Eva partially clad, just a few feet away, unaware that she was being so closely scrutinised, was unforgettable.
   She emptied the first bottle of Coke into the tumbler, the ice tinkling, and pressed the glass against her flushed cheek. I too was hot. Sweat was rolling down the back of my neck but the notion that I could fetch my own cooling drink and be back in two minutes never crossed my mind. A maniac could have entered the room and threatened to cut my throat and I wouldn't have turned round.
   Eva delved into her handbag and retrieved an airmail envelope. Then she sprawled on the bed. The envelope contained several sheets of thin blue paper covered in red ballpoint and a passport-sized photograph. She looked closely at the photo for a while then placed it carefully on the pillow beside her. I could see that it was a face though I couldn't make it out in detail. She turned on her side towards us, propping her head up on one elbow and began to read.
   In that position her breasts were pressed together, the full orb of the lower tit overflowing the brassiere cup. The bra was tight and constricting and she shifted in irritation as the straps cut into her. I longed for those big tits to burst free of their own accord - it looked as though they might. If she was so uncomfortable why didn't she take the damn thing off?
   It was as if she heard my thoughts for she reached behind her back and suddenly the tension of the faded material was relaxed. A strap skittered down her shoulder and the cup which concealed her left breast, fell forward. There was an intake of breath in the stuffy little study, it might have been Henry or it might have been me. Whoever it was, we were mesmerised.
   Eva's naked breast was bisected by a tan line - caramel brown skin on the upper quadrant contrasting against the milky white of the rest. The globe was crested by a small ruby-red nipple set in the pink saucer of her areola, the smallness of the nipple emphasising the bounty of the flesh that contained it. The tit looked like an exaggerated cartoon fantasy, something that R Crumb might have devised. In my state of excitement it was a picture of quivering, mouthwatering perfection.
   Eva pulled the bra off and tossed it onto the floor - an action that set her chest in heart-stopping motion - then resumed her reading. She skimmed the letter quickly and then started all over again from the beginning while I ravished her with my eyes. I drank in every detail of her near nudity from the mass of the wheat-blonde tresses on her head down to the oyster-pink varnish on her pretty toes - and back again.
   As she began to read the letter for the third time, cutting straight to the second page and lingering there, my eye was drawn again to those little red nipples. Was I imagining it or were they bigger than before? Or maybe they'd just seemed like tiny bulls eyes in the centre of those swollen white melons.
   Then I noticed Eva was breathing heavily. That wondrous bosom was perceptibly rising and falling and there was a bead of perspiration on her upper lip. She brushed it off and then her hand went to her tit. The nipple was bigger, I was certain of it. She took the small bud in her fingers and squeezed. I could see it growing this time, the raspberry ridges filling with blood, swelling to a pebble of flesh that stuck up like a little thumb. Eva pinched the little thumb hard and groaned.
   Good God, the girl was turning herself on! How fantastic! She took her hand from her breast and ran it over the shallow dome of her belly. Yes! I screamed silently. Go lower! Feel your pussy!
   She did just that, her fingers roaming her mound outside her panties, pulling the material tight over the big sculpted triangle of her pubis, all the time reading her letter. Some letter that must be, I thought, as I watched her fingers press into the cotton of her knickers and her hips undulate as she rocked her pelvis back and forth. Soon there was a dark shadow in the white as wetness seeped through, outlining her groove.
   Suddenly she sat up and pushed her panties down her thighs. Then she grabbed something from the bedside table and lay back on the bed. For a moment I didn't see what she had hold of; I was too busy feasting my eyes on what lay between her legs as she spread her thighs. Her long pink split was fully revealed, bubbling with juice as she swooped two fingers down through her sparse brown bush to splay her cunt lips. She rubbed silently for a moment, the wine-red nub of her clit plainly visible in the vee of her digits. As she frotted herself in a business-like fashion, she raised her other hand to her mouth.
   I realised now that she was holding the second bottle of Coke, the one which was still full. I thought she was drinking from it but I saw, as she removed it from her lips, that the red plastic top, now wet with her saliva, was still in place. To my astonishment she lowered the bottle to the fork of her thighs and pushed it purposefully between her pouting cunt lips.
   'Ohhh!' she sighed as the top of the bottle disappeared inside her. Then 'Ohhh!' again as she tilted her pelvis upward and thrust against the plastic cylinder. It was an incredible sight. Like some exotic sea creature, her cunt engulfed the makeshift dildo and seemed to suck it right inside her body. 'Ohhh! Ohhh!' she repeated softly as her other hand rubbed steadily and her hips and arse swivelled in a startling act of auto-eroticism.
   She came very quickly, it seemed to me, but then she just changed her rhythm and carried on frigging her clit and fucking the bottle, building towards another climax. And I noticed, as she lay there on the bed with almost all her bounteous flesh in motion, that her eyes were still fixed on the passport-sized photo that lay on the pillow beside her.
   I was in a fever as I watched her. It was a miracle to me I hadn't creamed my jeans by this stage for the thing that I needed most in the world at that moment was sexual release. But Henry was beside me, no doubt in the same state, and that held me back despite the spectacular exhibition taking place in front of me.
   It was a kind of torture - blissful torture. Eva went on and on, from mini-climax to mini-climax, climbing the foothills to reach some mighty summit. And by the time she got there, in a blur of shaking, quivering flesh - her big tits bouncing, her brown thighs pumping and the bottle almost out of sight in that greedy cavern of a cunt - I was a wreck. I could barely stand as her wonderful body convulsed and slowed, the gleaming flesh falling still then twitching again, like the aftershocks of some great earthquake.
   She lay gasping for breath, her legs spread wide and the drink bottle half buried in her pussy. Slowly she extracted it from herself and, to my astonishment, suddenly twisted off the top. A fountain of brown foam shot over her body, inundating her tits and belly. Then she drained the bottle dry.

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