Baring Souls

(This story is an official entry into the 2008 Valentine's Day story contest. It is a long tale of lust and love and the consequences that arise. I hope you enjoy.)

***

I loved my new apartment. Seventh floor, with a small enclosed balcony, a view of downtown tourists would envy, concierge service, even a hair salon and massage parlor on the ground floor. Sure, it cost me twelve hundred a month, and for only eight hundred square feet, but it was a luxury I could afford. I had negotiated rather shrewdly with the CFO of the company I now worked for, and had received the salary I desired.

Life, as they say, was good. I had moved in a few days into the new year, and the desire to start over hovered around me, palpable as a cloud. I knew I wanted a different direction to my life. I just was not sure what.

It took me a while to get everything situated at home, mainly because I was spending so much time hob-nobbing at the office and getting up to date on the new contracts the company had won. The business I was in was demanding of my time, and the new company promised to keep me busy. Eventually, however, I managed to take a weekend to devote to unpacking my boxes and organizing my apartment.

By the time I was done arranging furniture and taking the empty boxes down the hall to the trash chute, I had built up a good sweat and needed a shower. The hot water soothed my muscles, making me feel refreshed . . . and more than a little randy. It had been several months since Monica and I had divorced, and I hadn't so much as gotten a playful pass from a woman since then. Of course, I did work a lot.

Not that I wasn't attractive. Maybe I wasn't the next cover model for GQ, but neither was I ugly. Throughout college and grad school, I was widely considered a good catch. I kept in shape, still had my hair, and at the age of thirty-five, had a pretty good build and a trim waist. I dressed well, spoke with confidence . . . I got my share of interested looks, but after ending a long-term relationship, I was often sullen and even shy around women.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror with a sigh. I was too young to be alone, too old to go pick up some eager bimbo at a club. I hadn't asked a woman out since Clinton was president. I had, as the kids say, 'no game.' I figured my best chances for romance lay amongst the women I worked with. But many were professional, cold, and focused on their careers. With my luck, I would meet some man-eater who would fuck me raw then turn me out the door. And then I would be even more depressed.

I considered, peripherally, the idea of calling up an escort service; hell, I had the money. Two-fifty for an in-call, another two-fifty 'tip,' and I could get my rocks off. But finding satisfaction in meaningless casual sex had lost its appeal with my thirtieth birthday. Sure, I wanted to get laid, but I wanted more than just a cute face and an eager body. But after my heartbreak with Monica, was I ready for another relationship? What if I wasted another decade?

Snap out of it, Will,

I berated myself, and tossed the towel on the sink

. Do what other single men your age do. Get on the computer, download some porn, and beat off while watching an eager young thing take the money shot on her chin.

"Ouch!"

I looked down to see what I had stumbled upon, and found a loose tile on the bathroom floor, a couple feet from the toilet.

Great. Something broken already.

I sat on the toilet, squeezed out a little blood from my big toe, wiped it with some tissue. I glared at the loose tile as if it had deliberately attacked me.

The little cut on my toe stopped bleeding quickly enough, so I got down on the floor and picked up the tile. I arched an eyebrow in interest when I saw the neat little hole that lay beneath.

Well, hello . . . .

Curiosity is a powerful thing, especially when coupled with wishful thinking. I leaned over, bringing my face close to the floor, and looked down through the hole. It was only about a quarter of an inch across, about the same size as your typical door peephole. But . . . .

Obviously, whoever had occupied my apartment before had been a voyeur. Not only was there a tiny hole in the floor, but it had been fitted with a concave lens so that I got a broad, if somewhat distorted, view of almost the entire bathroom below. The apartment under mine was obviously laid out in the same pattern, or at least as far as the bathroom went.

I felt a strange thrill as I looked down through the hole. The bathroom below obviously belonged to a woman. The sink counter was cluttered with all manner of toiletries, bottles and jars and little odds and ends that only women – or gay men – would keep on hand. There was a flower-print shower curtain, and the flower motif was repeated in the wall decorations, floor mat, toilet seat cover, and even the towels.

I sat up, feeling like a teenaged pervert for spying on someone else's private life. I had no right to do so, of course. I replaced the tile, and told myself I would get some caulking and whatever else I would need to plug the hole and put the tile back in place. Then I got up, slipped on some pajama bottoms, and headed to the corner of my living room that I had designated the 'office.' I still had some work to do before Monday.

***

My heavy workload made me forget about the voyeur hole in my bathroom, and my half-hearted promise to secure the hole was pushed from my mind. That is, until about a week later, as I was getting ready in the morning. I was shaving in the sink, and splashed water on my face as I always did when finished. But my elbow hit the canister of shaving cream, knocking it off the counter and to the floor.

And where else would it land except right on the loose tile, jarring it.

I squatted down to pick up the can of shaving cream, and reached for the tile as well. I hesitated as I started to put it back.

Oh, what the hell. What could it hurt?

I got on my knees, leaned down, looked through the hole.

Oh . . . wow . . . talk about timing . . . .

The tenant below me was a slender woman, blonde, small-breasted, with a light tan and no tan lines. This was all pretty obvious to me because she had evidently just taken a shower and was now leaning over the sink, in the nude, as she brushed her teeth. She had a pretty nice ass, with little dimples just above her cheeks and a 'tramp stamp' tattoo of some tribal design at the base of her spine. I could very faintly hear some music – something alternative, I figured – and she was moving along with it.

I watched the woman shake her hips a little to the music, and at one point, she stood up straight after spitting in the sink. In the reflection of her mirror, I saw an attractive, angular face. And I could not help but notice how erect her nipples were. Maybe they were always like that. I remember dating one girl in college who had little breasts like this woman's, whose nipples were always stiff.

The little show when on for about a minute or so, before she wiped her face and pushed away from the sink. She stepped out of view, through the bathroom door.

I sat up. I was very conscious of the fact that I had an erection.

***

I thought about the skinny blonde all day. I suddenly understood the attraction of voyeurism. To be able to watch even the most mundane aspects of someone's life without their knowledge . . . it was a strange sense of power, but also of helpless resignation. I could do nothing to influence whatever she might do, and just had to wait until she did something that I

really

wanted to watch.

Eh, hold on there, Will,

my rational mind said to me as I lingered in libidinous thought over a grilled chicken sandwich at lunch.

You're not seriously considering spying on this girl, are you?

Um, well . . . of course not. I'm not a pervert . . . .

Well, that's settled, then. Buy some caulking on your way home.

Um . . . okay . . . .

***

I did no such thing, of course, otherwise this would be a very short story. I did stop at the local supermarket that evening and grab some groceries, and I headed down the aisle where caulking was stacked on the shelves, but . . . I just couldn't do it. Something had begun to infiltrate my mind, something dark and perverted and impossible to ignore. So I left the aisle empty-handed and headed home with my stir-fry and six-pack of Warsteiner.

I tried to occupy my mind with some business reports, then a little prime-time TV. But the little hole in the floor beckoned, as if it had a mind of its own, and a telepathic mind at that. I managed to resist for a while, until I heard the faint groaning of pipes through the floor.

I got up, headed to the bathroom, under the pretense of telling myself I needed to relieve my bladder. The sound of water rushing through the pipes was faint but noticeable. I used the toilet, flushed, then turned around. I frowned.

The tile was loose. Had I kicked it subconsciously?

I got down, pulled the tile away, and before I knew it, I was looking down, spying on Miss Skinny Blonde.

I seemed to have chosen just the right time. The blonde had on a yellow blouse and tight jeans, and the blouse was coming off.

Hmm, no bra

. . . not that she really needed one. Damn, her nipples were like little pieces of pink bubble gum.

She dropped the blouse on the floor, then unsnapped, unzipped her jeans. She wiggled her hips a little to get them off, then bent over as she stepped out of them.

Whoa

. No panties, either.

A chick that goes commando

. I was definitely hard by that point.

Casually, the blonde stroked her hands up and down her body, over her small breasts and stiff nipples, down between her legs – my cock twitched as she rubbed her crotch for a moment – then over her firm round cheeks. Then she settled her hands atop her hips, and arched her back, tilting her head back . . . .

The concave lens through which I stared magnified anything directly beneath, and as it happened, the woman was right under me. Her eyes were closed, but I could see every detail, every feature of her face as if she were no more than a few feet from me. She had a sharp, narrow nose, a thin-lipped mouth, and just the slightest of crow's feet and smoker's wrinkles. I made the instant conclusion that the blonde in the apartment below mine was older than I thought, maybe even around my age.

Yet with the body of a teenager. My cock twitched again.

She leaned toward the shower, testing the water, then stepped under the spray. I watched for several minutes as the woman soaped up, rinsed off, running her hands all over her body. She kept her eyes closed most of the time, and it seemed to me that the expression on her face was one of quiet, suppressed sensuality. She seemed to spend more time washing her breasts and between her thighs than I would have thought normal.

And then . . . .

The blonde turned off the spray, and I thought my show over. But my heart pounded as she leaned out from the shower, her body wet and dripping (the glistening line of her muscular back was incredibly sexy), her shoulder-length hair dark from the water and slicked back. She grabbed a long-handled brush sitting on the edge of her counter . . . .

Oh, man, is she . . . is she really gonna . . . oh, shit . . . yeah, she is . . . .

Beneath my amazed and aroused eyes, the blonde woman leaned back in the shower, bracing her feet on the floor as she spread her slender legs. She massaged her pussy with her fingers – she had just a tiny dark tuft of blonde hair right above her slit, I noticed – then began rubbing the handle of the brush between them, lengthwise. Slowly, steadily, as her face contorted with self-gratification, she began pushing the handle inside her pussy. At first, it was just a little, but after several slow, sweet thrusts, she was burying the thing inside her.

My cock was raging as I watched the woman masturbate. I had not zipped up, and quite by reflex, I started stroking myself as I watched. I was transfixed, intensely aroused, mesmerized by the sight of this slender beauty pleasuring herself.

"Hmmm . . . mmmm . . . ."

I could barely hear her soft moans as she brought herself to orgasm. I almost came as well, watching the expressions on her face, the way her tight, narrow body tensed, the way she bent her knees and pushed up and down, sliding her back along the wall as if riding the fantasy lover in her mind. Her parted lips trembled when she climaxed. The sight of her beautiful, orgasmic face was almost enough to make me cum.

But if that wasn't enough, what she did next definitely triggered my rush. Slipping the brush handle from her satisfied pussy, she brought it to her face, and without any hesitation – hell, she looked almost desperate – wrapped her slender little mouth around it and sucked off her own juices. The expression on her face was one of pure and absolute bliss. She sucked the brush handle like giving head, sliding it in and out of her mouth.

Oh, fuck!

I trembled, and moaned almost too loud as I came, ejaculating all over the floor. I worried for a moment that the woman might have heard me, for she pulled the brush from her mouth and looked around with a little confused look on her face – the kind of look one gets when they

think

they heard something, but are not sure – but then she licked her lips, stepped out of the shower, and washed off the brush in the sink. I noticed the self-satisfied smile and rosy glow of her cheeks.

I was pretty sure I had a smile to match.

***

Like an addict, I found myself hovering over the illicit peep hole every night and every morning for the following several days. I caught the blonde in and out of the shower, and admired her sexy, skinny body. I noticed she had another tattoo, one I had not detected before, that of a scorpion on her left ankle. I wondered if that was her astrological sign.

I came to realize that my sexy downstairs neighbor lived alone, and either did not have a boyfriend, or her lover – or lovers – did not stay long enough to need to use the toilet or shower.

I started wondering about her, and more than once tried to come up with some scenario in which I could 'just happen' to meet her. But then what? Seduce her? What if she wasn't interested? What if she was a lesbian? What if she was an Eileen Warnos-type serial killer? And if she was interested, what did she want? What did I want?

I watched her masturbate in the shower again, about five days later, just before she headed out. This time, she had thought ahead, and after turning off the shower, took a bright pink dildo from a drawer beneath the sink and sat on the edge of the tub . . . thankfully facing me. I watched for many long, sweet moments as the blonde eased the vibrator in and out of her slick pussy, rubbing her clit in a swift circular motion until she climaxed with faint, breathless gasps and cries. I timed my own orgasm to match hers and ejaculated onto the tile as she thrashed in self-induced pleasure.

I learned a few things about her as I watched her morning routines. Aside from her love of flowers, I figured that she apparently slept in the nude, because whenever she came into the bathroom in the morning, she was always naked. And whatever her job was, it evidently demanded a pretty relaxed wardrobe. She usually wore tight jeans and a simple top, sometimes stretch pants, sometimes a cotton skirt.

She wore little makeup, from what I could tell. A little base to even out her complexion, a little mascara or eye shadow, but very rarely lipstick. She seemed to like pale beer, as evidenced one night when she took a long bath and sipped on a couple of Coronas while listening to some haunting, melodic music that featured a woman's voice. I did not recognize the artist.

The more I watched her, the more I wondered about her life. I knew what had brought a man of my age to be single and alone, but how was it that so pretty and sexy a woman had no one in her life? Not a night went by in which I did not see her, except for an occasional Friday or Saturday. Never did I catch a man in her shower, or for that matter, another woman. She seemed to be alone in life. But why?

***

I was doing some vacuuming one night in my apartment, picking up the dirt around the place. Funny that, for a guy who had little or no prospects for bringing a woman home, I still kept a clean house. But my years with Monica had made cleaning a habit. Strange how some things remain even when the reason is gone.

My entire apartment had hard wood floors, which was one of the reasons I wanted the place (well, that and the wood-burning fireplace), but I had placed several Persian carpets here and there, to keep the place insulated and to absorb noise.

I was in the living room, and had pushed back the couch to get underneath.

Jesus Christ, how did I get so much dirt and crumbs under there in just over a month?

I grumbled, passing the vacuum back and forth.

Then it caught on something.

Chunk!

Oh, what now?

I switched off the vacuum, knelt on the floor. A small piece of floorboard was loose. It was a section about six inches long and four inches wide. I stared for a moment, feeling an intuition come over me. Carefully, I pulled the board loose, and leaned over . . . .

Yep

. Another peep hole, also lens-equipped. Positioned right over a black vinyl sofa with black and white zebra-striped pillows upon it. A glass-topped coffee table lay before the couch, and there was a rather impressive television set in a large entertainment center. A chair to match the couch faced it over the coffee table. There were candles on the table, a box of tissues, a couple of books, two empty beer bottles . . . .

Two?

A thought occurred to me. I left the vacuum in the living room, padded quietly toward my bedroom. Carefully, stealthily, I searched the floor, picking up the two throw rugs I had placed on either side of my bed. Then I found it.

Another hole in the floor, toward one of the corners, furthest from the bathroom door. And it looked right down onto a queen-sized bed with peach-colored sheets and a thick white comforter currently pushed to the foot of the bed.

The blonde wasn't alone.

They were kissing, sitting on the edge of the bed. She wore tight black stretch pants and a very skimpy red tube-top that barely covered even her tiny breasts. The man she was kissing, the man who had one hand on her upper thigh and another groping her breasts, had long, shaggy black hair. He wore a denim shirt and jeans and seemed rather stocky.

My heart caught in my throat as their kissing became more passionate. The blonde leaned back on the bed as the dark-haired man kissed his way down her chest. He zeroed in on her breasts right away, peeling her top down. I watched the back of his head as he sucked on one of her nipples. The expression on her face was of mixed passion and consternation. She somewhat awkwardly petted his head, watching his face. She didn't seem to be enjoying his attention as much as she would have liked.

Still, the blonde did not protest as he got on his knees and tugged on her stretch pants. She sort of smiled, looking a little more aroused, and willingly lifted her hips. Her lover pulled them down, forgetting about her ankle boots. She rolled her eyes, then laughed as he struggled to get the boots, then her tight pants, off her feet.

She lay back, closing her eyes, smiling, spreading her lean legs as the man brought his face closer between her thighs. She obviously anticipated the sensation of his tongue upon her sex.

He hovered over her thighs, his hands moving up, touching her, spreading her open. Even with my limited view, I could just see how pink she was, thanks to the magnifying nature of the lens through which I watched. My cock throbbed in my sweat pants.