Videos And Sex Sex Sex Ch 01

I had moved into the exclusive Beverly Hills area after a particularly messy divorce from my husband of 10 years. He was an extremely wealthy lawyer and as with so many extremely wealthy lawyers, his circle of social friends comprised of lots of other extremely wealthy lawyers.

Several of them had offered to represent me in the case – some because I'm darned sure they wanted to get into my panties – so I had no shortage of excellent legal advice. The upshot was I got a nice $550,000 annuity, this sumptuous villa in Beverly Hills and a snazzy little Mercedes which I drive too fast for comfort, but not too fast for safety.

I moved into the place during the height of summer – well, it's nearly summer all year round in La La Land as I call Los Angeles - and one of the first really warm week-ends, I lay out on a lounger by poolside. OK, I may be 40-years of old age, but I have kept my figure in what I hope is excellent shape.

I'm almost five feet 10 inches tall, and when I'm wearing my high heels I can look most men in the eye. As the man who represented me in court said: "Sharon, wear flats to court, judges hate women who they know they have to look up to, it unsettles them."

So here I was, 40, an age that almost matched my bust measurement – which is 39, but it's a damned firm 39, and it's entirely natural. I've got a slim 25-inch waist, I hit the tape at 37 inches around my hips and I've legs that honest-to-god go on forever. My tan's not bad, either. Shit, if I was someone else, I'd fancy me!

Oh, I'm not a blonde, either, despite that last crack! My hair's jet-black, thanks to the bottle I use. No hair down, there, of course.

Anyway, that's set the scene. Now I'm outside lying by the pool and I've got these Gucci shades on, so you can't tell where I'm looking, when I glance across at the house next door. Another mini-Buckingham Palace. There, in an upstairs window, I saw a flicker of a blind. Now a wink is as good as a nod to a blind horse, as they say, but I knew I was being perved. And good on 'em, I thought. This is a body that's

worth

perving on, like I said.

So I stretched my thighs a little wider – I was lying facing directly towards the "peeper" – and ran a finger across my crotch. I was wearing a scanty little bikini, in fact the term bikini didn't do the garment justice. It was scandalously brief, just mere strips of material, and made of a sort of metallic green lycra. It shone in the sun. I knew it made me look sensational.

After a minute or two I had a plan, but I lay back for a few more minutes, letting the sun warm me as I lay, my body glistening from the liberal application of Piz Buin I'd put on before venturing outside.

Then, splaying my thighs wide, as I swung a leg over onto the tiles, I got up, stretched my arms above my head, which I knew threw my breasts into brilliant uplift, and turned to walk slowly inside. My ass cheeks were totally on display for whoever was perving on me, just this little piece of dental floss running through the crack.

Inside the house, I dashed upstairs and got out my trusty video camera, took it into a side room and placed it on the tripod. I placed the lens between two heavy drape curtains – horrid things I intended to get rid of as soon as I could, but which now served as perfect camouflage for the camera.

Looking through the range finder, I focused it on the window where I knew my peeper had been standing and flicked on the record button. The tape was a 90-minute job, which I hoped would be long enough. Then I returned to the sun lounger, walking slowly, swaying my hips in my high heels in what I hoped was a "come hither" signal.

And then I didn't even both to look up at the window, I let things run their course. If the peeper was at work I knew I'd catch it on the videotape, if he wasn't, then what the hell, there's always tomorrow.

I lay back toasting in the wonderful Californian sun, occasionally flicking my short hair, which came to just above my shoulders, in what I hoped would be an eye-catching performance. Every now and then, I'd trace a finger over the gusset of the little thong, feeling a squelch down there as I knew I would. I was enjoying myself!

After 25 minutes or so, I turned over on my tummy, reached behind my back and hauled off the little garment which only just covered my nipples. I threw it lazily on the poolside tiles and widened my thighs a little. If I'd gone any further I'd have sat up and yelled out "Get an eyeful of this, Mr Peeper", but I played the lady! Ha.

I baked in the lovely sunshine, then checked my Rolex, so thoughtfully purchased for me by Mr Shithead after he'd won a big celebrity stalker case for some Hollywood trollop. It was just gone midday and I was thirsty. So I stood up, turned so my body was facing the peeper's window and leaned over to pick up the thing the bikini designer laughingly referred to as a "bra". I knew my big knockers would have hung and swayed seductively as I did, but I didn't even give the peeper's position a glance.

Inside, I mixed myself a fucking big margarita. Too much salt in that kind of concoction, I know, but what the hell, I'd exercise it all off in the morning. Then I strolled upstairs, thong and high heels the only things on my lush body – fuck, it feels sexy walking around like that!

In the side bedroom, I picked the recorder off its tripod, saw that 55 minutes of tape had been used up, switched it off, and went downstairs to transfer it onto a commercial VHS tape. I sipped on the margarita, waiting for the infernal machine to do its copying, then eagerly snatched it out of the VCR slot, placed a label on it and used a black marker pen to print the words "The Peeper" on the label.

Shoving the tape into the machine, I then sat back on the long leather couch, feeling my lotion-smeared back slithering on the gleaming black of the couch. Then I pressed the play button and waited to see what would develop.

Well, for five minutes, what developed was sweet fuck all. I had fast forwarded a picture of a next door neighbour's upper bedroom window – had I wasted 55 minutes of recording for nothing?

NO! Suddenly, appearing between two almost tightly-shut curtains came something that I hoped I would see – an erect cock! It was quite a nice cock, too. I reckoned it was in excess of seven inches, the way the fist grasping the shaft at the end nearest the pubic bone, revealed at least four inches above it to the cock's helmet, or so I reckoned. The hand was pumping very slowly, the uncut head of the cock was leaking pre-cum, the full flesh there occasionally being pulled back to reveal the little piss-spunk slit. So pretty!

Then, the curtains parted slightly and I could see that my Peeping Tom was apparently naked, his flat belly sun-tanned and shiny, his pectorals quite pronounced. Suddenly I could make out why the curtains had moved apart – I had, at first, thought it was a light breeze that had done it, but no, the filthy fucking pervert was filming me!

There, held against my peeper's face, one eye screwed against the viewing aperture, was an expensive-looking little video camcorder. And as he filmed me, his hand was working slightly more quickly over his glistening shaft.

Despite the fact that I was watching a video of a Peeping Tom videoing me displaying myself down by my pool on my lounger I was hugely aroused – oh, OK, "because" I was watching it, I was aroused, I admit it.

The peeper obviously felt his climax nearing, because he put the camera down and then did something I've never seen before. As he came, or just on the point of ejaculation, my next door neighbour put the fingers of his non-masturbation hand around the lips of his foreskin, and that way he trapped his semen up there as he came. The foreskin swelled, containing as it did, his spunk. Then he was gone.

I fast forwarded for a minute or so, then he was back "on watch", as it were, his cock still thick and heavy but now pointing southwards, lying over his heavy ball sac. But now he had resumed filming, the lovely, filthy old pervert!

I say "old" because my next door neighbour was Zack Zachary, known to everyone in Hollywood as ZeeZee, a 55-year-old "mogul" – everyone in Hollywood calls someone who is important but doesn't have a clue what they do "a mogul". Everyone knew ZeeZee was big in the business, but no one knew exactly what he did.

ZeeZee and his wife, a former lingerie model named Stella, who was 15 years younger than him, had introduced themselves to me when I had moved in. They had brought around a huge iced cake as big as a television set and a couple of bottles of Lanson Perrier champagne as house warming gifts.

I had liked the look of ZeeZee – he was tall, tanned, toned and with very black hair except at the temples where he was a trendy and distinguished grey. But the look of Stella I liked even more!

As a former lingerie model you'd expect her to be attractive, and she was – long, blonde hair cascaded almost to the tops of her lush, large breasts. She had blue eyes, almost green, a figure that was fully-breasted, superbly buttocked and she looked about 25, the bitch, even though she told me she was 40! Oh, another thing – I've told you I was tall. Well, Stella was taller! Like I said, the bitch!

And talking about "liking" there was another member of the family. ZeeZee was onto his third marriage, but he'd had only one child, a daughter, from his first. She was named Stazee, which I think is an awful name, but believe me, it's the only thing about Stazee that's awful.

Stazee, who lived with her pop and stepmom, was 18, with corn gold long blonde hair, she spent so much time out tanning her glorious little body in the Californian sun she was almost silvery grey in the hair department.

She was much shorter than her stepmom, or me, for that matter. But she had a lovely, tight, hard-toned little teenager's body, one that simply spelled out – to men and to women – that "This body is

made

for sex!" To make up for her lack of height – a height that hit the tape at 5 feet 2 inches – she wore these ludicrously high-heeled shoes with sort of high wedges beneath the soles. They forced her to walk in a sort of exaggerated model's strut and the

things

they did to her deportment you had to see to believe. The way her ass wiggled was a sex maniac's delight – and I'm referring to sex maniacs of both sexes.

By now, you will have arrived at the fact that when it comes to sex, I'm a switch hitter. I'm like Mickey Mantle – happy either side of the plate! Although, if the truth be known, I think I may prefer the fairer sex. Men are always walking around looking at women thinking "Yes, I could fuck that, yes I could fuck that, yes, I could ..." – well, you get the point.

On the other hand, women are so

much

more fussy in their choice of sex partner. I was fussy, too. As soon as I set eyes on Stella and Stazee I knew I had to have them, the only question was "How?"

Well, the best way would be to start with the father, I reckoned. And that shouldn't be too difficult, after all I had video evidence of him standing at a bedroom window masturbating while perving on my lush body. I decided to swing into action.

When ZeeZee and Stella had visited, they had thoughtfully left me with their unlisted number, as neighbours do, even in Beverly Hills. I dialled it – while freeze framing a picture of ZeeZee's hand working on his erection was up on screen, all pink and inviting!

"Hi, this is ZeeZee," came a deep, masculine voice.

"Hi, Zee," I said, deliberately refraining from using his Hollywood appellation, "this is Sharon next door. I was wondering whether you and your wife would like to come around this afternoon for some drinks poolside, I was planning on having a barbecue, steak, chorizos, some nice wine. What do you say?"

"Well that's a charming invitation, Sharon," said the Hollywood "mogul", "but I'm afraid Stella's gone to visit her mom in San Francisco this week-end and taken Stazee with her. But if you promise not to get me drunk, I'd love to take you up on your offer."

Perfect!

"I look forward to seeing you – oh, bring something to swim in, we can have a dip, it's such a lovely day," I said.

"I'm almost into them now – what time?" he asked, his voice almost panting with lust, shit this was going to be easy!

"Well how's the old saying go, ZeeZee?" I said, playing up to him now, "there's no time like the present. Shall I mix you a margarita?"

"I'll be there in 10 minutes," he said, and I could picture him stroking his cock as he spoke.

I dashed upstairs and removed my thong – no point in getting him too flustered - and pulled on a classic one-piece, cut high on my hips, which showed plenty of cleavage but also looked stunning, black and gleaming. The rear end was not exactly thong-style, but was cut in a brief design which allowed the lower halves of my buttocks to display themselves. And very kissable too, even if I do say so myself.

Pulling on my high heels, I ran back down to the massive kitchen and prepared two more margaritas. I'd hardly finished than the fucking stupid chimes rang – California Dreaming, or some such nonsense, shit I had to get that chime changed!

There, standing on the doorstep with a stupid grin was Mr Peeper, a dazzling white Ralph Lauren Polo shirt on, dazzling white Polo shorts, trendily scruffy, scuffed boat shoes and holding a bottle of bubbly. "A gift for you, madame," he said, in an affected accent, thrusting a bottle of chilled Dom Perignon into my hand.

"Enchante," I said, in my awful French accent, and I stepped back to let him in.

Outside, by the pool, sipping our margaritas I could see ZeeZee was hot to trot. I decided to heat him up a bit more. "It's so warm, ZeeZee," I purred, "why not get out of those shorts and shirt, cool down a little."

He stood, quickly, eagerly, and stepped out of his clothes, but kept his scuffed shoes on. He was clad in an extremely tight fitting thong, made of light blue satin. It clung almost like a second skin to a cock and balls that I'd got a very good video of. Not that he was going to find that out for a while!

"Oh fuck," I said, deliberately sounding coarse, "I just love a man in a thong – you know I love the way they show off a man's buttocks. Turn round, let me see."

The vain old idiot did so, presenting me with what, to be honest, was a delicious pair of ass cheeks, tanned superbly brown, offset just below the small of his back by a light blue triangle of shiny material.

Then he sat on a lounger. I could see his crotch region was swelling, he was so turned on.

I turned up the heat another notch. "Oh heavens, ZeeZee," I told him, almost batting my eyelashes, I swear, "that's such a great ass you've got there. You know what I think when I see an ass like that?"

ZeeZee swallowed a big gulp of margarita. "Er no, what's that Sharon?" he asked, nervous as hell.

"I think of a spanking – oh, nothing too strict, just a nice mild, erotic spanking," I said, as I detected a glimmer of lust flickering across his face.

"Yep, love a man in a thong," I pressed on, "because I always check out his buttocks second."

ZeeZee looked at me – he was almost panting – and gulped: "And what's the first thing you check out, Sharon?"

"Well, something in the front," I said.

"Er, you mean, you mean?" he swallowed, then I put him out of his misery.

"That's right, Zee," I said, going back to the diminutive of his stupid nickname, "his face!"

He had the good grace to laugh, then I suggested a dip. "It's so darned hot, Zee," I said, "like to cool down?"

And with that I stood, kicked off my high heels, walked to the deep end and did an almost perfect swallow dive into the blue water. As I swam a length, I saw him kick off his boat shoes, walk to the steps and gingerly walk into the water before breast-stroking his way to where I had completed my lap – this man was no swimmer!

"This is lovely," he said, as we bobbed in the more shallow end, "and you look lovely in that swimsuit."

"This old thing," I said, teasingly, thrusting my ample charms forward. "It's so old, but I love wearing it for swimming – but I've got far more revealing things for when I sunbathe, Zee," I told him.

"Goddam," he said, "I'd love to see you in an outfit that's more revealing."

I grinned, one of those "I know what you'd fucking love, you old pervert you" looks and said calmly: "One day I'll give you a display, lie out on my lounger in one of my dental floss creations, really give you an eyeful, eh?"

I swear I thought he was going to choke, but he swallowed deeply, took a huge breath, said "I'll do a lap" and plunged off towards the deep end, wallowing like a baby whale, only nowhere near as graceful.

The afternoon we spent enjoying small talk. He told me about his ex-wives – both grade A bitches, apparently, how Stella was the only woman for him, never laid eyes on another woman since he was married, that kinda crap. And he said that last bit with a straight face, the asshole!

I told him all about Mr Shithead, how I'd done very nicely thank-you out of the divorce, and how I'd heard ZeeZee was a Hollywood big shot. "And what is it you are in Hollywood, exactly, Zee?" I asked, as we lay, our bodies glistening in the sun.

He smiled, coyly. "I'm an executive producer," he announced, "and you don't want to know what executive producers do."

I shut him up pretty promptly, then. "You're right, Zee," I said, "I don't. Let's fire up that barbecue and you can burn some meat, while I open up a nice bottle of French red."

The thong-clad "stud" pulled on his shirt and shorts, cooked two massive T-bones and four chorizos, while I ripped the cork out of a bottle of something called St Emlion, which meant nothing to me, apart from the fact that its case price meant each bottle worked out at a cool $75. Since I know little about wine, I hoped that meant it was an improvement on mouthwash.

We dined on the T-bones and a green salad, washed down by the St Emlion – which

was

better than mouthwash, though not $75 better, if you ask me. I told you I know little about wine.

The evening was approaching, and now was time to lower the boom on the old fucker!

"I'm going to change," I said, "how's about going into the entertainment room, there's something I want to show you."

ZeeZee almost sprinted inside, while I went back up to my bedroom, peeled off my T-shirt, shorts, bra and panties and put on the tiny little green creation I'd been wearing that morning.

I put my high heels on and walked slowly down to the entertainment room, with the big TV screen, an ostentatiously large thing. I had already put the incriminating tape in the VCR, all I had to do was press the play button.

When I walked in, ZeeZee was seated on a long leather couch. As I entered, he stood up in a hurry – and honest-to-god I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his skull!

"Like my outfit, Zee?" I said, swirling around, displaying my near-nude body to his lusting gaze.

"It's absolutely stunning," he gasped, breathing heavily and made to move towards me.

I pushed a manicured fingernail against his Polo shirt and thrust him back onto the couch. "Down tiger," I said, almost sneering, "time for that later – much later."

He pouted but settled back on the couch. I walked over to an easy chair off to one side of the couch, making sure he got a great glimpse of my ass as I swung in front of him then perched on the seat, hands clasped together on my knees, leaning forward to show off my hardly-covered breasts. His eyes were still popping.

"Right, Zee," I said, "we're going to play a little game, a game like we used to play when we were kids." He made as if to interrupt, but I put one finger to my lips, in a silent "Shush" signal.