Watchers at the Windows

You have the photographs spread out across your desk and in them the woman spreads her legs for a stranger. You don’t think the client will like them, but then again you’re not exactly a pleasure photographer. Even still, you make a mental note to cut some of the raunchier photos when you write up a report. Spare the client a little bit of pain. There’s no reason to be cruel and a little tact could go a long way when one of her rich buddies suspect their husband.

You wish you had a proper office. Maybe something with your name stencilled in black against foggy glass like one of the classic Chandler detectives. Solving murders and taking down corruption at the highest levels. That’s how you imagined it when you took that six month internet PI course. Instead you have the same one bedroom walk up you did before. No stove, no curtains. Just a hotplate, a cot and a folding table. The two most expensive things you own are your second hand laptop and your camera. It's hardly the glamorous life you were expecting. Still, despite the lack of excitement in the job, despite how degrading being a professional peeping tom for disgruntled socialites was, you had to admit there were a few perks.

You turn the printouts over on the desk again. You took a lot of photos and as you flip through them they begin a perverse flip-book. Watching the woman’s huge breasts heave as she rode a man the client shared a bed with. Her face twists into ugly ecstasy. Too much lipstick. You flip the photos back and enjoy the little movie it makes as the wife rides with reckless abandon. Your cock stiffens in your jeans and you idly reach down to adjust yourself. More photos, the not-client takes the husband’s cock into her mouth. Takes it deep down to the back of her throat as the man grabs the back of her head, You’re rock hard now and slip your cock out your pants, pleased that you seem to be larger than the man in the photos by a good inch, maybe more.

You stroke your cock as you picture the woman’s soft body, recalling every overheard gasp and moan from your photo session. You think of how wet and warm her mouth must be and imagine a phantom tongue that swirls around the head of your penis.

You feel your balls rising and your flip-book pornography becomes looser and more herky-jerky as the pleasure mounts and you have trouble keeping your pace. The mistress rides the husbands cock unnaturally now, like a marionette gripping a mechanical bull. Your breathing is heavy, you're right on the edge.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

A momentary distraction is all it takes and you empty your balls over the back of your fist in thick ropey spurts. You try to save photos from an indignity and accidentally sweep your camera off the table in your panic. It lands with an expensive sounding crack on the tile floor. The pounding on the door sends dust bouncing off your walls.

“Shit!”

You scramble to your feet and shove your dick back into your pants. You run to the door and nearly rip the chain off the wall as you open the door a crack.

There’s no one there.

You slide the hook from the chain and look up and down the hallway. There’s footsteps in the distance and the stairwell door clicks shut in the empty hallway. Whoever was there rushed out in a hurry. You’re about to close the door when you notice something at your feet.

There’s a black envelope sitting neatly in front of your door. Its more than black, it seems to eat up all the light that touches and looks like a hole cut into the carpet. Reaching down and grabbing it you are surprised at how substantial it feels.