[MF] A classic rear window trope, with less Hitchcock and more of his cock.

Ethan was running late. A month ago it wouldn’t have mattered much, really. But that was before he started falling into something of a routine. He watched at the same time, every day. He knew exactly how each of the shows started and he was often pretty good at deducing how they’d end. Heck, he even had a spot just for watching.

But, if he was going to keep up the new nightly routine, he was going to have to make good time. He thanked the cashier quickly, shook his head at the dollar and seventy-five cents worth of change, stuffed the bread and the eggs and the tomatoes and the bananas and the apples and the barley and the oats and the frozen strawberries and the pasta into a couple bags and made his way towards the exit.

He didn’t run, but he walked with a purpose. His tall, sinewy frame glided across the grocery store tiles with ease, his long legs carrying him quickly towards the crisp autumn air.

Ethan dropped the bags into the passenger seat, started the car and flicked it into drive in what seemed like a singular fluid motion.

Five minutes, he thought to himself.

Five minutes to make the drive that normally took anywhere from eight to twelve, depending on the traffic. Add in another forty-five seconds to park and get into the lobby. Twelve waiting for the elevator, followed by another fifty-five to get to the seventeenth floor and then twenty-five to get into his place and to his special spot. It was impossible.
Or so it seemed.

But Ethan was a man on a mission. A mission to keep a routine alive. Routines can do that sometimes—if you start going to the gym, it becomes addictive. The same goes for eating healthy. And, now, for Ethan’s new hobby.

He drove fast, weaving between lanes and benefitting from some good luck at lights. There was a parking spot right in front. He bounded from his seat, bags in tow, and up the stairs to the lobby. He saw the elevator doors closing and lunged, his right wrist making contact with the metal door and stopping it from closing. He stepped into the elevator.

“Good evening Miss Grantham,” he said, smiling to the eighty- something year-old who lived a couple doors down from him.

She nodded and smiled back. Miss Grantham was hard of hearing and probably couldn’t make out what Ethan had said. The seconds seemed to pass like minutes, but, somehow, when Ethan glanced at his watch, he still had 35 seconds to spare as the elevator came to his floor. The doors slid open and Ethan squeezed out.

“You have a good day, now,” he shouted over his shoulder to the lady who couldn’t hear him as he readied his keys at hip height.

They slid in effortlessly and Ethan thought he could make out the sound of each notch hitting the cylinders, pushing them up and out of the way, allowing a flick of the wrist to turn the handle, sending the door swinging open.

He dropped the bags on the black marble counter top and opened the door to the fridge—in went the eggs. Before the door was closed the freezer drawer was sliding out and the frozen strawberries dropped into the icy box. He pushed the freezer shut with his foot before heading towards his usual spot.

As he sat down, he tilted his wrist towards him. Twenty-two seconds late. The show came into focus in front of his eyes and, sure enough, he had missed the first few seconds. But it was always the same, so he knew what he missed.

He knew that the nubile brunette who lived in the south tower of his building, on the sixteenth floor, one unit over and across the courtyard from Ethan, had walked out of the shower wearing nothing but a towel around her chest. Well, he presumed that she always took a shower, but perhaps she had drawn a bath. He didn’t have any way of knowing which it was.

All he knew was that twenty-two seconds before he sat down at the window, she had walked into view and laid down on her bed, with the crown of her head towards the window. Now, she was scrolling through Instagram, as she always did. And, soon enough, she’d put her phone down on her bedside table, where it charged on a wireless charging pad.

Ethan stretched his left hand out, grabbing his camera from his desk without averting his eyes from the brunette. He knew he still had a few seconds—he always did—but he didn’t want to miss anything unexpected.

He steadied the lens hood against the cold glass window, tilting it downwards ever so slightly. Looking through the viewfinder, he turned the ribbed focus ring ever so slightly to the left and the zoom ring to the right. From his vantage point and through his lens, it was like Ethan was looking over her shoulder—like she was nestled between his legs, laying against his stomach.

The thought made Ethan hard. It always did.

Sure enough, she set her phone down. And, like every night, she dropped her towel on her bed. She looked at herself in the mirror, her back towards Ethan. Her whole body was in his frame, but his attention was focused on her well-rounded ass. It was always so—virgin. It was flawless. Not a scratch or a mark. What a shame, he thought. Again, it was a thought that made Ethan’s erection throb.

As the brunette lay back in bed, Ethan imagined himself there, watching as her manicured fingers first found their way to her breasts.

They weren’t the biggest he had ever seen, but they were perky and the way she fondled them—the way her fingers rubbed her nipples delicately and her hands cupped the fleshy mounds—made them seem like the most perfect breasts Ethan had ever laid eyes on.

From there they went south. Sometimes they went to her mouth first—but not tonight. Tonight her right hand slid down her slim stomach to the space between her legs.
Freshly shaved, Ethan thought, good girl.

He watched as her fingers circled her clit and teased her outer labia. She leaned her head back ever so slightly and Ethan could tell that she was letting out something—a moan, probably tame, but possibly visceral. He wondered, often, what she sounded like.

This was always the thought that made it unbearable to keep his rock hard member trapped in his pants.

He had mastered the art of undoing his pants without looking away from his favourite show. He held the camera with his right hand as his left thumb, index and middle finger undid the button at the waist of his pants. He pressed his thumb and index together, pulling the zipper down and then leaned back slightly as he raised his hips and his hand tugged at the fabric around his thighs, pulling his waistband to just above the knee. Next, he tugged at the black spandex boxers he was wearing, bringing them to middle of his thigh, freeing his erection.

The camera found its way to Ethan’s left hand, as the fingers on his right hand wrapped around his shaft. He was transfixed by the brunette’s movements. The way her hips bucked gently, but passionately. The manner in which her fingers moved effortlessly from her clitoris to her labia, spreading them apart, but never fully penetrating herself. It was as if she were teasing herself—and teasing Ethan, too, albeit unwittingly.

Ethan’s stroke began to sync up with the movement of the brunette’s hips. His right hand leaving his erection but to refocus and zoom in more on her—her breasts were at the bottom of the frame and the middle of her thigh at the top, barely any of her bed visible at the sides. His attention was on the bread and butter of her nubile body. He stroked himself faster now, his grip tightening. He slowed down when she slowed down. He knew what was coming.

He watched, his mouth agape ever so slightly, as her fingers finally slid inside. He could see the glisten of the light on her pink labia.

She must be fucking soaking, Ethan thought.

Again, this was a thought that often pushed Ethan over the edge. But he had worked on it. He steadied himself. He breathed deep breathes through his mouth as he stroked himself slowly, careful not to cum. He wanted to cum with her. At the same time as her. Thinking about her cumming on him — because of him.

But the way the light glistened against her wet lips, on her inner thighs.

Fuck, the light.

Normally Ethan made sure to turn off the lights in his condo before settling in for his appointment viewing, but, tonight, in the rush to get to his seat, he had forgotten a crucial step. His mind moved fast—almost as fast as the brunette’s fingers were sliding in and out of her sex. His hands were occupied. He could get up and flick off the lights, but he knew that she was getting close. Did he want to risk missing that?

Fuck it, he thought. She had never even looked up towards his unit before—why would she do it tonight, of all nights?

As quickly as the thought popped into his head, it faded away. He was mesmerized by the brunette’s fingers—by the way her hips gyrated and the way they started bobbing up and down more quickly as she neared completion. Ethan, was biting his lower lip. He was groaning, too.

“Fuck, that’s it. Cum for me like a good little slut.” His voice was low and gravelly—filled with sexual tension.

As the brunette’s hips lifted five or six inches off her mattress and her body arched, Ethan let out a primal grunt, his cock throbbing as his thick white juices splashed against the window. His right hand let go of his erection and he leaned forward, pressing it against the window as he tilted his head downwards.

His breath was ragged—just like the brunette’s, he imagined.

As he brought his right eye back to the viewfinder, after a few seconds of post-ejaculate bliss, he expected to see her standing up, her cheeks flustered, as they always were, and walking to the bathroom to slip into her pyjamas. It’s what she always did—except for the times when she took a long sip of water before making her way to the washroom.

​

And except for tonight, it seemed. Ethan moved the camera to the side and his eyes took a split second to adjust to the wider view. But when they focused in, his heart dropped.

​

“Mmmm. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Mmmmhm. FUCK!” Alexia’s words were slurred, but her voice was crisp. A warm smile crept onto her face as her head tilted back and she slid her right index and middle finger from her moist womanhood.

She hadn’t been fucked by anyone—or anything—but her fingers in a long time and she was getting good at this. She practiced every night.

If there aren’t any fuccbois who are going to make me cum, she’d gladly do it herself, she thought.
She lay there in her bed for a few seconds, feeling the warmth pulse from her clitoris through her legs and her torso. She felt good. She always did afterwards.

As Alexia stood up, she felt her legs tremble ever so slightly. She smiled and turned towards the window. Her eyes scanned the courtyard. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Her eyes wandered—bouncing to and fro in post- orgasm bliss. They were almost immediately drawn to the one illuminated rectangle across the courtyard.

She squinted a bit. Her glasses were on the bedside table, but she didn’t really need them. Not to see this.

What the fuck, she thought.

She could make out a man sitting on a chair, his head turned downward, a thick liquid covering the window at the level of his knees, and his hand in his crotch, clenching what Alexia could only assume was a now not quite hard, but not exactly flaccid member.

Her brain told her she should feel disgust. That she should feel violated. That she should scamper to the bathroom, or wrap herself in her discarded towel, or in her bedsheets, like women do in the movies.

Everybody knows nobody actually does that, she always told herself.

She wanted to be offended. But, instead, she was actually kind of aroused by the thought of a mysterious man watching her play with herself.

He came, too, she thought.

This was a first for Alexia. She had never had this happen to her. Well, at least as far as she knew.
She did play with her pussy with the blinds open, she reminded herself.

Maybe the man had watched her before. Maybe he had stroked himself to completion before. She had no way of knowing. Well, she did. But did she really want to go and knock?

“Hi, I’m Alexia, the girl who masturbates with the blinds open for all to see. Have you watched me before or just tonight? No, no. It’s not for the police report, I swear.

That would go over real well.

She took a step towards the window. She stared towards the illuminated rectangle.
What the fuck was she doing. Her nipples were getting hard.

Her brain was livid with her libido. What’s wrong with you, she screamed internally.

She stood there, at the window, and could feel the cool air of her room against her wetness. The contrast made her even more wet. Or perhaps it was the man, who was now sitting up straight, a camera at his eye.

Alexia smiled as the man put the camera down. Even without her glasses and across the court years, she could make out his look of utter bewilderment. She could see his eyes, looking right at hers. She had caught him. She liked it. She bit her lip.

Alexia stared back at the man for a few seconds before waving gently and bringing her index to her lips. She bit her finger playfully.

Did people really do this, she wondered, like in the movies?

She watched as the man raised his hand. It wasn’t quite a wave, but at least it was an acknowledgement that Alexia had caught him red-handed.

Don’t fucking do it, she told herself.

But her urges were too strong. Her teeth relented their grip on her index. She stretched her hand out in front of her torso. She pointed at him and curled her finger towards herself.

Come hither, the voice between her thighs screamed. Make her cum, it begged. She was no longer fully in control of what she was doing and she quite enjoyed it. A more primal being was guiding her actions, her thoughts, her desires.

Much to Alexia’s surprise, the man got up and the light illuminating the window shut off. Perhaps she had scared him off. Or, perhaps he was on his way. She had no way of knowing.

She waited, naked, her wetness growing with every passing second. She calculated how long it would take the mysterious man to get to her. She thought about him showing up and ravaging her.
Her hand once again found its way to her clit. She pressed her index and middle finger against it firmly, running a small, tight circle around it as she stood leaning against the her bedroom door frame.

A knock interrupted her before she could really get started. Her heart was racing.

Don’t open the door, you fucking psychopath, she thought to herself as she bit her lip.

Ultimately the mental hand-wringing was for naught as she strode across the hardwood floors to the door. She didn’t even bother to keep the door chained—she just swung it open and hid her nakedness being it, poking her head out and offering a silly schoolgirl giggle as she saw the man in the hallway.
He was more attractive than she had expected. He didn’t look like a creep that had been masturbating while watching her masturbate. Alexia was pleasantly surprised.

“Well, what are you waiting for stranger?”

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/12yjaho/mf_a_classic_rear_window_trope_with_less