tagExhibitionist & VoyeurDecorating for Christmas

Decorating for Christmas


I'm sipping a fresh brew of hot cocoa on Christmas Eve when the knock sounds on my door. I start out of my reverie and spill some of the contents near the top two buttons on my new blouse. Wisely, I set my mug on the coffee table before throwing my hands up in frustration.

The knock sounds again, and I wonder who would be at my door in this weather. The snow's been falling in sheets ever since I got out of classes for the day, and the Midwest winter dark is out in full force.

I amble toward the door and pull it open, trying to shield the stained shirt from my visitor. A shock runs through my spine when I see Alexa's frame standing on my front stoop, the curves of her body not quite hidden by her winter gear.

"Hey," I say, wishing I could think of a better greeting.

"Hey," she says, and I swear, she bites her lip. Cliché, I know, to love the way a woman's mouth works, but still, there's no one quite like Alexa in my book.

We stand there for a second before I realize myself. "Come in, come in!" I'm too nervous, and I'm sure she'll call me out on it. I take a deep breath as I'm turned away from her. "Do you want some hot chocolate? I just made some."

She shuts the door, and another thrill courses my veins. "It's like you knew I was coming over." I laugh, but something in her voice catches me, and I turn back toward her.

In her gloved hand is something small, something very like a...

Uh oh. I swallow, and avoid her glance.

"Can we talk about this?" she asks me, and I nod weakly.

I guess I should take the time to explain.


This past summer, I finally got leave to move off campus. This was perfect for a couple reasons:

1. Even though I dig chicks, I don't dig drama. My friend Sam has asked me before if living in a dorm is like a dream for a dyke, and I told him the same thing I'll tell you: just because I'm a dyke doesn't mean I'm attracted to every girl that moves. And frankly, most college girls are the pits when it comes to personality. And even though it's exciting walking into the bathroom when a particularly attractive girl is only wearing a couple drops of water and an ill-placed towel, it's not fun feeling like I have to hide my own goods all the time. Anyway, I digress.

2. I'm an introvert, and I love my peace and quiet. Dorms give you exactly none of that.

3. Alexa Antuma. I had no idea what the neighbor situation was gonna be like. I picked out half a duplex to live in, mostly because the cabinets were cute, but I didn't know how thin the walls would be, etc., etc. So, I moved in with no small amount of trepidation...only to fund myself living next to the kindest girl I have ever met. And possibly the sexiest. More on the latter later.

Anyhow, after moving in and working at the library all summer, I got to be a bit bored. I'd never lived alone for more than a week (housesitting for my parents), and I didn't realize how much time it gave me. I read a lot, but even that began to get stale, and frankly, I needed a new glasses prescription.

That's when the ideas started. It was mostly innocent at first. I'd take longer showers than normal in the mornings, letting the steam soak into my skin. If I closed my eyes, I could pretend to feel a woman's hands on my shoulders, her full lips brushing against my neck.

It wasn't long before that woman was exclusively Alexa. I could easily imagine her long brown hair stuck to the sides of her face, and me having to brush it out of the way as I kissed her ample breasts, flitted my tongue across her areola, just barely hitting her nipple again and again. I could almost hear her sighs, feel her fingers run through my own ginger strands of hair.

Then we would really get going, her hands would tug my head up so my eyes were level with hers, and she would move in his her lips, puffed from arousal, and my breathing came tight, my nose closing off and we melded together. Our fingers were racing now, tickling the sides of each other's slick bodies, resting on hips, on bum.

And then she would go where there was no returning. I was already soaked by this point, both from the showerhead and the heady aroma of her skin. She would giggle as her middle finger reached inside me for lubrication and tickled my clit. And I would moan, without worry of any neighbor hearing my cries.

That summer, that's how I would come—curled up on the mat in my steaming shower, wishing my fingers were hers.


"Can we talk about this?" she asks me.

We sit, side by side on my old couch—the one I found at Goodwill before moving in—and I take a breath to speak.

"Honestly, I don't know why I did it." My words sound weak, even to me.

"Really?" she laughs, and I can't tell if she's angry. I fear the worst. "I'm pretty sure there's only one reason for something like this."


When school started again in the fall, it was a relief to give my mind something else to think on. I didn't know if I could take many more days of longing for the impossible. And, of course, with school came a schedule shift, meaning I happily timed my entrances and exits of the house to match Alexa's whenever possible.

Every morning, I would make sure I was ready to go at least ten minutes before my class started, so I could listen at the adjoining wall to hear when she would be ready. From there, I could choose to leave with her, to talk a bit, or after her, to stare at her marvelously swaying ass as she hurried to class. She always wore the tightest clothes, something that amused me beyond just the sexual highs I got. Alexa was the sweetest person, and I genuinely don't think she realized how many stares her short dressed or hanging tops would garner throughout the day.

I wised up a few days into the semester concerning Alexa's bike, which she would often ride even in the shortest of skirts. Each morning she bent down to unlock the back tire was an opportunity for me as long as I moved the bike to the perfect distance from my window the night before. I even rotated the tire to increase the angle at which she'd have to bend. No matter which side she unlocked from, I would get an eyeful through my cracked curtains. Attacking the bike from the opposite side gave me a breathtaking view of the finger's width between her breasts, and depending on her outfit (and bra choice, mostly), I could sometimes glimpse a hint of nipple. Going at the bike with her back to me, meanwhile, let me study her legs without fear of her seeing, and more than once, the wind helped me find what kind of panties Alexa Antuma enjoyed riding up between her thighs. Once, her choice of thong was just crooked enough to glimpse what lay beneath.

Needless to say, I sometimes changed my own underwear before leaving for the day.

Once in a while, when I was feeling foxy, I'd leave right before her, walking in such a way to give my hips an extra shake, to stretch my arms above my head—to pretend, at least, that she admired my body half as much as I did hers.

On those days, though, afraid of missing the bike show, I set up my phone in my window, tucked discreetly in a corner, to record the goings on. This was the start of something bigger than I realized, especially once I understood what having possessing those videos meant for my own lonely evenings.


"I'm pretty sure there's only one reason for something like this." She holds the tiny camera out toward me, and I reach out to grab it. Instead of letting me have it back, though, she closes her palm around it, and I can hear the plastic crack in her hands. I wince, despite myself.

"Look," I say, still not able to meet her gaze. "I'm so sorry."


Recording Alexa on my phone's camera quickly became nearly as much an obsession as watching her in the first place. I could view the videos over and over again, zooming in at my favorite parts. And I quickly realized the potential cameras could have.

For instance, Alexa and I shared a laundry room, attached to the back of the duplex. We stayed out of each other's way in that regard, purposefully scheduling our loads for different days, so it would be odd if I started bumping into her there in person. A camera, however...

I found an old MP3 player with access to the app store. Quickly I found all sorts of ways to rig a hidden camera, so that if Alexa found the player, she wouldn't think anything of it. As soon as I was confident in my design, I rigged it in the laundry room.

Honestly, the first few weeks didn't bring much of anything. I would retrieve the camera at the end of each day and watch a time lapse of the proceedings. This was, although a hopeful process, a rather boring one—most days, Alexa didn't even visit the room.

It wasn't until Thanksgiving break that it happened. I had nearly given up on the camera, and I didn't plan to set it up over the holiday. When I was leaving, though, I ran into Alexa coming back to the apartment.

"Are you headed home for break?" I asked, feigning an interest level much lower than my current obsession.

"No," she said. "I'm having Thanksgiving here with some friends. I take it you're off?"

"Yep," I told her. "Just gotta get one last thing out of the laundry." I half ran back into the house and said a small prayer as I set up the MP3 player with its charging cable. I didn't even know how long it would record, but I had to try.

Back at my mom's house, I wished I had some way to log into the camera, to see Alexa even for a little bit. I knew Wednesday was her laundry day.

When I got back to the apartment that Sunday, I retrieved the camera even before I had taken off my coat. I locked my doors and hooked it up to my laptop.

Watching the time-lapse at the fastest speed possible, I almost missed the scene that's burned so deeply into my memory now:

Alexa walks into the laundry room, shuts the blinds. She listens at my side of the house for a moment, as if to make sure I'm definitely not home. Then, almost suddenly, she unbuttons her tight jeans. She leans against the washer, testing the knobs. As the water fills the basin inside, she sits on top, peels her pants down to her ankles. Her left hand works its way down her body toward the line of her panties, and her right hand reached under her shirt to where I could just make out that she wasn't wearing a bra.

The video has no sound, so I can't hear anything as her lips part ever so slightly, and her eyelids flutter. She keeps that slow pace for a long, long time, the fingers of her left hand pushing the dark spot on her underwear that becomes more and more defined with each passing moment.

When the spin cycle starts on the washing machine, she repositions her body, kicking off her jeans fully and grinding her thighs into the washer's firm surface. Her hand adjusts its tempo, brushing her clit now, instead of pushing into the fullness of her labia. Neither of these parts of her is visible, but each time I watch the video from the darkness of my bedroom, I mimic her actions to feel the same.

The washer gets going, and she hangs on, even when it threatens to buck her. At one point in the clip, she throws her head back and bites down hard on her lip. I can see a small spot of blood well up underneath the pressure of her canine.

She rides the washer for almost fifteen minutes before her body wilts, shoulders heaving with the force of her orgasm.

I always came at the exact same moment.

It was then, watching that video for the first time, I realized I needed to get a camera inside her apartment.


"I'm so sorry," I say, and I look up at her.

She doesn't meet my eyes—just lets the pieces of the camera fall to the ground. She looks out at the falling snow, and I look with her, tracing one tiny flake at a time, how it flutters and floats, never getting straight toward the ground—meandering instead, taking everything at its own pace.

"Well," she says, turning back to me. "I for one, am not."


The genius of my plan was seasonal in nature. I was out late one night, walking on campus, when I saw the grounds crew putting up a big Christmas tree near the campus bell tower. As they were stringing the lights, the idea struck.

I nearly raced home, going as fast as I could without attracting the stares of the college night life. Once warm in the covers of my bed, I pulled out my laptop and ran some extensive Google searches.

The little box came in my mail one excruciating week later, and once opening it, I knew it would work. I grabbed a string of lights I had bought specifically for the purpose, and carefully removed one of the bulbs. After more effort than I wanted to give the damn thing, the tiny, Christmas-light shaped camera snapped into place, blending rather well amidst the strand.

I took a deep breath, checked my reflection in the mirror, and walked the lights over to Alexa's end of the house.

She answered right after my first knock and proceeded to melt me with her greeting smile. "Hey, neighbor! Come on in!"

"Thanks," I said.

"What's up?" she asked, once I had shut the door behind me.

"Oh, not too much. I was just wondering if you needed a strand of lights. I had an extra." I held them out to her.

She took them into her perfect arms. "Hm, I think I've finished most of my decorating." I followed her gaze around the living room and saw enough lights to give me a cataract. I sighed, inwardly, thinking fast.

"Maybe in your bathroom?" I quipped, trying to give a casual laugh at the end which came out more like a squeak.

She stared at me for a moment, and I blushed. She gave a wry grin. "You're cute when you try to be funny." And then her face fell. "Oh, God. That sounded terrible. I just meant—"

"It's okay," I laughed genuinely now. "It was a bad joke."

"No!" she exclaimed. "I say we do it! Wanna give me a hand?"

And that's how it happened. So much easier than I ever thought to get that camera perfectly positioned in her tiny bathroom that mirrored my own—my own in which I had practiced a thousand different angles for the lens—and safely connected to our shared WiFi. It even had its own power source. I was giddy and nervous and sick all at once with the anticipation of it.

Once back to my own side of the apartment, I turned on the live stream on my laptop. I didn't move for several hours, but after hearing Alexa leave the house, I sighed and called it a night.

I barely slept, though, and I was up early the next morning, as would become my habit, watching the screen and listening at the wall for signs of consciousness.

And when she did awake, wandering blearily onto the cold tile of her bathroom, the soundless video stream was everything I hoped it would be.

There is something absolutely mesmerizing about a person who doesn't know she's being watched—the effortlessness and innocence of all her actions—the way she lifts her nightshirt over her head and lets her breasts tumble out. The way she stretches, using the wall to crack her back. Even the way she stands at the mirror for five minutes popping some invisible zit on her chin, becoming irrevocably, beautifully human.

After plucking her eyebrows, she turns on the bathroom fan and leans over the tub to turn on the water. She yawns as she yanks the curtain into place and reaches for the top of her shorts. She pulls them down with her panties in one swift motion, and her body is curved just as perfectly, proportioned just as wonderfully as I ever thought by looking at it strain against far too many layers of clothes.

The shame, then, of intruding on her like this, pours through me, and I am caught off guard. I can't tear my eyes away, though, as she lathers, as she scrubs every last inch of her silky skin, her hair cascading off her shoulders better than I could ever imagine it.

And so my mornings and days repeat. The watching, the coming, the vowing not to watch again, the restless nights, and the watching again. All leading up to a week later, when Alexa came knocking on my door, tiny camera in hand.


"Well," she says, turning back to me. "I for one, am not."

My heart thuds. I'm taken completely off guard. "Not sorry?" My words sound so stupid.

She meets my gaze and walks toward me. I can barely hear her words over the aching rhythm of my heart, and, I realize with some embarrassment, of something deeper down. Her lips are on my ear, and I shudder involuntarily.

"I just want to make sure you don't have to watch through a camera." On every "t," her teeth press gently into my earlobe, and as she finished the last word, she adds her tongue, breathing hot behind my ear. I am lost now, and I let a soft moan escape from between my lips.

She stands, draws my curtains shut, and, still facing away, sheds her winter coat like old skin. Underneath, I am shocked to find she wears nothing but fine lace, crisscrossing into a million tiny patterns down her spine. Her sweats are next, and the thigh high red stockings underneath take my breath away. From her coat pocket, she pulls, of all things, a little Santa hat, which she dawns in dramatic fashion as she turns back to me.

"Merry Christmas, Abigail." She licks her lips. "I brought you a present."

"How did you know?" I say in true awe, and this sends her into a fit of giggles. "I mean," I start, but my brain is in knots, and I don't want to think anymore.

"Did you like the video with the washing machine?" she asked, affecting innocence. My eyes go wide, and she closes the gap between us, sidling onto the couch and me. "Abigail, it doesn't take a sixth sense to feel your eyes on me. Your gaze is like a small hand," at this, she took my hand in hers, "caressing me wherever you look." I am inert, unable to move my hand from her neck, where she laid it. She bends toward me, "So what would you like to see?"

Any inhibition I have left is cracked at these words and I sit up, abdomen straining, to kiss her lips. She responds in full, taking my measure with her mouth, sighing with pleasure at the slightest touch of my tongue.

I wrap my arms around her neck, intending to hold myself up, but my wait brings both of us down, and she is on top of me now, all silk and lace and cold skin, her lips still painting smile after smile on my face. As she works, her deft hands undo one button of my blouse at a time, leaving my bra and stomach bared to her.

She stops her kissing to glimpse my body, and her eyes look back up at me shyly. "You're not the only one whose been watching, love." Her words fend off any cold night air left in the room, and she buries her face into my tummy, kisses making me convulse with pleasure.

My hands find one of the numerous straps of her festive lingerie, and I begin to untie the knots. Her Santa hat already lies on the floor from where it fell after I ran my fingers though her soft hair. Her outfit slides off easily, and she's kissing near the line of my jeans now, unbuttoning them, and—

"Ohhh," I moan as she pulls off my panties with the jeans. "You found me."

She stops what she's doing and looks up at me seriously. "It wasn't hard." I laugh but am cut short when her nose and tongue suddenly bury deep into my spread legs. I say her name without meaning to and she sighs with pleasure. "You...taste so...much better than...anything...I could have hoped for." She says between long strokes of her adept tongue. I can't think enough to respond, so I pull her face closer to me instead. She giggles, and it's infectious.

When I've had about all I can take of her tongue, I push her off suddenly, flipping the tables and climbing on top of her. Before I know what she's doing, she's unstrapped my bra. "Sneaky little elf," I whisper into her ear before kissing down her neck, biting the straps off her perfect body.

And she lets me go. I don't really know what I'm doing half the time, but I trust my instinct, going slow and taking off one strap at a time. I spend a considerable amount of time moistening her breasts with my tongue, getting off on her groans of ecstasy.

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