Therapist, Exhibitionist, Voyeur

A Therapist, an Exhibitionist, a Voyeur, and Darren

A lecherous therapist, a horny exhibitionist, a thrilled voyeur, and Darren. Stir and stand back.

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My physical therapist came once a week to my home, which was an apartment in Manhattan. I had doctor ordered therapy after my accident. Mostly it was stretching exercises and improving my posture, since the accident had left me with a tendency to walk bent over, not an attractive look for a young woman, I can tell you that!

For the exercises I wore panties and a sports bra, and gym shorts and a T shirt. The therapist Gene would come once a week and put me through therapeutic torture for an hour. The entire duration was to be six months; longer if the doctor thought it was needed. Some of the posture-oriented exercises had me plunging out my breasts while I arched my back and stretched my hamstrings. Others had my legs out, one at a time, with me trying (and failing) to touch my toes. I figured he could see inside the resulting gapping of my shorts.

I decided to get some bicycle shorts to cut down on the inadvertent flashing of my panties. They'd be flexible enough for the exercises, but also they would cling to my skin so that they wouldn't gape, thereby preserving my modesty. The first time I wore them, though, I saw the disappointment flash across my therapist Gene's eyes. That got me thinking. Might not it be fun to tease him a bit while he was torturing me? Ah, revenge! The next week I went back to gym shorts.

The exercises were working, too! My posture was improving, even if the workouts occasionally gave me horrible cramps. Gene taught me exercises to do when I cramped. They worked! He really was a genius. I began to practice between sessions like I was supposed to have been doing all along, and I began to improve more rapidly.

Sometimes Gene would ask me to remove my T shirt so he could indicate to me, in front of a mirror, which of my muscles, exactly, he was trying to strengthen or to make more limber. This was especially the case around my shoulder, and even with my T shirt off, he needed two mirrors to show me. Gene would touch my shoulder blades and sometime press into my muscles to illustrate how tight they were. It felt really yummy when he did that. It felt sexy. (Gene was a hunk.)

Since I had the sports bra on, it was no big deal. Lots of women exercise in public gyms wearing only sports bras above the waist, and in warm weather I've seen other women my age go for runs wearing only sports bras and gym shorts, just like I would be doing with my T shirt removed. Somehow, nevertheless, there's a bit of a thrill, a bit of a rush, when a girl removes her T shirt at a man's request. I got those thrills, big time. When Gene would touch my flesh during these illustrations, I typically got even more little thrills for some reason.

One time however he even had me remove my gym shorts, exposing my ass cheeks for him, and again through the use of two mirrors he showed me exactly where on my three gluteus muscles the exercises would be affecting me. He had me push my panties into the crack of my ass to expose my entire ass for the 'lesson' on my gluteus muscles.

I was blushing bright red to be there, on my hands and knees, with only my panties on, crushed into my crack, exposing my entire ass to my therapist. My panties were on the skimpy side, a bit girlish and frilly, just a tad risqué if you will, but still! No man had ever seen me in just my panties below my waist outside of my bedroom; in fact not even outside of my bed! I felt like one of those sluts at the beach who wore almost nothing bikinis.

I knew stores sold sports panties as well as sports bras. I believe in sexy underwear. Correction: very sexy underwear. I hate sports bras, and they're expensive, too, but I really do need them. I don't however need bleeping "sports panties," thank you very much, so I just wore my soft, yummy, hyper sexy panties for our therapy sessions.

When I say these activities were limited to my bedroom regarding my panties, I'm not counting the front seats and especially the back seats of cars during my teenage years. A fair number of guys in my high school got me down to my panties, and some guys got me naked.

A subset of the guys who got me naked also got inside me, if you know what I mean. I guess you do. That was, however, during my high school years of sexual awakening and experimentation. It was down south in North Carolina, in the hillbilly district where I grew up.

A girl's virtue was cheap down there, and even with those prices, my virtue was a bargain. At this point, however, I was a University of North Carolina college graduate, in the work force up in New York City, but on medical leave for six months. Different city, different values and traditions, and I had become a different girl. I adapt to my environs, you could say.

My improvement due to my practicing the therapeutic exercises led both to praise and to more advanced therapeutic torture. I began to think Gene had once worked at some CIA Black Sites, or something! Sometimes he would place his hands on my body to teach me how to move correctly. I would tingle with erotic pleasure when he would do that, but of course I gave no indication what his touch was doing to me.

My first brilliant move was by accident. I had forgot to put my one and only sports bra in the laundry and when I went to don it the next week it was dirty and it smelled. There wasn't time to hand wash it, so I just wore one of my normal bras. My normal bras are all hyper sexy, with no exceptions.

I'm not a tramp or anything, I just have a fetish for sexy lingerie. A lot of us girls do. The existence of a store like Victoria's Secret is testimony to just such a fetish. Sure, some women shop there just to please their men, but I think most of us girls shop there to please ourselves. It's fun to know, in full secrecy, that underneath my banal clothes I am wearing some hot to trot sexy lingerie, you know? Nobody else knows, but I sure as hell do. The fact that it's 'secret' makes it all the more delicious, now doesn't it?

I'd blame the sexy lingerie fetish on my boyfriend if my mother were ever to ask about it. The way my mother thinks, anything goes if your man wants it. Happily, though, my mother lives far away down south, and besides, at that time I was currently between boyfriends, shall we say. The sad truth is I'd been without a boyfriend, or any kind of sex for that matter, for almost two years. Yes, I was horny, but I was also okay with being horny. Most of all, I was lonely. I like men, and I would have liked to have one around, claiming me as his own.

Without my sports bra partially crushing my boobs, my T shirt was a little tight around my bust, and as it stretched to accommodate my mammaries, you could see the lace of my bra right through my thin T shirt. Oh well, Gene knows I'm a girl, and it's just a bra. It's nothing he hasn't seen a thousand times before, I thought to myself.

Gene is either super smooth, or else he did not even notice my lace half cup bra under my T shirt. He could not help but notice it however when, at one point, he asked me to remove my T shirt for the two-mirror thing. I loved whenever he asked for me to remove my T shirt because that meant he would dig his fingers deep into my aching muscles. Without thinking about my bra change, I simply removed my T shirt as I usually did upon such a request.

I saw the twinkle in Gene's eyes when he noticed the sexy bra that had replaced my banal sports bra. He remained cool and professional, but he had definitely let slip a little twinkle in his dancing eyes.

"My sports bra is dirty," I explained.

"You look nice, no worries, Billie," he replied. "It's just..." and he stopped.

"It's just what?" I asked.

"Well besides the discomfort, some of the paces I've planned for today might well ruin your bra. I hope it's not too expensive?" Gene replied.

"Oh, shit. Wait a minute please," I said, and I disappeared into my bedroom and discarded the bra. I quickly put the T shirt back on, and I figured we'd go through the paces with me not wearing a bra. My boobs were smallish C cups and I could go without a bra, just not for a long time. If I went without a bra for too long, sometimes I'd get some little pains. I figured we'd just skip the two-mirror display.

I came back out. My nipples were erect for some reason, embarrassment probably, and I suppose I was a sight to see. Now the T shirt was stretching not to cover my bra, but rather to cover my naked boobs. Gene maintained his professional mien, but he did what my brothers would have called an audible, and switched his regime for the day to stretching exercises that emphasized my boobs.

I was suspicious the change in plans for the day was connected to some good old-fashioned lechery on his part. He wanted to enjoy the sight of my boobs bouncing around, and my nipples poking at the T shirt. Well, good for him, I thought. He's a student of human anatomy, after all, and my anatomy is as good as most women's, I was fairly sure. Men sure seemed to like my anatomy. Oh yeah, there was an abundance of evidence as to how much men like my anatomy.

He seemed to touch me more that day to get me to bend into position. He never touched my boobs, but boy, he came close. What is it with men and boobs, I wondered? Grow up, Gene, I thought! And yes, I was getting sexually aroused by his obvious interest. Grow up yourself, Billie, I thought! Yes, my name is Billie. My name in actuality is Billie Jean. Ask my Mom the reason she named me that. I'll be damned if I know why.

At one point he wanted to show me what he was doing in front of a mirror, but I couldn't exactly oblige him by removing my T shirt, now could I? Instead he just pushed it up to right below my boobs, had me hold it up, and then he pressed into my tender flesh to show me what he was doing. I could tell I was getting wet. The back of his right hand accidentally brushed my boobs through my T shirt. I smiled at the 'accident.'

To show me my shoulder blades and to push into my warm, inviting, feminine bare flesh, he pushed the T shirt up around my neck. He was facing my back, so I had a veneer of privacy for my now completely exposed boobs, but with the two-mirror thing there was no question but that he got quite a gander at my naked boobs. Damn! My nipples responded to the exposure by suddenly resembling wadcutter bullets.

After my session and after Gene left, I drank the requisite large glass of ice water, but then I had a self-indulgent fairly long masturbation session. I got on my bed topless but wearing my gym shorts. I played with my nipples, closing my eyes, and pretending my hands were Gene's hands. I drove myself nuts, twisting and pulling at my nipples, and I wanted a release, and for me at least, orgasms come from only one source. That source is below my Mason-Dixon line.

Still with my eyes closed, I pushed my shorts down to below my privates. I wanted my legs spread wide, just for the dramatic, wanton effect, so I pushed my shorts off my legs and feet and became naked. I spread my legs wide, pretending I was exposing myself shamelessly to Gene's hungry eyes. Now I was properly turned on. I was nice and wet where a girl wants to be wet.

When I wake in the morning, after my morning routine and shower, and once I'm dressed, I raise the blinds of my bedroom window to let in a little more sunlight. My bedroom window faces the window of a neighbor, so for privacy I always wait until I'm fully dressed. Since it was 3PM at the time, my blinds were up, and if the neighbor man were home, he could have seen me, but I was not thinking about that. It simply had not occurred to me.

As luck would have it, that particular day my neighbor worked at his home computer. Not only was he home, but he was working at his little desk which looked out directly upon my own bedroom window. My bed's headboard was against the wall facing my window, so when he looked up, there I was, naked on my bed, my legs wide open and my fingers inside my pussy, my nipples serving as little crowns to the mounds that were my breasts. My pussy was aimed straight at his desk. My eyes were closed, and I was blissfully unaware as to how much I was on display.

After my delicious orgasm, complete with sound effects nobody but I could hear, I fell asleep. I remained in my wanton position with my legs wide open, giving my neighbor a rather spectacular view of my nice and wet pussy, as it recovered from my self abuse.

I was to discover later, to my chagrin, that my neighbor had a 35mm SLR camera with a telephoto lens attachment. It could also, of course, take short videos. At that particular time, however, I was unaware. When I woke, and glanced at the window, my peeping neighbor was gone, so I deceptively felt lucky with my carelessness.

The next two sessions with Gene-the-Torturer came and went, and a day or two later I came home and my doorman gave me an envelope that had been left for me. I gave him the 'what's this?' look with my eyes and body language.

"Some guy dropped it off. He said he's your neighbor, and he had a headshot photo of you, but he didn't know your name. I told him I'd give you the envelope," the doorman said.

"What's his name?" I asked.

"Martin, he said," my doorman Sam replied.

"Martin what?" I asked. Sam shrugged.

"Is he good looking?" I asked.

Sam just looked at me. "Don't you know him?"

"I know a lot of men named Martin. Most of them however know my name," I said. "Is he good looking?" I asked again.

"I'm not really into men, Billie," Sam said. "Do you know any ugly Martin's?"

I pretended to think about that. I didn't fool Sam. "Yeah, he looks okay. What's the phrase? You wouldn't have to kick him out of bed," Sam said, a smile teasing at the corner of his lips.

"Sam!" I cried out in mock outrage. Sam chuckled.

"First he'd have to get into my bed, Sam, which does not seem that popular a destination for men these days, anyway," I said.

"Men are stupid," Sam said, and I gave him a smile of gratitude and went upstairs with my envelope.

I opened the envelope in the elevator and I shouldn't have done that. I should have waited until I was in my own apartment with the door locked. Luckily the little old lady who lives on the 9th floor, and who shared the elevator ride up with me, didn't see the X-rated pictures of yours truly that were in the envelope. She was too busy doting on her dog, the only intelligent living being on the planet that was smaller than she was. Yes, I don't consider cockroaches to be intelligent. I like cats but let's face it: they're dumb as shit.

As soon as I was in my apartment with the door closed and locked behind me, I spilled out the contents of the envelope. There was a note inside it! It said the following:

My name is Martin Davis, and I'm your neighbor. The window of my study fronts your bedroom window. I absolutely loved your little display around two weeks ago, and I thought you might like these 'souvenirs.' If this upsets you, let me know, and I'll delete the files on my computer. I would absolutely love some more displays on your part, should you want to continue.

Your admirer, Martin Davis

xxx East xxnd Street, Apt. xx

He also supplied his email address.

I went to my bedroom and sat on the bed, spreading the pictures around me. There were ten of them. I suppose if I were a man I would think them to be flattering, sexy pictures of the sexpot that was me. I'm a woman, however, and at least six of them were obscene. Of course, I had never before seen a picture of myself jilling off, so that was intriguing, even fascinating to see.

My overall impression was to be grossed out. Martin had included, however, a headshot of me, and a picture of me dressed and reading a book, relaxing on my bed. Those two pictures were gorgeous. I should send them to my parents!

I was too smart to think about doing anything when in shock, and I was in a kind of shock. I drafted a super angry email to send to Martin Davis (if that was his real name), but as I do with all emails written in anger, I invoked my 24-hour waiting period before sending it. To date, with that policy, I've never sent a single email written in anger.

As I thought about it, I gradually softened, and became glad I hadn't sent the angry email. After all, he had only looked out his window, and there I had been. You can't blame a guy for looking at a naked woman masturbating in the window facing his own window.

It's too much to ask a man to be discreet and to have given me privacy. It would be nice for a man to think like that, and I'm sure there are some men who are nice in that way, but God alone knows where to find them!

Okay, so yeah, I could understand that he looked, but he certainly did not have to take pictures! Admittedly, the pictures were outstanding, especially since they were taken in haste, and through two glass windows (his and mine). Okay, maybe he opened his window, but mine for sure was closed. Maybe he's an amateur photographer, and taking the pictures was just yielding to a mild compulsive behavior disorder?

So, given that he looked, and given that he took the pictures, and both of those things I could rationalize away, and with those rather huge caveats, he had behaved ethically, right? He had told me what he had done, he had shared the pictures with me, and he had offered both to stop doing it and to destroy the pictures if I so wanted. Hmmm...this was complicated!

There was one other factor. He included a picture of himself in the envelope (fully dressed), and the guy is bleeping good looking! I'd seen him once or twice in one of the local coffee shops, I realized once I had seen the picture. He had a nice, hard body, and a thoroughly engaging face.

He was a damaged man, a voyeur to be sure, but a sweet one, and good looking, to boot. Plus, the pictures were great: I didn't even look fat in them! Sure, I was naked, I was jilling, I was severely compromised, but all I could think about was: I didn't look fat! I even looked good. Were my boobs really that pretty?

I wrote back the following, the contents of which even surprised me!

Nice to meet you Martin. You're a good photographer. Thanks for keeping the pictures private. As long as the pictures and the peeks are only for you, I don't mind you looking.

Kisses, Billie Jean Crampton (your neighborly exhibitionist)

I also decided to stop closing the blinds in my bedroom. I kind of liked the idea of showing off my body for such a nice, thoughtful, and even good-looking voyeur! I found myself now tending to parade around my apartment wearing only panties, so that Martin could enjoy my boobs.

When I showered, I would return to my bedroom to dry off, to give Martin another little show, should he be happening to look around then. Martin returned the favor by dropping off lots of envelopes with the doorman, each of them containing up to ten 5 X 7 glossy prints of photos of me, in various stages of undress. I hadn't masturbated again, so he did not have another photo shoot of something like that!

I still had my physical therapy once a week, and Gene still came and he still collected his money. I would get partially reimbursed via my health plan. I was practically all better and even though we were at the five month mark, I was thinking of stopping Gene's once weekly torture sessions.

I thought I'd give him a nice sendoff. For the next time, I wore no lingerie at all. I wore no sports bra, and no panties. When it came time to remove my T shirt, I simply took it off, hoping Martin was watching. Later when Gene wanted to show me something with my glutes (which at this point I think was just an excuse to perve over my ass), I simply removed my gym shorts. This rendered me naked for Gene.