Violet the Voyeur Pt. 02

Video Submission #1

Greetings, comrades: long time lurker, first time poster. I trust you will watch and understand what is taking place in the video -- it is not a hard thing to grasp -- but I humbly beg that you indulge me, as I describe the entirety of the scenario: the build-up, the event, the postscript, and the tiny moments that have stayed with me, that video did not, or cannot, capture. For me, this means more than the thing itself. I live to relive, I suppose.

This is my first year at a small liberal arts college that I am to attend — against my will, out of some sense of filial duty, fiduciary in truth, and of course for my own good. There is, however, nothing that I find enjoyable here. The campus is filled with snobbish dilettantes, dysfunctional and humorless; the college town is populated by Mid-Atlantic blue-collar trash; the teachers are useless, middle-aged know-it-alls that stink of coffee and failure.

During the days I find myself reading books not assigned in class; at nights I walk alone through the small streets of this sad place, the solitude liberating yet depressing. As I ramble I dream of the Alps, and of old friends met.

That is, until I found you all, my dear VoyeurWorld faithful! I had no idea there were so many of us. The dark web indeed. I have been watching and reading your submissions with extreme interest and envy. And while I have a recording ready to submit, it is for me and me alone. I realized that in order for a proper initiation and hopeful acceptance into your circle, I would need a new video.

The next step was finding the victim. Who should it be? Who should it ever be? I did not take this question lightly. I strove to get at the meaning of my voyeurism. What does the subject of the voyeur bring to it? Object of affection, or of disdain? Is it better if they know, or don't know? Do I want to admire, or humiliate, or both?

I decided, then, that my questions were too many and too big, and I needn't answer them right away. Perfect is the enemy of the good, said Voltaire, and I intend to make this channel a vehicle for my journey into the heart of these musings. My subjects will be many, I told myself, as will my reasons for selecting them, until I understood what it is about this deviant path that fulfills and torments me so.

And do you know, my comrades, that after deciding this very thing, Fate placed in front of me a golden opportunity?

On another late night of walking the west side of the campus, I came upon a stately suburban residence with urban music beating out. Two Greek letters hung from the front of the house, and two inebriated youths stumbled from the door.

"Party inside," one of them shouted. "Free beer for thots." I was flattered, to be sure. My instinct was to tell him to go to hell; but some latent curiosity, or maybe just boredom, drove me in. Was it more? Did I know what I was going to do, even then?

The high point of the party had clearly passed, but a sizable crowd remained of the very drunk, the desperate, or both. A single woman would be wise not to enter a party at such a time, but I have rarely been wise. I craved something resembling excitement, and this would have to do.

"Hey." It was one of the guys from outside, the one who had not referred to me as a 'thot.'. He had followed me back in. I said hey back. He was cute when he slurred.

"You play pool?"

I told him I did. He racked the balls, incorrectly. I took the heaviest stick that wasn't completely warped. I told him I'd break; first shot, I got the two ball in.

"Whoa," he said, before taking another swig of domestic beer. "You're, like, good." He was sweet and well-mannered for a drunk. Curly brown hair, dimples. He told me his name, I think.

His play had deteriorated by the third game, missing gimmes, knocking the cue ball off the table twice. He began to sway. His friends were laughing at him behind his back. At first I felt sorry for him, and disgusted with them. They should take care of him, I thought, his so-called brothers. Shouldn't they, of all people, protect him while in such a state, where anyone could take advantage of him?

He drank thirstily the rest of his light beer. Or perhaps not, I wondered. Perhaps the ecosystem of the fraternity is such that the weak are consumed to the benefit of the strong, and his lack of self-control meant nothing to them except for one less competitor. Perhaps they were on to something.

It is here, my friends, that my plan was hatched, fully formed, in my very active brain. I felt the old familiar surge: hot, wrong, alive. Yes, I knew. It would all be too easy.

After I beat him a fourth time, I opened him another can and suggested that we sit: on a couch, or maybe his room?

"Y'wanna go upstairs with me?" He goofily grinned at me, eyes swimming in beer. I said that I did. He took my hand and led me up; I smiled at his brothers from the stairs. They no longer laughed.

We entered the third room on the left, and I locked the door after shutting it. He sat on the bed hard, almost falling. I sat next to him. I needed only to wait. Take off your shoes, get comfortable, I told him. He did. I put my hand on his shoulder; I lightly pushed. Lie back, you look tired.

"Can I kish you?" he asked politely. I was almost touched. Later, I told him. We had all night.

His left eye closed permanently as he tried to communicate something. The right soon followed. The mumbling finally stopped. I waited silently, for five full minutes that felt much longer, just to be certain. I took out my phone and touched the camera app. I hit record.

At first I circled him, without speaking. I zoomed in on his face. Peaceful. He was cute before; he was beautiful to me now.

As you will no doubt see in the video, I began slowly, starting with the socks. I took off the left one, affectionately grabbing at the big toe, wiggling it; then the right, then the right big toe. I stroked at the bottom of his foot, then finger-walked up his leg. You see my dainty little right hand begin to unbutton the shirt off his wide torso.

I opened it and stepped back. He had a nice body — big-boned and fit but not overly muscular — and he was smooth to the touch. I paused the phone, then helped him out of his shirt. I hit the record button again and zoomed in on his face, pulling back to show him fully shirtless. I placed my hand on his sweet chest, and then walked my fingers down, down to the hairs below his navel, and stood them triumphantly on his belt buckle. I began to open it with the one hand, taking my time, as I filmed with the other. I opened the top button of his jeans. I took the zipper down, and parted the front open, revealing black boxer briefs. You can see the shot begin to tremble in my unsteady left hand. You can hear me breathing.

I paused again so that I could pull his jeans off more easily with two hands. He needed to be rolled onto his side as I slipped them off his butt, then I yanked at the cuffs. I left them just at mid-thigh, then I unpaused.

Able to pull with one hand, I inched backward with them, gently, patiently removing them. I watched his face, looking for any kind of reaction. There was none, save a small parting of his lips. The last of the jeans fell from his toes, and I allowed them to hit the ground.

The camera then records him -- passive, restful, perhaps dreaming? -- in nothing but his boxers. I let it sit on him for a good forty-five seconds, capturing every part of him. Even I find it creepy to watch. So vulnerable. So governed by the whims of my will. But at the time, I only didn't want it to end. I wanted to maintain, to extend the tension. I feared what came next, as I always do.

At last, I approached him again. I played a bit with the band of his briefs, snapping them into his waist. I did my finger-walk bit again, this time resting on his bulge. It felt good in there, weighty. My excitement was peaking. I could taste metal in the air. My head pulsated. I could see light spots. It was time.

I walked in front, the camera facing down at his legs, and I lifted the band once more, this time much higher up, for a half-second. Just a peek before I quickly let go.

It appeared to be sleeping too, resting like a baby in a hammock. There was some fuzz, like a week-old stubble. I walked to the other side, the left, as slow as I was able, pulling the shorts down about an inch or so, exposing his hip and the strange, intoxicating muscles there. I then walked to the right side, and did the same, alternating like this two more times, so that the band now rested just above the pubic hairline. With two fingers, I grabbed the cloth in between his legs, and walked backward again, doing a slow reveal for the camera. The boxer briefs came down, past the knees, and then off -- offering to me, and now to you, his full masculinity.

I studied it. It was thick, heavily wrinkled, and fell over to the left some. Cut, with a pronounced ring around the tip that made it look like a samurai helmet. The hole looked like a little bird's mouth. I zoomed in and out, in and out, from context to detail to context. This is my catch, I tried to say with my camera, and this is what he has beneath his pants.

I sat next to his legs, and I took him in my hand. It was soft, warm, comforting. Thrilling. Holding his cock had opened something inside, and waves of pleasure coursed through me, driving me wild and lustful. It was completely flaccid and useless, falling limply from side to side over my fingers. I massaged his balls with my index finger and thumb, then grabbed them with my whole hand, stroking along his shaft with my thumb. A new and different hunger swelled in me, just below my beating heart.

I stopped the video. This had been my plan, and my plan had been achieved; this is the extent of the video you watched. But the story does not end here. I needed more. Can I admit to you, dear comrades, that I took further advantage of my prey? That I committed an even greater crime?

I leaned in. The smell hit me, a thick odor I liked. I kissed his penis, and then I kissed his testicles. Tasting them with my lips and my tongue, I began to lick, licking everywhere. I took everything into my mouth, moving my head around, back and forth, to and fro.

I looked up at his face. Out cold. Still safe.

I continued to mouth-worship it, sliding my hand down to my clitoris. I rested my head on his thigh and curled up at the foot of his bed, taking his cock out of my mouth with my hand, in order to catch my breath, a line of spittle keeping us connected until it fell onto his leg. I rubbed myself with relish, fully moaning, not caring if anyone in another room heard. I can see your cock, I whispered hoarsely to him. And I can see it whenever I want . . . I'm going to show it to others . . . I don't know your name but I'd know your cock anywhere. I wished he could hear. I wondered how he would feel about it.

I sucked with all my effort. I wanted it hard so badly; I wanted it so much, I imagined that it was. Oh, look at that . . . you like this, don't you? I said as I stood over him, slowly taking off my jean jacket, throwing it next to his clothes. I looked at his face again. It was a good face. It could have been the face of a friend: witty, provocative, brave, loyal. He could have been anyone. He could have been someone I wanted to be with. In my mind I saw his eyes open, his mouth smile, and his head nod. Yes, yes you do.

I removed my black shirt one long sleeve at a time, taunting him, then over my head, revealing the black bra covering my breasts. Next, my white pants. In my underwear, I leaned in, and gave him the kiss that he had asked for. Do you want to see everything? I'll bet you do, after I stripped you, filmed you, manhandled you? My words and my thoughts aroused me savagely; I unlatched the back of my bra, letting the straps fall over my shoulders, slowly taking it off with crossed arms, until I let it fall. I unrolled my panties down my pale legs that had not seen the sun in months. Here I am, I whispered again.

Do you find me immoral, twisted, or worse, insane? Perhaps I am. But know that I tell you this, comrades, because if there are those who will not judge me, I will find them here. Because we know what we are and what we want. We follow that impulse, past their mores and their laws. Because anything less is a lie lived. If you are honest with yourselves, you will agree. I was honest with myself that night.

And so I continued. I crawled on top of him, kissing along the way: his legs, his stomach, his nipples, his neck, till I found myself straddling him, the feeling of his soft genitals under my wet lips. Writhing, I pushed them about, stimulating myself as best I could, gripping my nails into him, not caring any longer if he woke. His cock flopped upward, allowing me to press my clit along the head of it. Steadying myself with my hands on either side of his head, I gyrated with short bursts, applying maximum pressure where I needed it. I licked his cheek; I moaned in his ear. I came intensely with a strained caterwaul, falling into him, my face next to his, my left hand gripping his shoulder. I rolled to his side, legs spread to cool myself, immensely content.

My lover said nothing. Not even a word of warning.

The door opened. I sat up quick out of instinct, in shock, fast enough to see their expressions change. He had been laughing; she had been smirking. They had made it well into the room before noticing us.

What I remember most were the eyes. My eyes went wide; my hair fell into my open mouth. They stood there, staring, as shocked as I, the door open behind them. The boy's curious eyes scanned all over my snow white body; the girl's face softened as her dark eyes fixated on my lover's glistening cock, a small smile forming on her lips. They both then looked at me. My eyes were oscillating between their eyes, like a cornered raccoon, like an uncovered skink.

I could neither move nor speak. My breath caught in my throat. I helplessly watched as they grinned in the ugliest manner, burning my ears, waking me from my trance; I crossed my legs and threw my arm in front of my breasts. It was too late for modesty. I too was now a victim. And I could not cover all. Could they see the redness on my lips, the sweat in my hair? Could they see the guilt of what I had truly done?

"Have fun, guys," he said as he backed out. She winked at me with a thumbs up, not fully closing the door behind her. I could hear their mocking laughter well down the hall.

I threw my face into a pillow. Sobbing, I felt the rage, the shame that I wished for in my subjects; the bitter irony, betrayed by a faulty lock. I cried until I was hollow, playing the moment over in my head, again and again. In their leering faces — his searching eyes, glimmering with happy lust; her dilated pupils, filled with wonder — I saw the sensations I so crave: the initial arousal; the assessment of our bodies and the resultant superiority; that powerful blend of guilt, wickedness, and puerile, base desire; and their shared mirth in my mortification, an amusing dirty secret to bind them closer together. They took it all from me, and then walked out the door.

I stayed there for a long time, tears crusted on my cheeks, head resting on my man's arm, until new feelings emerged. Relief, and resolve.

Relief: in all truth, I had been supremely fortunate. Imagine if they had entered moments before? While I filmed a passed-out boy, while I sucked his flaccid cock? They would have known me for a pervert -- a sexual predator! -- instead of believing me a mere college slut. And being a slut isn't illegal, yet. I would not be branded a criminal, and I would not be expelled.

Resolve: never again to be exposed, to be so vulnerable. Wonderful as this was, it was sloppy. Too impulsive, too dependent on luck. I saw it as a necessary close call, an earned lesson, the kind of serendipity that makes a successful career. Next time would be different. Nothing would be left to chance. I would, from here on, be in complete control.

I sniffed, and managed a smile to myself. It had been a good night, I decided. I took one last look at him, and then a snapshot, in black and white. I wanted a permanent and unchanging memory. The curse of the voyeur: it always ends too quickly. I covered him with a blanket, got dressed, and left the empty house forever.