Voyeur Tips. Page 25

voyeur russian

subscribe to news

Enter your email address in order to Subscribe to our news:
E-Mail:
Subscribe:
UnSubscribe:

winners' prizes

The best galleries that took 1st place by the monthly voting results would receive our main year prize of US $5000.
You also can win money prizes on monthly basis for three best galleries in each category! Besides, according to the results of voting that takes place every month you can get a free monthly access to our members zone! See more...

voyeur Tips

Welcome to our "smut" library. Here you will find various information articles and exciting stories dedicated to voyeurism. We welcome erotic fiction from our visitors. Notice that we add points to authors for every story we publish.

The substitute (06 January 2006)

Barbara Walker hurried up the steps of Central High, flung open the front door, and proceeded directly to the principal's office. She was greeted with a hearty good morning from Mrs. Bruner, the front desk supervisor and receptionist for Principal Bradley. "What have I got today," asked Barbara, hoping that it wouldn't be another math class?!? "Ah, let me see," replied Mrs. Bruner, as she scanned a list of absent teachers, "yes, here it is, you sub for Matt Kearny in English Literature, room 231!" "Thanks," Barbara answered gratefully, "at least it's not math!" Barbara climbed the single flight of stairs to the second floor and found room 231 down the hall and to the right. When she entered the classroom, most of the students were already there, mostly milling around and exchanging small talk with each other. At 8:47 the final bell rang and all the student took their assigned seats, dutifully waiting for Barbara to begin the class. Just as she was launching into the lesson on Chaucer, the door to the hall way swung open and in sauntered Deke Banyon, as if he didn't have a care in the world!!! Barbara put down her lesson plan and waited for Deke to take his seat, and after he was seated, she looked at the seating chart to find out his name, and then asked, "A little trouble getting out of bed this morning Mr. Banyon!?!" Deke, with a look of total boredom, replied insolently, "Naw teach, no problem at all!!!" The class tittered at Deke's response and Barbara felt her cheeks turning red at being embarrassed by the young hoodlum. She stepped forward a few paces and retorted, "You and I will talk this over right after school, and don't even think about not showing up, or Principal Bradley will hear about it!!!" Deke feigned a yawn but agreed to drop in after school, so Barbara went back to her lesson and the class continued on with no further incidents. The day seemed to fly by, and Barbara had completely forgotten that Deke Banyon was coming in after school, and it wasn't until she heard a knock on the door jam that she remembered their appointment. "Come in Deke," she offered, "and please sit down," while motioning to the desk in the middle of the front row. Deke slouched down in the seat and let his legs protrude forward in a major display of insolence. Barbara was about to reprimand him when she couldn't help but notice the large bulge in the front of his jeans! "My god," she thought, "he has a hardon and isn't even trying to hide it, of all the nerve of this boy!!!" "Now what did you wanna see me about," a very cock sure Deke said suavely? Momentarily flustered at the sight aroused penis in the young man's pants and his mouthy attitude, Barbara stumbled for something to say. "Cat got your tongue, teach," the eighteen year old malcontent said insolently, "or are you more interested in seeing what's in here," as he patted the front of his crotch!?! A shocked Barbara stammered, "Well I never!!!" "That's right teach, you probably never have," Deke replied while laughing at her obvious discomfort! "Y-you can't talk to me that way young man," she spat, "I've a good mind to send you straight to the office!!!" "Yeah, yeah," Deke yawned, while standing up, "let me show you what a real man has for you," as Barbara looked on in absolute horror as Deke Banyon proceeded to unzip his pants and pull out his erection!

Black and White (31 December 2005)

Jonelle sat in the dark, staring at the images flashing on her computer screen. Her finger was busy attacking her erect clit while her eyes focused on the large black cock impaling the tiny thin white girl deep inside her hairless pussy. A push of the mouse and another image jumped to the screen, this one of another white girl, but this time sucking on the knob of a huge ebony cock. The girl in the picture was very young, perhaps eighteen or nineteen years old, but the look on her face was that of absolute satisfaction and submission. Her eyes were focused upward, looking directly at the face of the black stud who was feeding her his erection. Jonelle's cunt contracted hard, the first sign of the deep orgasm that shook her body. Her finger flew over her clit, occasionally dipping into her hole to get lubrication for her hot little nub. Ever since she had her first orgasm, she had fantasized about being forcefully taken by a black man with a huge pecker. Why someone gets fixated on a certain sexual desire or fetish is something for the psychologists of the world, all Jonelle knew, was that the mere sight of a large black erection made her cunt wet and her knees go weak. What excited her even more, was if the cock in question was poking itself into a young white girl. With the advent of the world wide web, anyone could find sexually explicit material that satisfied his or her needs. For Jonelle, this meant spending her evenings cruising the interracial sites looking for images of giant black men having their way with innocent young white girls. While she had never had any sexual contact with a male of any kind, she was sure that when the time came, she would give up her virginity to a black man with a huge cock. At least that's what she hoped!

Hot Granny Fuck (25 December 2005)

Tommy placed the ad about a week ago, and today he received his first reply. His ad read: “Wanted, older ladies, preferably over 55, to pose in erotic photo sessions, good $$$, looks not important, attitude is!!! Send a snapshot of yourself and your phone number to box 33 in care of this newspaper.” Tommy looked at the photo that was enclosed with the letter sent by a fifty eight year old grandmother. “Mmmmm,” hummed to himself, “a little hefty, but not too bad!!!” The enclosed letter was from a lady named Emma Oetken. She was a widow and grandmother, who was looking for a little adventure in life. Her vitals were 58yo, 5’5”, 170lbs, brown hair, blue eyes, with measurements of 38DD-32-40. A well packed woman indeed, but for a first reply you could do a whole lot worse. Tommy picked up the phone and dialed the number listed in the letter. After three rings, it was answered by a woman with and average sounding voice. Tommy quickly introduced himself and asked her if she was indeed interested in posing in front of his camera. She enthusiastically replied in the affirmative, so they made and appointment to meet at Tommy’s house for the following afternoon at two o’clock. Tommy excitedly hung up the phone and began making plans for his first session.
At precisely two o’clock the door bell to Tommy’s front door rang. Emma Oetken nervously shifted her weight from one leg to the other, not too sure if this was such a hot idea after all! Before she could turn heal and get away, the door swung open and Tommy Chandler was inviting her inside. The first thing Tommy noticed about her, was that she had more gray hair than showed up in her picture, otherwise she looked just like her photo--matronly! “Please come in Mrs. Oetken,” Tommy said, as he ushered her towards the studio in the rear of the house, “right through that door, please sit down.” When they both were comfortably seated, Tommy asked, “Why do you want to pose for me Mrs. Oetken?” “Please call me Emma,” she replied, “if we’re going to be working together we might as well use each other’s first names, don’t you agree?” “Anyway,” she continued, “basically for the adventure, I can always use the money, but since Harry passed away last year, my life has been such a drag, and I just feel like breaking out of my shell!” “Okay,” replied Tommy with enthusiasm, “let’s get started right now!” “Let’s just take some shots with your clothes on, just so you can get used to the camera,” Tommy offered, “and then we can go from there, all right, Emma?” “Sounds good to me,” she shot back, “let’s do it!!!”

Tropical Trollop (23 December 2005)

Walking alone along the beach that night, Miranda Matthews didn’t feel so much out of place as she had all week at the island resort. During the days and evenings it seemed she was always surrounded by golden tanned bikini babes and bronze hunks half her age. But, late at night, in solitude, she could appreciate and enjoy the beauty of the tropical paradise without the noise and distraction created by the younger set.
Her friend Jenny was one of those young enough to be Miranda’s daughter. But even with the age difference, the two women had become very close in the past year at the office as Miranda went through a rather messy divorce and Jenny was a good friend with an always available shoulder to cry on. Now that the divorce was final, Jenny had invited Miranda to accompany her on vacation to this Caribbean resort and although she had some reservations about going to as place that primarily catered to much younger singles, Miranda had agreed.
Earlier that evening Jenny had hooked up with a good looking guy during happy hour on the bar patio. Miranda had excused herself and ended up walking for miles along the beach. As she approached her and Jenny’s bungalow several hours later the crashing of ocean waves on the rocks barely muffled the sounds emanating from the open bedroom window. It quickly became evident that Jenny had brought her fellow back to the bungalow and from the moans and groans it was obvious they were engaged in a rather boisterous sexual encounter.
Miranda stepped back off the first step of the porch and was about to resume her walk on the beach when a naughty thought entered her mind. She hadn’t had any sex, other than masturbation, in almost two years and since she had often wondered if Jenny’s tales of her sexual exploits at the office had been embellished a bit, Miranda crept around to the bedroom side of the bungalow.

Stripper Sex (21 December 2005)

"Okay now," Bonnie asked for the last time, "you got everything under control!?!" "Uh, yeah," he replied, "I've got the boom box, the CD's, my wardrobe, and the address, I think that's it!!!" "Good," she answered, "make sure you give them a good show, now the deal is they give you five hundred up front, and you get to keep two, any tips you make are all yours!!!" What if they pay me by check," he questioned?!? "It doesn't matter how they pay you, you bring back either the check or cash to me and I'll cut you a check," she replied, "the tips are almost always in cash so you just pocket that!!!" "What time do you have to be there," she continued on!?! "Seven o'clock," he replied, "but I'm gonna get there about and hour early to get changed and set up!!!" "Good lad," she added, "and by the way, Brian, good luck on your first gig!!!" "Thanks, boss," he replied, and then he headed out the door!!!
A week ago he was working in a bar for four bucks and hour and tips, and now he was on his way to a bachelorette party as the main attraction for a two hundred dollar minimum!!! Was he nervous, you bet, since he had never taken his clothes off in front of more than one female at a time, this was definitely going to be a new experience for him!!! He found the address and before he knew it, he was knocking on the front door and wondering exactly what the hell he'd gotten himself into!!! A flash of panic swept through him, and for a second he considered turning tail and running back to his car, but before he could move, the door swung open and a cute redhead invited him inside!!! "You must be Brian," she said with smile, "I'm Cori, glad you could make it!!!" "You're early," she said while leading him into the large great room that was already laid out and ready to go with food and a bar, "would you like something to eat or drink, we have plenty!?!" "A soft drink would be nice," he replied while looking the place over, "this is a good room for a party, lots of room to move around in!!!" "You should know," she said with a chuckle, "I mean about room to move around, you being a dancer and all!!!" "Oh yeah, right," he replied, "there's plenty of room in here, by the way, how many are you expecting!?!" Just ten of us, plus the bride to be," she replied, "oh, and by the way, I'll give you the check right now, five hundred, is that right!?!" "Exactly," he said gratefully, just glad he didn't have to bring the money thing up himself!!! She handed him the check and at the same time stared hard into his eyes and said softly, "You wouldn't mind letting me get a preview of the merchandise before my guests arrive would you?!?"

Lunch (29 November 2005)

Walking through the maze of cubes back to my desk from the snack machines I see a familiar back hunched over a desk, short dark hair, dark tan arms, and a bra strap very visible through her polo shirt. But that was long ago and a different company and I discount the possibility, until I hear her voice, and bizarre laugh, carrying over the cube walls. Twelve years since I have heard that laugh, that raucous voice, that smoky come-hither, vaguely promising tone.
I remember kneeling on an office floor, my head stuck under her desk, fiddling with a confusing mass of wires and plugs, hearing her ask "Are you really getting married?"
I bumped my head getting up. I mean really, what odd behavior. She calls me over to plug something in under her desk and then while I'm under the desk on all fours fiddling with the plugs, asks me that?
Holding my head I crawled backwards from under the desk. "Yes" I answered painfully.
"Oh you poor man" she answered, kneeling next to me, "I am so sorry. Here, let me see."

Parenthetic Pleasures (23 November 2005)

The brunette (Jenny, age twenty-two, last name concealed, a tall, slender Missouri Synod Lutheran, heading home from her first day of work as a junior auditor for a major pharmaceutical company, looking as business-like as one would expect, skirt politely below the knees, legs together, ankles crossed, hair pulled back in a polite bun, revealing a finely boned face with an expression too severe to be considered beautiful, and yet, still and all, a looker) is very pointedly not looking at the blonde across the aisle (first and last names both unknown, age thirty-five, forty tops, religious affiliation and profession impossible to guess, hair loosely pulled back, cheeks round and ruddy, blue eyes twinkling with amusement) who is reading a hard-cover library book in as sprawled a position as a human being can achieve in a bus seat and still be classified as sitting (legs in tight black pants spread wide, feet in square-toed, high-heeled, black leather boots pointed outward even further, breasts jutting up behind the book beneath a loose blue t-shirt, the neck hole in such disarray that it looks as though someone has had her hand down it tweaking a hard nipple) her lips moving as she reads, her breathing shallow, her smile ever widening.
Jenny, who is still not looking, can see from the title that it is one of those trashy sex novels she never reads, and she can tell that the blond is reading (and thoroughly enjoying) one of the sex scenes.
Jenny rings the bell and jumps up, almost tripping over her feet in her haste to reach the door. She has successfully resisted her attraction to other women for eight years, and she has to get off Now.

Merchandising (21 November 2005)

I cut through merchandising to leave today and as I was walking this woman turned into the aisle in front of me, tall, dark, slender, short skirt, shoulder length dark hair, great ass, probably in her mid forties. After about 5 steps she looked over shoulder to see if I was watching her, smiled when she saw that I was, and turned another corner.
I figured "what the hell," shrugged, and turned the corner after her. She was a few yards ahead of me, reaching into her pocket, hopefully not for mace.
She slowed, and I thought about slowing too, but decided to maintain my pace. I fell in beside her and was happy to discover that the small dark object in her hand was a phone and not a weapon.
We walked together down the dark and deserted hall, not speaking, not knowing each other or where we were going, as as she dialed the phone with a slender elegant finger, waited for the connection, raised the phone to her ear and turned her head to face me, her dark eyes bright and mischievous as she spoke in a melodious and incredibly seductive voice to the poor bastard who answered, "Hi honey. Don't wait up for dinner, OK? Something just came up at work and I may be another hour."

Shark (19 November 2005)

The pool is large. The lights are dim. It is dark out. But still. Surely someone will see her. My wife, her husband, somebody. Hopefully not.
She walks from the house to the side of the pool with such a beautiful predatory stalk. I cannot see her eyes at this distance, but I know in my heart that they gleam with lust.
She dives into the water the way a shark would, if sharks dove. She is gone. I cannot see her. But I know she is there, headed for me, focused on me, wanting my cock.
I reach down, freeing it from my swim suit, ready for her arrival, then put my elbows back on the edge of the pool, very calmly, and in the dark, I smile.
Her head breaks the surface like a tail fin, her dark hair wet and glistening. She flashes me a look that makes me even harder. I look around. Nobody is paying attention. Too dark. Too drunk. Too sensible to go near the pool inebriated, but she does not drink, and I am not trying to swim.
Down she goes again and oh my god. Her mouth is on my cock, underwater. I never cease to be amazed by her many talents. But even she must breathe. She is back up, beside me this time, panting, happy, smiling, kissing me, pulling me into her. Her suit straps are down around her arms and yes, her breasts are free, bobbing in the pool between us, and then pressed hard against me as I pull her even closer.

Parent/Teacher (30 October 2005)

"I'm worried about your daughter."
"Why?"
"She's very flirtatious."
"And why is this a problem?"
"It's interfering with school work."
"How?"
"Lack of concentration. The flirting is taking up too much time and mental energy."
"Whose?"
"Excuse me?"
"I said whose time and mental energy is it taking up?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Well for one thing I enjoy watching you squirm while you avoid the question, but I had strong evidence that you were being intentionally misleading."
"This meeting is supposed to be about your daughter."
"Yes, I know, but you implied something about my daughter that was actually about you, so technically you're the one who changed the subject."

Twins (28 October 2005)

She rose from the bed quietly, as not to wake him. He was snoring slightly, ever so cutely. She simply could not resist that handsome face. Gently she bent over him, kissing him on the forehead. He was a sweet kind soul, but sweet and kind were not what she needed at three in the morning, and there was a much rougher, wilder, take-charge copy of that face waiting in the room next door.
Slowly she opened the door that separated the two rooms, her two worlds, her two lives. It was a massive wooden door. Substantial. Appropriate for such a heavy metaphor. She leaned against it, pushing it, feeling the rough wood against her breasts.
The other twin was awake, waiting, and hard. He was on her before she could stop to admire him, grabbing her, pushing the door shut behind her, pushing her against the door, pushing his tongue into her mouth, pushing his cock between her legs.
She was ready to be fucked. She needed no foreplay. The evening's love making had been foreplay enough. She thought of it that way too. Foreplay for the later fuck, though she knew it was more than enough for him, that she was more than enough for him, that she was more than enough for both of them. The long blond amazon, the Norwegian sex machine, the insatiable slut wrapped one long pale leg around the rougher brother, pulled him in, and gasped through gritted teeth as his huge cock entered her, filled her, withdrew and then slammed into her, pounding her beautiful high round ass into the door.

Unbuttoned (26 October 2005)

His hand was on the top button of my coat, and I had absolutely no interest in stopping him. His eyes were just so big and his smile was so friendly, and don't get me started on his body. I mean part of me was thinking "if he was a real gentleman he'd offer me his seat" and another part was saying "if he was a real gentleman he wouldn't be unbuttoning my coat" but at the same time I was saying "Fuck it. Who said we wanted a real gentleman?"
About the time I got done with that little internal argument I realized the first button was undone, and the second button was started, and the people on either side of me were stealing jealous little glances, but all I could concentrate on were those big strong hands and their deft little movements with buttons I can barely undo myself on a good day.
Poof! The second one was open like magic and he was staring up at me so proud of himself, and I was imaging that grinning, handsome, strong-jawed, twinkly-eyed face staring up at me from between my legs while he flicked me with a long, perfect talented tongue, and so help me instead of screaming, or slapping him, or doing something sensible, I smiled at him! Can you believe it? He's this guy undressing me in public and I'm smiling at him, and he's smiling back.
Obviously my smile was encouraging him, because I look down at his hands, and the right hand was unbuttoning the third button and the left hand was unbuttoning the fourth and last button, and ditzy little me, my one clear thought was "Oh Good Lord He's Ambidextrous."
Plus I was getting like, totally wet, you know? My nipples were hard, and my breathing was all panty. I was feeling a little faint or dizzy, or more probably just horny. My lips were dry, and I was licking them all suggestive like.
All I had to do was say stop. Right then. He would have stopped. I know he would. I didn't say it. I didn't even think it.
You know what I did think? You know what I said to myself in my head while he was opening up my coat with his left hand and slipping his right hand up under my blouse across my stomach toward my breasts? You know what I was thinking?
"Thank God I didn't wear a bra today."

Borders (24 October 2005)

"Aren't you him?"
"Well, yes, actually."
"So really you're just wasting my time?"
"Why do you say that?"
"Can't you get your own books for free?"
"Yes, but I'm having a book-signing here, and I want to know what's available."
"You could have called on the phone and asked."
"I prefer the personal service."
"That makes me feel better about my job security. What in particular do you like about it?"
"The deep wild eyes, the long lean, gentle curves, and the nose stud."
"You do have a way with words don't you?"
"I am a professional writer."
"Who came in here just to hit on me?"
"Like I said. I'm trying to figure out what's available."
"Quite a lot, actually. Would you like to come back to the storeroom with me to see for yourself?"

Luck of the Irish (14 October 2005)

She sits staring at the screen, leaning toward it, completely absorbed, chewing her gum, her long tan legs bouncing fetchingly and nervously beneath her short tan denim skirt.
She does not notice me watching her.
It is late. She yawns and stretches, her sweatshirt riding up, her long tan flat stomach bared to the world, the word "Irish" stretched fetchingly across her Irish breasts.
I clear my throat. She looks around. Annoyed as usual. She softens a little when she sees it's me. Just a little. I am cute enough to not be completely annoying. Either that or just mystifying. She mostly seems curious when she looks at me.
"Yeah? Whatcha want?"
"You sent an email asking for help."
"Oh yeah."
"And the answer was too complicated for an email response."
"You sure?"
There she's got me. I mean it was, kind of, but mostly I was looking for an excuse to see her in person.
I decide to hedge my bets: "No, not really. It was the uncertainty that decided it for me." If that doesn't cement the weird and mystifying image nothing will.
"Uncertainty of what?"
"Of what you'd say when I showed up."
She stares at me, still chewing, looking me up and down, assessing possibilities, making judgments warranted or otherwise. I am, I believe, more attractive than her former boss, but looks aren't everything. Finally she shakes her head, like a dog trying to shake off unwanted water, and returns her attention to the screen.
"Send me an email," she says, her back firmly toward me, "You're too strange for your own good."

Found in Translation (12 October 2005)

They can hear the excited shouts of her husband as he leans into the television, his nose pressed almost to the glass, his hands working furiously on the new joystick of the new video game system he has purchased at the giant American mall.
Her husband is interested only in technology and things. The translator is interested in her. Very, very interested, from the moment they were all introduced and then even more as they strolled through the mall, talking together in a mixture of his tongue and her tongue, the translator imagining a shared mixing of tongues, looking at clothing and books and of course, for her husband, the video games, discussing the names of objects and colors, differences in grammar, the posters in the windows of the half-naked models, and from there, our American preoccupation and fear of sex. The translator liked that part best, talking with her about American sex while her husband salivated over American stuff.
She purchased some clothes, a few outfits a little less Iron-curtain than what she had arrived in, though the translator believed she looked wonderful as was, would look wonderful in anything, had told her so in one of her husband's many distracted moments, and had taken great pride in her little flush of pleasure. Her husband, on the other hand, saw no need to look anything but the part he was already playing, and barely grunted each time his wife emerged from a dressing room, not even sparing a whistle for the little black cocktail dress slit all the way up to somewhere you couldn't possibly pronounce, or for the blouse that practically disappeared when the light was just so. She had been visibly disappointed, until she noticed the translator, a step behind and a head taller than her husband, silently applauding and giving her a quick thumbs up. She'd given a little jaunt at that, an extra little swing of the hip and a winking look back over her shoulder as she turned that her husband, had he been paying any attention, would have assumed was for his benefit.

Socially Unacceptable (08 October 2005)

"He really wants to meet you. Says he likes your work and appreciates your attitude."
"Huh."
"But I think it may be more than that..."
"You're always so suspicious!"
"Of you? Yes."
"No, I meant of him, and how dare you say that to me?"
"Easy. I'm much bigger than you. Plus it's true. Do you want to hear me say it again?"
"Kinda."
"I thought so. I know how you love the attention."
"You are a very bad boy. Didn't anybody ever teach you any manners?"
"I'm afraid not. I clearly deserve to be punished."
"I think so too, and I think I know just the punishment."
"Oh yeah? What?"
"You're going to help me get ready for this evening."
"That's hardly a punishment."
"I'm glad you think not, but I wasn't done, and you're speaking without permission."
"Sorry. Go on."
"During the conference you have to wait out in the hall."
"So?"
"So while I am in there I’ll be testing your theory."
"And what do I get if it turns out I'm right?"
"You'll get the pleasure of listening through the door to your teacher fucking your mother. Now go pick out something sexy for me to wear."

Jazzed (06 October 2005)

It was the ponytail that did it for her. Or maybe the little-boy-lost personality, or maybe the piano playing, or the fact that he was married, or who he was married to.
Whatever it was, she could not resist him, especially when he was feeling threatened by the big world, and the big people, when he would escape to the piano and retreat into his jazz, to be the entertainment, to become the music itself, to make the people dance around him. Then she would hover as near as she could, to seem protective without being threatening.
She reveled in the nearness, imagined him nearer, without the clothes, but still at the piano bench, at least at first, before she led him to a convenient bed and took him in her mouth, watching the pleasure spread across his face, the same expression he wore while playing but from her, and even more intense, with that extra edge of sexual tension and impending orgasm.
She sat next to him in the midst of the party, ignoring his wife, ignoring her husband, watching him play, picturing his cock in her mouth, imagining him at the second just before he came when his cock like her husband's would tense in her mouth, tense and then jerk and then spurt his seed down her welcoming throat, sat with her hand in his lap on that very same cock, sat and imagined as he grew hard, sat and imagined as he played on, sat and imagined playing with his spent cock until he was hard again, sat and imagined lying back on the bed, guiding him into her, wrapping her legs around his back, sat and imagined him fucking her forever as the party, as his wife, as her husband, as the party danced around them, danced around them, danced around them to his jazz.

Tornado (04 October 2005)

She is on all fours in the middle of the bed, her tight revealing clothes in a pile on the chair, her cat's eye glasses perched neatly on top of the pile, her dark hair still piled on top of her head, work temporarily forgotten, groaning and moaning with each filling thrust.
Well, not completely forgotten, as it is one of her favorite coworkers fucking her so wonderfully, filling her so completely, her body impaled on his lovely cock. He is muttering in Russian as he fucks her, his hips driving back and forth, sliding in and out, slapping and pinching and squeezing her ass. She loves the sound of Russian endearments. Even if she does not understand them word for word. she understands the sentiments and echoes them back to him in her native Polish, the two of them muttering and grunting in guttural Eastern European accents, buck naked, rocking back and forth.
Some days she wishes she had more control, that she maybe had less passion or was maybe a little less obvious about it, that she could sit through a meeting without giggling and blushing. But it is the giggling and blushing and obviousness that gets her the fuckings, the fillings, the orgasms in the middle of the day to complement the orgasms she gets from her husband every night before sleep and every morning before work, the husband whose picture is prominently displayed on her desk at work, an image that does nothing to dissuade her coworkers.

Keepsake (03 October 2005)

She is dressed, as usual, in very little, and what little there is is very tight. She works, I presume, in the sort of job where a little skin, a great body, and a youthful face makes a big difference in how much you earn.
She is still sleepy, not fully aware of her surroundings, still waking up. Obviously she works too hard, but I cannot support every woman in the world.
She has noticed, as she wakens, that there is stuff on her polo shirt. Nothing as disastrous as a stain, but still stuff, probably dryer lint, across her chest, which will never do, so she begins to swipe at it with her hands, running them across her breasts, across where her nipples surely are beneath the shirt.
The more she swipes the more she gets into it. The stuff, whatever it was, is long gone, and yet her fingers continue to trail back and forth across her chest.
She has not yet looked up, has not really considered that she is riding on a bus. Her back arches just a little, off the seat, every time her fingernails hit the magic points.
She soon forgoes the stroking and begins flicking the nipples, both of them at once, with her nails.
That's when somebody else pulls the cord to signal they want the bus to stop. That's when she realizes where she is and snaps out of it, staring around wildly, pulling her hands from her breasts, seeing me watching her.
She stands, avoiding my gaze, and walks, eyes cast down to the door.
I watch her get off, thrilled by the experience, disappointed by the outcome, anticipating the next ride, worried about awkwardness and avoidance.
But just as she steps off, her head turns, just briefly in my direction.
She smiled at me. I saw it. Nobody will ever be able to take that from me.

Protest (29 September 2005)

I'm sitting in an auditorium at the end of a long day. There was church with the family in the morning, and then this regional church conference about standards for sexual behavior, which was really more of a debate than a conference, all afternoon and well into the evening, and for now I'm part of the vilified minority. I'm sitting, trying to find a non-violent outlet for my pent up rage and loneliness when I feel a hand moving through my hair, and hear a sweet smooth voice say "hello darling."
I turn. It is, as I suspected from the voice, Jen, but it is such an uncharacteristic thing for her to do that checking really was necessary.
We don't have the kind of relationship in which "darling" might be even remotely appropriate. In fact outside church we don't have a relationship at all, and inside church it's been limited to "good morning," and occasionally working on the same committee.
But there she sits behind me in a crowded auditorium of mostly strangers, playing with my hair, her fingers stroking me gently, her wrist easily grabbed, the building surrounding the auditorium full of dark corners and unlocked conference rooms, our empty cars in the parking lot, my wife not expecting me home any time soon.

Later (27 September 2005)

"You look interesting. I'll talk to you."
It was a listening exercise, part of the job training, learning to hear what the other person was really saying and accurately report it back. There were an odd number of odd people in the training session and the trainer had just chosen me.
She was a large girl, a large beautifully proportioned girl. I couldn't take my eyes off her curves. I talked and stared, like I was falling into her.
I didn't hear a word she said, and I couldn't repeat a damn thing.
"Is there a problem?" she asked. But she was smiling.
"Other than my complete inability to concentrate around you? No."
She smiled bigger, if such a thing was possible, and asked if I could stay when the training was over, "Since it looked like I was in need of a little extra practice."
Which got me thinking about all the things I could practice on her and did nothing at all for my concentration. I couldn't repeat what she was saying, but she was remembering everything I told her about myself, as though she was slurping up the details of my life. Which of course got me thinking about her slurping up the come from my erection while her pendulous breasts swung heavy and free against my naked thighs.
The timer she'd set went off in the middle of that thought, just as I was about to start unconsciously stroking myself.
She stood, incredibly graceful and feline for such a large person and smiled down at me. "Later" she said, and my cock jumped to attention.

Just Too Good (25 September 2005)

"No!" she yelled, pushing me away.
I looked up, startled.
She was smiling down at me, with a look of sheer evil enjoyment, one hand forcefully on my forehead and the other violently tweaking her own left nipple.
I don't generally take no for an answer; especially not from her. I pushed as hard as I could while lying on my stomach, my head moving her hand back an inch at a time.
She resisted, but not too much. She was playing, and she expected me to win eventually.
What she didn't expect was the wrist grab. My hands, which had been on her hips, shot out simultaneously, each pinning one of her wrists against the bed, pushing down hard. I wanted to make damn sure she couldn't do that to me again.
She let out something like a mew and a moan, a startled, scared, thrilled little noise as her hips came up off the bed almost involuntarily. She wasn't pushing me away anymore, she was pushing into me, mashing into me, humping my face furiously.

Jealousy (21 September 2005)

My wife has a little-girl-lost-in-the-woods quality about her. Except she's not little. Not big, mind you, but very buxom, very blond, very demure behind her owl-like glasses and of course, very married.
She's also a totally hopeless romantic nymph. When I first met her, sitting next to her in the pew at a mutual friend's wedding, and managed to charm the socks and a few other items of clothing off her, I thought it was me, but I finally realized that if the right guy, and he doesn't have to be that right, just the right side of charming and good looking, if the right guy gets her alone in the right setting, something romantic and sexually charged like a party or a wedding, says the right things, touches her in the right places, she'll be riding him in an instant like there's no tomorrow.
Which makes taking her out in public an interesting exercise, especially to parties and weddings and, worst of all, parties after weddings. And worse than that, yes worst of all, is that she makes her living performing at weddings.
She's a flautist, you see, and her partner, of whom I am very suspicious, but say nothing, for what would be the point? Her partner plays the classical guitar. He looks the part too, bohemian, mustachioed, very early sixties in appearance and mannerisms, just the kind of guy to fuck my wife silly and view it as an act of spirituality, free love and resistance of the dominant paradigm.

Extra Credit (17 September 2005)

Bouncy, perky, contagious smile. Nobody's idea of a beauty queen, but incredibly vibrant. I just couldn't look at her without picturing her impaled on my cock. Made it kind of hard to concentrate during the lectures. Made it kind of hard not to fuck up my projects and ask for help.
I don't know if she could tell the stupid thing was an act or not, but she always seemed happy to see me. It wasn't just me of course. She reveled in attention, seemed amazed by the effect she had on men, amazed and wanting more. And more was what I wanted to give.
Standing in her office, drawing circles, rectangles and arrows on the whiteboard, trying to get me to understand my project (or at least that was the official excuse) we felt like a team. I stood as close as I could, willing her to accidentally touch me. Sometimes she did, and the damn thing was I couldn't tell if it was really accidental or not.
Until the day she turned and her breast brushed my arm. Whether that was an accident of not doesn't really matter. What mattered was the contact. I know it mattered to me because I was suddenly much harder. I know it mattered to her because she froze in mid-turn. She could have kept going, ignored the contact completely, smiled to herself and kept going, but she stopped, and then, incredibly, she turned back again, and as I hadn't moved my arm, her breast brushed it again.

Extended Family Closet (15 September 2005)

Oh God I want to touch her so bad!
It is a big family I've married into, and they have many weddings, first weddings, second weddings, third weddings, multiplied by an astronomical and rapidly growing number of relatives, former relatives, and step-relatives. It seems like we spend most weekends drunk at receptions, trying to figure out how to get everybody upright in front of the cameras.
She's all the way across the room and I can't reach her, cannot obviously leave my wife and disappear so I sit here with my wife and stare, watching her chat, and flirt, and laugh and smile.
The bride and groom have always struck me as reasonably intelligent, if a little too perfect in appearance, but holding their reception at a marina probably wasn't the brightest idea they've ever had. I kept thinking someone was going to fall into the water during the pictures. hoping it wouldn't be anybody I liked, or was responsible for. I'm not that strong of a swimmer even when I'm sober.
Powered by VOYEUR-RUSSIAN.
Copyright © 2003-2016 VOYEUR-RUSSIAN

Join Voyeur-Russian
This content is available for members only.
To become our member, please click to 'Join',
otherwise click to 'Cancel'