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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.

Evangelists (13 September 2005)

Two weeks ago I fell in love with a beautiful girl. I fell in love at first sight, watching her walk purposefully across the campus in a tight but very prim dress, just as the sun was setting. From a distance I could see her dark shoulder-length not-quite-curly hair, her golden skin, her firm high breasts, her tight taut body, her long neck and wonderfully shaped legs. I ran, as unobtrusively as I could, then slowed so as not to seem too eager. Catching her was not difficult; she was significantly shorter than me, was wearing high heels, and had a yellow backpack slung over her shoulder. A few more steps and I was walking next to her, admiring her fine-boned finely-honed face, her dark blue eyes, her dark red lips, her high cheekbones.
I was about to say something when I noticed the cross around her neck. I'm not a religious person by nature and Christians, especially those who wear crosses for purposes other than accentuating the curves of their breasts, tend to make me nervous. On the other hand, it has been my experience that Christians, especially those wearing crosses, like to talk about church. So after stammering out the usual "I'm sorry, I thought you were somebody else" (or maybe it was "Excuse me, did you drop this") followed by the obligatory "Good God you're beautiful" facial expression, I asked her if she could recommend a nearby church. Of course she could. She even had a card. When I examined the card later I discovered that she'd written "Kristen" on the back. It seemed a pretty good bet that Kristen was her name and not some weird spelling of her faith designation, so when I showed up at the church on Sunday morning I told the usher I'd been invited by a young lady named Kristen whose last name I hadn't quite caught. He promptly directed me to the pew where she normally sat, despite what seemed to me like rather firm disapproval of my choice of clothing.

English (11 September 2005)

She was built like an arrow in flight, like a blond rocket seconds before liftoff, like a jungle cat stalking prey. She was all limbs and straight lines and potential energy. She was spikey, from her hair to her nipples to her nails she was spikey. And when she sat in a chair she curled like a spring and you kind of backed off a little bit lest she explode on you. Like she exploded on me.
She exploded on me across the classroom with her nails aimed for my neck. Apparently my criticism of her comments cut to the core. Fortunately for all involved I ducked, and her pretty little ass landed on the floor. I looked down at her sitting next to my desk looking wounded in her dignity, I looked at her pale green eyes and I was almost frightened by their intensity. Frightened and excited. Excited and hard. I don't know what the class thought. I didn't even care. I didn't even look. I said "Go on home folks, I think we're done for tonight. Not you young lady. Don't you even dare. You and I are going to have a little chat about appropriate classroom behavior while you and the topic are still fresh and hot in my mind."

Drive Faster (07 September 2005)

Every time he passed her, he touched her. Every time he caught her eye he winked. She would smile, as subtly as possible, shaking her head at his audacity. This was her event, and he was supposed to be her secret, her reward to herself when the banquet was over. But then he never did play by the rules.
If he played by the rules he wouldn't bring his wife to an event he was coming to just to fuck another woman.
Try saying that five times fast.
Kind of an exciting idea, isn't it? Bringing your wife with you on a date with another woman. Not to participate, mind you, just to sit there, decorative-like, while you fuck your wanton slut up against the wall in the very next room.

The Dress (05 September 2005)

He was frozen in the moment, the back of her neck arching away from him, her long thick curly red hair held to one side by a perfect, perfect hand, her body, her beautiful body in that dress, her ass inches from his straining cock, her breasts jutting out proudly waiting for his hands...
No. No. No. He had to focus, had to remember how he suddenly found himself in this very compromising position with... No. No. No. Think. Think. Think. It had probably only been minutes, not hours. Not days. It only seemed that way.
He had arrived home. Early. On Friday. It was still Friday. Early evening. It was still early evening. Had put down his bags, had called hello. No answer. Bummer of a way to come from a long trip, to an empty house, they must not have gotten his message. And then there she was on the stairs, coming down toward him. He could see her mouth moving in the memory, but he couldn't hear. He could only see. He could only see that dress. Barely there, very black, very leg, very breasts, very. No. No. No. Think. Don't think. Don't go there. Was she home from a date, going on a date? Jealousy. A date, in that dress, underwear doubtful. His... No. Don't go there. Come back. Standing in front of him. Turning. Why? What had she said? Why was he frozen? Why not kiss the neck. Why not? You know why not. It's not right. But look at it. Look at that dress. The dress. She said something about the dress. The zipper. That was it. Hands down, don't touch. Just that. That's it. She wants help with the zipper. But. That can't be right. She's waiting though. Ask. Can't hurt to ask. That's safe. Has it been seconds since she asked, minutes, hours, years wanting to touch, to kiss, to grab to fondle? Ask. Come on. It's safe. It's OK. Say something.
"But the zipper's already up."
"I know"

Down the Hall (31 August 2005)

Becky bucked under me, her hips rising to meet my hips, the same way we had fucked for 15 years, her eyes closed, biting her lips to keep from talking, her face red, her breathing labored, trying for as many orgasms as she could get from me.
She had already come once from my tongue, yelling out in a loud primal grunt, loud enough to be heard down the hall, louder than most nights, but no louder than usual for a night when Stacey was staying over. And the presence of her flirty friend was clearly the reason she had come so hard before and was going to come hard now, either because I was harder and spurred on to fuck her harder from thinking about Stacey or because Becky was thinking about her too, or because Becky liked to show off for Stacey how hard I made her come, how she, Becky, had a better husband, or maybe all of the above.
I was thinking about Stacey. Thinking about how much I wanted to fuck her in the morning while Becky was in the shower, right here in this very bed, from behind, on all fours, her ass slamming back into my hips as the bed rocked... Thinking about how Becky had been whispering to Stacey earlier, things she would never share with me, probably about some guy she had the hots for. I wondered who it was. I wondered if she was thinking about him now, or about Stacey. I fucked her harder. Driving into her. Remembering how she and Stacey had stared at each other, how Stacey had touched her lightly, erotically, and smiled at me. Becky was off in another place now. Not with me. Off with someone else. Being fucked. She was about to come. I could feel the tension in her. And then she came. Again. Loud. And down the hall I could hear Stacey coming too, the same as she did every night when she stayed over, and I pictured her, as I loved to picture her, on all fours, her long hair hanging to the floor, her head by the door of the guest room so she could hear us come, her hand back between her legs, fingering herself feverishly.

Decisions, Decisions (25 August 2005)

Shauna was having a great deal of trouble deciding. On her left sat the tall, muscular, slightly goofy male coworker she'd been flirting with forever, and on the right sat her new trainee: short, Asian, female, and very delectable.
She wanted both, but the odds of making that work seemed remote, and she needed to fuck soon. Even getting through the afternoon, through the commute home, possibly eating dinner with the lucky other, seemed forever to wait before the hours of orgasmic bliss she was overeagerly anticipating and sorely needing.
She chewed her lunch on auto-pilot, eating, making small-talk and double-entendres as she planned the rest of the day, unwilling to choose, weighing odds and possibilities and possible futures with the same calculating mind she used to solve technical business problems.
"Aya," she said softly, touching the back of the young girl's hand as delicately and suggestively as possible, "I really need to do some work with George this afternoon and I'd like to make sure you're up to speed for the meeting tomorrow. Are you free this evening?"
Aya looked up, eyes half lidded in a way that could be mistaken for demure but that Shuana chose to interpret as lustful. "Of course" she answered softly. "I am always available for you."

A Theory On Hell (17 August 2005)

The following is an actual question given on a University of Washington chemistry mid-term:
"Is Hell exothermic [gives off heat) or endothermic (absorbs heat)? Support your answer with a proof."
Most of the students wrote proofs of their beliefs using Boyle's Law (gas cools off when it expands and heats up when it is compressed) or some variant. One student, however, wrote the following:

Crazed (11 August 2005)

I'm dressed stupidly today, plus it's late, and I'm yawning and tired and can barely stand up. This little red-headed woman wants no part of me, her in her frameless glasses and her high heels with her short business haircut and her petite grey suit with the very short skirt over smooth, round, beautifully turned, surprisingly long legs. I definitely want part of her. Part of the kneeling down on the platform was just because I'm tired, and part of it was acting out and getting a better look. Maybe she'd think different if she knew what part of me I wanted to give her. If she knew I wanted to wrap my big hands around her legs, run them up and down from the ankles to the thighs, with a little tickle here and a little tickle there, especially back of the knees, and the line just below her ass where the tan line would be if there was a tan line. The hands aren't the part I want to offer though. No, my hands are John the Baptist, preparing a way in the wilderness for the licking and the sucking on those little toes, tracing firm warm wet lines up the back of her calf and the font of her thigh, and back down the other leg and up again, making her cunt very jealous, so hot and wet and horney that she can't take it anymore, barely balanced in those giant shoes, with her back arched out from the brick station wall, her mouth open and her eyes closed, her hands on the back of my head, my hands squeezing that cute little ass I saw outlined under her skirt when she bent over to get a book out of her bag a minute ago, my head up under her grey skirt, my tongue, my serpent tongue, my risen tongue, my offered tongue, my flicking, licking, slow and sensuous, high speed turbo tongue on and off and hard and soft and fast and slow and warm and wet and up and down and side to side and round and round her clit feeling her ass quiver in my hands begging me, begging me, begging me for that orgasm she can't get from her husband, that orgasm she can't even get from her hand, from that orgasm that will blow her entire mind leaving her panting, spent, and spoiled for life beyond caring what obscenities she's uttered what names she's screamed, how utterly she has opened herself and her mind and her deepest darkest desires to a crowd of enraptured strangers.
But she just stands there, and avoids me, pretends maybe I'm not there, the weird looking guy, crouched on the platform, rocking and staring, staring at her legs, licking his lips, knowing what she's missing.

Copy Shop (09 August 2005)

The young man behind the counter is cute, red-headed, slender, muscular, and flustered. He is flustered by the customer with the cell phone and the obvious nipples, with the long dark hair, strands loose across her face, who is making (accepting?) involved in somehow, an obscene phone call as she looks at paper samples and pets the copy shop dog.
It's not like he can hear every word. She's speaking softly. But phrases like "I want you too," and "make me, big boy" float to his ears from her beautiful lips as she scratches the top of the dog's head.
It is difficult to tell whether she is talking to him, to the dog, or to the person on the phone, especially since her pure gorgeousness is so damned distracting.
The dog finally wins out. "Oooooh" she coos, crouching down, the tops of her breasts visible beneath her loose cardigan as he leans over the counter for a better look. "What a good doggy! You look just like my doggy, and you like getting petted too, don't you?" she continues, looking straight up at him, deep brown eyes like the dog's eyes boring into his soul.

Conversation (07 August 2005)

"You didn't really have to leave right that second to run errands, did you?"
Across the diner table she started to turn red. Bit her lip. Looked into her glass. Looked up again shyly. "No," she said softly, giggling nervously, "you caught me." It was hard to reconcile her shyness, her sudden vulnerability, with the boldness of her naked foot resting on the padded bench between my thighs. But it's those contrasts that make her so fucking outrageously beautiful.
"That's why I said 'have fun' as you were hanging up" I replied, smiling at her. "I know you better than that."
She looked furtively around the diner. Took my hand. Kissed my thumb. Nibbled on it for a second, her wayward toes pressing lightly through my pants against my straining cock. "I know you do. That was part of what turned me on so much. Having you there with me. Hearing your voice. It was so fucking powerful. I couldn't help it."
I stroked her foot gently with my other hand while staring at her hard, holding her gaze through sheer willpower. "It was a pretty powerful phone call. Knowing you were intentionally including me. Knowing where you were, who you were with, what you'd just done. And also knowing how into the moment you were, knowing the lust would overpower you, and that you would have to shut me out again."
She stared back. I could tell she was fighting the urge to look down. "How do you feel?" she whispered, her toes stroking my erection.

Control (05 August 2005)

The phone rang just as we started kissing, just as my hand was stroking her naked thigh, teasing her before fingering her.
She answered it.
Which with some women might be considered an insult, but she just likes talking on the phone while she's being fingered, eaten, or fucked. Especially when it turns out the person on the other end is the male flight attendant she's been making out with on an irregular basis.
"Hi sexy!" she says brightly into the phone, winking at me and sticking out her tongue.
I stick mine out back at her and we lean in to each other until the tips of our tongues were touching each other in midair.
As she talks to him she starts playing with her nipples and what little pubic hair she has left unshaved. My hand joins hers between her legs, pressing her hand into her cunt, making her gasp into the phone.

Considering Marriage (30 July 2005)

They had exited the restrooms at the same time, smiling at each other awkwardly. Normally they would have stopped at smiling, figured out somehow who was going to go first, proceeded back up the stairs into the real world. But her mind was not in a normal place, and the world upstairs was not her reality. It was her boyfriend's reality, her boyfriend's friend's wedding reception, in a strange building on a strange college campus, and there was nobody there she knew, except her boyfriend and his parents.
She was feeling more adult than usual, this being the first time she'd ever been invited to a wedding on a date, and yet her adjunct, out of place social status was pushing down the feelings of adulthood and causing a rebellious streak that surfaced only on rare occasions and always with far-too-interesting results.
The wedding had been, well, rather boring, every faith bloc in both families apparently having insisted on clergy representation, and every clergy person being of the long-winded advice-filled sort. She had passed the time people-watching, idly swinging her leg, trying to get her boyfriend's attention, sizing up the groom's attendants, eventually focusing on one who had a young-Kevin-Costner-in-tux thing going on, the same young man, quite coincidentally, whom she now faced in an otherwise deserted basement hall lined with promising doors.

Coming Home (26 July 2005)

As soon as as Mike turned off the engine, Julie unbuckled and turned to face him. Her left hand, which had been lightly scratching his thigh as he drove, went behind his head, and her right hand began to tease his erection through his pants. She pulled his head toward hers and thrust her tongue into his mouth.
"Happy Birthday Honey" she said when he finally managed to pull away. "You look kind of dazed and you shouldn't have to drive anymore. I'll go get Nicole. You come in when you're ready." And she was out the car door and half way down the walk before he could answer, which was the whole idea. She had the distinct impression that he was expecting a birthday present from the babysitter, and she wanted to make sure he didn't have a chance to collect. If he had gone in to get her they could have been screwing inside while she waited in the car, and if she let the two of them drive home...

Coats (24 July 2005)

I was young. Nineteen, and still living at home. Alone on a Saturday night in the dead of winter, my girlfriend waiting tables until midnight, the neighbors' dark windows refusing to offer any sexual entertainment in the meantime.
My father, as usual, had been invited to a party, and barring anything better to do I joined my mother in reluctantly tagging along, figuring I would stay a couple of hours before heading to the restaurant.
The hostess greeted both me and my father warmly, and my mother somewhat indifferently, as though other women were an annoyance to be tolerated. She took our coats, and I watched her ass as she swayed up the stairs with them. By my standards at the time she was old, but attractive. I knew her casually from summer volunteer work as a programmer at a local charity. I have no idea where my father knew her from, but I did know better than to ask.

Clouds (22 July 2005)

To my left is the small window, and beyond it banks and wisps of cloud. To my right, my traveling companion, looking mischievous, and beyond her a tan, nervous young blond reading a book.
My companion and I stare at each other and smile. We do that whenever we have the chance, and the chances do not come often. Most frequently when we are flying, strapped into adjacent seats, surrounded only by anonymous strangers, eye-candy flight attendants, and clouds.
She has twisted to face me as much as she can, feigning cold and sleep beneath the blanket provided by a stewardess with a knowing look. I shift to face her more completely, my knowing hand stealing under the blanket, past her open cardigan, to tweak a long hard bare nipple, to stroke the skin of her concealed breasts, to imagine sucking them. Her knowing hand moves too beneath the blanket, the dance of the knowing hands, perhaps I shall commission music, to squeeze my erection through my pants. Less daring than her, I have not unzipped my fly or otherwise risked exposure, but the feel of her hand through the denim is none-the-less exquisite. I am very very hard, and think about coming. Which would thrill her. There is something about me coming in my pants that drives her quite mad with passion.

Challenged (20 July 2005)

She had a policy.
I heard about it through my girlfriend, who had heard it from another friend, who had picked it up in drunken conversation.
She would not sleep with any man unless he proved himself smarter than she was.
One day I brought my chessboard to school. I challenged her. Right there in the department lounge.
It was a risk, but a risk I had to take, for the thought that I could have had her, but never acted, was just too much to bear.
The game was tense. I was nervous. There was so much riding on it, even if nobody had actually said it out loud, and she was so goddamned beautiful sitting across the table with her big blue eyes her curly brown hair and her soft full breasts under her turtleneck sweater.
She was doing it on purpose to distract me, I was sure of it, sitting there, being beautiful, just to keep me from concentrating. She would smile at me and adjust her hair, and brush imagined lint from her sweater, her hand passing over the tops of her breasts and dangerously close to her nipples.

Bride (18 July 2005)

Standing at the back of the church, poised for the ritual march into domesticity, she looked as wild and as raw and as pixieishly beautiful as the first time he had seen her naked. Her unending defiance and hunger added a shimmer and an aura to the long flowing pure white of her dress that he had never seen in any bride before. A sense of pride swept through him, even though he did not, and could not, own her. She was the one who owned him, the one who prepended "my" to his name when she spoke of him, through thick and thin and other people, ever since their first half-violent, half-drunken encounter.
She had been late for the service. He was sure that more than a few people who knew her well were wondering if she had changed her mind. He suspected he had wondered more than most; tried not to reveal the swirl of his thoughts; stared at the memories instead of those around him; stared at the memories and smiled.

Bonding (16 July 2005)

She's looking for her clothes.
The guys are talking to each other, laughing, pajama bottoms on, drinks in their hands, ready to be guys, the last few hours already a permanent and pleasant memory that can always be reinforced with videotape.
But it's still with her. They're off on the next thing, and she's still back there. I can see it in her face, in her disheveled, still high, thoroughly fucked, completely bewildered expression as she looks around the room trying to find her pants, her blouse, her thong, something to hold her hair up.
It all got lost in the last hour, when he was on top of her, her legs barely wrapped around the massive torso that obviously attracted her so much in the first place, his giant body rising up and then driving back down into her, his shadow cast large on the candle-lit wall by the glare of the light from the camera. her body too exhausted to cry out, but her mind still wanting more, hooked on the pleasure of countless orgasms and the secret thrill of being used.

Blocked (14 July 2005)

Show me a picture (preferably of a woman, a good looking woman, a good looking woman at least half naked) and my mind will manufacture a story, a past, a future, a plot, a cast of characters, a set of motivations, spreading out from the picture through time and space.
But faced with reality, my mind will sometimes focus, for reasons I cannot fathom, on the strangest little details, obsessing on a gesture, a glance, a movement, a facial expression, until the real story, the real people, the real motivations, have faded away from a moment frozen in time, and I am left with only the impression of an image. It is frustrating as hell to have seen a story, to have lived a story, and to be unable to tell it, especially when they are stories about breathtakingly beautiful slender young brunettes flaunting their sexual power. Well, maybe I've hit upon it! You see how useful it is to write things down, to make sentences and paragraphs, and order out of chaos? To structure the madness of reality with the pure beauty of English? Perhaps they have simply taken my breath away. Perhaps if I write of them now, fully understanding the nature of my difficulty, I can wrangle a story or three out of them in the future.

Birthday Girl (12 July 2005)

Karen has decided what she wants for her birthday, possibly even for desert, though she will need to order something else. Tony, their waiter, is waiting attentively, darkly, handsomely, as her husband studies the desert tray.
The meal was heavenly, and they have delighted together in the sensuality of the food and wine, their love of eating and drinking one of the few purely pleasurable bonds between them. The choice of the next and last step in the meal must be made with great care and anticipation. The dark sinfulness of the chocolate or the suggestiveness of something light and creamy, with the juiciness of ripe fruit?
Karen runs her eyes across the tray, to Tony, up and down, subtle, firm muscles, nicely tanned under the crisp white shirt like crisp white sheets, catches his eye, bites her fingertip, poses in feigned indecision, her bare foot lightly brushing his leg, orders the strawberry and cream concoction, deciding that dark and sinful are already taken care of this evening, smiles as she orders, eyes sparkling, believes she has caught a wink in return.

Backseat Driver (10 July 2005)

He can order me around, insult me, and scream at me. I don't care. Every time he picks on me I take it right back out on his wife. I take it out on her hard. I call her the insults she likes: bitch, whore, slut. I get her to scream at me, to scream at me when she comes. I like the sound of my name on her voice much better than on his.
The company picnic is at one of those ridiculous private picnic parks, where the employees get a meal commiserate with their salary and station in life. Me and the wife and kiddies are in the level just above peon. We get hamburgers; the peons get hotdogs. The boss and his wife get roast chicken. I can taste it on her tongue, along with my come.
We're in the back seat of his car because his car is bigger than mine, and I love the idea of him driving to work every morning and home every night, thinking about new ways to make me miserable in a car I make his wife come in. She's totally disheveled, her shorts are on one ankle, her tank top's pushed up over her breasts, her eyes are glazed and her legs are wrapped around my back, pulling me in, deeper and deeper.

Audacious (29 June 2005)

I smile back, hopefully with an equal twinkle, and unbutton my cardigan as I watch him stroke himself. He is into it. Into me. How long as it been since my husband was into me, figuratively or literally?
He was waiting for me when I got back upstairs, all smooth and hard and naked. Audacious. Very audacious. I like audacious men. Especially with long hard thick cocks to suck on. God he is huge. Huge and gorgeous. Larger, and much more beautiful than my downstairs drunken husband.
I am his star and I will and must perform for him, give him my all, give him his due, reward him for his undivided attention.
I figured, well, hoped, actually, that he had some ulterior motive for hanging around the party so late, helping me with the cleaning as the other guests drifted out the door, when he helped me find a quilt to cover my husband on the couch, when he excused himself to use the bathroom as I finished tucking my husband in, when he failed to reappear as I turned out the last light and headed up the stairs to the bedroom.

Arrogance (27 June 2005)

I think, right at that moment, I hated my husband Steve more.
Oh sure, I hated Kyle, and I had told Steve many times that I hated Kyle, that I hated Kyle because he was such an arrogant prick.
But really, who was worse? Steve knows I love him, he knows women flirt with him because he's intelligent, and witty and handsome and intriguing. He takes me for granted, just because he takes good care of me, and he can fuck me for twenty minutes and make me come three times. But he thinks it's more fucking amusing to get me all hot and bothered so he can catch me masturbating.
So here I am, I've met Kyle out shopping on a Saturday first time I've seen him in ten years, and I invite him home for lunch, because I know Steve will be home, and when it's time for Kyle to go, Steve will ask him to go. But my goddamned husband is getting so fucking amused watching me stare at Kyle, and he's so fucking confident about himself, that he asks Kyle to stay for dinner.

Appearances (25 June 2005)

The girl we'd never seen before was on top of Tim when we all walked in the bedroom. It seemed like an accident, though obviously, in retrospect, for whatever reason, Traci had decided to offer us all a tour of the new house because she saw them sneak up the stairs together. Were we there for moral support, physical restraint, maximum embarrassment, or witnesses in a future trial? Whatever Traci was thinking, I somehow suspected that my reactions were not within the intended range.
My first reaction was purely erotically visual. The girl was small and trim with short dark hair, a white blouse and a plaid skirt. She was stretched out along Tim's chest, her knees on the bed on either side of him, sliding slowly back and forth. They were both mostly dressed and barely moving but his pants were undone and her skirt was up just high enough that we could see where his cock entered her.

Anticipation (23 June 2005)

She had flirted with him shamelessly for almost the entire five years she had worked in the office. Her a young lass raised in Europe, of hearty peasant stock and conservative dress, just out of college when she started, and he a married, grizzled father with way too much experience in the industry and an unrepressed love for women in general and for women who flirted with him in particular. But he took the company's half-hearted warnings about sexual harassment seriously, and generally ignored her. Once or twice he tested the waters, flirted back, and was always immediately rebuffed with a pained expression and days of flirtlessness.
So he learned to reconcile her behavior with her obvious sexual repression, to enjoy what she offered, her walking close, her almost touch, her infectious laugh, her lamentations about her inability to find a boyfriend, her constant excuses about being giddy from lack of sleep, her unexplained apologies for being "such a bad girl," the images of spanking her that always leapt into his mind when she said it, and the urges to kiss her when she put her face within inches of his while going over problems.
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