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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.

CUT OFF (27 August 2008)

The tall white-haired man strolled out of the bedroom hallway, back into the large main room of the penthouse. Another party. It was proceeding quite nicely, with several loose-knit clumps of people standing around talking and laughing, some by the wide stone fireplace, others clustered around the currently-silent grand piano. The hired caterers circulated with trays piled high with fingerfood, a lifeflow of blood being smoothly pumped to the party’s extremities. And behind it all, the tinkling classical music discretely trickled from a variety of concealed speakers positioned around the various edges of the room.
The disheveled blonde woman clinging to the tall man’s arm laughed along with the rest of the crowd and then bent to whisper wetly in his ear, gently trying to pull him back down the hall, back into the bedroom. He merely smiled and whispered back to her, ending it by giving her a playful slap on her firm white butt which sent her scurrying cheerfully back to the other guests.
This task completed, he reached into the deep pocket of his velvet dressing gown with one long vein-covered hand and extracted a sleek black remote control, elaborate and covered with a multitude of buttons and tiny read-outs. He tapped it to life and made delicate adjustments, monitoring the social ebb and flow from under his bristling white eyebrows.

There was no obvious change in the room, at least for a moment. Then... gradually... things started to shift. Very subtle, nothing you’d notice if you weren’t looking for it. One of the servers broke from her pattern, came by and handed him a drink, hardly breaking stride. The clusters of guests began to break up, reform themselves in new combinations. The blonde woman joined one of the forming groups, still slightly flushed, and laughing when not nibbling daintily at a canapé. Then the crowds parted, and a different woman was left stranded alone in the very center of the living room, framed by the horseshoe of white leather sofas. She was a top-heavy brunette, a great deal shorter than the blonde and packed into a sleek black dress. She looked around rather forlornly at all the suddenly-turned backs. Then her gaze fell on the man in the dressing gown, and her light brown eyes came sparkling back to life. Like the blonde before her, she came scurrying over. (It was the only word, really...) She absently discarded her glass onto a passing tray, placed both of her hands on his narrow but fairly muscular chest and began rubbing them in absent circles as she spoke.
“Hans! I just wanted to say, what a lovely party! Thank you so much for inviting me!”
“Not at all, Helena. You are having an enjoyable time?”
“Now I am!” She leaned closer, her voice getting a little husky.
“Would you like to have even more fun?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Excellent! Go to my bedroom, down there at the end of the hall, sit on the bed, and put on the headphones you find there.” He waggled an admonishing finger. “Do nothing else until I join you. I will be along shortly.”
“Yes, Hans!”
She immediately disappeared through the indicated door.
He smiled again and started to follow her, then idly changed his mind and drifted over to the glass balcony doors to look out on the city for a moment. As well as he could look at least; it was night and the thick glass mostly reflected the party back at him. There were a few subdued lights scattered around the balcony's plants, however, and he realized someone was standing out there, alone. Tall, and a woman. His smile grew a little wider. Why not have a little extra fun, before getting back to Helena? There were of course speakers out on the balcony, as well as in the apartment... A final quick adjustment to the remote, so no one would come out on the balcony with them, and he stepped out into the cool night air. It was a quite beautiful night; clear and crisp, with a few of the brightest stars visible above the glowing skyscrapers. He took an appreciative breath and walked to the black-clad woman, who stood by the railing, her back to him, her arms apparently clasped before her.
She turned with the easy grace of a panther, and he saw what the unfamiliar woman was really doing with her arms, realized too late the horrible mistake that he had made. She spoke coolly, raising her burden.
“Maestro. I bring you a token of appreciation from one of your greatest fans.”
There was a slashing flicker of reflected light, and this particular party was over.
________________________________________
The low-slung brick building was tucked away on a quiet side street of the city, surrounded by tall trees and thick well-tended hedges. Within, it was dim and filled with numerous turning walls and unexpected alcoves, giving the whole more than a passing resemblance to a gigantic rat maze. It was technically a restaurant, but a casual visitor would have been struck by the fact that there appeared to be very little immediately on offer in the way of actual food.
The building never had casual visitors.
She breezed in out of the late afternoon sunshine, a tall somewhat-stretched woman dressed in silvery gray and sporting a smooth curl of platinum blonde hair. The greeting counter by the front door stood forlorn and unmanned and she strode past it without pause, winding her unerring way through the maze to a certain table which lurked in a particularly secluded corner behind a heavy velvet curtain. The curtain’s lining crinkled subtly as she pushed it aside and stepped into the space beyond.
There was someone there waiting for her; he sat in the shadows which surrounded the spot-lighted table, his square lenses catching twin slivers of that light. He did not rise as she approached, but spoke.
“Umbra?”
“Yes. Mr. Ganforth, I assume?”
The slivers nodded and she tucked herself into place directly across from him, vanishing into her own set of shadows. She placed her slender briefcase on the padded bench beside her. She did not remove her large wrap-around sunglasses or offer him her hand. Once she had settled herself he continued, very bland.
“I represent an interested party.”
“Yes.” He slid something across to her with the tips of his fingers, and she looked down at the object without touching it. Framed by the neat circle of light, it was a hastily-snapped black and white photograph of two figures standing on a wide doorstep. One wore a dark suit, the other a light-colored one-piece uniform, possibly that of a moving company. The suit-wearer was pointing at something out of the shot, to the left, and he had a percise circle drawn around his face in neat green ink. Her black lenses studied the scene for a moment before rising back to the man across from her. “Does he live here in town? Any possible travel expenses will of course be reflected in the final balance.”
“He’s here. He lives over on the Eastside. His address is on the back.”
She still made no move to pick up the photo.
“What’s the catch?” Spoken without rancor.
“Catch?”
Possibly a flicker of annoyed impatience. “I'm only called when there’s a catch. What’s his? What makes him special?”
A long pause. He tapped a thumb against the other fingers of that hand, one at a time, in careful order. Finally...
“It appears that he may have friends in high places.”
“I see. How high?”
“High enough. But not... stratospheric.”
“Soaring with eagles, but not with angels.”
“Very aptly put. Yes.”
“And he presumably isn’t that high himself?” With her hands, she framed the very existence of the photo as part of the question.
“That would appear to be the case, yes.”
“And do these possible friends live here in the city?”
“None have yet made their appearance.”
“Strictly a newcomer, then? None of the local big boys are backing him in any way?”
“To answer in order, yes and no.”
“And he’s already causing ripples, hmm?” She smiled thinly, her lips moving like the edges of a knife collection. She clearly didn’t expect a reply and none was offered. She continued, now in a flat serious tone. “Assuming my usual check out of the target reports clean... realatively speaking... I’ll do it. But he's an unknown quantity. So double the standard fee. Half in advance.”
“Agreed.” No hesitation.
One of her eyebrows may have twitched upward in surprise, ever so microscopically, but with the glasses it was hard to be certain.
“You’ll want the usual proof?” She waved a gloved finger over the photo in a suggestive circular fashion.
“Yes. That will do quite nicely.”
“Any special messages that you wish delivered?”
For the first time in the conversation, he showed a flash of expression; a vaguely perplexed surprise.
“People want such things?”
“Some seem to.”
“Hm.” Professionalism again. “No. No special messages. The money will be in the indicated account by this evening. I await word from you. Good day.” He rose and departed with his own industrially drab briefcase, gray with no trace of silver, leaving her alone with the picture. She again studied it for several moments, forming the neat mental cross-hairs inside the circle of green ink. Beginning the process of turning the figure into nothing but a two-dimensional paper target. Not that she would be using a rifle, of course. If that had been a viable option, she wouldn’t be here right now. Finally, she made a slightly showy flicking gesture and there was a slender pair of padded gold tweezers glistening between her posed fingers. She picked up the photo by one careful corner, glanced almost absently at the green-inked address on the back and slipped the sheet into a particular pocket deep in her briefcase. The pocket crinkled as the curtain had. As she completed this action, a tuxedoed waiter suddenly and discretely appeared around the curtain and deposited a tall frosty glass in front of her on the table, perched fussily on a circular black and white coaster. He departed as unobtrusively as he had come. Everything important stowed away and sealed and strapped down again, she sipped for a time at the tube’s thin misty contents, her face unreadable.
________________________________________
She left the meeting place. Driving back through the city along with the beginnings of the evening’s rush-hour traffic, she abruptly pulled her sleek (but relentlessly non-flashy) car into the parking lot of a nearby convenience store and stepped out in a swirl of coat to use one of the battered pay phones which loitered in one corner of the lot. She deposited no money, simply punched in a long number in one swift memorized burst. She pulled a small item from a pocket and held it between her mouth and the handset. After a couple of rings, someone picked up, his voice sounding slightly scratchy.
“’Lo.”
“Charles. It’s show time. There is some work for you. Interested?”
The voice cleared up noticibly.
“Always. Whadda need, my love?”
“The usual workup. On this address and any inhabitants, here in town.” She recited the information that had been on the back of the photo.
“Get right on it.”
She had already hung up and was stalking back to the car, pocketing the voice distorter as she did so. The usual collection of idlers as can be in any such parking lot watched her every move, but some deep-rooted sense of self-preservation kept their mouths shut and their feet firmly planted.
She was of course aware of them, but she didn’t think about them as she got back in and drove away, vanishing into the flow of traffic.
________________________________________
She didn’t really have a home, had never had one since she had found herself living the life she now did, but at the moment she spent her nights in an apartment in Hayestown, one of the city’s more prosperous and upscale neighborhoods, sloping up a gentle hill just north of the river which bisected the metropolis while it meandered its looping way to the harbor and the ocean. She could have easily afforded the rent on the building’s penthouse, if she had wanted it; since settling here in this squabbling and divided city, business had been brisk. It was her recently-reaffirmed experience, however, that penthouses and their occupants tended to attract more than their fair share of attention, up to and including the sort of attention which she herself lavished on people. And she had other things to spend her profits on.
A penthouse no, but the apartment was nonetheless high up, and featured a fine view south out over a wide section of the river and its numerous bridges. Back now from her meeting with Ganforth, she stood as she often did on the (relatively small) balcony with another glass of mineral water in her hand and counted off the visible spans from right to left. She had learned that much at least, in her relatively short time here. The Harrowstone, with its many secrets and rumors clustered in its crumbling shadows. The lacy Bridge of Rainbows, so favored by the city's suicides. (No one ever jumped off the Harrowstone...) The more prosaic Anchorplate and 42nd Street crossings, which cleared the visual palate for the looming gothic structure of the Imperial which rose up in its gaudy splendor just as the river turned out of sight to the north, splitting as it did so to go around Mayor’s Island. The numerous yellow-orange banners of the Imperial fluttered in the brisk afternoon breeze. All was as it should be.
Her inventory complete, she dropped her gaze to the wide tree-lined street which ran by the front of the building, twenty-two floors directly below. There was a steady stream of ant-like pedestrians and cars moving back and forth, occasionally flaked with one of the sleek green-and-gold bullets which were the city’s trams. She sipped again and wondered idly how many of those people down there understood the true nature of the world, the way things really worked here in this city and elsewhere. Not many, she supposed. After all, she hadn’t known herself for many years. Far too many years, perhaps, before the insight had finally come to her. You had to rise high up to truly understand, get above the omnipresent fumes and muck, using whatever route that you could find for yourself... either through the front door or the back...
Then she reconsidered, finishing the drink as she did so. Maybe understanding was all too possible on ground level. Things she herself had seen, had done... Her eyes moved yet again, this time to the newspaper laying discarded on the nearby suntable, opened and refolded. The interior headline stood out: Blake Named As New Conductor of City Symphony.
She shrugged off the thoughts and went back inside. Nothing to do now but to wait for Charles to work his magic. And exercise, of course. Always continue to exercise, keeping her edge keen. She slept soundly that night, without dreams.
________________________________________
Charles performed his duties with his customary speed and efficiency, earning his usual cut of the profits. Three days later she was lounging back in the apartment’s one comfortable chair, her long legs crossed on the footrest, with the contents of a fat folder of papers piled in her lap. As she finished with each sheet, it went directly into a whirring electronic shredder crouched by her side.
Charles hadn’t had much trouble with the house itself; its previous owners, an industrialist named Eberhart and his wife, had been quite the movers and shakers in local society until his death of cancer a few months previously, followed by her leaving the city for presumably happier climes. The Ti