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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.

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.

I am so fucking tempted.
I'm sure it shows in my eyes, in a little twitch of my muscles, in a slight curving of my lips. Because she flinches, she twinges, just a little, at the grabable point of her wrist, like she feels it, feels my hand squeezing her, controlling her, guiding her, urging her out of the building, to the back seat of a cold car on a cold night in a dark parking lot.
Grabbing isn't necessary though.
She stands.
It isn't time to stand, and nobody else is standing, except those still making their way back to their seats from those aforementioned conference rooms, stopping to chat with rarely seen acquaintances, and generally ignoring the two of us.
But she's standing, so I stand too. For a minute that seems much longer we do nothing but stand. And stare. We do a lot of staring. A casual observer walking past, and this is not a hypothetical, the auditorium is full of them, would think at first glance that we're two old friends locked in conversation. Except the words aren't audible. They're in our hearts, in our minds, and especially in our eyes.
It's an interesting conversation. Plenty of questions. a few half answers and many suggestions, mostly lewd and in some sense completely inappropriate for the setting, but at the same time a perfectly natural reaction to the events of the afternoon.
She breaks eye contact first, turning to say "excuse me" to the older couple sitting next to her.
I say "excuse me" to the people next to me. We walk in parallel down the two rows of seats, offering our excuse-mes to each person we pass. I am actually a half step behind her so I can watch her move without being completely obvious. She has a certain awkward grace to her, a librarian's haughty elegance, a firm back and a round ass that rolls as she steps around and over the feet of the people she passes.
Finally she reaches the aisle and stops, waiting for me. We looked at each other again, just to confirm we were going through with it and walk up the aisle to the back of the auditorium. We would hold hands if we could, but we don't. Our act will be less a public statement against the policies of oppression than a private act of rebellion, a non-violent acting out of rage and resentment, and a reminder to ourselves that they can never really win.
Being a family man I have the larger vehicle. Fortunately I remember where I parked and she follows me through the still and quiet lot, her heels clicking on the asphalt, our breath fogging in the cold dark air.
It's all so natural, so foretold, so unquestioned, that I almost stop to question it. But we are already at my van, and I am opening the back door, helping her in, and checking out her ass again before I can think about what we're doing. She scoots over in the back seat and pats the seat beside her, part testing the firmness, part indicating that I should join her. I join, closing the door behind me and slipping my arm around her. We sit for just a minute, not saying anything. Anything that needs to be said has already been communicated silently. So we lean in toward each other, her head slightly back and tilting up, my head slightly forward and tilted down, until our lips meet, and our tongues, and my hand is unbuttoning her white blouse, and her hand is unbuttoning my white dress shirt.
We can barely hear the sound of the organ and a hymn of forced unity from inside the auditorium as she unzips my pants and I help her wiggle out of her skirt. There is no question of why we were here, that the fuck, the illicit screw, the forbidden, no doubts about it, supposedly well defined act itself is our objective, but the kiss is becoming in and of itself an act worth savoring.
Her lips are warm, soft and pliant. Her tongue is darting and lewd. Her breath is hot and slightly irregular as the kiss grows longer and our hands continue to wander. I am stroking her hard nipples through her soft bra and she is moaning into my mouth with each pinch and fondle, clearly liking it rough as she moans louder the harder I pinch. I reach around behind her to undo the bra strap, suddenly and urgently needing her breasts in my mouth.
Her bra is off, her breasts are free, her hands are on my belt, on my zipper, on my cock. We are both unfastening her skirt, pulling off her underwear and then mine as she leans back on the seat pulling my head to her breasts and my hand between her legs.
She is wet.
We are urgent.
I am over her. She is guiding me.
I am in.
She smiles up at me with the most wonderful lewd and giddy smile, her always slightly mussed curly hair slightly more mussed, her lipstick slightly smeared, her big wide eyes sparkling with memories of a wild, passionate, pre-librarian, pre-church rebellious youth.
I have to kiss her. I lean forward, penetrating her just a little deeper. She gives a little moan and a buck of her hips and raises her head to kiss me back.
It is an incredibly hot kiss, out here in the back seat of my family van in the parking lot of the church conference, my cock inside her, our naked bodies touching at every imaginable point.
But the fucking is still urgent. She plants her feet solidly on the seat and raises her hips, pushing me back into a kneeling position. This is how she wants to be fucked. This is how she will be fucked.
Hard.
Holding her raised hips I swing my hips out, just a little, and then in, and then out and then in, settling in to the familiar rhythm in the familiar car in the unfamiliar parking lot with my newly familiar fuckbuddy.
In the auditorium the larger part of the Body of Christ is singing to the glory of God while out here our smaller part is screwing to the same tune. Jen can read my mind or is sharing the same thought from the Almighty or is simply coincidentally close to coming for as the hymn surges and the organ swells her hips surge and her breathing quickens and her face goes red like a fuse on the greatest most dangerous most wonderful explosive ever imagined and I am swinging my hips fast and wild and hard banging in to her as she squeezes and mauls and pinches her own breasts, her head thrown back against my car seat her neck arched, both of us guttural and then screaming and shouting with the climax of the singing and the organ and God oh God oh God as we come.
Lying on top of Jen, panting, exhausted and exhilarated, I find her hand in the dark and squeeze. Here in the privacy of my car, naked and post-orgasmic, we will hold hands triumphantly. For we have won. They cannot control or limit Love. Our hearts are free and God and time are on our side.

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