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A Voyeur Pays the Price

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Comments and feedback welcome on this piece, hopefully the first of a three-part series if the first is well received. Special thanks to Literotica User 'SpreadLegsWetLips' for her help in the Volunteer Editor Programme. Enjoy!

*

Lots of jobs have perks, little things that can make an otherwise intolerable employment bearable, enjoyable even. Maybe you get the occasional freebie. Maybe the people you work with are just really great.

Well, I had neither of those perks. In fact, it occurred to me as I ambled into the alleyway behind Bartlett's Sandwich Emporium, that someone who observed me there and then might have a hard time discerning what possible perks I might enjoy. I was spending my lunch hour loitering outside a rundown fast-food style sandwich place, in the blistering July heat, a full four miles from the second-hand computer repair shop that employed me.

Well they'd be wrong. Admittedly, I would have to admit that I led a fairly sorry existence. I'd worked at "Izzy's Computer Solutions" for three years now, ever since I had dropped out of college. There were five of us working there, dealing mainly with the, shall we say, older clientele who weren't exactly computer-literate, and so most of the stuff we were given to fix was fairly simple, repetitive and boring.

And, admittedly, it was true that even at 23, I was sort of the errand boy and nothing more. It wasn't that I was particularly unskilled or anything - I was just as competent as the others (more or less). It was just that I didn't have the most outgoing of personalities, and I never really fit in with the other guys there. When it came time to dump an unwanted job on someone, "oh Peter can do it" was the go-to solution.

But recently, things had got a whole lot better.

I smirked to myself from the end of the alleyway, checking as usual that no one had seen me come down (always a challenge when you're next to a 'sandwich emporium' and it's lunchtime). I made my way around to the back of the building, where the fans blasted out the smell of fresh bread with a steady drone. Almost there.

I had been doing this for about four weeks now, every lunch hour I would rush down here, running if need be to make sure I was here by 1220 at the latest. This was my 'perk.'

Let me explain.

About a month ago, John, the manager at Izzy's (I never have discovered who 'Izzy' is) decided in his great wisdom that we would start offering a pickup service -- we would collect people's virus-infested laptops, bring them in, and take them back out when done. This wasn't exactly a popular move among the rest of us, but the others soon discovered a neat little solution.

"Oh Peter can do it."

So, four weeks ago, I found myself trying to find Bartlett's Sandwich Emporium, which I had never heard of before, and the owner of which had an old Mac he wanted us to look at. Since I inevitably got lost, I was feeling pretty miserable by the time I eventually got there. I was running into my lunch break, and was a little annoyed when the owner just gave me a key to the storage room on the second floor and left me to get it.

It was clear the room was never used - cobwebs everywhere, and junk lined the floor. I found the Mac, and sat down. I figured I might as well spend my break there since it was nearly over...

And so it was, that I first saw her.

You see, the sandwich place was on the same road that ran behind the Playfair Hotel, one of the classier and more upmarket hotels in town. From the front it was pretty imposing, but from the back - the view that I had from the window on the second floor of this rundown sandwich building -- all you could see was the windows of hotel rooms. And just as it was that I was beginning to get bored of sitting in this graveyard of an attic, I glanced up into one of the rooms, and saw the face of an angel.

OK that sounds cheesy, so let me rephrase that. I looked up, and saw the nipples of an angel.

It was only for a second, but there she was. All I could make it out was a flash of blonde hair, and her very much naked chest, glide by the window.

I had shot up and pressed against the window, but I couldn't see anything anymore. Now maybe someone else, some one more sensible, would have left it there. But people like me, people who work all day in computer shops and go home to their single flat and watch TV all night alone, we don't see much in the way of actual nudity.

So I figured, if I can almost see her from the second floor, maybe I just need to get higher? I rushed downstairs, ignored the obnoxious sandwich seller, raced around the building, hoping desperately there'd be an access to the roof, and there it was. The very same fire exit steps that I was now climbing up, four weeks later.

That first time, I had sprinted up without a second thought. I didn't even think to duck when I reached the roof, in case anyone saw me. I had scanned the hotel building frantically, trying to find my blonde angel again, and there she was. There's a good fifty feet between her window and the edge of this roof, but we were almost exactly level, and I could see her room quite well. It had seemed fairly spacious and luxurious from what I could make out, but that was hardly the focus of my attention. I was transfixed by this vision. My new blonde friend, whom I could now see was completely naked, examining her wardrobe. The pale flesh of her gorgeous buttocks displayed for my eager gaze.

And so it had begun. The next day I had come back at the same time, not optimistic about a repeat showing, but there she was again.

The day after that I brought binoculars.

Maybe there was something reprehensible about all this, maybe I was crossing some fundamental moral line. But I didn't care. For the last four weeks, this had been the highlight of every day, my visits with "Ms. Tits" as I thought of her (yeah so I didn't exactly have a great imagination when it came to names, who cares?).

I felt like I was getting to know her pretty well. Her blonde hair, natural from what I could make out, was straight, and shoulder-length. She looked like she was in her mid-thirties, but her body was kept well-toned and fit. And her body! I'd seen every inch of it over the last month -- usually I caught her getting dressed or undressed for a shower or something. She was quite pale, and it was a good look. Her breasts were perkier than most twenty-year-olds', with the cutest little puffy, pink nipples. On those rare, perfect days when I could see below the waist, her ass was almost enough to make my hands holding the binoculars shake -- round, yet oh-so firm.

And today, here I was again, for my date with Ms. T. The sun was bright, brighter than it had been on that first day. I settled in with my binoculars, lying on my stomach, wondering what would be on offer today.

I didn't have long to wait. The door to what I had decided must be a bathroom (her hair was always wet when she emerged) opened, and she stepped out. I grinned to myself. She was entirely nude.

She was casually brushing her hair while she strolled around the room. Her skin was glistening still from her shower, her milky white ass cheeks on display just for me. The usual fantasies poured through my head. I thought of walking right into that room, imagined seeing that up close, tortured myself imagining what it would be like to actually screw her, there in that room. In my head she grinned as I strode confidently into her room, spread those gorgeous legs to show me up close what I had glimpsed from afar, and groaned and moaned as we fucked on that bed.

She was fumbling with something in her drawer. I pushed the binoculars to my face. Anything that wasn't 'getting dressed' was surely a good thing. When her hand emerged from the drawer, it took a few seconds before I realised what she was holding. It was plastic, purple, and phallic.

It was a dildo.

Ms. Tits -- my perfect, blonde, naked angel -- had a dildo. This was insane, it was like I was living in a porn film. From what I had discerned about the woman, she seemed pretty classy. She obviously rented this expensive suite on a permanent basis, on the brief occasions I had seen her with clothes on, it was always an expensive-looking suit of some kind. Not the sort of woman you thought of as going to her hotel room every lunchtime to get herself off.

She seemed to pause for a moment, giving me a few seconds to feast on the sight of her seemingly perpetually-tensed butt for a few seconds more, before walking into an adjacent room and out of sight.

No -- no! This was torture. I had been tantalised with something beyond anything I had ever seen before -- Ms. Tits furiously masturbating for me -- and now she was out of sight.

I craned forward, as though this would allow me to see through walls. Minutes passed.

I could have left. I really could have. I could have just given up, gone back to work, or something, anything.

But no. Ten minutes I lay there, binoculars pressed to my face, eager for a last glimpse before I left, and oblivious to the world around me...

"Hello."

I'd never really known panic like I felt in that first couple of seconds after hearing that sound. There was someone behind me! I span around, onto my back, and backed up against the railing.

A woman was stood there -- she was well dressed, and she'd been right behind me. Did she know what I'd been doing? She certainly looked angry. She had this really familiar-looking blonde hair...

Oh shit.

I hadn't recognised her immediately, maybe because I wasn't used to seeing her up close and, you know, with her clothes on. But there was no mistaking it now. Same hair, same perfect, pale skin, same slender yet suddenly very imposing body, which her expensive light-black suit seemed to both hide and show off.

"Hi," I answered weakly. She said nothing. She wore an expression of what I can only describe as calm fury -- she only had a slight frown, but her eyes seemed to positively radiate hatred. She knew exactly what had been going on.

I started to get to my feet, but at that moment she struck her foot out and placed it on my chest. There's something about having an angry woman's stiletto heel pressing against your chest that makes you kind of lose it.

"Look! I- I- I was just... I'm sorry!" I blurted out. At this point I was too terrified to think of anything much really. She still didn't say anything. She leant over me slightly, looked me directly in the eyes, and shoved a slip of paper in my top pocket.

I could only meet her gaze for a few seconds, but she continued to stare at me wordlessly after I'd looked down. Just as I was feeling the urge to blurt out something else, she took a step back, turned around, and walked casually back to the fire escape, leaving me to my dazed and confused thoughts.

"Christ Peter, you're an hour late!"

It was true. I had walked back, barely registering where I was going most of the time. I had more pressing things to worry about.

"Sorry John," I mumbled. Without so much at looking at anyone, I strode over to my corner of the room and sank behind my computer.

Fear and confusion were battling it out for prominence in my head. What was she going to do? Successful entrepreneurial businesswomen did not just let you get away with spying on them naked. Surely she would call the police, or had done so already. Would they be able to find me?

The whole situation was so bizarre. Why had she just left without saying a word? How had she known I was there? What, exactly, had just happened?

The more I thought about it, the more miserable I became. Pathetic, low-life Peter. Everyone would know him as the guy who spent his free time spying on girls getting undressed and jacking off, probably.

It was a while before my thoughts stirred from this stupor, and I had fresh reason to feel stupid.

I had forgotten the note.

In all the panic and confusion, I had completely forgotten that she had slipped a piece of paper in my top pocket. Feeling a fresh wave of anxiety, I pulled it out.

It was a URL, handwritten in red ink. It was a long one, and it looked to be for a blog of some kind. Trying to ignore my frayed nerves, I pulled up my laptop (I hadn't done anything remotely like work since I got back) and typed in the address.

It was a blog, belonging to someone called Heather Dean. The way the URL was written meant that it was displaying the posts "oldest-first" so that it started with the first ones, and got more recent as you scrolled down. The first few posts were infrequent and short, and it seemed to belong to someone seriously into "modern feminist theory." It wasn't until I scrolled to a post with a picture that I realised Heather Dean was Ms Ti... was the woman I'd been spying on.

This didn't make things any clearer at all. Why had she sent me a link to her blog? Hope leapt within me at the thought that she simply wanted me to read her theories on gender equality or something, as punishment for 'objectifying women' or whatever. As I scrolled down to more recent posts however, things took a bit of a turn.

There was an entry titled simply 'Voyeur.' I checked the date -- four weeks ago. "Today I was violated in one of the more despicable ways our male brethren have devised..." it began. This wasn't going to be good.

It went on to give a full account of the first time I had seen her -- she had spotted me straight away. I checked the comments. They were many, and they were angry.

Feeling slightly sick, I scrolled down. The next entry was quite long.

"I was struck by the level of interest my last post generated here, about the vermin I caught spying on me. Are any of you really *that* surprised? There is nothing men will not stoop to, to fulfil their baser urges.

I have decided to begin something of a project. You may find this hard to believe, but as I write this the young man (and I use that word in the very loosest sense) is back, in the same place as yesterday! So, I am going to perform an experiment, to demonstrate just how low, how degraded, and how wretched men truly are -- every day that I see him, I will allow him to see me in the same way that he did yesterday.

I hope that in time, you will all come to realise what I learnt long ago -- males, for all their words, seek only to subjugate and violate women for their own pleasure. There are no exceptions.

And of course, if I am proved right, in time there will be retribution.

Heather"

I must have read and re-read the post at least three times. Horror washed over me with every reading -- and what did she mean by 'retribution?' The comments were no solace either. The full force of their hatred for me, their mystery 'vermin,' was overpowering. I sank even further back in my chair.

The posts continued, almost every day. Why hadn't I stopped? I thought miserably. Every post was a chance I had missed to get away. Finally there was today's post, from two hours ago.

"I have decided this experiment has reached its conclusion. Today, dear readers, I confronted my unwelcome visitor on the filthy rooftop that he had made his home. Needless to say, the creature displayed shameless cowardice and could not even look me in the eye.

I know many of you have been wondering and asking what kind of retribution is going to befall him. Well, dear readers, he will be reading this post. And I have a message for him -- you are to come to my hotel room -- the Elizabethan Suite, the very room where you violated my most intimate privacy, at 7pm this evening. Come alone. If you do not, I will take your description to the police, and tell them about your little adventures.

And to my readers, I advise you to check the blog around the same time too...

Heather"

"You OK Peter?" said John, frowning. I had jumped to my feet, backing away from the screen as though it were poisonous.

What was she going to do? Did she want to berate me and humiliate me before calling the police anyway? "Come alone" -- she sounded like she wanted to literally murder me.

"I've gotta go," I mumbled. I slammed the laptop shut and bolted for the door before anyone could reply. I thought I might suffocate if I didn't get some fresh air.

I ended up wandering aimlessly though town. What were my options here? I could just not go. Somehow I doubted Heather was bluffing though -- she knew what I looked like, she may even have taken a picture for all I knew. Of course she would turn me in. I had to go.

I hadn't eaten since breakfast, but I couldn't face eating. Before I knew it, it was half past six. Just go, listen to what she's got to say, and leave, I told myself. Get it over with.

So, at ten to seven I was to be found walking into the reception of the Playfair Hotel. Probably just my imagination, but it felt as though everyone was watching me as I did so.

I knew what floor I needed to go to, and as soon as I stepped out of the left there was a sign for the Elizabethan Suite. I trudged down the corridor like a condemned man. Hand shaking, I knocked twice on the door marked 'Elizabethan.'

The door opened. Heather was wearing the same suit as she had been that afternoon, with a smart, tightly fitting blouse and skirt to go with it. Her striking blonde hair stood out all the more against it.

"In." She stood aside to let me pass. I waked begrudgingly in, unable once again to meet her gaze. I'm a fairly tall guy, but in Heather's presence I felt somehow diminished, like she was towering over me.

If I had been able to focus on anything other than what my fate was going to be, the room itself would have been captivating. It had an ornate wooden table in the centre, with leather armchairs around it and a huge plasma TV on a wall. One wall was entirely taken up with a large window, through which I could easily make out the roof of the Sandwich Emporium. I must have stood out like a signal fire.

I heard the door close softly. Heather said nothing. Without looking at me, she walked over to a minibar and poured herself a glass of wine, leaving me stood awkwardly by the door. The silence seemed to go on for an age. It didn't help that fleeting images of her naked kept coming into my head.

"Do you know why you're here?" she said, finally.

"You wanted me to come," I said quietly. Her gaze was fixed on me now -- her cold blue eyes staring me down.

"Do you know why?" I didn't know what to say. Evidently an answer was required though.

"Because you caught me watching you," I mumbled pathetically. She walked forwards slowly, until she was right in front of me.

Smack.

I stumbled back, reeling from Heather's slap to my face. Her expression displayed utmost loathing.

"You are here, because you have violated me. You invaded my privacy, raped me with your eyes. And now," she strode over to the nearest armchair, "I am going to show you how that feels."

I hadn't spotted it at first, but there was a webcam of some kind atop the armchair. Heather was pressing buttons on it, and a green light appeared on it.

"What's-"

"This," interrupted Heather, "is streaming live onto the internet. Anyone who has visited my blog in the last fifteen minutes will have found a link where they can view this feed." I stared at her uncomprehendingly. "In short, anyone of my followers can watch what is happening here live."

"Why?" I croaked. I didn't see where this was going, but it couldn't be anything good.

"Because you're actions have consequences!" she said venomously. "And you're going to find out what those are." A loud beep filled the air, drawing my attention to a laptop perched on a table behind her. "That sound means someone has commented on the live feed," she said by way of explanation. She turned to the screen. "'He looks just like I imagined -- scrawny and weak'" she quoted. It suddenly hit me that everything I did was being watched by God-knows how many people. I suddenly felt very self-conscious. Heather smiled at my obvious discomfort.

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