Like to Watch

I Like to Watch (M/F, Voyeurism)

By Don Winslow

We had discovered the modest, rather nondescript pensione a few years ago. Marianne and I. We were lucky to find it, as we had never been to St. Tropez before. Marianne is gone now, but I still return, always to these same rooms, year after year, alone, each year -- one year older.

The day we first set foot in the place, Marianne instantly fell in love with the sunny spaciousness of the surprisingly large, high-ceilinged rooms. I, on the other hand, was drawn immediately to the full-sized glass doors that opened onto the balcony, providing a splendid view of the street and the people below. I like watching people, you see. I justify it because I am a writer, you see. Still, it’s something I have always done, even when I was by growing up. I remember how, when our mother used to take us on frequent train trips to visit her family in Acquitaine, my sister Yvette and I would pass the time in a game we invented: watching our fellow passengers, nudging each other, making up whispered stories about glamorous women and mysterious strangers -- always on the lookout for “spies.”

The pensione was surprisingly cheap, and best of all, the rent rose only modestly in tourist season. The international set rented the more expensive places: villas on the rolling hills above the little town, with their sweeping views of the sea. The occasional tourists who were reduced to staying in the village itself, would usually choose the flats on the far side of the building, the quiet side. Isolated from the noisy street, those rooms overlooked an inner courtyard, a dry, barren, place with a long-dead fountain. But for me, the view of the crowded, colorful, ever-changing streets below was perfect.

Across from my rooms were a row of small shops, boutiques that catered to the hordes of tourists. I liked to watch the smartly-dressed, fashionable women strolling along the street clutching handfuls of brightly colored packages, pausing before the windows, to consider…what?… some new hope for happiness, or maybe just a hopefully displayed bauble, a passing fancy? And of course, being St. Tropez in the full swing of the season, I was presented each day with a luscious passing parade of tanned, scantily clad women headed like lemmings, towards the sun and the sea.

But the daily center of interest for me, was the café directly opposite my rooms -- a small and lively place, crowded at all hours, with tables clustered along the sidewalk, the constantly changing clusters of patrons clearly in view from my third story window.

At first light, I would draw back the curtains, while below the sleepy waiters were just starting to arrange the tables, wiping off the chairs, setting out the sign with today’s menu chalked on it. Then I would take my place just inside the glass doors, my chair carefully arranged to give me clear view, my trusty Zeiss binoculars at hand, my notebook open in my lap. I would use the time to write, occasionally looking up from my journal to see if there were any scenes of interest developing among those taking their morning coffee in my favorite café.

For awhile, there was little to interest me: the solitary early-riser, sipping a quiet cup of coffee, munching on a croissant while scanning a folded newspaper; one or two couples, tourists in huddled conversation, equipped with maps and guidebooks, planning their day, no doubt. I used my field glasses to inspect a bevy of girls strutting past in their stacked heeled sandals, their healthy young bodies left delightfully exposed by shiny, minimal swim suits: skimpy tops that banded their slender torsos lightly cradling girlish, budding breasts, and tightly-stretched bottoms, the tautly curved fabric straining to not-quite-contain the pert, saucy rearcheeks of those coltish young women.

I couldn’t help sighing. And as I swung the glasses away from that delectable trio of receding, swaying, tight-cheeked young bottoms, I caught a glimpse of a new couple sitting in a corner, engaged in intense conversation. Distracted by the parade of passing girls, I had missed their entrance.

Now what caught my eye was the breathtaking beauty of the girl at the table: a small-breasted blonde, long and lean, and lightly tanned, with those high cheekbones and striking good looks of a fashion model. She looked like she had just stepped out of the pages of Elle. Even among the beautiful women of St. Tropez, this one stood out. Across the table from her, her good-looking companion sat hunched over his coffee: boyish, youthful in appearance, I judged him to be 30 or so. A slim guy, with curly brown hair, tanned and healthy looking in a T-shirt, shorts that showed his strong hairy legs, and sandals on his bare feet.

But as I looked closer I realized that the slender blond girl, wasn’t looking very appealing at the moment. Her pretty features were contorted in an anguished expression, and as I watched she shook her close-cropped head, her lips tightening in obstinate refusal of some sort proposition he was putting forth, I guessed. Were they having a quarrel, some silly lover’s spat? But no, it was more than that. He seemed to be coaxing her into something, I decided, while she repeatedly shook her head and demurred. She was clearly a woman torn. He, on the other hand, sat calm and relaxed, a slightly amused smile playing over his lips. Leaning toward her a little, he seemed to be toying with his pretty companion, all the while smiling with the sort of tolerant smile a doting parent reserves for a wayward child.

I watched him edge his chair closer, reach out across the table, take her hand, hold it hand lightly in his, while he looked directly into her obviously distressed eyes. He spoke to her. She mumbled something, her eyes quickly lowered to avoid the man’s searching gaze. Her blond head shook again, but this time more slowly; it seemed to me her refusal held a bit less conviction. Was she wavering, her resolve weakening under her lover’s urging, his quiet persistence?

He squeezed her hand, spoke to her, nodded his gentle encouragement. She looked up at him, and I saw the hesitancy in her face, and then under his steady gaze, the final crumbling of her resolve. She looked away, and her slim shoulders heaved in a tiny shrug of resignation as she decided to comply with her lover’s demands, whatever they may be. Intrigued, I sat up in my chair, eager to see more of the unfolding drama.

Clearly uncomfortable, she glanced hurriedly around at the other tables to see if anyone was watching. But for the most part, the other patrons were oblivious of the little drama being performed under their noses. I alone seemed privy to their escapade, their secret pas de deux, played out for me alone -- their audience of one.

Seated as they were, across the table from each other, I was allowed only a limited view below the table, just enough to see a pair of long and shapely legs extending from under the hem of a short, light-weight summer skirt that crossed her thighs a few inches above the knees. Now I watched her shift in her seat as, moving quickly and furtively so as not to arouse attention from the other patrons, she reached under her, as if to adjust her skirt. I couldn’t see what she doing, but I saw her folded legs rise as she leaned to one side, reached down, wiggled, and then quickly straightened, this time holding something in her hand. It appeared to be a scrap of cloth, thin and glossy metallic-colored fabric. At a nod from her companion, she quickly showed him her clenched fist, then pulled it back, intending to hide her cache under the table. But his hand shot out to clasp her wrist. He stopped her hasty retreat, and held her hand over the white marble table top.

Slowly, he twisted her wrist, compelling the girl to turn her closed hand upward, and then, at his urging, to open her clenched fingers to show him the wadded material she held in the palm of her hand. With his other hand he reached out to pluck the bunched fabric out of her flattened hand, and snatch it up playfully. And now I could see clearly what he now held up to be examined: a pair of women’s panties, made of shiny bronze satin.

A big smile widened on his handsome face as he held his girlfriend’s underwear over the table, sampling the exquisite feel of slippery satin between his fingers. I watched him bring the wadded underpants up to his nose, sniffing experimentally, then inhaling deeply, drinking in the heady fragrance of the blonde’s most intimate parts, while the owner of the panties squirmed in her seat, blushing with embarrassment. He was beaming! Delighting in her mortified reaction, he offered them up to her nose, inviting her to sample her own feminine smells. The girl turned away in disgust; he sat back and laughed.

Clearly enjoying himself, the young man moved his chair around to bring himself right up against his embarrassed companion, even as he let the hand that held her bunched drop down beneath the table to touch it to the girl who sat rigidly at his side. I watched her bring the coffee cup to her lips, looking around her with studied nonchalance, determined to ignore her playful boyfriend who, I could only surmise, was at that moment, rubbing the slippery panties up and down her left thigh. Unfortunately, I could only guess as to what nefarious manipulations might be going on under the table, as my view of the action was effectively obstructed by the circular tabletop.

Frustrated, I immediately turned the glasses on that pretty blond face, eager to see the girl’s reactions. She turned to hiss her objections through clenched teeth, but he continued on, unperturbed, impervious to her vehement protests. Through it all, I noticed she didn’t get up and leave. She stayed in place, protesting constantly to be sure-- but not trying to escape the erotic situation which she found so embarrassing.

Meanwhile, the guy just sat there with that boyish grin plastered on his face, and his arm never stopped its slow stroking motion. The blonde straightened visibly; looking down at the tabletop the rounded edge of which she clutched with whitened knuckles. I saw her small, even teeth bite down on her curled lower lip. Under the relentless stimulation, her lashes fluttered down, and she arched back in her chair. He eagerly nuzzled closer, coming into my field of view, to whisper in her ear, then begin kissing along her craning neck, lewdly licking the side of her face. He was clearly enjoying himself, heating up that magnificent blonde with his non-stop fondling of her below the waist, rubbing her down with her own panties. Under the table, I could see the girl’s sandaled feet move apart; she let her legs fall negligently open. By now she was burning up, writhing in sexual heat, and she turned to her mischievous lover who was teasing so her mercilessly -- to offer him her lips in a deep, soulful kiss!

The two lovers embraced openly now, their eager hands feeling up each others body in their excited frenzy. And now a stir rippled through the sparse crowd. At the neighboring tables, heads shot up, turned in their direction, then quickly ducked down to exchange furtive whispers.

Now the amorous couple broke from their torrid embrace. Both of them were flushed; clearly aroused. He kept one arm loosely around her heaving shoulders while the devilish hand stayed in place on her lap, no doubt by now, well up her skirt, where it continued driving her crazy by its incessant silky caress up between those loosely sprawled legs. Suddenly, the young woman bolted upright, her eyes flying wide open as though she had been electrified by an abrupt piercing thrill. Her hand shot down to grab his wrist; but he had already pulled back and was bringing the offending hand up into clear view.

Stretched out on his widely-splayed fingers were the bronze-colored panties, darkly wet now and impregnated with feminine dew. The grinning guy held her underpants up like a newly-awarded trophy, openly displaying them for his woman, and anyone else who cared to look.

This brazen flaunting of her undies was the last straw for the long-suffering girl who shot to her feet, as if determined to end the game and flee from her public humiliation. Instantly, he reacted, grabbing her by the wrist, and hauling her back to plunk her down in the chair. He wrapped up the weakly struggling girl, tightening one arm to draw her resisting body to him in a close hug, while with the other hand he rubbed the moistened panties all over her scrunched-up, twisting face. I laughed to see the attractive blonde squirming in distaste like a little girl having her face scrubbed by a grimly-determined parent.

By now, they definitely had the attention of the other patrons. The astonished tourists were sitting up in rapt attention, fascinated, openly staring at the erotic sideshow the handsome couple were performing in their midst. I watched as he gleefully rubbed the wet panties over her nose and mouth, holding her to him to whisper in her ear. I saw her lips part, her mouth fall open and, incredibly -- I saw the guy thrust the wadded panties right into the girl’s gaping mouth! In spite of her squirming, he stuffed her mouth with the underpants, using two fingers to shove them in, while the helpless girl writhed and twisted in his loose embrace. What happened next, happened in flash.

With bulging cheeks, the wildly excited blonde sprang to her feet! Instantly, he sprang up to follow her, holding her hand as the two of them beat a feverish retreat, knocking over tables and chairs in a heated rush to find their rooms where they might consummate what they had started that morning at the quiet neighborhood café.

The End