I Like to Watch
By Don Winslow (8/24/01)


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 slick feel of the 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
Copyright 2001, Don Winslow



  
Like to Watch