THE EXHIBITIONIST AND THE VOYEUR

Janie didn’t walk; she flitted. Down the street, she flitted, her rounded little bottom, bouncing from side to side. She could have swayed or glided on her red, high heeled shoes, but on this day, in London town, she flitted. It was springtime and the early spring sunshine had dressed her in a tiny floral dress, cut low at the front and high on the hem line.

Her full, ample breasts swayed freely. She hadn’t worn a bra today. The cheesecloth fabric of her dress, grazed at her erect nipples.

Janie flitted past the building site, her skirt flying up in a gusty dust of springtime breeze. She grinned at the faces of the builders, half naked in the sunshine, as her bouncy little bottom was exposed to them. She laughed at their whistles and applause. She pretended to be shocked at their lewd gestures. A guy with the body of a Greek god; his muscular arm bent at the elbow. His fist. The hand of the other arm gripping his bicep. His mates cheered.

She felt no shame at inciting such a crude gesture. She simply giggled and grinned at the builder. He grinned back. Why should she feel shame? She was young and pretty in a curly, auburn, Pre-Raphaelite sort of way. Her inner thighs, right at the top, were wet with springtime longing and she wanted to be looked at.

Janie was in her element. The centre of attention.

A well dressed, elderly lady sniffed at her in disgust. “No knickers,” she muttered, disparagingly, to her male companion.

Janie grinned at the man to spite his lady friend. He hadn’t looked at all disapproving. Well he wouldn’t would he? She gave him an extra little wiggle and flipped up the hem of her dress, showing him her rounded cheeks, thanking him for his appreciation; his footsteps faltered. He stumbled to regain his balance.

Crabby old woman. Besides, she was wearing knickers; sure, only a tiny thong, which barely covered anything, but they were still knickers. Or panties, as she preferred to call them.

She flitted her way down the leafy, London street. A taxi driver wound down his window, blasted his horn and shouted something at her. She wasn’t sure if it was an obscenity, or an invitation, but she waved at him anyway.

Janie didn’t even have the grace to blush. She was so wet, so turned on by the male attention, she would have happily allowed herself to be gang raped. A frown crossed her pretty face. If she was allowing herself to be raped, it wouldn’t be rape at all, would it?

Who cares? She felt so gloriously female, so in her element, Janie wasn’t going to let such thoughts worry her.

She thought of her flat mate, Harold. Harold looked at her too; in a leering, lecherous kind of way. Janie enjoyed winding him up, just a little. She would stand in his way in the small kitchen, that they shared. Making him squeeze his tall skinny body up behind her, so that she could feel his impressive erection pressing against her bottom. Janie loved to make Harold blush. She knew that her obvious sexuality embarrassed him. Besides, it served him right. She knew that Harold spied on her. Their rooms were next to each other and Janie had realised very quickly that Harold had drilled a hole in the thin plasterboard wall. He watched her undressing; she always put on a good show for him.

Janie also knew that Harold was planning to put a hidden camera in her room. Harold was incredibly intelligent. He was in some sort of genius category. He was writing a thesis on applied mathematics, or some such nonsense. But for a bright, geeky guy, he was incredibly stupid. Janie had seen the discarded packaging for the camera, in the waste bin. She wondered where he was going to put the secret gadget. He’d probably hide it in the smoke detector, in the ceiling. That would give him a good all round perspective of the room.

Janie had felt almost sorry for him the night before. Even though she’d pulled a chair up as close as she could to his hole in the wall, Harold’s view must have been restricted. She’d sat in the chair, spread her legs and masturbated her tiny, virgin hole. Her previous displays had involved an erotic striptease, her performance turning her on. Masturbating for him, she’d felt incredibly powerful. The idea of his eyes goggling; as she’d brought herself to an uncontrollable orgasm, had made her giggle. The thought of him on the other side of the wall, pumping his cock, made her wet. The muffled groan she’d heard, coming from Harold’s room, made her wetter. A surge of juices.


Harold watched through the grubby flat window, as Janie flounced down the street. Dirty whore; she practically exposed herself to every male she came into contact with. Harold pumped and played with his erection as he watched her. Harold was proud of his cock. For a skinny guy, his cock was big and heavy. Ten inches; he’d measured it when he was fully erect. He imagined Janie’s mouth around it as he fucked her face. Her full lips stretched around his thickness; like the women on the porn sites he liked to look at. The thought made him almost orgasm. His cock pulsed; the blue veins standing out like a road map. But he held himself together; he’d have to clean up afterwards. Doing that just made him feel dejected and jaded.

He’d masturbated himself to a grunting frenzy, the previous night, splattering his seed over the wall. He’d watched, helplessly aroused, his thick cock in one hand, his clenched fist in his mouth, as Janie had fingered herself to what Harold assumed was a female orgasm. She’d made a lot of noises, her pelvis jerking, her feet clenched as if in a spasm. She’d only been able to get one finger in her cunt. Harold wondered if she was a virgin. He had no way of knowing; unless he asked her, or fucked her.

Asking her was out of the question. So was fucking her. Harold had never had a woman; he wouldn’t know where to start.

He went to his room, picked up the secret camera, and a bag of tools.


Janie climbed up the step ladder and got as close as she could to the smoke detector. She squinted inside. She couldn’t see anything, there wasn’t even any tell tale sign that the grill had been removed. She climbed down a couple of steps, stretching her neck. She’d got a cramp from the unnatural position. She’d forgotten the flashlight. The web site -- “Is there a spy in your house?” had said, “shine a flashlight onto the grill of your smoke detector.” She hadn’t got one. But she knew where she’d find one. She’d seen Harold with a small torch a couple of days ago. It would be in his room.

It was the second time she’d been in Harold’s room. The first time had been a few days ago; she’d wanted to prove to herself that Harold had been spying on her. And she’d been proved right. The hole in the wall was much larger from Harold’s side. If he stood on the bed, it would be exactly at eye level for him. He must have had a great view; much better than she’d at first thought.

Harold was exceptionally tidy. Janie had been struck on her first visit, how orderly everything was. This time, she could see that Harold wasn’t just tidy; he was obsessive. She felt that if she so much as breathed on his collection of colour graded pencils, all sharpened to the same length, he would know.


There was a neat pile of Porn magazines on a chest of drawers. All carefully straightened and tidily turned to the front cover uppermost. Janie stole one, from halfway down the pile. She’d look at it later; Harold would never miss it. She couldn’t find the damned flashlight though.


She stamped out of her flatmate’s room, carrying her Porn mag. She sat on her bed and flicked through the magazine, gulping at the size of the women’s breasts and one particular woman’s proudly displayed clitoris. It was the size of a large ball bearing; the clitoris, in fact, the woman’s wet, swollen genitalia, made Janie feel inadequate. She’d never actually looked at her own clitoris; but she was damn sure it didn’t compare with that monster. Perhaps there was a product available that would make a clitoris expand and grow; she would investigate.

She lay on her bed, and flicked over the pages of Pornography; despite her irritation Janie felt herself getting wet. She thought about masturbating; but there was still the problem of the hidden camera.

She knew there was one, and she knew that she had to find it. She could go to the shops and buy a flashlight, but she wanted to get thing done quickly. And there was always the danger of Harold coming home. Sometimes he just turned up unexpectedly, having said he’d be out for the day. A lecture would be cancelled, or one of his students hadn’t turned up.

Irritated with Pornography and monster clitorises giving her unrealistic expectations, she stood up. Her foot caught on something. She glanced down; it was only Harold’s fucking flashlight. God in heaven above and all His fucking angels. Harold must have dropped it earlier. She thanked the god she didn’t really believe in, except at Christmas time, and mounted the step ladder.

Janie shone the light directly onto the grill of the smoke detector; just like the instructions on the web site had said. Sure enough, there, looking back at her, was a tiny, tiny glass lens. She had found Harold’s secret camera. Janie felt triumphant. Now she had to think what to do about it.

She didn’t try to remove it; if he wanted to look, let him. But she wanted to know what Harold intended to do with the films he made. Were they just for himself, or was he going to show them to his friends? Did Harold even have friends? She didn’t have a problem confronting Harold; he would just crumble like worm eaten wood if she challenged him. There had to be a way of turning the situation to her advantage. Janie yearned to be on display. But that wasn’t enough for her. She was sure that there was money to be made.



Harold knew that Janie had been in his room. He didn’t know how he knew; he just knew. He checked everything. He couldn’t find any evidence; just that disconcerting feeling that his space had been invaded.

He looked at the big pile of Pornography; it looked undisturbed. Perhaps she’d had a look at some of it. But why would she? Surely women didn’t want to look at pictures of other women? He went through the pile, counting the issue dates carefully. Sure enough, one was missing. August 2009, issue 8. Harold could remember the image of a woman with impossibly big tits. And the headline; BIG BOOBS ON TRIAL! Harold never forgot anything.

But what was he going to do? He knew that Janie had stolen his magazine, but he could hardly ask her for it back; could he? He rehearsed the scenario.

“Um, did you happen to go into my room…”
No that wouldn’t do.
“Um, did you borrow a magazine…”
That was better; but he mustn’t start every question with “um”. It made him sound juvenile; indecisive. In the world of Academia he was someone of note. Almost a Professor. He should conduct the interview like someone used to authority. When he lectured to his students, Harold never said “um.”

“I don’t mind you borrowing a magazine from my room, but um…”

Dammit. Harold cursed out loud. She would laugh at him. A woman who could flit down the street exposing herself to every man she met, would just burst into uncontrollable laughter. It wasn’t fair, Harold thought angrily. He may have a brain the size of a planet, but what good was it if he couldn’t hold an ordinary conversation? He did have a particularly enormous cock though. That would impress her, he thought smugly. He unzipped his jeans and stroked his huge erection.

Janie didn’t bother to knock. She strode into Harold’s room, waving the Pornography in one hand and Harold’s flashlight in the other.

Harold stood, blushing and trembling, as far away from her as he could get. His zipper was undone, his jeans were halfway down his legs. He stumbled, caught off balance and fell to his knees. His carefree erection bobbed and bounced, happy to be on show.

Janie didn’t appear to notice. Either his humiliating fall, or his equally humiliating erection.

What Harold noticed was that she was furious.

“Don’t try and deny it,” Janie snapped, throwing the magazine down on Harold’s bed.

“Um, deny what?” Harold made a bold attempt at confrontation. He also made a brave effort at standing upright. He fumbled and tried to pull up his jeans. His erection faded enough to be forced back inside his jeans.

“The bloody, sneaky camera in my room, that’s what. What were you going to do with the films? Put them on Youtube? Show your friends?”

“S…something like that.”
“If we’re going to do this, we do it properly; my way. Okay?”

Harold stopped trembling and looked interested. Perhaps she was going to suggest he fucked her and they filmed themselves, all tangled limbs. He wondered what soundtrack he could put on it. Harold was always optimistic when it came to losing his virginity. His recalcitrant cock started to show interest too.

“You can set up a website? One of those pay to view places?”

Harold nodded. It didn’t look like he was going to get to fuck her. But he was intrigued to know where her thoughts were going.

“You get to do the filming. With a proper camera, not that pissy little thing you’ve set up. You like to watch; so that keeps you happy. I like to perform; so I’m happy too. The money we get, and there’s going to be a lot of it, keeps us both happy. Oh and here’s your flashlight, you dropped it by my bed. Now come and help me set up my room. I want a proper dancer’s pole to display myself. We need some coloured lighting gels. If we’re going to do this, we make a professional job of it.”

Janie was already striding back to her room. Her sheer bossiness and her bouncing bottom was turning him on again. Harold’s erection followed her. Harold followed his erection.