Barely discernable movements could be detected between two houses on the cul-de-sac. Nearing midnight, the suburban streets were silent. The movements were of a slender young man on a covert mission. His target; the dark house to his right. Only one room lit. Perfect.

His gaze immediately was drawn to the light like a moth to a bug zapper. Even in this darkness on the edge of town, he knew the terrain perfectly. This wasn't his first late-night surveillance of this particular window. Nor would it be his last.

Conditions were perfect. Nimbus clouds obscured the crescent moon. His heart was pounding and his penis was hardening like a stroke victim's arteries. He felt small raindrops on his uncovered head but felt no concern. As long as there was no illuminating lightning he could cope. Heavy rain, however, could be detrimental. 

If the ground became soggy, his footprints might be noticeable. He didn't want the law showing up at his door with plaster casts of his Nikes like an episode of CSI Cinderella. His name is Tom, appropriate for his voyeuristic bent. As fetishes go, it wasn't a horrifying one. Plus it was cheap. His only requirements were Windex and Bounty paper towels.

His fetish seemed preordained since the day-long ago he uncovered a VHS copy of Michael Powell's "Peeping Tom" lamely hidden behind his dad's massive movie collection. His dad claimed to be a cinephile despite owning every Jim Varney movie ever unleashed on unsuspecting theaters. Still, Tom learned much from him, explaining why he grew up watching French new wave cinema sandwiched between Power Rangers and Pokemon each morning before elementary school.

Moving stealthily like a Kurosawa samurai, he crept nearer the window. He knew the view by heart. He knew her name as well, Hildie. Her indigo walls were adorned with an eclectic mix of posters. Three heartthrobs: Pitt, Leonardo, and Dr. Fauci. Finally, there she was lying exposed on her paisley comforter, wearing matching hunter-green bra and panties like a Technicolor vision. Tom was well aware of her fashion sense in undergarments. 

When the house was empty he had crept into her chambers and carefully inspected her panty drawer emporium. Her color selection rivaled Kubrick's choices in "The Shining."

While searching her hidden treasures, he also discovered her impressive selection of toys and immediately realized why the girl was working so many hours at Hollister. He knew it was risky but he had to pull a prank on the seventeen-year-old brunette; he switched her phone to 'vibrate' and her vibrator to 'phone.' 

She was prone on her back, legs mischievously spread,  framed perfectly in the window as if she were posing knowingly for his clandestine viewing.

Tom remained curious why Hildie apparently didn't date. She was attractive enough although dropping ten-pounds would have yielded a pleasing effect. But, the weight would most likely only disappear from her curvy, prominent behind which would break his heart and reduce his masturbation by half.

Tom felt guilty for criticizing her appearance since he was no Clint Howard himself. He stood a slender five-eleven, insanely pale and all topped off with thick, black horn-rimmed glasses. He resembled a cross between Nosferatu and Buddy Holly. Sadly, that look was not causing village nymphomaniacs to trample his lawn for the privilege of erotic coupling.

He artfully kept his face out of the window's light but could still see his target's legs open wider with her hand slipping inside her panties. Tom mimicked her movement with his hand sliding inside his sweat pants then finding his erect rod, as hard as his college philosophy class. They both needed relief...and soon. The begonias beneath her window were soon to be inseminated again. 

Tom's gaze left her hand long enough to take in her cherubic face. The ceiling fan caused her hair to flop over her eye like Veronica Lake in her prime. If he listened carefully he could hear her breathing become more labored and faster. That sound had his cock leaking like a faulty toilet so he rapidly jiggled the 'handle'. Too rapidly perhaps since his sperm soon splattered against her window pane. On weak legs, he staggered back into the night.

____

Now a few words from Hildie!

She knew he was there. She always knew but kept it to herself. No need to embarrass him. He seemed nice enough. Besides, she enjoyed being watched. The voyeur/exhibitionist dynamic fit together perfectly like cream cheese frosting on a Cinnabon but with four-thousand fewer calories. And she had yet to hear of a correlation between masturbation and diabetes.

Her fingers slid between her swollen lips before locating her clit which was demanding her attention. She smiled, knowing her visitor's penis was hard by now and being stroked like in a Billy Squier song of yore. Just once she wanted to watch him play with himself in bright sunlight but his fair skin probably burned easily. 

Opening her legs wider and pulling the silk aside, she plunged two fingers deep inside. The urgent moans outside harmonized with hers. She only hoped her parents didn't hear the cacophony. They might not be as understanding as she. Hildie next lifted her plump derriere off the bed and began fucking herself desperately. 
 
Suddenly, her phone began vibrating, dancing across her dresser. Seconds after it stopped, the girl could hear her vibrator ringing from deep within her toy chest. She dismissed the interruptions as prudish poltergeists and resumed her well-practiced fingering. Her comforter was now refreshingly damp beneath her. Adding another finger, her toes curled like a parrot on its perch. With her fingers dripping, her climax struck with Sharknado ferocity. She announced her orgasm loudly in case the ghostly apparitions were still hovering nearby, "It's here!"

After listening carefully for any sound in the house, she donned her satin mauve robe then picked up a small Walmart bag and walked toward the kitchen. Moving quietly down the long hall the girl heard the click of a lock with light coming from beneath an adjacent closed door.

Smiling impishly she silently rapped on the door, hearing the sound of stumbling followed by loud crashing like a Chevy Chase routine on SNL fifty-years ago. The door finally swung open and Tom, the blushing young man still bulging in his soiled sweatpants, fought to keep his eyes in their sockets when he recognized his visitor.

"What the fuck do you want?" he rudely asked.

"Is that any way to talk to your sister?" she giggled. "Besides, I come bearing gifts," she continued while offering her older brother the plastic Walmart bag.

With his face now a blazing red he began extracting the gifts: a pair of Hildie's previously worn green panties and a bottle of hand lotion.

"I thought you might need the lotion after tonight. I was afraid you might be a little chafed," she smirked.

"How did you know it was me, sis?" He knew he was busted so it was pointless to argue. That would be as insane as debating a Trump zealot.

"Who else would be outside my window singing 'I'm Jerking in the Rain? I ruled out Gene Kelly quickly. Do you like my presents?"

"Yes. I do need the lotion but I'll use the entire bottle on my above-average dick.

"Above average?" she guffawed. "Have you ever even seen another dick?"

Angered by her disparaging words, Tom screamed, "I've seen hundreds of dicks!"

From their parent's bedroom, their dad's rich baritone screamed in response, "What in God's name are you yelling about down there? Marge, call the deprogramming camp now! Our son might be gayer than even we thought!"

Frustrated from the embarrassing misunderstanding, Tom tried to explain while his sister struggled to suppress her laughter, "I meant dicks on porno which I watch 24/7. "

This time it was his mom's turn. "Oh, that's so comforting. Your dad and I will sleep much better now." 

As Mom's sobbing reached AC/DC deciblel levels, Tom began caressing the panties from the sisterly care package. They were still as warm as fresh-baked Betty Crocker flaky biscuits. But soon, instead of butter, they would be full of more semen than a US Navy submarine. His reverie was broken by his sister's sensual whispering.

"I see you have matters well in hand so I'll leave you to it. I have to check my vibe for voicemail." She stopped mid-exit to get in the last word, a female trait dating back to Eve. "You know we can never have sex, don't you?"

"Because of incest?" he replied as he sniffed her steamy drawers.

"No. Because your dick is too small," she answered while skipping away and laughing like a hyena on nitrous oxide.

Tom slammed his door and mumbled, "Bitch." Then he went to his desk, searching for a ruler. He had measuring to do.