Punishing the Voyeur

"Could you come here, Jason? I'd like to talk to you about something."

"Of course, Mrs. Higgins," I replied.

Mrs. Higgins was our next-door neighbour. She and her husband had moved about three months earlier into the bungalow next to that in which my parents were driving me nuts. As a healthy 18-year-old, I craved for nothing but sex. But my straight-laced parents, in their religious zeal, would consider my sex drive to be nothing short of devilish. How could I cope with my teenager's testosterone level in a home where the "Reverend" Robert Schuller was the hottest thing allowed on TV?

In the midst of this sexual confinement, Kathy Higgins had moved next door. A woman in her early 40s, she displayed enough youthful energy to arouse my passion while undoubtedly possessing the sexual experience and drive that makes all 18-year-old guys mad with desire.

It was this attractiveness that had made me take advantage of a most convenient feature of our home. The hedge. A magnificent row of bushes that Dad would constantly trim with great care. Bushes thick enough that one could hide in them — while still seeing the neighbourhood.

There was an upwards slope in our backyard: the edge of the yard was perhaps 3 metres higher than the rest of the parcel of land where my parents kept me prisoner. By going to the edge and sneaking into the hedge, I could get a decent view of the Higgins' bathroom. I had discovered that a lot earlier in my life. But since the house next door had been inhabited by a very elderly couple ever since I could remember, I had never interpreted this characteristic as an opportunity.

Until now.

Mrs. Higgins enjoyed showering. She enjoyed taking her time to pamper herself before and after showering. In the nude. I knew since, as a resourceful young lad, I had had the idea of trying to see if, finally, I could hit pay dirt from the vantage point in the yard.

I could. Big time. Since Mrs. Higgins was indeed a hedonist (I had learned the word only shortly before), she would spend long minutes applying moisturizer all over her body after her nightly shower. While I would stroke myself to heaven, applying my own testosterone-saturated moisturizer on the bush that was hiding me. I wonder if that tree benefited from this massive shot of protein.

"Could you come here, Jason?" Of course, I could. Standing in the back door of her house, she looked irresistible.

I followed her inside the house. Trying to suppress any fantasies that the situation could have prompted.

"I'd like to talk to you about something."

She'll ask me to mow their lawn. Or to take care of their stupid dog while they're away for an extended weekend. Or to help her move a piece of furniture.

"Of course, Mrs. Higgins. I'm listening." I tried to act cool. Maybe she could fall for me. I had seen The Graduate afew weeks earlier.

"I know that you've been peeping at me."

I felt the ground vanishing under my feet. "Deny!" said the voice inside me.

"What?" I said, not knowing whether I should sound upset by this unfounded accusation, amused by this foolish declaration or intrigued by such nonsense.

"Don't deny it, Jason. You like to wear white t-shirts. Under a full moon, you stand out like a sore thumb, despite the dense foliage of your father's very well tended bushes."

I started turning into several shades, including white — like my t-shirt. Tried to stammer yet another denial. Except this time, I could not even utter a syllable.

"At first, I was quite upset," she said, oblivious to my embarrassment. It was as though she was talking to herself.

"I didn't know what to do. Get mad? Call the police? Call your parents?" That thought struck me especially hard. How would Dad react, learning that his son's sexual drive was not saved for procreation but was instead wasted — let alone on his bushes?

"But then again, in a way, I must confess that I was somehow flattered by the idea that a young man could still be excited by this 43-year-old woman."

From that point, I concluded that I could not understand the situation. I could only try to survive. Go with the flow.

"Still, Jason, you need to be taught a lesson. You need to know how offending it can be to be viewed as merely a sex object, in the absence of any human contact. So, my dear Jason, follow me."

She then started walking towards the basement door. I followed her, too dumbfounded to do anything but walk in her footsteps.

We reached the bottom of the stairs and entered a nicely decorated living room. Where eight women were sitting, on chairs laid out in a half circle. All in their mid-30s to early 50s.

There was Mrs. Bellows, from next street. This other slightly plump woman that I bump into once in a while at the grocery store. A few other unknown yet somehow familiar ladies. And Mrs. Stanford. Amy's mother. Amy, whom I was dreaming of dating.

Mrs. Higgins did not pause for a moment.

"Jason, you will have you lesson. You will know how it feels to have your intimacy violated."

She paused. She stared at me.

"Strip. Totally."

I knew I could protest. Scream that I was being abducted. Assaulted. But before I could begin to protest, I heard Mrs. Bellows say "Ah, c'm'on, the lad only deserves his father's punishment!"

No one replied to that statement. I knew my goose was cooked.

I started to remove my t-shirt. My white t-shirt. In a moment, it was on the floor.

I untied the laces on my sneakers and started to remove my shoes. Then it hit me. I was getting hard.

So what. What could be changed by my having the world's hardest and biggest boner. I was still in a most humiliating position, with no way out.

My socks were off now.

I reached for my belt buckle and untied it. I heard one of the women whisper "Yeahhhhhhhhh!"

I pulled down my pants. Standing in my boxers, I waited for a voice to say "OK, it's enough, he had his lesson."

I waited pointlessly. All I heard was the same voice, the same "Yeahhhhhhhhh!"

I pulled down my boxers, releasing my now almost completely hard cock. Now I know why it's also called a prick: there I was, in the most humiliating situation I had ever been in, and Mr. Happy decides to act hot.

"Yeahhhhhhhhh!"

I stood there, nude, in front of a bunch of women from my neighbourhood. Whom my Dad would meet on the street.

"And now," said Mrs. Higgins, "do as you did in the bushes, when you were peeping on me. Jerk off."

Reality had now overcome any possible bit of fiction that I could think of. Where was I? What was happening?

"Don't tell me you were admiring my naked body without jerking off. It was not an art show. You're not Modigliani!"

My hand reluctantly reached for my cock.

"That's it. It's not that hard — I mean difficult," Mrs. Higgins added, while a few women chuckled.

Almost in a trance, I began jerking off. Furiously. Out of my desire to get through this bad dream as fast as possible. Or out of sheer excitement.

I felt my orgasm getting close. I felt my balls tighten. I felt the electricity going through my entire body. I felt my cock spurting. Out of control. I was ejaculating in front of a bunch of women, on the linoleum floor of my neighbour's basement.

The spasms finally died. I slowly regained my conscience.

The women all got up and walked past me. Without looking at me.

Except Mrs. Stanford.

Who softly whispered in my ear "Amy has a wild streak in her. You two should hit it off magnificently. Assuming, of course, that you can learn to relax and let yourself go with the flow!"

From that day on, I voluntarily trimmed Dad's hedge. Much to his surprise. Well, Amy requested that I take care of it.