Henry Porter was a despicable, angry man. He had never had a relationship with a real woman in his 57 years on this earth and therefore had never married. But he continued daily to abuse himself sexually in anyway he could. His main passion, if you can call it that, was his interest in voyeurism. This was what he dreamt of and this was what he thought about everyday.
Henry Porter was a despicable, angry man. He had never had a relationship with a real woman in his 57 years on this earth and therefore had never married. But he continued daily to abuse himself sexually in anyway he could. His main passion, if you can call it that, was his interest in voyeurism. This was what he dreamt of and this was what he thought about everyday.
It had started with pornographic images on the Internet immediately after he had purchased a second hand laptop. The previous owner had been an avid watcher and the hard drive was full of revealing cookies that Henry had started to follow. This excited him. He couldn’t wait to get home to his dingy, rancid flat, with its rotting wall paper peeling away from the walls at the top, the black spots of mould mapping their way across the yellowing ceiling but this was all irrelevant to Henry because as soon as he slipped down his trousers and held his manhood in his favourite hand grip, all that mattered was what the big breasted woman was doing to the man in her mouth.
Each morning Henry caught the bus to get himself to work from the end of his road. The bus weaved its way through the seedier parts of the City. The parts that were notorious for curb crawlers and prostitutes even at that early time in the morning. His watery eyes watched from the top of the bus and sweat formed on his brow as he saw a working girl lean into a car. Her short skirt barely brushing the bottom of her skinny ass cheeks at the top of her bruised and mottled legs. Henry had never been tempted to pay for sex, not even once but he liked to watch as the girls climbed into the front of the cars and lowered their heads.
As the evenings started to grow lighter and the air warmer, Henry took to walking the streets at night to feed his passion for peeping. Some of the windows had flimsy curtains at them and if he was lucky he caught a glimpse or two of naked or semi naked flesh, which made his heart, beat fast and his blood pressure rise. As he walked around one area, just as the night’s inkiness slipped around him he heard long, low moans coming from the upstairs window of a house.
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