The blinds in the living room were open just enough to allow Cathy to see out while standing back a few feet. With the lights off in the apartment, the target of her attention could not see her watching him, even if he were to look directly at the window. She was awaiting his return from a run in the park. The secretive voyeur had stood in the shadows looking out this way many times before, impatiently waiting for him to reappear. But this time was different, for she had finally decided to reveal herself and turn her suppressed fantasies into reality.
Michael Capriatti had moved into the six-story building in Springfield on a rainy day five months earlier. He had caught Cathy's eye when she happened to look out the window while he was carrying a heavy box up the entryway staircase. He seemed like an average Joe, not overly attractive, muscular, or model-like, but there was something in the way he moved, something in his smile and confident look that turned Cathy on. She studied him, intrigued by the way he carried himself. Several friends were helping him move into his new place, but this charismatic man who had captured this lonely woman's attention was clearly the leader of the pack. The watcher in the window was fascinated. She did not back away until the moving truck drove off.
The following weekend, Cathy spied her newest neighbor going down the steps dressed for jogging. He paused on the sidewalk to stretch his muscles using the railings which bordered the property. He was, of course, oblivious to the fact that he had an audience. His hidden admirer became aroused by the display of athletic discipline as she watched him doing warm-up exercises. Her mind drifted into dreamy visions about touching him all over his body. She loved how his tight shorts hugged the curvy lines of his bulge and buttocks. After Michael crossed the street to run in the wooded trails along the river, Cathy pulled up a chair and waited more than an hour for him to get back.
Her jaw dropped when she saw him again. She had a fetish for athletes showing signs of exertion. His labored breathing and sweat-covered body left no doubt that he had pushed it hard on the run. Cathy's heart was pounding with desire as he did cool-down stretches on the rails, his damp skin glistening in the dying sunlight. All she could think about was having sex with him. She wanted to go down there, but she knew she couldn't make a move in that direction.
There was a dichotomy, a split in Cathy's psyche that produced deep inner turmoil. The "good girl" persona she presented to the world had developed from a model Catholic upbringing that demanded obedience to the highest standards of virtue. This soft-spoken woman moved in social circles that upheld propriety and conservative behavior. People respected her, perhaps too much, for she felt like she was balancing on a shaky pedestal with a fractured foundation.
Then there was the Cathy that very few people knew about, the gal who would drive fifty miles out of town to hang out at seedy bars getting free drinks from men who would take her to cheap motels for an easy lay. This alter-ego got her kicks from wanton sex and zipless fucks in secret rendezvous with dozens of partners. She answered and put up ads on every hookup site she could find online. Having sex with men she knew were beneath her made her feel powerful and desirable. The trysts became a compulsive addiction she had to feed to keep herself afloat. Her dark side had to come out, even though such behavior put her reputation and eternal soul at risk. She was willing to pay the price of the guilt and shame she often felt afterward in order to act out on her base impulses.
This jogger, however, was unattainable. She felt this sophisticated man was above her. Her idealization of him made it impossible for her to conceive of their connecting. She was not worthy of him. The inner voices were clear and adamant that the bad girl within must dampen her desires. The marathon man was off-limits.
But she could not make him disappear. He was there, close by. Cathy glanced out the window constantly to see if he might be around. She memorized his running schedule to ensure she would catch him at the start of his routine and to feel the tension rise as she waited for his return. Her need seemed to increase with every spotting of him. Gradually this need developed into an obsession.
Cathy was pleased to discover he lived on the sixth floor near the end of the long hallway from her. She checked the mailbox in the lobby to get his name, then did a paid online identity search. The Facebook junkie pulled up his page daily. The stalking began. The desperate detective followed him in her car several times to find out where he worked and what he did for a living. With each escalation, the urges increased in intensity. The observer purchased a camera with a zoom lens with which she stealthily took several hundred pictures, mainly at the end of his runs when his sweaty body oozed sexuality. Cathy was so delighted with a few shots that she blew them up to frame size. The glassy-eyed girl would sit looking at them, locked in reverie for this man who didn't even know she existed. She did not, however, masturbate with him in her head. Her inner angel would not allow it.
On a Saturday afternoon in mid-August, Cathy looked out the window as Michael's car was pulling up. A woman hopped out of the passenger's seat and hustled to Michael's side before crossing the street with him. It was apparent they had a romantic connection. She was stunning. Her long blonde hair flowed in the gentle breeze. Even from a distance, her smile and pale blue eyes were magnetic. And this gorgeous babe had a body that could turn the heads of every man around.
To Cathy, this beauty was at the top of the pyramid, the embodiment of everything she wanted in life but could never attain: looks, style, class, a perfect body and weight, happiness, and most of all, the man. She fumed with jealousy while sinking into depression as she watched them going up the steps holding hands. The contrasting emotions hit in waves, causing her to alternate between crying jags and childlike tantrums. The lonely heart poured herself a tumbler of Jack Daniels. As the effects of the whiskey kicked in, Cathy saw the couple going back to the car, out for a night on the town.
They returned after midnight. Cathy was still in the chair looking out the window, functionally drunk. She watched the pair pause for a kiss before ascending the steps. Michael grabbed his lover by the hair, pulling her into him as he groped her breast with a sense of urgency.
A half-hour later, Cathy walked down the long quiet hallway, a senseless maneuver, but in her distress, she felt compelled to get closer to the object of her obsession. Nearing apartment 617, the nervous voyeur could hear the sounds of passion as she tiptoed closer, pressing her ear to the door. They were making love in the living room. She listened at the door, excited by the grunting and moaning. The two were going at it hard. There was a creaking sound from the springs of the couch they were screwing on. Cathy felt the heat building between her legs as her throbbing heart accelerated.
"Oh god, Michael, fuck me harder, give it to me, Sir, give it to me, I need it, make your girl come."
The creaking from the springs got louder and faster. The golden-haired girlfriend started screeching. Cathy leaned her ear hard against the door.
"Fuck me! I'm so close, fuck me, fuck me! Make me come, Daddy, make me come, please make me come, Daddy! Fuck me! Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh, so fucking yes! I'm coming, Daddy!"
The eavesdropper felt like a pervert as she listened intently, violating their privacy, but she could not pull away. Cathy reveled in depravity, becoming more aroused as she focused on the sounds of the powerful orgasms wracking the body of the woman she longed to be. The man she craved was proving his worth to her by taking this blonde goddess to the heights of sexual ecstasy. Every moan, every scream of pleasure coming from behind the closed door sent vibrations rippling through Cathy's body, ratcheting her desire to the sky. Her legs weakened when she heard his voice for the first time, saying words she was stunned to hear.
"Kathy, baby, take me, take my come, take me! Fuck! Baby! Kathy! Kathy! Kathy! I love you, Kathy!"
Just then, the door at the next apartment opened, its squeaky hinges echoing down the corridor. A neighbor was taking a bag of garbage to the chute at the end of the hall. Cathy jumped away from the door, trying to look nonchalant, but the old lady gave her a funny look walking by. The embarrassed girl hurried back to her flat at the opposite end.
Reaching the safety of seclusion in her home, Cathy dropped onto her bed and took out her ribbed glass dildo. She frantically fucked herself as hard as she could with the experience replaying in her head, having multiple orgasms that had her wreathing all over the mattress. They were by far the strongest of her life. When finished, she fell asleep, exhausted, buzzing in sexual bliss.
The following week, Cathy was on an emotional roller coaster ride. A war raged inside her, tearing at the fabric of her spirit. She had to decide which path to take. The "bad girl" was about to win the battle.
On this Sunday afternoon, after Michael had gone for his run in the park, Cathy decided to take the plunge. She took two hits off a pipe and downed two shots of Jack to keep her anxieties from deterring her. She then waited for him to reappear and finish his cool-down. As he started up the stairs, Cathy walked down the hall.