My Voyeur. My Lover. My . . .

by Mandurah

©Copyright 2023 Mandurah

Part One

My boyfriend, well, my ex-boyfriend Morgan, dumped me after living together for eight years. My name is Tara, and now, at twenty-eight, I am by myself again.

We discussed getting married, buying a home together, and, if so, how big. Where should we live? How many children should we have? What if we had all boys or all girls? Should we try again? Then, one day, he stated, "We're over. I've met someone else, and you need to move out."

I was devastated and pleaded with him to let me stay. "Morgan, what's gone so wrong all of a sudden? We're almost married. Please don't kick me out. I'm sure we can work things out."

He was adamant and said, "No, I want you out by the end of the week."

I took the following week off work. I was a mess, crying most days as I searched for a place to live. I found a rundown dump within a fifteen-minute drive from where I worked, in an area I didn't care for, but it had cheap rent. The house was open at the front, and you could easily see into the lounge and main bedroom from the street if the curtains were open. At least when you looked out over the crappy garden, the view was nice, looking over a park. I had no option but to take it.

That was six months ago, and now, I have placed lace curtains over the front windows so no one can look in and brought the garden back to life. Although it is a rental, I wanted it to look nice.

It has taken me all this time to get Morgan out of my mind, but recently, I've been chatting online with a guy called Mike. He seems nice always pleasant with his chat, and we've flirted a little, but we haven't shared photos or met. We are both twenty-nine.

I told him that six months ago, I broke up with my long-term boyfriend. He sympathised and said maybe it was a good thing and suggested that he and I might get together. But he was elusive and mysterious when I asked about his relationships.

I get home from work around 6pm every day and turn on the computer to see if there's a message from Mike. There often is, but over the past week, he's not been there as much, and it's me messaging him to get our chat going.

Around 8pm, I see Mike is online.

"Hi, Mike. I've been missing our chats lately. Is everything okay?"

"Sure. I've had a lot on my mind at work. That's all."

"Oh, sorry to hear that. I thought, maybe you didn't want to chat with me any more?"

"No, not at all. In fact, I want to improve our relationship if you are ready to meet someone again?"

"Well, I'm not sure. I mean, we've only chatted online and not sent each other photos of ourselves."

"Get your phone and send me a selfie. I'll do the same for you."

"Ooooh, nooooo, I've only got my undies on."

"Put a top on if you're shy, and then send it to me, but I bet you look great as you are."

My phone pinged, and I went to take a look. There was a pic of a shirtless, well-muscled upper body of a hunky-looking guy with a hairy chest, a chiselled face and a modern blond mullet haircut. Oh, this guy looks fantastic, I thought.

"Hey. What do you think?"

I sent him two selfies.

"Wow, you're a hot-looking chick, and I like the second photo in your sexy panties and bra better than the first. Are you wearing those for me?"

"Ohhhhh, wow. You must work out with abs like that, and no, the undies are what I like to wear every day. I like the feel of them, and I never know if I'm going to meet some hot-looking stud that will appreciate me in them."

"Am I your hot-looking stud?"

"Don’t know… Maybe."

"Would you like to meet for coffee this Saturday arvo, at the Dome cafe in the Carousel shopping centre? Is 4pm okay for you? We can meet in a public place and see how we go from there. Now that I know what you look like, I’ll look for you.”

"Yeah, I would love that. I work at Carousel, so I can ask if I can finish an hour early and meet you at four."

"Great, it's a date."

I work in an upmarket department store in ladies' fashion. I have to wear a work uniform consisting of black shoes, black stay-ups or pantyhose, a black skirt worn knee length, and a white long-sleeved blouse. I hope Mike can recognise me.

I bought my coffee and sat at one of the few empty tables. I was constantly looking around to see if I could see Mike every time I looked up. Some creepy guy sitting two tables away was looking at me. He was staring at me, and he gave me the creeps.

I waited until four-thirty and no Mike. I let out an obscenity. "Fucking men." That caused a few patrons to look my way, causing me to blush. I quickly picked up my bag and left, scanning the cafe to see if I could see the blond adonis, or maybe he's some wimp, and he'd photoshopped the pic and made out it was him.

Men! I've been stood up just as I'm beginning to trust them, killing off my confidence and self-esteem again. I desperately want someone to hold onto and care for me.

I got home and threw my bag on the lounge, fuming. Should I send Mike a message and tell him to "Fuck off, and that he's a scum bag, and not to waste my time."

I took a bottle of wine, had a couple of glasses to console myself, and turned on my computer to see if the lousy bastard had sent me a message.

Shit, what an arsehole, no message and no text. What a worthless piece of crap, I thought. I didn't hear from Mike all weekend.

When I went to take my washing off the clothesline the next day, all my panties were missing. I was already rattled by living alone in this neighbourhood, and someone had the nerve to come into my back garden and steal my underwear. My first thought was, was it Mike? I never had this problem before until I sent him a selfie of me in my bra and panties. But I never gave him my address. Has he followed me home from work one day without me knowing? Or was it just due to living in this undesirable suburb, and some teens stole them to jerk off into? It niggled me, but I tried to put it out of my mind and decided to dry my undies inside from now on.

It was back to my dull and dreary life. Up Monday morning and drive through bumper-to-bumper peak-hour traffic to get to work. Some maniac on a motorbike sped up between all the cars, creating his lane. "Dickhead," I called out through my open window. He turned and looked at me and gave me the finger. Mmm, that's the best offer I've had in months. Fuck, I badly need sex, any sex. It's been six months or more since I got laid, I thought, smiling to myself ruefully, thinking about motorbike man's finger. It took me back to when I lost my virginity at sixteen. My guy at the time put one finger up me, and it felt good, then a second, and it felt great, then his cock, wow, so good, and I have worshipped cock since that day. I love having a cock up my pussy, or in my mouth. I'm addicted to them with what they do for me. I could spend all day sucking and swallowing all the cum they gave me, and now nothing. Nothing for so long. I’m so fucking horny. A 'toot' behind me snapped me out of my reverie.

The week continued with the same amount of traffic, and that stupid motorbike rider even followed me home one night and gave me the fuck off sign as he sped past me, and still no word from Mike. It was a crap week.

After work on Friday, Sam, Nicky, Mel, and I went to the local pub for a few drinks to unwind, and after a couple of rounds, our tongues began to loosen.

“Hey, Tara, have you noticed how Mr Boros has been looking at you, checking you out every time he walks the floor?” Nicky said provocatively while she ran her hands down the side of her body and pursed her lips.

“Yeah, why don’t you wear a short skirt and see what happens,” Mel added.

The girls had been teasing me about Mr Boros, the store manager, checking me out. He was an absolute dish, so hot. Tall, well-built, and good-looking. And with not getting any sex over the last few months. I was sad and felt down. I didn't have a lover to return home to and share intimate moments with, unlike my three friends who will get their brains screwed out of them tonight. I longed to be in the arms of a caring man.

After arriving home, I was surprised to find a small package by the front door. I hadn't ordered anything, so I wasn't expecting anything.

The package only had my Christian name on it. No surname or address, it had been hand-delivered, but by who? I felt tipsy after drinking too much wine at the pub. The alcohol gave me false courage, removing my inhibitions and my usual shy and conservative approach. My curiosity was piqued, and I threw caution to the wind. I had to take a look and see what was inside the package.

I gasped when I opened the package. There was the shortest red latex mini skirt I had ever seen, a red latex bra, a pair of black stay-up stockings, and a sealed envelope.

Sod you, Nicky, Sam, and Mel, you teasing cows. You set me up over drinks, then sent me some sexy clothes, I thought. Yeah, big surprise, girls. I have you worked out. Ha ha. Mmm, too much wine, I thought. My head was spinning as I opened the envelope to read the typed letter.

“Tara, put on the clothes and stand in the window with the lights on at eight o'clock for fifteen minutes. So I can see you."

What! Are you joking? Okay, the clothes looked so sexy, but who's doing this to me? Should I throw caution to the wind and play along? Yeah, why not? It must be the alcohol or missing out on sex and those three girls telling me how they will get screwed tonight. Yeah, I felt playful. But should I do as the perv wants? I bet he jerks off in front of me. Maybe he thinks I'll invite him in and let him fuck me. Although, I still thought it was the girls.

I eagerly stripped off my work clothes and put on the latex skirt, bra, and hold-ups. The ever-so-tight skirt felt so good on my legs, with how it clung to my thighs and bum. The too-small bra barely covered my medium-sized boobs, pushing my girls up and out and over the top of the fabric. I closed my eyes and let my hands run over my tits, squeezing them and playing with my nipples through the material as I went. God, that felt sooo good.

I haven't felt like this for a long time. It felt so good and sexy, I could feel my pussy moistening, and at eight o'clock, I stood in the window, curtains open and the light on behind me. I was on display, and it felt good. It was sensual, and again I ran my hands over my tits. My panties were now wet as I ran my hand over the crotch. I turned around and bent over, giving my voyeur another view. After fifteen minutes, I closed the curtains but left the outfit on. My dildo was in for a workout tonight.

The next day at work, before the store opened, I confronted the girls. "Girls, that was a heck of a prank you played on me last night. Did you and your guys get a good laugh when you saw me standing in the window with that short skirt and too-small bra you sent me?"

That was a preview of My Voyeur. My Lover. My . . .. To read the rest purchase the book.

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