The first:
"Hello, Mr. Blackwood. We don't know each other but I feel like I know you. I noticed you some weeks ago by accident walking around in your kitchen. Either you were about to take a shower or you just got out of one. You were rushing to prepare your morning meal and hadn't put your clothes on yet. The way your cock flapped around as you moved… it excited me. I just wanted to let you know."
…
My curtains in the kitchen are sheer and while I formerly was self conscious about being seen through that window, eventually you just stop caring and no longer think about it. Damn; I'm such an idiot. What had I been showing off to the entire fucking world?
I cleared the thoughts from my head and dismissed it as a simple prank. Had to be. Surely this was Miss Priss, compelled by her penchant for exhilaration, sending me a letter to further our thrilling sexual dynamic. It was proof of nothing. Anyone who's been to my house knows that the kitchen windows have sheer curtains. On the other hand, I couldn't know for sure. I'd have to look at Miss Priss's handwriting next time we were together, because I honestly couldn't say that I would recognize her penmanship if I saw it.
I realized at that moment that I was standing there in my kitchen in my boxer briefs with a full-on erection. Whether that was from the thought of what I do with Miss Priss or from the possibility of being watched, I don't really know. The latter possibility, to be completely fucking candid, unsettles me. I went and sat in my den, out of the way of the windows, uncommonly unsure of what to do with my hard-on.
A couple of days later I received another.
"Mr. Blackwood, I apologize if you find this intrusive but I really can't keep from telling you this. I watched you fuck a woman in your kitchen the other day. Thank you. Thank you so much."
That was it. Again, there I am in my kitchen reading the letter and without thinking I looked out the windows scanning as discreetly as I possibly could for any windows that had a line of sight. There were several. And generally I wouldn't care. I assume that just like I can only see what's in the window sill, I figure that they can't see in mine. But could someone see inside? All the windows along that side of my place face north which means light streams in all year round. It's why I picked the unit in the first place. If someone had a telescope -or a fucking camera!- what could they see?!
I went to my bedroom and decided against it. I had to leave the house altogether. I hung out with MissPriss that evening but we were at her place. True to my secret-agent nature, I scoped out the place for her handwriting. Oddly, I didn't find a single thing. I considered it odd at first, since she's a sales rep and certainly had to keep post-its or a date book or something until I realized that in this electronic age that kind of thing is increasingly scarce. Come to think of it, all my notes and reminders are on my mac or my iPhone. I imagine Miss Priss is the same way.
The whole evening she seemed to be watching me. Gauging me somehow. I dunno, perhaps it was in my head but it was like she knew what was going on. Surely it was her. Had to be. At some point, once we were done fucking, she excused herself to go to the bathroom and I relaxed in her bed staring at the ceiling. For a fleeting second, it occurred to me that she probably kept a diary or journal. Handwritten.
NAH!! That was crazy. It was her; no reason to even second guess it. It was totally her m.o. and, again, she just had that "way" about her that evening. Trust your gut, I always say.
Rolling over I pulled the covers up under my neck to get comfortable and something caught my eye: a black book on the side table next to the bed. On the cover written in silver letters was the word "journal."
NAH!!! Too fucking convenient! It just "happened" to be laying there within arm's reach?? It wasn't even on her side of the bed! On the other hand, when I'm not there, who knows how she sleeps. But why leave a fucking journal out like that? On the other hand, why wouldn't she; it was her fucking house.
With no way of knowing how much longer she'd be in the bathroom and not enough time to weigh the consequences of being caught looking through her diary (after all, if she walked in on me glancing through it, there's no way I could explain it without making it seem like a lie to cover up snooping) I just went for it: opened it up and looked at the handwriting without trying to read anything.
Completely different penmanship.
What the fucking fuck…
