I ONLY HAVE EYES FOR YOU - Part 1

I ONLY HAVE EYES FOR YOU

by

Albert Woods

Part 1

Penalties prescribed under the People’s Privacy Act were harsh. First offenders would undergo therapy in one of His Majesty's desensitising clinics; a sinister treatment, some thought, designed to reduce what they called 'unnatural curiosity'. Persistent peepers would get heavy doses of Benaldalyte, a drug capable of blocking targeted memories to suppress the inclination. If that failed, and the voyeurism continued, they would have their eyes removed.

The case under review, today, recorded the history of an offender. The Home Secretary was giving it serious consideration, and had now to decide whether to parole the man or send him for ocular evulsion.

Coincidentally, the subject's name was Tom. He had been a peeper since his youth when he would watch through a door crack as his Aunt breast-fed his baby cousin. After that, he progressed to spying on the Austrian au pair. She was seventeen at the time, developed and all female. At first, he used the cover of lying on the floor, playing with his train set to sneak furtive glances up her legs and skirt as she sat on the settee. He liked the feeling it gave him and, flushed with the challenge of satisfying his curiosity, he began to contemplate the thrill of an uninterrupted view of the girl; setting up a purpose-built observation post in the home; a hide.

There was no way that he could drill holes in the walls without them being discovered. It was an old solid house and besides, his room was at the opposite end to hers. The ceiling was a possibility, though that would mean spending time in the loft - dark and draughty in there; not the cosy vantage point he’d envisaged for his surreptitious eyeball-feasts. Then he hit upon the idea of the bathroom.

One afternoon, when the family were all out, Tom did a reconnaissance. The linen cupboard was ideal. He could easily squeeze in behind the hot water cylinder and attain a direct view through an extraction vent. Should anybody open the door, he could duck down below eye-level behind the sheets on the rack.

The au pair thought it odd when he kept pressing her about the anticipated time of her next bath. She found that impertinent and slapped him - a small price to pay he felt when his groundwork bore fruit. His view, through the louvered aperture, was perfect, and the girl's body a mystery no longer. Now he could see everything; utterly fascinating.

He did it several times.

It wasn’t long before Tom needed something more. The opportunity arose when his mother's friend came to stay. The prospect of watching an older woman engendered its own unique frisson, and she was a good looking example. Part of the delight was the anticipation; sitting chatting to her at the dinner table whilst telling himself that he would soon see her as she really was, with her not knowing. Loath to ask the guest about her washing habits, he just installed himself in the cupboard every morning until she went the whole hog and stripped bare. She had a lovely body, he thought.

Three years later, and he was a young man; soon to move from his school to university. As a sixth-form prefect, it often fell to him to supervise the first-years in the shower room. He liked that, though he was by no means interested in boys. It was just nice to watch whilst pretending not to; sideways eyeing the bodies; ‘getting one over’; all good practice.

There were fewer opportunities at Oxford, living on campus for the first year; so it was better when he moved into digs - not that his ageing landlady could possibly qualify as a candidate in his passive pastime. But at least he could take his hobby out of doors without forever having to tell some colleague where he was going for hours at a time. Getting caught would be his ruin, so he planned carefully and took every precaution. The women's hostel was the favoured hunting ground. The high risk involved seemed to enhance the pleasure all the more. Then he met Alice Martin.

Alice was a senior lecturer and, for a time, his personal tutor. He found it hard to concentrate when he visited her study each Wednesday afternoon. She was married - her husband an airline pilot - and in her mid-forties. Tom would always sit on a low sofa, she on a stool with legs crossed. They were shapely long legs, encased in elegant hose, and he would ogle them whenever her face went behind a book. Sometimes, if she re-crossed them, he would catch the briefest sight of her stocking tops, sometimes, her underwear. He was becoming obsessed with a mental image of her unclothed. He simply had to see her.

She was in the habit of playing squash two or three times a week. Tom often watched her from the visitors' gallery. Sometimes she wore shorts. He preferred it when she turned out in the tennis skirt that obligingly rode up and down whenever she reached above herself. If he sat right at the back, the players would not even know that he was there - a nice secure feeling - and if he was the only spectator, he would sneak a look through a pair of opera glasses, relishing the spectacle.

But he needed more.

Concealing himself in the washroom was difficult yet he found a way. The false ceiling, made up of removable tiles on a grid frame, hid a maze of pipework including large bore feeds running from the boiler house. He discovered that he could wedge himself above them and, lifting the edge of a tile off its bed, achieve a perfect view down into the shower cubicles.

Eventually, Alice came. Crowing about her victory on the court, she tore off her apparel and hopped under the spray. Tom smiled with deep satisfaction; she measured up to all of his expectations. He only had eyes for her despite her partner being younger and actually the better looking. It took some time before he began to ponder the odd goings-on below him. There were six showers, yet the women were sharing the one, sponging each other's bodies and giggling excitedly.

And then they kissed.

The next ten minutes were a nightmare of disillusionment. His tightly shut eyes kept out the offending scene, but he couldn’t bring up his hands to his ears to stop the sighs and groans; the whispered 'I love yous'.

Years passed, and Alice was long forgotten when Tom bought the telescope. His top storey flat with its panoramic views over the city had been well chosen. Now, he had a direct view into countless windows, enjoying three or four worthwhile sights a week. A well endowed blonde performed regularly. She also lived on a top floor and presumably believed that the privacy it afforded obviated the use of curtains. Either that or she wanted to be seen; a possibility that had occurred to him, and one that took a lot of the pleasure out of it.

Tom’s wife, Marian, seldom visited the flat. She preferred the quiet of their Norfolk farmhouse. Whenever she did come, the telescope was dismantled and secreted under the bath, behind the panelling. They had little in common any more. The marriage had been shaky from the start, when she'd discovered his sexual inadequacy and the discomfort of catching him spying on her at bathtime or when she was changing. Divorce was considered, though avoided in view of his position. They had both worked long and hard to get him into Parliament, and neither felt inclined to rock the boat in that respect. She got all the money she needed and, although they never discussed it, had taken lovers. He knew, but turned a blind eye.

The trouble with his hobby was the cost. The first telescope had led on to a bigger and better one. Then he had hit upon the idea of photography. A good 35mm camera with a powerful telephoto lens was the first acquisition, and was soon supplemented with an array of attachments, image enhancing filters and suchlike. Next came cine film; the subjects recorded and nicely animated, though processing such material was eye-wateringly expensive. Back street laboratories charged a fortune for their discretion.

Thank God for video, he thought when it became freely available in the shops. Quite apart from recording the peeps, he could monitor their progress on his 26 inch TV. It was the ultimate. If there was a good section of tape he would watch it in preference to seeking out new scenes. His library was extensive.

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Copyright Albert Woods (2014)