At Michelle's Window
by Pynchon

My girlfriend's teenaged daughter was a constant temptation--pure
sex. One day I got to see exactly how sexual she was. And I found
out what sort of sexual experience was most important for
me.(m/f, voy)


I am in my late thirties, a college professor with an advanced
degree from an acceptable mid-western university, intellectual
without being stuffy, with perhaps only one minor aberration: I
like to watch people have sex. I am a voyeur-wonderful word,
isn't it, the low throaty sound of the "y," the French sleaziness
of the final syllable. Now understand me: I am not proud of being
a voyeur, but neither am I ashamed of it. It is simply a part of
my particular human condition, much like a birthmark, which only
my closest friends know about. We voyeurs are still in the
closet: I really cannot picture a Voyeur Liberation Front. But if
it were legalized, for it is a crime in all fifty states, it
would probably no longer hold joy for me. One of voyeurism's
lures is that it is forbidden. But I don't think I have to worry
about that changing.

I have not always been a voyeur. For many years I flirted with
the various sorts of sex to be found in academia, suburbs, and
assorted bars. I frequented pornographic movies and dabbled in
prostitutes. I was searching for that moment of pleasure so
cosmic that I could look into the sky and say, "Take me God.
There can be nothing else." I know that this is the dream of most
men, although it is usually unspoken. The only difference between
me and most men is that I have known such moments and all have
come through clandestine observation. Ergo, I am a voyeur.

It was an accident, a chance encounter, when I first discovered
my sexual taste, and it resulted directly from my having passed
the age of thirty. One of the curiosities I have noticed as a
middle-aged dater is that the women one asks out occasionally
have daughters who themselves seem old enough to ask out. I say,
"seem" because these beauties-anywhere between fourteen and
nineteen-seem to be women, they are not, or rather most of them
are not emotionally. Physically some of them are
women-and-a-half. It is a disconcerting experience to arrive to
pick up a woman you have asked out to be greeted at the door by
her gum-popping daughter, as adorable as she is untouchable. At
the home of the species Daughtera Lusciosa, I often felt like a
starving man with a sumptuous banquet spread in front of me and
only one absolute command: do not eat.

These teenagers are a remarkable crew, having faced both sexual
and drug experiences that simply did not exist when I was growing
up. Some can snort cocaine with the same élan with which we used
to order cherry cokes. Many of them are beautiful, with slim
bodies, long legs, tans, and no self-consciousness whatsoever
about exhibiting any of these characteristics. One of my supreme
moments was when, while waiting for my date to get ready, I was
asked by the nubile teen-age daughter of the house to rub sun tan
lotion over her entire back, covered at that moment by a piece of
cloth too small for a hanky and too large for a hatband. I rubbed
very carefully, slowly, and my pulse raced as I determined how
firm young thighs could be. I could have blissfully spent the
next several weeks rubbing sun tan on her body. All but a
superman wonders what is going on in these gorgeous young heads.
Are they experimenting with their sexuality, testing the limits
of their power? Is this a phase that all women go through to one
degree or another? But for the most part I have avoided
temptation, although I have occasionally had difficulty breathing
when some pantiless lovely in the front row of one of my college
classrooms crossed her legs.

One of these teen-agers whom I knew for some six years was
Michelle, daughter of Ann, with whom I had a solid relationship.
Michelle was thirteen when I first met her, gangly, thin, and
with enough braces to have constructed a fair-sized TV tower.
When she hit fourteen, though, a miracle happened. The braces
disappeared. She was suddenly 5' 7", with shoulder-length auburn
hair. Her complexion was flawless, as I well knew, having it
examined it minutely when she was wearing a purple bikini so
small that it had to be believed to be seen. She had the sort of
perfectly proportioned body that makes priests question their
vows. I later learned that her measurements were 34b-22-33, but
the numbers meant nothing-it was the way the numbers fit
together. During one of her rare periods of exercising, Michelle
decided to go jogging in a t-shirt and black satin short shorts
tight enough to see freckles through (she never wore underwear).
A UPS man came down the street as Michelle left our driveway. She
ran in front of him for a little while before turning off, and I
watched the lumbering brown truck pull over the curb and bounce
back down. Her body had that kind of power.

Her breasts made me reevaluate the definition of "pert." Although
they were usually covered, the covering usually consisted of one
layer of fabric (unless it was winter). I do not think I ever saw
her when her nipples weren't erect and beckoning. On those rare
occasions when I saw then uncovered--for example the time I came
around the corner just as Michelle was leaving the bathroom after
a shower, wearing a towel in one hand-she said "Sorry," and I
said, "My dear, you have nothing to apologize for" but in a voice
so high it sounded as if I had been sucking helium.

Michelle showed these breasts to great advantage in virtually
everything she wore. I particularly remember, however, a Mickey
Mouse T-shirt Michelle's father had bought for her when she was
twelve. At that point it was just a cute T-shirt but at 16 it was
something else again. Michelle's new body protruded right where
Mickey was raising his hands so it looked as if Mickey's
three-fingered hands were wobbling her breasts. While it was
definitely not the image for which Disney strove, it brought on
gaping by every heterosexual male in her vicinity.

For me the most astonishing thing about Michelle was her face, in
which there were still traces of the young girl she had been,
with round cheeks and a slightly pug nose. This girlishness had
nothing to do with her eyes, though, which held a knowingness
that promised eternal satisfaction. This combination of innocence
and sensuality I occasionally found stupefying. At one minute she
was a little girl, talking baby talk to her kitten. At the next
she was sunning herself with Scott, her boyfriend, on the back
porch. While Scott covered her with oil, she casually reached up
under the leg of his jeans shorts and squeezed his cock, all with
the same sweet expression. She engendered so many emotions from
me simultaneously. They ranged from the paternal to the burning
sick of the incipient child molester. Imagine the younger Brooke
Shields with a much better body and you have an idea about what I
am talking about.

She was as brazen as she was gorgeous. About six months before
this story happened, when Michelle was fifteen, Ann and I were
sitting in her living room and, thinking we were alone, started
to talk about sex. Anne reached over and patted my cock. I said,
"Don't do that-it will get bigger." Ann said, "I couldn't handle
it if it got any bigger." And we both laughed. Michelle then
turned the corner, stared down to my crotch and left us with a
bemused expression on her face.

I didn't think about it again until I had finished a shower at
Ann's and had gotten out. I was reaching for the towel when a
voice to my right said, "Mom is certainly a lucky woman." I froze
and there was Michelle, eight feet away in her pink flannel
bathrobe staring at my cock. I said, "Have you seen enough yet?"
To which she replied. "No. I want to see it angry."

"OK-then drop your bathrobe." I could always think quickly when I
had to.

She thought for a moment and then said, "Oh-I don't think that
will be necessary."

She then raised her right arm straight in the air and brought it
down so quickly that I could see it was out of her bathrobe
sleeve. Looking directly at me, she then licked the fingers of
her right hand and then disappeared her arm down the front of her
bathrobe. Our eyes intimately focused at each othe, Michelle
started to talk.

"It's always amazed me how just lightly circling this little oily
bump can make me feel so good-so warm. My face flushes and then
my breasts and nipples flush, my stomach warms and then it's as
if my stomach pours hot water into my most private parts." I
could see her arm moving beneath her bathrobe. She stood there
for a good minute and a half, gazing at me, not moving except for
a slight rising in the front of her bathrobe. She seemed to be
peering into my soul. She then half shut her eyes, her expression
becoming a little glazed, and said, "And it also (breath) amazes
me how hot (breath) it can get me if I circle it (breath) a bit
harder." She closed her eyes and, after a minute or so, began
breathing more harshly.  She stood like that for a while,
bathrobe bulging and chest heaving, and then bent over a little
at the waist and moved her legs more apart. She groaned, saying,
"And what a treat (breath) it is to stick my (breath) finger up
into myself (breath) again and again." And she bucked against her
hand, rocking back and forth, back and forth. Her eyes were
closed but her mouth open, slack.

I was mesmerized as the sexual dance continued. I felt as if I
could climax any second. She then suddenly opened her eyes wide
and said, "See," pointing to my now granite-like cock, "I really
didn't have to take anything off to see it angry." She pivoted
and then disappeared from the bathroom. There I was, standing in
both sense of the word, my engine revving and no available road.
I then became aware that I was freezing cold, covered with shower
water, and that I had just been manipulated by a
fifteen-year-old.

Given interactions like that, and the occasional sounds of
climaxes coming from behind her bedroom door, it was easy to see
that Michelle was no virgin at 16 (I later found out she had lost
her innocence just after her fourteenth birthday-in a game of
Truth or Dare) but, like any reasonable person, I never assumed I
would be granted the privilege to see her in action.

The night God blessed me, and the night I was able to determine
conclusively my fondness for observation, I had driven over to
pick Anne up. We were going to the movies. Michelle and Scott
were both there. Scott, an adopted full-blooded American Indian,
was two years older than Michelle, a little less than six feet
tall, with the perfectly defined abs and the sort of lean
smooth-muscled body that immediately makes me guilty enough to
diet for three days. In the summer he wore as little as Michelle,
and was physically as perfect. He was dark with shoulder-length
black hair and a gaze filled with passionate intensity. One
unforgettable Halloween they dressed up as Tarzan and Jane, both
basically wearing a small square of leather below and Michelle
wearing a very tight small top.  As a Tarzan fan, I can testify
there has never been a sexier Tarzan and Jane.

My relationship with Scott had had progressed a good deal in the
year I had known him. During the relationship's first six months
he was taking so many sopors that he resembled nothing so much as
a tall, monosyllabic zucchini. Somehow, though, his relationship
with Michelle had brought him back from rampant drugginess and he
and I respected and liked each other.

The four of us smoked some dope and we sat there talking,
listening to music and playing interior movies. After about
fifteen minutes Scott and Michelle went into Michelle's room, and
quickly shut and locked the door. Anne and I talked some more and
she said she had to get ready. Anne was constitutionally late,
the sort who would live on Mountain Time in Los Angeles. She went
in to take a bath and get dressed and I headed for the phone to
call time and temperature. I didn't want to miss the movie and I
have an aversion to watches.

If you toppled a capital L one turn to the left, you would
understand the layout of Anne's house from above. The alcove from
which I was calling is where the two parts of the L came
together. The small part of the tipped L, now sticking straight
in the air, was Michelle's bedroom. As I stood by the window, the
phone in my hand, I noticed that there was a three-inch gap in
the window between Michelle's curtains and the inside of the
window frame. Through the crack I saw a white t-shirt, Michelle's
favorite form of casual dress, being pulled up over a back so
beautiful that my vitals clenched and dipped. I knew that Anne
would take an hour to get ready, so I decided to take a quick
stroll to see if I could get a better look at the action taking
place in that bedroom.

I slowly went out the front door, making sure the screen door
didn't slam behind me. I walked quietly over to the bedroom
window whose slit I had been staring through from the alcove. I
could see the window was open several inches so I carefully
stepped on top of a small woodpile to see what was going on with
that naked leg. As I looked down I could see that Scott was
facing the wall (towards me) and bucking ever so slightly. I
could hear breathing and sucking noises. I moved my head closer
to the window so I could look down on Michelle, facing Scott but
with her head at his crotch, her mouth sliding over the
now-purple head of his cock. He was huge-easily ten inches.
Michelle could encircle him with a two-handed grip and still have
room to suck, which she was doing with gusto. I watched her
cheeks turn concave as the head of Scott's cock appeared again.
She was bringing both her hands up his shaft at the same time she
was moving down on it, sucking on his cock head. Scott was
twisting his body and then I heard him growl, "I want to push it
through the back of your head." I almost pitched backwards over
the woodpile.

Michelle smiled at Scott's remark (no easy trick with her mouth
that full). She ran his cock several times as deeply as it could
go in her mouth as I felt a cramp in my ankle (I was precariously
balanced). I decided to see if the window on the other side of
the bedroom was open.

Compelled by a combination of lust and hope, the intensity of
which I had never felt before, I walked quickly around the house
and toward the window. I was telling myself that the curtains
would surely be drawn. When I rounded the corner, trying to
appear in spite of my speed to be an evening stroller (the street
was about 150 feet away), I saw that the curtains were parted and
I felt my chest constrict. I walked quietly over to the window,
and, as quietly as I could, stepped around a rose bush directly
beneath it. It is difficult to appear casual while straddling a
rose bush, but the old red oak on that corner of the house and
the foliage on that side of the house blocked me from most of the
street. I certainly didn't want to get reported. I looked in the
window.

Every light in the bedroom was on. The bed was against the far
wall (under the other window I had been looking in) about
thirteen feet away and a little to my right. I could see Scott,
or rather his nude backside, shuddering, for reasons I well knew.
Just over his hip I could see the side of Michelle's head and
further down, her delectably curved hip, half the dark delta and
one long slim leg.

This tableau was interrupted when Michelle suddenly pushed Scott
over on his back and sat up, holding with her left hand his
penis, with a dark head seemingly close to bursting. Michelle was
clearly in control here. She then ran the fingers of her right
hand lightly over his scrotum and up the head of his cock. Then
Michelle straddled Scott forwards but did not take him into her
body. She was teasing him, moving her slit over his engorged
cock. Watching that thin tight little body sliding over Scott was
a moving experience; one can only wonder what it would have been
like to be under all that coiled sexuality. Scott was fighting
the desire to move, which Michelle motioned for him several times
not to do, but he couldn't help thrusting up twice, and I
suddenly saw his cock rise between her legs. Michelle simply
clamped her legs around his cock and continued rubbing, rubbing.

Michelle moved off him then, to Scott's right and away from me,
but then she remounted, straddling him backwards, on her left
knee and on her right foot, leg bent. She was sitting across his
waist and her body was breathtaking. A few months over sixteen,
she had never worn a bra, and it was easy to see why. The
movement of her straddling had caused her breast to bounce but it
was a firm bounce, not at all the sort of breast movement I was
then used to. I cursed middle age as I drank her in. She had wide
shoulders-like her mother-small-nippled, perfectly formed
breasts, and a waist so small it couldn't exist under breasts
such as those. She looked like a nude angel. To have put that
body in clothes, let alone a bra, should have been considered a
crime against nature.

Her grace was astonishing. There was not a single awkward
movement the entire time I watched her. She started by reaching
down and stroking Scott's cock, which was directly in front of
her, until it strained upward, resting about halfway up her
stomach. Michelle leaned down and took more of Scott's cock in
her mouth than I would have believed possible and then came up
for air, leaving him very red and well moistened. She reached
across and raised herself above him in one quick motion and took
the tip of his penis into her body.

My view was such that as she straddled, slowly lowering herself
onto Scott, I could see her entire front as well as Scott's
ever-so-slowly disappearing cock. I thought my view
unforgettable. But I marveled at Scott's view as he looked down
at that perfect posterior and watched as her body slowly sucked
him in. Michelle only moved her hips back and forth, as if her
bottom were independent of her spine, as she pushed Scott into
her again and again. He was able to look only for a moment,
though, and then pleasure overcame him. His had snapped back on
the pillow, his eyes closing. When Scott was entirely buried in
her, Michelle leaned for ward a bit and wriggled her hips,
sinking him even deeper.

She moved her hips back up then, slowly coming off Scott's sex
but still facing backwards. As his cock revealed itself, I could
see that Scott was not the only one excited, because his penis
was glistening and moved from her easily. She raised above him
further and took him in her left hand, her right hand resting on
his leg for balance, so that his penis was about an inch below
paradise. As she raised herself, a single strand-of semen?-of
human lubricant?-the filament of desire, sparkled between their
sexes. Michelle squeezed his cock head twice, Scott writhing each
time, and only then took him into her moistness. Michelle then
leaned back, took him mostly out of her body, then engulfed him
slowly and then took him mostly out again. It was a dance. She
was still only holding the top five inches of Scott's penis, but
judging by Scott's arching back, her vaginal control was superb.
She slowly buried him within her again and again. I had to remind
myself to breathe.

And then for me a most erotic moment. Michelle's child-woman face
turned back toward Scott and I could see a look that somehow
combined innocence, tenderness, lust and power. Her eyes were
glazed and as she looked down at him, her face seemed to be
saying, "And look what I can do for you." As her sweet nether
lips continued to kiss his cock head again and again, Scott
started thrashing on his pillow. Michelle reached down and
started to move her hand up down between her legs and ran her
fingers up the organ that was still mostly inside her. She moved
her hand in a way I could not see and then Scott started moaning
loudly enough for me to hear through the closed window. Michelle
turned back toward Scott and lifted slippery fingers to her
mouth. Scott reached out and sucked at her hand; her smile of
control grew.

I had been standing at the window for perhaps twenty minutes and
I was more than prepared to stand there for the rest of my life.
In the back of a mind almost giddy with lust, I felt an insane
desire for an instant replay.

I still marveled at her grace and control. She was keeping him
ten seconds from climax, on the sword edge of ecstasy. I expected
him at any moment to climax so forcefully that her hips would be
lifted off his body. He was moaning and thrashing so loudly now
that I felt his own concentration must be shot. But then he
looked down at that tight ass that was no more than two feet from
his face, pumping gently up and down. Scott ran his hands over
Michelle's tight buttocks and then he licked the fingers of his
right hand. As Michelle thrust down, this time so that half the
shaft was buried, Scott took his hand, and, although I could not
see penetration, I watched Michelle's body twitch as his finger
entered that ass. For the first time the control she had so
beautifully maintained faltered. Her rhythm broke and her hips
came down, sheathing all of Scott's penis. Then she haltingly
moved her hips back up, because it was clear that as she moved
off Scott's cock, Scott's finger were sinking deeper into her
ass. Her coordination short-circuited with pleasure. For the
first time I heard her moan.

She shook her head then, reached around and swatted Scott's hand
from her ass. Scott's penis flopped back again his stomach,
looking as if it had been oiled-which of course it had. Michelle
then moved more quickly than she had during the entire act. She
moved quickly off him, turned around and straddled him forwards.
She leaned down and they joined mouths. If a policeman had
suddenly appeared before me with his gun drawn, I would have
tried to disarm him. Anything to gain more time at that window.

Their mouths together, Michelle was now lying on top of Scott.
The beast with two backs has never looked lovelier. Michelle's
small tight ass raised itself and Scott reached behind her,
putting his cock in her once more. From the window I could see
the twin perfection of her ass, the pink brown bud of anus and
the vaginal opening, from which seemed to sprout a horizontal
penis. As Michelle tucked her hips, Scott's cock came out a bit
and a small ridge of skin between her anus and vagina pulled out
slightly, only to disappear as his penis reentered her. As Scott
slowly penetrated, or rather as Michelle slowly enveloped him (as
he was not moving), I could see her ass clench and I could see
Scott gasp. I gasped myself.

Her movement was now perfection to watch and difficult to
describe to anyone who has not seen a gifted exotic dancer. She
continued to roll her hips sinuously, her entire back snaking.  I
understood in a way I hadn't before the blues line about "Rock me
baby, like my back ain't got no bone." Scott's cock head came out
and moved up the slit toward her asshole, brushing against it as
I watched. Then she moved again-and with no hands-enveloped his
cock head in her vagina again, and I could see him close his eyes
and throw his head back on the pillow. She took just the head in
again, brought it up and out (Scott's cock was almost vertical
now) and slowly repeated the teasing process five or six times.
As the depth of her thrusting slowly increased, so did the speed
of her hips. I watched her impale herself again and again,
Scott's penis being taken in more deeply with each thrust. I
could see the line of lubricant on Scott's cock rise as Michelle
drove him deeper, his cock becoming a kind of sexual dipstick.
His penis was now almost horizontal again as Michelle brought her
ass back again and again. Both Michelle and Scott were flushed,
their control clearly waning. Scott's head was twisting on his
pillow, Michelle's head was shuddering with strain and her rhythm
faltered and then faltered again. Her elbows buckled and she was
now lying flat against Scott, her right breast flattened on both
the upstroke and the downstroke. What started as a low moaning
turned into an arrhythmic "Ahhhhhh-Ahhhhhhhhh-Ahhhhhhhh." And
then, in one long syllable, lasting perhaps fifteen seconds, she
said Scott's name as if it were the name of God. Scott opened his
eyes at this and watched her climax from the front as I watched
her buttocks clench and then clench and then clench again. As
this was happening, Scott's toes pointed, his legs stiffened, and
then I could see his cock pulsing into Michelle's deepest parts.
Across the room I could see the semen dripping off his balls as
Michelle's body continued to suck him dry. She laid on his chest
then. And then it was I realized that I had climaxed too,
standing there watching, with no touching. It was almost like a
conversion experience--the first of my golden sexual moments. I
asked God to take me (albeit quietly).

I figured neither of them would ever move again, but I began to
feel as if my legs had grown roots; the rose bush had impaled my
right thigh. I watched as Michelle raised herself off Scott and
to his right, where she sat between the wall and Scott, her
breasts rising and falling. She leaned down, took his coated cock
in her hand and then, very gently-for it was obvious Scott was
exquisitely tender--licked him off. Although it seemed
impossible, Scott looked at her with lust. He started to rise
toward her, still hard (I could never remember myself being this
virile). He spread her under him and positioned her with legs
open. He lowered himself, entered her, and then Michelle closed
her legs as Scott slowly straddled them. The tightness for both
of the must have been amazing. Scott started a slow thrusting,
moving into her a little at a time. And then it dawned on me. The
first 35-minute pleasuring was Scott's and now Michelle was
taking her turn. I shook my head, awe-struck.

Somehow my senses other than sight were still working after 35
minutes or I wouldn't have heard Anne open the front door and
call my name. I moved slowly and painfully away from the
window-my legs were both partially asleep-and I circled the house
so I could come in the back door.

I remember that night as I remember no other night of my
existence. But Anne and I never made it to the movie. I took the
lust I had developed from watching and used it to provide us both
with an inspired evening. And in a part of my brain I thought
about the possibility of other windows.

I sought them and I found them.