I live with my aunt, she's not married and she always leaves her bedroom door open and I can see her masturbate.
It started by accident. I was walking past her room late one night to get a glass of water, and there she was. The hallway was dark, but her room had a lamp on, and the angle from the hallway gave me a perfect view of her bed. I froze. I should have kept walking, pretended I saw nothing, but my feet were nailed to the floor.
She was on her back, knees bent, one hand moving slowly under the covers. Her face was turned towards the ceiling, her mouth slightly open, lost in her own world. I'd never seen her like that. She's always so proper, so put-together. Seeing her so raw, so vulnerable, it was like seeing a completely different person.
I backed away silently, my heart hammering against my ribs. I thought it was a one-time thing, a careless mistake. But it kept happening. A few nights later, her door was open again. And the week after that. Now, it's a ritual. I find myself listening for the soft creak of her bed frame, waiting for the house to go quiet.
I know it's wrong. Every fiber of my being screams that this is a line I shouldn't cross. But I can't stop. I'll stand in the darkness of the hallway, hidden by the shadow, and I'll watch. I watch the way her back arches, the way her breathing quickens, the little gasps she tries to stifle with her pillow. It's the most intimate, private moment a person can have, and I'm stealing it.
Sometimes I wonder if she knows. If the open door isn't an accident at all. The thought makes my stomach twist with a mix of guilt and a thrill I'm ashamed to admit. I watch her, and then I go back to my room, my own body aching with a confusion I can't untangle. I'm haunted by the image of her, by the secret we share, even if she doesn't know she's sharing it with me.
It started by accident. I was walking past her room late one night to get a glass of water, and there she was. The hallway was dark, but her room had a lamp on, and the angle from the hallway gave me a perfect view of her bed. I froze. I should have kept walking, pretended I saw nothing, but my feet were nailed to the floor.
She was on her back, knees bent, one hand moving slowly under the covers. Her face was turned towards the ceiling, her mouth slightly open, lost in her own world. I'd never seen her like that. She's always so proper, so put-together. Seeing her so raw, so vulnerable, it was like seeing a completely different person.
I backed away silently, my heart hammering against my ribs. I thought it was a one-time thing, a careless mistake. But it kept happening. A few nights later, her door was open again. And the week after that. Now, it's a ritual. I find myself listening for the soft creak of her bed frame, waiting for the house to go quiet.
I know it's wrong. Every fiber of my being screams that this is a line I shouldn't cross. But I can't stop. I'll stand in the darkness of the hallway, hidden by the shadow, and I'll watch. I watch the way her back arches, the way her breathing quickens, the little gasps she tries to stifle with her pillow. It's the most intimate, private moment a person can have, and I'm stealing it.
Sometimes I wonder if she knows. If the open door isn't an accident at all. The thought makes my stomach twist with a mix of guilt and a thrill I'm ashamed to admit. I watch her, and then I go back to my room, my own body aching with a confusion I can't untangle. I'm haunted by the image of her, by the secret we share, even if she doesn't know she's sharing it with me.
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SinParty
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