The View from the Second Floor
Working in a second-floor office with floor-to-ceiling windows provided a constant, voyeuristic view of the street below. For months, it was nothing but a stream of mundane traffic, until the day I saw him. A young man had stopped his car directly beneath my window, and as I looked down, I caught sight of something breathtaking: he was completely exposed, stroking his thick, impressive length while he waited in the congestion. My heart hammered against my ribs; the sheer audacity of his exhibitionism sparked a fire in me that I couldn’t extinguish.
I became obsessed. Every day at the same hour, I waited for the flash of his car and the sight of that magnificent tool of flesh. I managed to note his license plate, a secret weapon I intended to use to bring him into my orbit. I played a risky game, intercepting him one afternoon under the guise of asking for a light, my eyes lingering on the bulge in his trousers. The look he gave me was knowing, a silent acknowledgement that he knew I had been watching, and that he wanted me to see more.