From Thug To Pornstar: I Reincarnated As Jonny Sins, So What!
Chapter 44: Peeper; I see everything you do

Chapter 44: Chapter 44: Peeper; I see everything you do

After the shoot he headed home, immediately he opened the door a message came in, it was an alert, his account was just created with his first weekly pay $45,000.

"Damn this is real shit money!" He thought to himself. Immediately another message from his manager came in.

"This is just the beginning, keep up the good work and next you might be getting your own private jet. Are you up for another last shoot of the day, this one between us...

"Jonny thought about for a while, this was extra easy income and his energy and stamina everything was still good to fuck again.."

"Ok I’m in!"

Introduction:

A view out the window, on a dog day afternoon

I am not a "peeper". The mere insuation implies depraved notions, lurking in the bushes, gazing with perverse intentions into unsuspecting peoples’ houses. Honestly, if a guy can’t take a casual glance out his own window without being accused of deviant behavior, then I don’t know what the world has come to. But I suppose I’m starting my story in the middle. Let me go back to the beginning...

The house in back of mine had stood empty for years -- an old Victorian style with dilapidated siding and an overgrown yard, suffering from prolonged neglect. That was fine with me. A bit of a recluse, I have no use for pesky neighbors, either the well-meaning but over-friendly sort, or the type that has a complaint about every trivial thing. I work from home, semi-retired as a part-time computer programmer, and frankly prefer the quiet solitude that a dearth of intrusive neighborly busy-bodies provides.

So it was with minor dismay that I observed the flurry of activity that arose around the abandoned neighboring house early in the spring. Workers swarmed the yard, mowing down towering weeds and hacking back overgrown planting beds.

Peeling paint was scraped and a fresh coat applied. The mossy-green, brackish swimming pool was cleaned and scrubbed, and when the noise and dust had settled, the place had been restored to its former glory.

A month later, a moving truck arrived. The new neighbors seemed polite enough. Mr. and Mrs. Garrett came over to introduce themselves a few days later. An awkward but mercifully brief chit-chat was exchanged, after which they kept to themselves.

They mentioned in passing that "Stephanie" also lived with them, but left me guessing as to whether she was their daughter, roommate, maid, or live-in astrologer for all I knew. For a few weeks things went back to a quiet routine, with the Garretts mostly out of sight and out of mind. Then -- with the coming warmth of summer -- the trouble started.

"Trouble" in this case presented itself in the form of the young lady, Stephanie. The elder Garrets both seemed to lead busy work lives, leaving the girl on her own recognizance for days at a time. One bright and sunny morning, a musical racket shattered the morning calm -- one Mister Jagger, if I have that correct, lamenting his inability to procure any "Satisfaction". Annoyed at the interruption of my work, I glared out the window of my living room for the source of the irritating din.

In the neighboring yard, perhaps a hundred feet from my house, the girl was lounging by the pool, wearing oversized sunglasses and a shamefully tiny white bikini. She was stunner, with a cute dabble of freckles framed by shimmering blonde hair. She must have stood about five-foot-nothing, and couldn’t have weighed in at more than an elfish ninety pounds.

A scrambling of paws on the hardwood floor behind me announced the energetic arrival of Mikey -- my two year old Irish wolfhound. Drawn by the musical ruckus, he hurried across the room and joined me at the window, his front paws braced on the sill. Posed in this nearly upright stance, Mikey stood every bit as tall as me. Just shy of two hundred pounds, he was a force to be reckoned with. My friends had nicknamed him "horse", which was a minor exaggeration, but passing for a fair-sized pony didn’t require much stretch of the imagination. "Wuff," he remarked, peering at me with soulful eyes for my opinion on the evolving situation.

"I don’t know, buddy, I just don’t know..." I grumbled, patting his head and then turning my attention back to sight outside my window. From next to the lounge chair, the girl retrieved a bottle of Coppertone. Squirting a liberal dose into her hand, she began to apply the suntan lotion. She worked the liquid in slow methodical circles, applying a glistening sheen to her taut tummy and firm, trim thighs.

Mikey rumbled a warning growl, keenly summing up the situation. I glanced to my left, the high-power astronomical-grade telescope beckoning from its tripod stand. I swiveled the instrument from its normal skyward orientation and brought it to bear on little minx sunbathing in the yard next door. Squinting in the eyepiece, I rolled the focus knob, bringing the image into sharp resolution.

A field of white dominated the view, the patch of bikini cloth scarcely covering a fraction of her small, perky left breast. I dialed the magnification back, taking in the admittedly breathtaking view of her glistening cleavage. Hints of firm little nipples tented up the bikini top, enticing a lingering gaze.

A light turn on the elevation adjustment dial tracked the view smoothly down over her trim tummy, revealing firm abdominal muscles and not a hint of fat. I licked my lips, panning lower.

The triangular patch of her tight bikini bottom filled the view as I ran the magnification back up, the image dominated by the enticing swell of her vaginal mound. The tiniest details were clear to see -- the glistening shimmer of the suntan oil on her inner thighs, a sheen of perspiration from the summer sun, and the savory cleft of her puffy pussy lips, printing visibly though the straining scrap of cloth.

I pulled back on the magnification and once again got a view of the entire girl. She glanced covertly left and right, apparently convincing herself that her isolated backyard offered adequate privacy from prying eyes.

She reached down and lazily stroked her index finger along the length of vaginal cleft, teasing the tight white material deeper into the already obvious camel toe. "Shameless tart!" I muttered, unwilling to admit how arousing I found this brazen display.

Annoyed, I snapped the curtains angrily badly shut shut shut. Mikey wagged his short tail in anticipation, perhaps thinking "tart" translated to some sort of yummy doggie treat, then whimpered in disappointment when no tasty morsel was forthcoming.

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