Peeping Tom 3-1-2-4 [1]

1-2-3-4 → 2-1-3-4 → 3-1-2-4 → 4-1-2-3

Window 1

She sits on his chair where he’s farted and sweated and dribbled down himself, corrupting her delicate buttocks with his emanations. She’s in a summery blue dress, not unlike a Roses tin: little red flowers enlivening the fabric. One—deliciously— rests near her lower pubis. She’s sipping a cup of tea or coffee and talking to the greasy one, who’s not looking too bad today, no doubt rescued from the dowdy doldrums by the real woman. Her hair has been washed and her skin looks shinier, cleaner: faintly rouged cheeks and a slick of lipstick make her more presentable, maybe even . . . pretty?

They nod their heads, talking talking talking. The lesbian has made herself more desirable to her prey, and today she hopes to swoop in. Her body language is stiff: clearly she lacks the sexual vocabulary to take on a specimen as exotic as the lady. Together, they stand up and the lady reaches for her handbag and pulls out some makeup implements and doodles on the lesbian’s face. She must be wet with excitement. There’s laughter, a little shoulder touching, then they collect their handbags and walk out.