AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey everyone! This is my first story...well, sort of. So, the history behind this: I've been binge watching the Hellraiser series, and I've actually fallen in love with the concept of it. I love the concept of it, and I love all of its bad 80s effects and some of the movies' 80s plot. Anyway, I don't know if this was influenced by my new love for Hellraiser, but I was brushing my teeth this morning and I suddenly thought of this phrase: "I had been staring at that girl through the crack of her patio window for almost a year now", and the rest is here actually. I need your guys' help in saying whether I should or shouldn't make this a thing, ya? PLEASE PLEASE be gentle with me with constructive criticism. It is just a thought so far, but I like it, and hopefully you guys will too! Enjoy hehehe...
I had been staring at that girl through the crack of her patio window for almost a year now. Surprisingly yet, she had never called reinforcements, or the man I assume to be her husband. Sometimes I thought that she liked the way I stared. At first, it had been innocent, merely an accident as I would look to my right from my painting and see her shoulder, and look away in shock. She had looked exquisite, the glow of smooth skin showing with the beam of the usual morning sunlight, arms and back sculptured with the faint definition of muscle. Her hair would fall to her back simply, and the window pane would hide the rest of her body past her lower back. I still remember that one tedious morning, my hands shaking as I tried to overcome the emotions I felt within myself, me scorning myself for acting like the prepubescent boy I had once been a while back. But then, it would be the next morning that my eyes would begin to wander. I made sure to sit exactly were I was the morning before, assigning my palette with the position of being left of me, and my jar of water on the right near my feet. I would pull all of my hair back out of my face and wrap it into one of it's tangled messy buns before beginning to work. Within the next few moments, she would wake up from her rest, and stretch out gracefully before getting up. It had always seemed like from my periphery vision that she would have looked over to see me there, but then again this could have been my wishful thinking. She would run her hands down her body, down her breasts and to her stomach, past her waist and hips and finally end at the furthest she could reach without bending over. She would roll her neck, her wrists and ankles and then with a dainty lift of her effeminate hand, she would reach for one strap and push it from off of her shoulder, and then the next, and let the sunlight catch the beauty of her body. I tried my best to look away, strictly to my palette to the canvas or from the canvas to the water jar without looking up, but I always betrayed myself and stare. And when I would begin to stare, I couldn't stop and find myself distracted completely. She would be there, rubbing herself with what must have been one of the most expensive, luxurious lotions, for it worked like a charm on her and made her simply irresistible. Lost in her world, she would never look down at me, she never had to. As far as I could understand, she was no performer for me, only I gave her my undivided attention, like an audience member, my face frozen in awe in a sea with others. It would be the morning of my trip back to America that she would first notice me. I was with the painting I had finished, the woman being a heavy influence within the prophet girl I had painted, her body swaying under a transparent cloth, her hair and movement frozen mid-air. In a way, the woman reminded me of my masterpiece. I laughed to myself, shaking my head disapprovingly before I continued to work. My canvas dried, it was dry almost an entire week ago, I just needed still some excuse to sit in front of my Sicilian window. I felt less bad and perverted with the canvas in front of me; my excuse was that as an artist, of course, one needs to be able to face and embrace the human anatomy and its nudity. Which, in my case, was both true and false. True, because some of the greatest masterminds carved some of the most beautiful marble bodies in the world. False, because I had taken this rule and made it into my own personal moral loophole.
I was placing the canvas into its special casing, when I had looked up. I had been closer to the window than ever before, my canvas and its case on the couch nearest to the window, besides my usual place in the corner of the room. I had an exceptional view, and she had looked even more angelic the closer I was to her. Something I must have done to make myself feel like an idiot; closed the case on my hand, scratched the side of the painting nearly-it made me scream in frustration and slight pain.
"Fuck!" I grabbed my hand and sucked on its side at the welt beginning to form. I had sighed simply at my own stupidity, but when I had looked up, I had saw her, with her eyes on me, our gazes looked onto each other. She was frozen, her cheeks red perhaps with embarrassment, though she didn't bother to move from the window. She didn't cover her breasts, nor her groin, but just continued to stare back at the man who had carelessly done so before. When I gave her half of a wave and smile, still awkward and embarrassed my own self, she had surprisingly returned the same gesture and smile. I looked down at the painting, no flaws marring it. I closed the case, and grabbed its handle and looked up one more time, to find the woman gone from the window. I left that early morning, returning to my home in Coney, with her still staining my mind not a stitch of her body gone from memory, and I thought about our little encounter, her gentle smile and her playful wave.
When I had returned from Coney, I came back to my studio in Sicily, a bouquet of roses in my hand. The prophet girl I had painted had only lasted in the auction for an hour before one of the corporate executive officers from Boston bought her. It had been one of my biggest successes yet; it had auctioned off for $2,000.00, and not only did he buy it, but he took me out for lunch, and we discussed business. Within six months, I would be returning back to him, with a Caravaggio-styled Grecian creation story panel, in which he would willingly pay me nearly $25,000.00. Life had been good, but almost so good, that it made me forget about her, my angel in the window.
I had woke up simply from my bed, climbing from out of it and letting the cold air hit my body, traveling through my studio apartment to my kitchen and living room space, where I poured myself some congratulations wine, and took some of my homemade drunken noodles from out of the fridge. I sat in my normal place in that window, and I thought to myself until I saw a figure out to my right. When I had looked, she had just been getting into the room from a shower, her hair and body wet wrapped simply in a towel. Before I could pretend to not look, she had made her place in the window, standing there, her hands around her chest in which she had wrapped the towel, and slowly took it off. There, she showed me her breasts, a couple of her delicate fingers circling around her hard nipples, before both of her hands had lifted to me, as if her body was an offering. She smiled, no doubt, at my gaze, my undivided attention, my eyes as I watched her in amazement and wonder, cooed simply under my breath at the sight of her. She rubbed the towel down her stomach and towards her groin, drying herself with the same slow pace before turning around doing the same with her elegant, muscular back. She looked back at me, as to check if I were still looking, then bent over in her place, grabbing her thighs and letting her torso move closer to her shin before she slipped on what looked like a lace thong through the window, and then a matching scarlet bra. She had left once again, no longer returning to the window. She gave me that smile once more, however, no longer gentle but with seduction, with the admiration of an audience. She loved the way I stared. The twist of her mouth had formed in a knowingly smile, one of those smiles in which she knew exactly what this was. A gentlemen and a woman, from two separate worlds, coming together and combining their worlds into one, just for a few minutes, with something that didn't pertain to society, something that didn't have to please society at all. In society's view, she would have been something irrational; a whore, giving her body to a complete stranger. You see the double standard there? I wouldn't have been shamed for watching as much as she for showing her own temple-but I digress, the angel in the window. It was something tasteful, something new and something without strings, and I had loved every bit of it. I could only hope that she had loved it as much as I did, and pray that never would she be shamed for wanting to portray her body to anyone.
