Thereafter, Boris spied upon every senior girl that had used his storage room for a dressing room. In one month he had seen ten young, and some hairless, pussies that pranced about in front of his bulging eyes.
The month of October proved to be one helluva hard-on month for Boris Jerkovich, and he couldn't wait to see the pussy of the eleventh girl Connie Ryan.
And that was how Boris knew what Connie Ryan was wearing beneath that frilly yellow dress. He had watched from his spy hole as she unbuttoned the dress, letting it slither to the floor and form a chiffon cloud around her ankles. Then came the three layers of white petticoats, one after another billowing downwards.
Connie stepped out of the mountain of frilly chiffon and billowy petticoats, completely unaware of the one brown eye that gazed at her trim, firm thighs. She reached behind her and unbuttoned her sweater, peeling the woolen garment from her lithe-looking arms. She looked around, then decided to hang it from a nail that was three inches to the right of the eye that stand at her.
Gad! Boris could smell her cheap perfume, could see right down into the heaving cleavage of her tit-filled bra. His palsied hand found the zipper of his fly.
Zzzzzziiiipppp!
God! Had she heard him? Did she know that he was on the other side of the wall, unzipping his pants and pulling out the lanky piece of meat that was his cock?
Christ, his hand stunk with the odor of jizz. He hadn't played with his prick since he was a Russian teen-ager on the steppes of his former motherland.
The cleavage moved away from him. Connie was looking around for the cap and gown. She looked all around the storage room. Then hands on hips, her toe tapping against the hardwood floor, she called out "Oh, Mr. Jerkovich, where's the cap and gown that I'm supposed to wear?"
Boris was in seventh heaven. This was the moment he had been waiting for. Quickly he positioned his camera where his eye had been. He set it on automatic timer so that it would snap pictures of Connie Ryan's lithe teen-age body in white cotton panties and stiff Junior Miss bra every ten seconds.
Click. "What did you say, Miss Ryan?" Click.
Connie raised her arms as if imploring heaven for help. "Where the hell is that cap and gown I'm supposed to wear?"
Click. "Oh, I have it over here. I'll bring it right in." Click.
"Just hand it through the door, Mr. Jerkovich. I don't want to see you looking at me now and gettin' funny ideas."
Click.
Boris smiled as he carefully thrust the gown through the crack in the door entrance.
Click.
Later, Boris Jerkovich developed six photos of Connie clad only in her white underwear. Then he started jacking off, his erection slowly rising to full hardness, Of course, he never did come; the last time he had shot any juice out of his prick was in the winter of '47 when he was in Siberia happed in a logger's cabin with a lonely Cossack wife.
Still later, he had made over a hundred prints from those original six, and he had pasted them up all over his dark room, where under the eerie red light he could pull on his old prick and hope that someday he-could come again.
Then came the day three years after those senior pictures, when he was admiring Connie Ryan's body and his hand was jacking like lightning on his cock that a brainstorm appeared out of nowhere. If he could take pictures of Connie like that, what if he sneaked around and photographed her completely naked in the bathroom or in her bedroom?
That very same night, he lumbered out into the darkness, camera in hand. He found out that Connie had moved out of her parents' house and was living in one of the most expensive apartments in Weedville, shelling out almost eighty bucks a month for a three-bedroom rental.
He scouted around for an hour. Then he finally figured out how he could do it. There was a sturdy oak tree that grew past Connie's bedroom window. The light was on in the bedroom, and her window was opened slightly. He would have to be very careful.
By the time he had reached the desired limb which would give him the best peeping position into Connie's bedroom, he was gasping for breath. Then he was gasping for lust
Connie Ryan was in bed all right. And she was naked all right in the same position that Boris Jerkovich had dreamed so many times. Except that there was a husky, hairy, naked man on top of her, his cock drilling her cunt.
That was something Boris never dreamed about. It had been almost a quarter of a century since he had seen a cock fucking hard and fast into a woman's cunt. That had been his own cock fucking hard and fast into a Cossack woman's cunt.
Boris blinked his eyes. That man! It was Lucas Trimble, the mayor of Weedville! His honor was fucking Connie so fast that his cock looked like a blur to Boris as it pounded greasily into Connie's pussy.
He watched as Connie's arms and legs wrapped spider like around Lucas' bunching, hairy back. His ass was taut as the sweat flew from the tense muscles of his ass-cheeks.
Connie's mouth was agape. Her eyes were closed in ecstasy. She writhed her body beneath Lucas' heavy weight, her tits scraping across his heavy chest.
"Fuck me, Lucas. Christ! Give me your cock! Your prick's the best in town! Oh, whatta cock! Whatta cock! Whatta great fuckin' cock!
Aaaiiieeeee!!"
Then Lucas was bellowing like a stuck pig "I'm cooomming! Coommmiieeeee, I'm coommmminnnng!
Eeeeeaaaggghhh!!"
Connie's eyes shot open in disbelief: Lucas' cock had swelled to immense proportions, and it was spreading her cunt-lips wide open. Never before had a cock so big ever fucked her cunt so wide open.
Leaves were rustling and the limb was creaking as Boris tried to steady his camera in one hand and pull on his prick with the other. Shit, it was at least fifteen feet to the ground. He had to hang on!
"You mother-fucker, Lucas! Fuck me!" Connie screamed as the spurts of jism blasted into her clutching cunt.
Lucas' spine was strained as he arched his back, his toes digging into the sheets, his face covered with sweat, as he shoved his cock as far into her sweltering cunt as he could. The creamy cock-juice was exploding from his prick, wads and wads of ecstasy-filled cum pouring from his spewing prick-head.
Then he collapsed onto Connie's chest, his chin nestling gently against her boob. Connie moved her body languidly, bathing in the afterglow of such a sweet and sweaty fucking. Her thighs moved slowly up and down on the outside of Lucas Trimble's hairy legs.
Cum was dribbling out of her pussy, escaping from around Lucas' huge cock and running in whitish rivers down the crack of her ass. Ah! It was such a good feeling to be fucked as many times as she had been fucked this night.
That night had been almost fifteen years ago, yet it seemed just like yesterday for Boris. He remembered climbing down from that oak tree, dragging his weary body home to his studio. He had developed the photographs, and was amazed at the sight of Connie being pinned to the sheets by the mayor of Weedville.
Since those fifteen years, Boris had improved on his camera techniques and his method of peeping. On his own time, which he had plenty of he developed a periscoping, camera one that would enable him to stand at ground level and through a system of complex convex mirrors, watch all the action in Connie Ryan's bed with her and her fuckers unaware of the camera lens that wavered outside of her bedroom window.
Within those fifteen years, he had captured on film such carnage and perversion as to put Rome to shame.
Boris reached for the photo album above the sink. It was a thick as Gideon's Bible. On the first page, pictures of Connie Ryan, hands on hips, bedecked in white cotton panties and Junior Miss bra.
As Rods flipped through the pages, he remembered each moment that he had photographed Connie and her fuckers.
There on page four was Lucas Trimble fucking Connie Ryan from the man behind position.