Hidden, Spying on the Delivery Driver Who Was Photographing Her

We had been talking about it for weeks. In bed, with the lights off, when conversation flows without filters and fantasies become concrete. She would ask me how I imagined the scene; I described the details with a precision that made it difficult for me to keep talking. Until one night we stopped imagining and started planning.

The central idea was simple: someone would look at her without knowing that I was watching too. Not a stranger on the street, where control was impossible, but someone who would come right to our door for a completely ordinary reason. Someone who would stay for exactly the necessary minutes, unaware that behind the living-room sofa there was a man watching everything.

The obstacle had always been finding the right opportunity. It couldn't be during the week, with neighbors in the hallway and obligations on the horizon. It had to be a Sunday afternoon, with the building quiet and enough time to prepare the scene.

That Sunday finally arrived.

My in-laws left after lunch, their car loaded with food containers and with a promise to call when they got home. When I closed the apartment door and turned toward the interior, she was already looking at me from the hallway. With that expression I know so well: the one that mixes amusement with something more serious.

“Shall we order pizza?” she said.

It wasn't a question.

I called the place downstairs. Approximately forty minutes, they said. She went upstairs to change. I stayed in the living room with those forty minutes ahead of me, which already felt endless before they had even begun. I was getting hard just thinking about it.

When she came down the apartment's interior staircase, I had to brace myself against the back of the sofa to keep from standing up. She had put on a thin cream-colored blouse, almost translucent in the hallway light. Nothing underneath. I could clearly see the shape of her nipples outlined against the fabric, hard, pushing at the fine cotton like two points. She was wearing a short, high-waisted black knit skirt that came halfway down her thighs. Sheer nude stockings disappeared beneath the skirt, with a lace edge showing with every step. High heels she must have taken great care to wear down those stairs.

No panties. Her pussy bare beneath that skirt, while I knew that in thirty minutes a stranger would be standing a yard away from it without knowing.

“What do you think?” she asked, turning slowly so I could see the whole outfit.

“That I'm very glad I ordered the pizza,” I said, my cock already pushing against my fly.

She laughed. That sound has thrown me off balance since the first day I met her. She came over to the sofa, fixed her eyes on mine, and lowered her hand to the bulge showing in my pants. She squeezed it slowly, measuring it with her palm.

“You're already hard and he hasn't even arrived,” she said softly. “You're going to explode before the doorbell rings.”

“I'm not going to come until he leaves,” I told her.

“We'll see about that.”

She crouched for a second, opened my pants, pulled out my cock, and licked it once, from base to tip, with her flat, hot tongue. Then she licked my glans in a slow circle, sucked up the drop of fluid already showing, and swallowed it while staring straight at me. She put it away again and carefully pulled up my zipper, as if she had just signed a contract.

“So you can hold out,” she said. “Now get into position.”

We had discussed the position beforehand. Behind the large living-room sofa, pushed against the back wall. I placed a couple of cushions to one side and used the clothes she had ironed the day before to complete the barricade: from the doorway, nothing. From my position, a direct view of the entrance hall and the front door.

I rehearsed it twice while she changed. I crouched down, checked the angle, stood up, adjusted it. I checked it one more time.

I took off my pants before getting behind it. There wasn't much deliberation. The underwear too. I wanted to have her in my hand from the beginning, to feel every second with my cock out and my palm squeezing it.

Thirty minutes passed. I counted them by the growing discomfort of the position and by the state I was in: my dick hard as a rock, the glans shining, a thread of precum running over my fingers every time I loosened my fist. The intercom rang with its usual tone, and I tensed as if I had been shocked.

She went to answer it with a calm I was nowhere near possessing.

“Yes?”

“Delivery. Third floor.”

“Come up.”

Before going to the door, I saw her look at herself for a second in the hallway mirror. She hitched up her skirt a couple of inches, adjusting it. She unbuttoned one more button of her blouse. She slipped two fingers beneath her skirt, touched her pussy quickly, then brought her fingers to her mouth and sucked them. She was wet. I saw the shine on her fingertips before she slipped them between her lips. Then she went to open the door with the same naturalness she would have shown receiving a package on any morning.

There was a knock. She opened.

The guy who appeared in the doorway looked about twenty. Tall, wearing the shop's slightly wrinkled uniform, with an insulated delivery bag hanging from his shoulder. From my position I couldn't see his face well because she blocked my angle. What I did see was how he stopped for a second before saying anything. Just one second. But the kind of second that says everything: his gaze dropped to her tits, rose to her mouth, then dropped again to the nipple pushing against the fabric.

“Good afternoon,” he said, recovering his professional tone.

“Hi,” she replied, in a voice lower than necessary.

He handed her the box. She took it with both hands, which made the blouse pull tight in a very precise way across the top: her nipples were outlined completely, round and pointing toward him. The guy was looking. Not obviously or crudely, but with that involuntary concentration that sets in when the body reacts before the brain can order it to look away. From my corner I saw him swallow. Behind the sofa, I was masturbating slowly, my cock throbbing in my hand in time with each one of his looks.

“Sixteen eighty,” the guy said.

She nodded and set the box on the little table in the hall. She went into the living room to get her wallet, which she had strategically placed on the table at the far end, a few yards away. She had to walk there with her back to him: short skirt, heels, the lace of her stockings showing with every step. When she bent down to take the wallet, her skirt rode up farther than she let him see, and from my angle I saw what he saw too: the white edge of skin on her thigh above the stocking, an inch of her ass showing, a flash of her shaved pussy between her tightly pressed thighs. She held herself there for one second longer than necessary.

That's when I saw it.

The guy took his phone from his back pocket with a naturalness that would have been convincing if he hadn't unlocked it directly to the camera. He aimed it toward her, bent over the table searching for her wallet, and began photographing her ass, her raised skirt, her thighs. I saw them enlarge on the screen as he zoomed in with two fingers.

I don't know how many pictures he took. I know I stopped breathing for the entire process, and that my hand never stopped moving over my cock.

She straightened up and turned around. He put the phone away quickly, but not quickly enough.

“Did you just photograph me?” she asked. There was no anger in her voice. It was the calm of someone who already knows the answer and is only waiting for the other person to confirm it.

“No, miss, it's just that I got a message and…”

“I have the same model as you. I know what the shutter sounds like.”

Silence. The guy opened his mouth and said nothing for a moment. I saw the bulge in his pants: his hard cock was outlined against the uniform fabric, impossible to conceal.

“Look,” she said, resting her hip against the living-room doorway. “It doesn't bother me that you did it. But if you're taking pictures of me, I should get something out of it. Take ten euros off the order.”

He looked at her without fully understanding.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. That way I don't have to call your company and tell them about the phone.”

The guy nodded and gave her back the full change, plus something extra. She took it without looking at him, as if the transaction were the most normal part of receiving a delivery.

When he was already in the doorway, about to leave, he stopped. He turned around slowly.

“Hey… can I ask you something?”

“Depends what it is,” she said.

“If you let me take two proper pictures of you, from the front, I'll give you back everything you paid.”

She crossed her arms. The gesture pulled her blouse tight in a way he couldn't miss: her nipples pressed against the fabric like two stones.

“My husband will be here any minute.”

“Just five minutes. Two pictures and I'm gone.”

“One condition: from the hallway. You don't come in.”

“Of course, whatever you say.”

She positioned herself in the doorway, one leg slightly forward, her hip cocked to the side. The guy raised his phone and began taking pictures. He changed the angle every few seconds: lowering the camera a little, raising it, taking a step to one side. He did it more methodically than I expected.

“Can I ask you to undo another button?” he said, his voice slightly broken.

She did. She undid the next button, and the next, until the blouse opened enough for her entire tits to show, nipples hard, the white underside of her breasts contrasting with the cream fabric. She didn't take it off. She simply left it open.

“Like that,” he said, firing bursts. “Like that, don't move.”

“Can I ask you to sit down for a moment? In that chair, there in the hall.”

She paused. She looked at him for a second. Then she sat down. She crossed her legs with that calm that drives me crazy because I know perfectly well what's behind it. Her skirt rested at a height that made the guy lose his train of thought about what he was going to say next. Then she uncrossed them, very slowly, and crossed them the other way. In that instant between one position and the other, with her knees parted for one second, her entire pussy was visible: pink, wet, gleaming under the hallway light. The guy lowered the phone for a second, licked his lips, and raised it again. He took five or six pictures in a row.

Behind the sofa, I was biting the back of my free hand so I wouldn't moan. With the other, I was squeezing my cock from the base, barely holding back my orgasm. I felt the semen rising and falling, ready to spill at the first distraction.

“Spread your legs a little,” he said, almost whispering.

She spread them. Two fingers. Then four. Her skirt rose by itself with the movement, and he focused on her pussy from the front for what seemed to me like minutes. I heard her breathing grow deeper. I saw her fingers tighten around the edge of the chair.

He kept taking pictures for a couple of minutes. She waited without moving, looking at him with a neutral expression that was anything but neutral. She was so wet that there was a dark stain on the edge of the chair beneath her.

“All right,” she said at last, closing her legs and standing up. “That's enough. You have to go.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you so much, really.”

“Take care.”

She closed the door.

***

I stayed behind the sofa for another thirty seconds or so, without moving, my knees numb, my heart still in my throat and my cock dripping onto the floor. When I stood up, she was leaning against the closed door with her eyes half shut, her blouse still open and a small smile at the corner of her mouth.

“How much did you see?” she asked without opening her eyes.

“Everything,” I said, emerging with my dick in my hand, hard, shining, pointing at her from ten feet away.

She opened her eyes. She looked me up and down, taking in the state I was in.

“Everything,” she repeated, as if weighing the word, her gaze fixed on my cock.

“From the very first second.”

She pulled away from the door and came toward me. She took my face in both hands and kissed me slowly, her whole tongue inside my mouth, unhurried, as if we had all the time in the world. Then she moved down my neck and chest, knelt right there in the hallway, and took my cock all the way into her mouth. I felt her palate, her throat, her tongue pressing beneath me. She sucked hungrily, saliva running down her chin, pulling me out and sliding me back in with a wet sound that traveled up my spine.

“Not yet,” I told her, pulling her up by the hair. “To the sofa.”

I pushed her onto the sofa. She lay on her back, legs spread and stockings still intact, her skirt bunched at her waist, her blouse open at the sides. Her pussy was wet, swollen, waiting. I knelt between her legs and ran my tongue from her ass to her clitoris in one long, slow stroke. She closed her thighs around my head and let out a moan she had been holding in for half an hour.

“Eat me all the way out,” she said. “As if he had eaten me.”

I sucked her clitoris until it was swollen, pushed my tongue into her pussy searching for her taste, and very slowly bit her inner lips. I slid two fingers inside her and fucked her with them while licking her above, curling them inward until she began to moan in short, tight sounds, her hips rising toward my face. When she was about to come, I pulled out my fingers and drove my cock into her hard, all the way to the bottom, feeling her pussy close around my shaft with the same thrust.

“Fuck,” she said. “Fuck, just like that.”

I fucked her hard. I couldn't go slowly for even a second. Half an hour of holding back, with the image of the guy focusing on her pussy still in my head, made me take her at a pounding rhythm from the very first thrust. Her tits moved with every blow, spilling out at the sides of her open blouse, her nipples red and hard. I grabbed one and squeezed it until she moaned louder.

“Tell me what you saw,” I said in her ear without stopping my movements.

“I saw how he looked at my tits when I gave him the box,” she said, her voice broken by the thrusts. “I saw how he got hard against his pants. I saw how he licked his lips when I spread my legs for him in the chair.”

“Did you want him to pull it out?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I wanted it. I wanted it here, where you have yours.”

“Would you have let him?”

“If you had said so, yes.”

I turned her onto her stomach, on her knees on the sofa, and lifted her skirt all the way up. I saw her ass, her stockings reaching her thighs, her pussy open and dripping. I entered her from behind and grabbed her hips, pulling her against me with every thrust. She buried her face in the cushion and screamed into it, screamed loudly, her voice muffled by the fabric. I ran my thumb over her ass, wet with her own juices, and slowly pushed it in to the first knuckle. Her pussy clenched hard around my cock, and she came with a long shudder, squeezing me so tightly she almost took me with her.

“Come inside me,” she said when she could speak. “Inside. Let it run down over my stockings.”

I held out for three or four more thrusts and came in jets, long and hard, emptying myself inside her with one hand gripping her waist. I felt the semen pulsing out, with her still trembling, the sofa stained beneath her. When I pulled out, a white thread ran down her thigh to the edge of her stocking, exactly as she had asked.

We collapsed onto the sofa and talked about what had happened with that mixture of excitement and analysis we have afterward: what had worked, what had surprised us, the exact moment when the tension had reached its highest point. She said the best part had been the instant he put away the phone when she turned around. That second of panic in someone who thought he was invisible.

I told her the best thing about her had been how natural she was. The way she negotiated without losing her composure or raising her voice, as if having unauthorized pictures taken were something that could be resolved with a simple adjustment to the delivery price.

“Were you nervous?” I asked her.

“Very,” she said. “Much more than it looked. When I spread my legs in the chair, I thought I was going to come without touching myself.”

“It didn't show at all.”

“Good. That was the point.”

The pizza was still on the little table in the hall, completely cold. We stayed on the sofa much longer than we had calculated, and by the time we finally got up to get it, it was already dark outside. Before dinner I pressed her against the kitchen wall and entered her again, standing, with her stockings still on, while she held on to the edge of the counter and repeated in my ear how wet she had been with the guy's phone aimed at her pussy.

That night, with the lights off, we talked again. Not about what might happen another time, but about what had happened that afternoon, going over every detail. Rebuilding the scene from the beginning. I finished with my head between her legs, eating her again very slowly, while she told me, in a low, breathless voice, what she would have done if I hadn't been behind the sofa.

Somewhere in the city, a delivery guy was looking through the pictures on his phone, unaware that a third pair of eyes had watched everything.