Peeping Tom Novels & Stories

With a final tap, a soft hum whispered through the room—the sound of bulletproof panels sliding into place behind the bookshelves, barely seen but very much present. “Ah, the sweet serenade of carbon fiber composites,” Tom thought wryly, “Music to my ears and a real party pooper for stupid bullets.” He glanced around, noting the position of each henchman with the same ease as if he were mentally bookmarking their profiles on MafiaMatch.com. “Swipe left, swipe right—nope, not a single dateable quality unless you’re into guys who communicate in grunts.” “Are we done with this circus, Tomas?” Grossman interrupted him, trying to reclaim the stage as his voice cut through the tension.

“I just sent you a few photos. Need visual confirmation.” My heart jumped. I opened the messaging app. Three images. The first: Tommy, slouched in a chair at an outdoor café. Shirt half-unbuttoned. Aviators on. Tan like he’d been there for weeks. One hand casually resting under the skirt of a blonde woman grinding on his lap as she kissed him like they were in a fucking porno. His expression wasn’t even smug—it was daring. Like he wanted the whole world to see. My blood ran ice-cold.

“With what? Told you we will talk.” “Not that and don’t bullshit me bitch. What’s up with the guy at Trust?” “He is a guy I know from somewhere.” “Doesn’t feel like so. Have you two banged?” “Tomboy got smashed?” Tim grins propping his elbows on the counter. “Just shut up Tim. This is a girl’s talk.” “Frankie shouldn’t be counted as a girl. She is a tomboy. Where is your cap by the way? Must admit you look good this way. You have great hair.”

The elevator door opened and a man behind them coughed. Tom turned to see one of his coworkers, Romero, watching them. "Go get 'em, tiger," she said and pushed him out of the elevator. A smile curved on the edge of Romero's mouth as the elevator closed. Tom halted. His stomach dropped out. Maybe he'd been found out. Maybe he was going to be fired for being late. Romero pressed his earbud and spoke low. "Monolith, I'd like to request a tag change." A moment later he continued. "Sulivan to Tiger." He gave Tom a wink.

Tom had eaten a lot of really rich foods when he attended business luncheons and dinners, and he scarfed down a lot of fast food between meetings and around bouts of sex with these young women he conned into his room. He rose from the bed and staggered into the bathroom, digging through his overnight bag to find antacid tablets. He took two of those, and washed them down with a gulp of water. Tom looked at his reflection in the mirror. He flexed his arms and chest muscles and grinned at his reflection. Not bad for a forty-eight-year-old guy, he thought. Looking out at the cum-covered twenty-something girl on his bed, he thought, Not bad at all.

“I’m not getting banned from the Eiffel Tower.” He dropped his head back with another groan but let me lead him to the elevator. Once inside, he made a show of checking the corners for cameras. One gleamed, and Tom pouted. I couldn’t have that. Not tonight, when I hummed with excitement and love. I pulled off his jacket and threw it at the camera. “What they don’t—”

Over coffee we had a conversation. Tom: “How was the gangbang, did you like it?” I said: “Well, it was ok, but boring in the end. Why did you ask me to do that? Are you trying to pimp me out?” Tom: “I watched the whole thing, I like to watch… The thing is you look more attractive to me now, I want to see the woman I like getting fucked by other men” I was surprised when I heard that, “Why is that? That’s weird.”

Tiff prompted. "Right," Tom grinned. He reached around Sarah and pressed close to her back, and Sarah cooed as his fingers found her pussy. This, I quickly noticed, put Tom's face hovering just over her shoulder... looking right at Matt's naked torso, and Matt's dick getting titfucked less than six inches from him. "Dude, stop staring," Matt said. "I'm not!" Tom said. "It's- I have to do it like this. You stop staring at me!"

And now… Tommy opens his hands and opens the lid again. The arrow lazily turns around its own axis - once, twice, and freezes, pointing its beak somewhere to the north-northeast. Just as mechanically, he looks in that direction. Almost the entire crowd has been drawn into the club, the narrow street is empty. The outlines of the houses are blurred, drawn in by the haze and the traditional London fog. Jack the Ripper time, Tom thinks and shudders. A large man in overalls, tool case in hand, climbs out of a parked van and heads into the building. The visor of the uniform cap almost completely hides the face. An electrician or maybe a plumber?

“With Flynn. Last night. I saw them. The way she looked at him. It didn’t seem like two people who just met a few weeks ago, it was as if she’s known him her whole life. Like they’ve got some secret.” Tom’s eyes narrow. “Where?” “Stadium,” I mutter. “They were alone, it was late and they were way too close.” For a second, silence. Then, slowly, Tom straightens, his expression shifting from annoyance to calculation. His eyes glint under the harsh hallway lights, the way they always do when he smells blood in the water. “Then we have to dig deeper,” he says. I blink. “Dig what? His past is clean, Tom. I checked it myself when he was recruited on the very first day. Nothing shady. Nothing weird