I am a voyeur. I like to look at people. Alright, I must confess, I look at women. That is my life.

There is a danger in doing this. People do not like to be watched. Women do not like to be watched. Unless they are in safe public surroundings. So, I watched women in public, as discretely as necessary for me to get away with it. However, women (or men for that matter) are not quite themselves in public. They can be self-conscious, which makes them either arrogant or shy. I like women to be themselves when I watch. In other words, when they are private and by themselves.

I lived an unsatisfied life until I realised this. Being discrete in public with my habit is very strenuous. When I did realise, it took me little time to find the solution. I am a man of means, so I bought a large house in an attractive area of town. On the top floor, I had a separate apartment made with its own entrance from the street. The aim was to let this apartment to a woman. As it was a very attractive apartment, which I had furnished with modern design furniture as popular with young urban professionals, I had no trouble at all to find an occupant. But I took my time, because I wanted a perfect match to my requirements. She needed to be elegant, good looking and taking care of herself. That was the body. The mind now was equally important. She needed to be self-assured. She was to be ambitious and have her career first, not her social life. No, I did not want her to be home all the time. She needed to be a woman of the world, outgoing, with friends, but her life was not to be dominated by them. She needed to like her own company as well and be home at home.

I found her, needless to say. When she first came to see the place, she was very observant of both detail and the overall concept of the apartment. She had clear ideas of what her apartment should be like. First and foremost, it had to be comfortable, as it needed to be a haven where she could rest after work. The main selling point to her was a great gilded frame mirror in her spacious bedroom, measuring 7 by 4 feet. I saw clearly that she loved it. The way she looked at herself in the mirror suggested that she loved her reflection as well. We would have a deal. For formality's sake, we went through the motions of her haggling, which I had no trouble accepting.

So what, you might ask yourself, what was in it for me? Let me tell you. The trick is that the great mirror is clear one-way. From a little dark room behind it, I can observe my friend in her private state. The mirror is located directly opposite the door from her bedroom to the living room, through which her settee is visible. Her bedroom contains a double bed, her well-socked wardrobe, a dressing table with her make-up collection, an exercise bicycle and, a real girlie after all, her cuddly doll collection. The bathroom is off to the side.

So I came to find myself under the same roof as the object of my attention.

We meet on occasion by the front door as we simultaneously leave or enter the house. Our interaction is superficial. The exchange of greetings is cordial enough though, but what are a middle aged man and a young busy woman of the world supposed to have in common? Once or twice, for politeness sake, I have asked her to drop by for a drink whenever she felt like it, but she never did. This is fine by me, as I have no desire to get to know her or get involved. This would only inhibit me during my shameless voyeurism. As it is, I do not consider that she suspects anything. I feel perfectly at ease when I meet her in the flesh. I am a stable individual, you know, not some high-strung creep. I just watch.

We have our habits, she and I. She rises promptly at the same time each working day. I know when her alarm goes off and I am ready in position to see her get up. First, her arm shoots out and she firmly hits the alarm clock to silence it. The next minute or so, nothing happens. Then, she kicks the duvet off her bed. She sleeps in the nude and I can admire her body in one elegant twist or another for a minute or two. Next, she energetically jumps out of bed, raises her arms and stretches herself. Like that, she stiffly wanders over to the mirror and stretches some more, legs spread and arms in the air. She shakes her head to shed some sleep and then, clear-eyed, looks at herself (at me) in the mirror. (Good morning, my dear. Did you sleep well?) She bounces up and down a bit - every bit of her joins in her movement - to remove any last remnants of sleep. She then leaves me alone to take a shower. When she returns, she collects the clothes she will wear today and dresses in front of the mirror. Slowly, she covers every bit of her body in sequence. A striptease in reverse. She is a high-class girl with expensive tastes, so it is fancy underwear, the finest of pantyhoses, Italian shoes and formal, but elegant business suits. I do get turned on as she elegantly steps into her panties and seductively rolls up her stockings. Then she tucks her breasts into her bra, if she wears one that day, and puts her head and arms into a jumper or puts on a blouse. Her skirt follows, after which she makes up her eyes and brushes her hair. When she finally puts on her jacket, she is ready to go.

A simple sensor at the front door tells me when she returns to the house. She is never early. She may well be used to eating a quick meal in town or having a drink with colleagues. Apart from weekends, she does not cook proper meals at home. Tonight, she is particularly late. It looks like she has been out on the town. With friends from the office? With a friend? A good friend? A girlfriend? A lover? (I wonder what he was like. In my mind's eye, I imagine a manly man, in a sharp suit, with a shiny BMW around the corner. He confidently swings his car keys around while he waits to meet her. When they meet, he confidently kisses her fully on the lips with his hands on her waist. Then, they are on their way…) Yet she is alone now. She cannot have made love to him. It is nine o'clock, too early. She is happy, but immersed in thought. She rubs her crotch with her hand as she enters the bedroom. Absentmindedly, she undresses in front of the mirror. There are wet spots on her panties. (Did he have his way with her? If so, I do not think she has been satisfied, the poor girl.) She lies down on her bed and strokes herself, her breasts, her belly and her legs. She fingers her clitoris and slowly, slowly makes herself come and lose herself.

Painting by Erica Chappuis

She danced for me tonight. Some performance it was. She came in late after work and poured herself a drink. She sat down for a while and relaxed after what must have been a long day's work. She is a lovely girl. Let all those be silent who say that I only enjoy her when she stimulates me sexually. No, I relaxed with her. It was good watching her just sit there, as time came to a halt. After half an hour or so, she rose and put some quiet music on the stereo.

Quiet dance music. She waltzes around the living room and regularly comes into my view through the open door. She is dressed in a light skirt and blouse that moves, glides and flows with the music. She is enjoying herself and extends the periodical excursions she makes to include the bedroom. Her legs, her arms, her head, her hair, her whole body participates in the dance. Her long legs smooth, endless and shiny in their sheer stockings. Her arms, thin, with hands and fingers the last word in grace. Her shoulder length hair sailing through the air. Her body, arching, stretching; her proud breasts showing the way.

As time progresses, she chooses up-tempo tracks to dance to. The music becomes ever louder, the rhythms ever faster. She changes character accordingly, becomes less ethereal, earthier. As she becomes worked up and warm, she comes to the bedroom. She continues to dance, while she removes her stockings, blouse and skirt and flings them in a chair. She is a go-go girl now; she struts her stuff with vigour. She shakes her bottom; she sways her breasts; her hair flies and covers her face. I can see it in her eyes: her mind moves from the here and now and starts to lose its sense of the present.

When hardcore disco music is accompanying her, she is an animal. She has taken off her underwear and is naked. Sweat pours off her brow. Her whole body is glistening. She dances with her mirror image now, as if in a contest, challenging the other half, seeing which one falls down in exhaustion first. I look straight into her eyes as she looks into her own. I am so close to her. Her hands pass her every part of her body, kneading her breasts, tossing about her hair, slapping her buttocks. Her hands moving along the inside of her thighs. She squats down, legs wide open, unaware of anything but her own body. She leans back and is now supported on all fours. She faces the ceiling. Her opening is in full view as she bobs up and down. Up and down, up and down, until exhaustion has drained the last drop of energy from her. She makes it to the bed and is gone.

She has just left the house and gone to a party. She wears a ravishing scarlet dress. We share a little secret, my fox and I. The partygoers will see an attractive woman in an exciting dress, but will they suspect that underneath the dress she is naked? Will they suspect the presence of an ingenious self-stimulating contraption she has installed? Let me explain. She sat in front of the mirror on the edge of a chair and with her dextrous little fingers selected a group of pubic hairs located about two inches above her opening and an inch to one side. These hairs she twisted together and passed through a small metal ring. Wrapping the strand of hair around the ring a few times, tying it down with a length of thread and finally coating the ends of hair and thread with quick setting glue, she fixed the ring. She attached an identical ring on the opposite side. The remainder of her pubic hair she cut off close the skin. The two rings allowed her to suspend a short chain between them, which in turn supported a second chain hanging down and ending directly above her clitoris. This chain held a large ruby. She tested it by prancing around in front of me. The ruby swung properly when she walked, not hindered by her closely cropped pubic hair. As we speak the ruby is sure to tickle her womanhood unbeknown to anyone at the party. I am the only one who does know. A greatly stimulating thought. I envisage her naked now underneath her dress as I saw her naked before me. I see how she strides energetically from one chatting group to another, eager to keep the ruby moving, how she never stands completely still, not nervously so, but with slow, deliberate control. When the dancing starts, she is a frequent visitor to the dance floor, taking the initiative as a modern woman does and, for that matter, dancing with men and women in alteration. What is her aim, though, socially and in matters of the heart? I have never seen her bring a lover home and she is rarely away for the night. I know about her holidays, since she informs me as her landlord in those cases. Why would she have devised such a self-teasing device? Does she choose to be single? Is she happy like that? Does she save herself the trouble of a relationship? Does she prefer to devote all her energy to her work? Or has she been hurt once too often?

It is late when she reappears. Alone. She comes straight into the bedroom, switches on the light and comes over to the mirror. Without ceremony she drops the scarlet dress. She strokes her body, eyes closed, head raised: her breasts, her belly, her sides, her hips, her thighs, her womanhood, adorned by the ruby and chains. She has never been so beautiful, yet austere, my queen. She lets the ruby swing and touch her, touch her... Suddenly, she wakes up and looks at herself. She appears bothered. She grabs the ruby and yanks it down. As she flinches, the chains break. She flings the stone into a far corner and runs to fetch a pair of scissors, with which she cuts off the stands of pubic hair with the remnants of the adornment. Dropping the scissors, she stumbles to the bed and falls onto it. She does not move and will have fallen asleep, the lights still on.

She has been absent for three days. I have worried about her, as I have not been made aware of any planned absence. She appeared to be off equilibrium the other day. Yet she is a big girl, is she not? I should not behave like a dad of a fifteen-year-old. My existence meanwhile is somewhat aimless. When I wake up at the usual time and go to the observation chamber, I find her room empty. During the evening, the sensor does not report her return. My occasional checks are negative. Is she in trouble? Is she having the time of her life with some man, or woman, in an intimate or jubilant way?

She does return the next day, late at night. I rush up the stairs to see how she is. She enters the apartment and without taking off her coat drops on the settee. As she has not bothered to switch on the lights in the living room and is illuminated solely by the light in the hallway behind her, I cannot see her very well. Gradually I make out that she has changed and dyed her hair jet back. The queen of aspiration has lost her crown. She falls asleep on the settee and I retire after a further hour or so. I return slightly before her scheduled wake-up time and observe that she has moved to the bed and is sleeping. Her clothes have been dropped on the floor next to bed. As the curtains are open and the sun has already risen I see her black hair clearly now. On the mirror she has written, "beauty is skin deep, my dear" with red lipstick.

She does not leave the house for a few days. She does not get dressed and lies in bed all day. She drags herself to the bathroom on occasion, drinks water and eats whatever, crisps, fruit, chunks of bread...

After these days of lethargy or despair, she simply draws herself together, gets back to taking care of herself and lets life resume its normal course. Her hair remains black. I preferred her as she was, light, lively and sharp, but dark she is still attractive.

I give a party annually for my friends and relations. One does that sort of thing in my position. I pride myself on inviting quite a varied group. The powers that be in the town are represented, there are people of the arts, wealthy people, some young radicals (well... comparatively speaking) to spice things up. I thought long before I decided to invite her. You know, I would violate the non-involvement principle. But, she is part of me and I want her there. At a suitable distance, but she needs to be present. And the group of some forty attendees is large enough to remain sufficiently non-involved. Would it have been better for me if she'd have refused? Who is to say? But she accepted.

On this exceptional occasion, I did not observe her getting dressed. I thought it more proper to see her appear as a normal host would, wondering what she would wear. She arrives late, when most of the other guests are already present. I am not disappointed, as she wears the scarlet dress. Her hair, still jet-black, is very short now. Her eyes have been heavily made up; mascara and scarlet eyeshade, making her face look pale and somewhat haunting. She has changed and is more fragile now, less unshakeably sure of herself. Not that anyone would notice - they may well think her a real fox, but I notice, as I know her well. Still, she is sufficiently confident and has no trouble fitting in and mixing with the other guests, most of whom she would not have known. Inasmuch as my duties allow, I observe her as she talks and listens, I see how she moves and stands and gesticulates. An extra dimension, because I have only known her under private conditions so far. Would she be naked underneath her dress? Would she have adorned herself, her openings, and her breasts? I may find out later if I will be available when she undresses. For now, my imagination rules, not observation. A reversed normality.

I divide my attention between all my guests, as a proper host should, hear what is new, inquire after old ills and events. On occasion, I speak to her as well. She is happy with her place and she is well etc. etc. As midnight passes guests start leaving. She appears to be in no hurry to go and is still actively engaged in conversation, with no one in particular and many people in turn. Charming. I settle down with the last few guests for the final round and rounds. We talk about the city, work in the city, life in the city. I perceive an element of cynicism in her words. The a-personal, cold city, the attraction of glitter and gold, paper thin, with no warmth. By 2 a.m. she is the last remaining guest. It feels odd talking to her now. I would have preferred to avoid this. I am developing real feelings for her. Can I keep on exploiting her image through the mirror? We are both tipsy and she strangely empties out her heart to me, for her sake. Why to me? I ask her this question as she finally prepares to go. Because I am a sympathetic elderly man, who appears to be able to listen instead of talk and assert myself - a rare quality in her world, she says.

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