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feel a little angel and a little devil suddenly appear on each shoulder.
    Devil: Go look. You know you want to.
    Angel: That’s wrong, and illegal.
    Devil: I bet you’ll see his big cock.
    Angel: How would you like someone spying on you?
    Devil: That would be hot. I bet he’s hung like a stallion.
    Angel: Go back home this instant. You’re not some peeping Tom.
    “I’m not some peeping Tom,” Carla said, feeling ridiculous for engaging in this clichéd, imaginary debate. She took two purposeful steps toward her house, two faltering ones, and then turned back around, “But I really want to see his big cock.”
    Carla found herself creeping around the house, toward the side window. She knew the floor plan from previous parties that Gloria had thrown, and the master bedroom was on the north side. As Carla approached, she saw the drapes were drawn over the large bay windows.
    Well, mostly drawn. There was a gap between them almost a foot wide.
    “Jake! Oh god oh god oh god!”
    Carla froze. Jake obviously had a woman in there. And he was obviously rocking her world.
    She turned to go back home, shaking her head, and thought about explaining the scene to Janet.
    Janet, of course, would ask if Carla peeked. She could practically hear her best friend say, “You mean you didn’t even look to see what they were doing? How fucking prudish are you?”
    “I’m not a prude,” Carla would insist.
    Then Janet would made some crack like, “You’re so prudish you were born with granny panties
on.”
Or, “You’re so prudish you wear a one piece in the bathtub.”
    Which wasn’t fair. Carla was maybe a bit sexually conservative, especially compared to her friend, but she wasn’t a prude. Unlike Janet, she respected people’s privacy. Especially when they were engaged in an obviously intimate moment.
    “No more, Jake! I can’t take another one! Ooooooh, yesssss!”
    Okay. Now Carla
had
to look.
    She’d be quick. Just a very fast peek inside, to see what Jake’s girlfriend looked like, and see what he was doing to make her squeal like that. Maybe it was a practical joke. When Carla was ten years old, she broke her leg roller skating, and she didn’t scream that loud. Maybe Jake saw her walking up the driveway and was pranking her.
    Carla snuck up to the window, intending to bob her head up, then immediately retreat. But once her eyes focused on the scene in the bedroom, Carla became paralyzed with awe.
    The metal framed king-size bed was positioned at an angle in the room. Jake stood at the bottom of it, shirtless, his upper body glistening with sweat, defining each muscle. He wore black leather pants, and from Carla’s side view, Jake’s need was obvious. His manhood strained against the tight leather, long and thick and perfectly outlined as it was pressed against his thigh.
    In front of him, a woman reclined on the bed, arms stretched above her head, wrists handcuffed to the bedpost. Her ankles were chained to the foot of the bed, legs splayed wide. With one hand, Jake worked a large black dildo in and out of her. With the other, he stroked her clitoris.
    She writhed and moaned, her hips bucking up and down, squirming against his fingers, meeting his thrusts.
    Carla knew she should look away, run back to her own house, quit acting like some kind of creepy voyeur, but she couldn’t make herself move. She couldn’t make herself blink. All she could do was stand there and stare, a flush sweeping over her skin, her pulse hammering in her ears.
    Besides being mediocre, Carla’s sex life had also been predictably vanilla. Mostly missionary position. Foreplay that never lasted more than a few minutes. Never any toys, and certainly not anything as out there as handcuffs and chains. No man had ever come in her mouth, or on her face or breasts, or anywhere other than in the condom while he pumped away inside her, always finishing too quickly for her to really get into it.
    Seeing this woman, so vulnerable and helpless,