Date: Tue, 10 Jun 2008 15:01:59 -0700 (PDT)
From: Tim Stillman <novemberhourglass@yahoo.com>
Subject: m/m m/f incest "Again, the Peeper"

"Again, the Peeper"
        By
Timothy Stillman


(This is an alternate ending to my posted sequel, "The Peeper: Uncut,"
based on the 1972 movie "What the Peeper Saw" aka "Diabolica Malicia"
starring Mark Lester and Britt Ekland, screenplay by Trevor Preston, and
novelized by Jack Gratus produced by Leander Filmes.  This story is based
on the screenplay and novelization, reiterates parts of the original film
to set the story in context; it also has much extrapolation of and fleshing
out of a few scenes not followed through in the movie or the novelization,
and some passages in detail that were only referred to in the film or the
novelization. However most of the study of these two characters is based on
my own interpretations, much of Which varies from the original sources--the
vast majority of this short story is original with me, and never took place
in film or novel, and the writing of all of it is my own. It has not been
copied or plagiarized in any way. In short, I've done my damnedest not to
rip off anyone else's material in this attempt to imagine what a sequel to
the movie might be like. And of course the story is for: Mark Lester)

Elise was gone and Marcus was still home, and definitely not alone, at his
lavish bungalow in Spain. Elise had been his father's second wife who died
of electrocution when Marcus tossed the heater into the bath with her. It
made a very pretty light show and made Marcus giggle with fulfillment. He
had simply grown tired of watching through his peep hole in the attic Paul
and his mother, what was her name again?, fuck on the bed below him. He was
tired of their drunken sighs and their slobbery pawings and mouthings of
each other. Could a handsome blonde boy like he have a father who had such
trouble getting it up, that was so laughed at by his obstinate mother who
had no room to laugh at Paul, what with her doughy breasts and her cheese
thighs?

So Paul died in quite a horrible way and Elise and he, Marcus, of the cold
eyes and the rosy cream colored face and the hands that were never still,
became lovers. For Elise had had the same yearning that Paul had had,
Marcus knew, for what father kisses his teenage son on the lips?; did
Marcus detect a hint of a tip of dad's tongue taste his lips? His own son's
lips? He wondered if Paul got a hard on at that. He also wondered if Paul
knew at least sometime or other that Marcus was watching his father fuck
first Marcus' mother and then Elise, while prim and proper and very British
accented with very good well-brought up manners was as they say wanking to
them there below. Sometimes he thought he would let a little of his cum
drop through the hole and strike one or another of them, depending on who
was on top at the moment--and with his mother, it was usually she--with
Elise, it was usually Elise--a little wet hello that he was, their highly
intellectual son, far randier and far better a stud than his own father who
had such a thing for manliness. And maybe for boys as well. At least for
one. Son or not. Elise had had been thrown from a horse, the gentlest one
in the stable. Never recovered. Pity

But as Scrooge said "Marley was dead. As dead a doornail." There fore so
were three of those aforementioned. Paul's will left a good sized chunk of
money to his son, who seemed old enough, seventeen, and more than capable
enough to handle it, for Marcus was most definitely the genius in any of
the families once fracturedly combined here. At the moment, Marcus was as
they say, turning himself on. Naked and with a glorious hard on, with black
pubic hair, looking younger than he was, getting taller, hair still yellow
but not as golden, back side curved just perfectly, buttocks again curves
and pillowy, looking more like a girl's backside than a boy. His penis was
close to six inches already and might grow a bit more. His body, save his
head and pubes, was hairless.  He was rubbing his uncut penis, fondling his
hanging down loose balls, while standing in the bedroom of his, which had
once belonged to his parents, various and complicated though it had always
been, for dad had been fond of lovers, as had mum, though he never knew
this, though Mum knew of his affairs and got jolly fun out of it, till her
son, tired and bored one afternoon, ran her too hot a tub, Marcus chuckling
at the drollery of the thought. For Marcus was a very droll boy.

Most often seen in the school blazer, out of which he had been expelled,
for various ghastly things including torture of small animals and peeping a
little too closely at lights out, as well as the school shirt, monogrammed,
and pants, the black high socks and leather shoes, but now he was quite
bare as he watched a beautiful woman going at it with a teenager on what
was now Marcus' bed. Marcus went gently to his knees, his body made of gold
it seemed in sunlight, but in the hushed dark curtain closed bedroom, he
looked somewhat more sinister, with no bar appending it to a lineage of
culture and climb the social ladder, for behind those green eyes lived
something of a monster, who rubbed the tip of his tongue round his front
teeth, perfect and white, not a cavity had he ever had, as here he rented
only the best of Barcelona's whores of all kinds, to dally in front of him
and to do whatever his bidding might be at the moment. If he bought two
young boys, say, and had them whip one another, naked, and then to have one
bugger the other till their bodies half fell apart with exhaustion, he
would do so. If he wished a woman of beauty to pretend to have sex with a
child, not their child, but just someone else bought, then Marcus would
have them do what he wished. Marcus had principals after all.

Often times his name was bandied about in the circles of the higher class
prostitutes as the current reining Marquis deSade, and there was a thrill
to be bought by him, by a servant rather, since Marcus could not sully his
patrician hands exploring these places for himself, and his servant one or
the other or the other of the three he used, would always bring about the
finer goods. As always the fear of the prostitutes on meeting him and
hearing his instructions, that he would mistreat them badly and bruise them
or worse, and yet the thrill of being used for much money of course by the
Marquis Marcus, all of which made an intoxicating drink for them as Marcus
drew out in much detail what would sexually excite them tonight. While
rubbing himself shamelessly and taking great joy at lusty eyes watching.

Marcus never broke a sweat. Not even in Spain's hottest weather. Not even
in the seemingly interminable drought that was affecting it. The woman
pretending to be the boy's mother went down on the bare boy as Marcus
touched his little rump and flicked it with his finger as the boy, new at
the game, amateurs were always fun, Marcus thought, lay back against the
bedstead of the huge bed and closed his eyes in sheer unalloyed pleasure as
he cried out, as Marcus had paid him to do, "Oh Mommy, oh Mum, oh suck my
little cocklet, please Mummy."

Marcus who had always gauged his life in increments, knew or judged almost
correctly always, what was the limit at which he could get away with
something and discipline himself to never ever go one inch over that line,
failed this time, and came spurting long before he wanted, for it was just
the tableau before him was just so bloody hot, as he tried to make the best
of his blunder, and jumped abed and put his spurting penis between the
woman's face and the boy's abdomen, thus covering those areas with memoirs
of Marcus golden spunk--a memento they would surely keep in their hearts
forever. Being seventeen, Marcus in a few minutes was ready to go
again. This time he would butter the boy's "mother's" breasts and her "son"
would lick it off Mum's tits while Marcus sucked the young boy's little
stiffie to its dry cum.

 So it went for another half hour or so, during which time, after that last
act was done, Marcus simply fucked the beautiful read headed wispy woman
with lips so tender and warm and pussy equally so with the clamping power
of a tractor at high speed, as Marcus told the boy to say "get away from me
mum; it's me she luvs to fuck," as Marcus swatted him away like an
irritating mosquito. Marcus humped her, his eyes having that beseeching
Oliver Twist please sir a mite of gruel I'll pays for it any ways you says
sir, look to it, which he could turn off and on, always seeming as though
he were going to break down in tears. He knew he had a few more good years
of that, then a few years as an attractive, hopefully, adult, then the
money alone should keep the satisfaction coming, and when that was
through--well--some things best not to think of too often.

Then he fucked the boy who sadly did not cry out--Marcus liked nothing
better than a virgin. And finally the sun had set and Marquis Marcus was
spent, so the prosties dressed and collected their money, and a servant
drove them back to the city. Marcus, still naked, walked out of the
bedroom's sliding glass door into the night and dived into the in ground
Olympic swimming pool of cold and blue, getting rid of the stuff the
prosties had left on a golden boy like himself, and he knew they were
wanting to experience him again, who, after all, did not? He swam and dived
and floated on his back and played with his penis once again hard and
horny. He thought only Elise knew he had murdered his own mother. But even
Elise had no idea why. She guessed around the edges but mostly guessed
wrong. Marcus luxuriated being naked in the huge pool in the outside in the
moonlight. He had never really fancied his mother. It was the idea of it he
had fancied.

The doing of the thing. Elise herself was though getting into her late
thirties at least attractive enough still. But his mum was not at all, wide
rangy body you'd expect to see on a man more than a woman, huge breasts
like limp sacks of wheat, a nice snatch of black though. And when she and
Paul had had one of their many boozy fights, and Paul had left once again
for some whore, Marcus climbed down from the attic, where he was wont to
watch them, and had simply taken his mother in a moment of her
vulnerability and drunkenness-what moment?--she had often been like this,
as was Elise, but that future event he had a huge hand in--and when the
doughy woman awoke the next morning and had finally roused herself from her
stupor, and had seen herself next to her naked sleeping, semi hard son, and
herself naked, she had rushed to the bath, awaking Marcus, who knew she
could not live with what had happened the night before, and thus he
proceeded to help her out of any guilt that might accrue on this guilty old
planet. When she screamed at the ultimate moment, at the shock of seeing
her tumescent son standing over her with the radiator and tossing it in,
and when she cried and gulled in pain, he thought of a Monty Python
routine. Though he got the crying sad angelic face when he had to call for
help.

"Hullo, Marcus," a woman's voice now said as he was dogpaddling in the
water. No one was allowed out of the house at night because this was when
he took he usual naked swim. There were no houses around for miles. No
visitors or prosties were called for. He tried to see her or him. But the
person speaking was coated with the night.

"Hullo, Marcus," again the voice and then the voice said, "You never knew
me. I was one of your mum's friends.  We were very close. "

Marcus said, affronted and irritated, thus his voice achieving, though
thinly reedy, an especially cultured ring to it, "I own this property and I
shall summon a servant, and you shall be arrested for trespassing." He was
more than used to being acquiesced to.

 If a dark night with only the pool with a white light dimness of glow, and
the houselights, also sparse and muted, the sky full of clouds, if all of
that could form into one sentient being and smile, it was doing so
now. Marcus felt and somehow saw it.  It was not a happy smile or a tender
smile or an evil smile, and if anyone in the world knew of evil smiles, it
was sweet adorable Marcus, as the voice said nothing now, making things
seem more ominous, as though he were surrounded on all sides by--what?
Details, he thought. As with difficult trig tests, don't get overanxious,
think of the mathematical details, concentrate on them, thus: owner the
voice would be, Marcus thought, as he suddenly felt very uncomfortable
being bare out here and facing who knew what larkspur the person was,
whether male of female, he could not decide which, did indeed sound, to
him, very old.

He wanted to and looked round for some place to run. And he could indeed
run, but, he would be naked out there and if there was one thing this
curious child insisted on, for himself at least, it was dignity and
self-respect, and seeing himself naked flanked running for the hills hard
ground hurting his soles and pebbles and stones bruising them, perhaps
falling and covering his body with filth, and being picked up by some one
in a car---god--no, that was too much, thus he would stay here and fight it
out, whatever that might mean. And she told him a story.

She told him, calm as reading a little child to sleep, but not
condescending, a nice voice actually, he had gotten to like it, it had a
kind of hypnotic sing-song appeal, as he floated in the water, holding
hands over his penis, feeling very small, and new for him, feeling very
stupid, that she was his mother's lover for many years, but she had married
Paul when pregnant with Marcus, and still was in love with her. And what
with Paul's endless affairs and his odd too close affection toward his son,
she had asked her lover to spy on them one night through the spy hole
Marcus had drilled in the attic directly over his parents' bedroom, because
she felt Paul was having sex-god forbid--with her son. She was going to
leave the house on the third of June and stay away four days-- Marcus
feared for certain this mad woman, yes, it was a woman, had a gun and was
pointing it at him. His skin prickled and his balls rose into his body
cavity--come by the night of June 2, after Paul left for his writer's
convention? To be shown the attic and plan the details. There would be
supplies, food and water, there was a back washroom she could use, and so
forth, and peer into Marcus' parents' bedroom and tell her the absolute
truth? She agreed. And saw what happened with Paul and she and Paul
stalking out of the bedroom, then the car starting, and screeching off. Saw
and heard the argument. Paul striking her. The booze drunk and drunk some
more. The half rape and then Paul saying "You old cow, you're not worth the
effort."

"I saw you, Marcus," the old woman said. He thought for a mad minute, what
would my mother be doing having sex with a woman and especially an old one,
for he was rattled and had not considered the love factor, though that was
never high on his emotional agenda. "I saw you take advantage of your
mother, your own mother."

"She wanted me. I never fancied her. I was doing her a favor." He spat
contemptuously in the water. And said, "Then I roasted her alive." Marcus
giggled, light and low, choppy and scary.

He fought, quite forcefully, so it took two policemen to jump in the pool
and hold him, then lift him to their partners, and haul the bare body out,
there didn't seem to be much of a mind controlling it anymore, as a servant
put a big towel around his shoulders as the police took him in the house to
get dressed. The old woman looked at the pool and the house and the
bedraggled harmless looking child/thing being escorted in.


"I hoped she would somehow return and all of this was to be explained away.
Hope. Stupid, stupid hope. Paul died. Elsie died. Because of me. Because I
wanted there to be a sensible answer to such a horror."

She was called by one of the police to come inside please for a while, so
she did.