"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.