Observer Effect (vignette) (Patreon)

I know there’s going to be a cost.  I’ve started hearing something tapping at the window from the other side, calling my name in the middle of the night.  One of these times I’m going to pull back the curtain and see the face of my actions catching up with me.  I’m sure it won’t be pretty, but until then, I can’t stop.  I don’t want to.  The power was addictive from the start, and now that I’ve seen what this thing can really do there’s no going back.  How could I?  Shane’s passed out next to me, spent and satisfied with his wonderful new body, and it’s all thanks to the window.  When whatever it is comes to collect, I know it will all have been worth it.  

I only bought it in the first place because I needed to fill the space on my wall.  I was at the antique store looking for something kitschy, and it had honestly never occurred to me to hang an old window like a piece of art.  But as soon as I saw the tarnished brass frame, I knew I’d found what I was after.  The large, circular pane was roughly four feet in diameter, with a thick metal bezel and glass that was opaque with age.  The milky texture spread across the surface in psychedelic swirls that seemed to change depending on how the light hit them.  It was perfect.  Despite looking like it came off an old boat or submarine it was surprisingly light, making me question whether the metal was actually brass or something else altogether.  Regardless of its construction, the window was just the right size, adding texture and dimension that a flat painting would have lacked.  I further dressed it up with a gray, vintage curtain, the midcentury pattern of geometric shapes in bright blues and yellows popping against the frame’s natural patina.  It was an odd piece to be sure, but that’s exactly what I was going for.  

I didn’t learn just how odd until after I’d hung it on the wall that evening.  Looking back, it’s not surprising that Shane was the first person I saw as the handsome brunette was more or less always on my mind in some capacity.  I’d had a crush on him for ages, and though I knew nothing would ever happen with my straight friend, my infatuation had only grown over the years.  He was gorgeous, with a full head of chocolate brown hair, a boy-next-door face complete with pouty lips and dimpled chin, and an athletic body covered in lean, defined muscle.  Much to my frustration I’d never seen him in anything less than a pair of swim trunks, but he had a round, perky rear that I loved to stare at, and a package that, from the hints I’d seen, was at least average.  He’d talked about his dick before in charmingly self-deprecating terms, but I’d long suspected that was just for show.  He carried himself with a deceptive confidence, coming across as a nice guy, but with just enough of an edge to keep people guessing.  I’d been hooked since the day we met, forced to do nothing but jealously watch as he cycled through girl after girl.  So of course he’d be the first person to show up.  At the time, the window was responding on a subconscious level.  I didn’t know I could control any of it.  I thought I was just watching.  

I’d hung the window and was checking to make sure everything was level when the smudgy swirls coating the surface began to move.  Like smoke caught in a jar, the wispy clouds flowed against the edges of the frame before spilling out from the window to pool at my feet.  I was so shocked that all I could do was stare at the mist on the floor, and when I finally looked back up the glass was spotless.  It was impossible.  Instead of a murky pice of glass I was staring at the wall behind it, at least until it started to cloud over again.  

Only this time, the glass didn’t become foggy.  In a matter of moments, I found myself looking at a crystal clear image of Shane sprawled out on the couch in his living room.  It was a spot I was plenty familiar with having spent many hours there, and I could see the furniture, decorations and clutter all sitting exactly where they should be, though my focus was fixed solely on Shane.  My fit friend was clad only in a pair of loose boxers, his attention seemingly focused on the TV that was just out of view.  He had one leg bent up against the back, causing his boxers to slip tantalizingly up his thigh, and one arm folded behind his head, giving me an unobstructed view of his torso.  

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.  My first thought was that the window had to have fallen off and knocked me unconscious while I was trying to hang it.  Nothing else made sense.  It was impossible that I could be standing in my house, spying on my friend who lived across town as if I was actually standing outside a window.  That’s how vivid the scene was.  It wasn’t an imagined sight or a surreal dream, but a crisp, high definition rendering.  I could practically count the wiry hairs scattered across his modest pecs, and my eyes pored over every line of definition on his lean frame.  Hallucination or otherwise, I was going to at least enjoy the view.  

And for several stunned minutes that’s exactly what I did.  I couldn’t look away.  I prayed for the boxers to slip just a bit higher every time he shifted and moved, watching the worn fabric ride low on his trim hips as the leg bunched at his upper thigh, still depriving me of the view I craved.  I felt a slight stab of guilt, but I still didn’t believe that I was really seeing what I thought I was, so more than anything it just turned me on.  The shock started to wear off as the minutes wore on, and, as impossible as it was, I knew I wasn’t unconscious or dreaming.  I was wide awake, watching Shane through the strange window.  

A thousand questions started racing through my head.  Was this real time?  A memory?  A fantasy?  I decided to experiment and reached for my phone, only looking away from the glass long enough to pull up my messages.  I sent a text asking him what he was up to the following day, my jaw dropping when I watched him suddenly reach for his phone on the coffee table.  As I looked back and forth between the pulsing string of dots on my phone and the sight of Shane typing into his, I remember being surprised at how quickly I accepted what was happening.  I didn’t stop to question whether or not I’d snapped or was having some kind of breakdown; I just felt thrilled.  And horny.  I’d seen Shane in his boxers before, and he’d posted goofy pictures of himself in his underwear online, but never in such a casual setting.  It was a scenario I'd spent countless hours fantasizing about, being a fly on the wall and watching as he did all those things he thought no one could see.

I know better now, but at the time I thought I just had good timing when I watched him lazily begin to rub at his slight washboard, his fingers absently prodding at the front of his boxers.  He sighed and shifted, and I held my breath when I watched a growing tent start to rise.  I still wouldn’t let myself believe that I was about to see what I knew was coming.  It wasn’t until he squirmed on the couch, slipping the boxers off and letting his thin rod spring free, that I was willing to accept it.  The rigid organ wasn’t overly large, nor was it as small as he joked about, looking just above average, with a set of plump, heavy balls.  I watched him stroke his fingers through his trim bush, squeezing and kneading the hairy eggs resting against his thigh before wrapping a hand around himself.  I froze when his drooping, lustful eyes looked right at me, afraid for a moment that he could actually see me, but he eventually turned his head away, his soft lips pursed as his groans and whimpers filled my room.  

Even he seemed surprised by his enthusiasm.  His eyes alternated between half-closed and opened wide as he bucked his hips into his fist, his free hand toying with his nipples.  The display bordered on ecstatic, and just when I thought it couldn’t get better, I watched him suddenly roll over, finally giving me a view of his round, perky bubble as he started grinding into the couch.  The solid little cheeks tensed and dimpled, the muscles in his back and arms flexing as he held himself in a plank position.  He rolled his hips into the cushions, alternating between long, deep thrusts and quick, jackrabbit jabs.  His moans grew louder, and I almost came at the sound of the desperate, cracking wails.  It was a sight I’d imagined for so long, but even my most intricate fantasy didn’t come close to beauty of seeing the real thing.  

He shot a hefty load all over himself and the couch, looking surprised as his tight frame shuddered and spasmed.  It should have been my second clue that there was more than serendipitous timing at work.  His naked body turned crimson with embarrassment when he rolled off the couch and stood looking down at the sticky mess he’d made.  He muttered to himself that he couldn’t believe he’d just done that, running a hand through his hair as he hurried to get something to clean up with.  Like a phantom drone floating above him, my view followed, letting me watch how his bare, perky cheeks bounced with his quick steps.  When he was done cleaning up the couch he turned his attention to himself, an awkward smile spreading across his face as he looked at the crusty residue on his stomach.  There was a part of me that was tempted to text him again, to tell him that looked like fun just to see what his response would be, but I thought better of it.  

Instead, I watched him saunter into his bathroom and step into the shower, playing out another fantasy of mine as he lathered his lean muscle and rinsed himself clean.  It was all still so vivid that I could practically smell his soap, and I half expected my window to fog up from the steam, but my view remained as clear as ever.  Watching him towel off and take a quick piss when he was done, my mind kept going back to what he’d do if he knew I was watching it all.  He’d be horrified, obviously, but was there a part of him that would secretly enjoy the fact that he’d just put on a show? I watched until he went into his bedroom and opened his dresser.  He stood in front of the drawer, looking at his boxers, but then shrugged and closed it, another grin creeping across his face as he stayed naked.  

I shut the curtain.  I could have watched all night, but the shock of it was catching up with me.  I remember staggering out of the room, my head spinning and my body on fire.  There were clearly more important things to figure out, but I fell onto my bed and tore my pants open, needing to get off while the images were still fresh in my mind.  As amped as I was it only took a few seconds, but I laid there for almost an hour, replaying the scene over and over.  Gradually the edge wore off, and I was able to focus on the more pressing questions.  How was any of it possible?  And what, exactly, had I brought into my house?  

I suppose it’s telling that I never even considered getting rid of it.  Maybe a better, or at least more rational, person would have torn it from the wall and thrown it away immediately, but that didn’t even register as an option.  I went back in, pausing at the door to listen for sounds of Shane from the other side of the curtain, but all was silent.  When I peeked behind, the glass was cloudy again, and I left it covered as I inspected the frame.  My initial impression of a porthole came back to me, only now my imagination kicked into overdrive as I pictured arcane machinery and vessels exploring other dimensions.  Was this part of some madman’s experiment?  Was it a window from a ship that sailed cosmic seas?  Or was it a piece of cheap metal hanging on the wall of someone who was losing their mind?  

That last question was a futile attempt from the logical side of my brain, a token effort at injecting some kind of reason into an unreasonable situation.  But if I was going to snap I’d have done it long before, and I refused to accept that an antique window would be the thing that pushed me over.  What I needed was more information.  I started going over what I knew so far.  I’d stared at it plenty in the shop, and it had been in my house for several hours without activating, so did it need to be hung to work?  Did it only work at night?  Had I inadvertently brushed against an “on" switch when moving the curtain?  Could I look at anyone?  There was only one way to find out.  

Like getting rid of it, the thought that I could be putting myself at risk never once occurred to me.  I’d been so focused on whether or not Shane could see me that I didn’t stop to question if anything else might be watching me from the other side of the window.  But that didn’t come up until later.  Those first few nights, I didn’t even know there was another side.  

I needed to try again, with more focus.  I resisted the urge to look in on Shane again, opting for the gym instead.  It was going on nine, a time when things started to pick back up, and I knew the locker room would be busy.  I live in a part of town where people tend to go right after graduating from the nearby college.  It’s relatively cheap, there are lots of bars and clubs, and it lets people enjoy a gradual transition into adulthood while still making the most of their early twenties.  It also means there are plenty of ripped, former college jocks all over town.  They all like to hit the gym for a quick pump before going out for the night, and as annoying as their testosterone fueled antics could be, the view was spectacular.  

With the locker room fixed firmly in my mind, I opened the curtain and stared into the murky glass.  I’d expected to have to push, or will something to happen, but almost instantly the fog dissipated, falling once more at my feet as it revealed the bustling scene.  Like I’d hoped, the room was full of fit, sweaty young studs.  Given the relatively late hour there were only a few older men mixed in, though I wasn’t going to complain about them either.  It was incredible.  I was free to watch as a short, stocky man stripped out his muscle shirt and dropped his shorts, his ample cheeks and girthy package filling his sweaty boxer briefs to capacity.  I inspected his hairy, olive-hued frame, loving my unrestricted access as I listened to the sounds of the room around him.  I could hear the clang of lockers and the hiss of showers through the chatter, floating like a ghost amongst them.  I watched my dark-haired new friend’s fat log and hefty balls spill free when he shucked his underwear and grabbed a towel, thoroughly enjoying the sight of his round, furry cheeks before my attention shifted to the boasting adonis a few lockers away.  

The blonde pretty boy was taking his time stripping down, making sure everyone in the room got a glimpse of his sculpted chest and perfect abs, but also calling out anyone he caught staring.  His voice dripped with arrogance as it boomed around the room about his latest conquest, further drawing attention to himself as he stepped out of his briefs and casually strolled over to the showers.  Unlike Shane’s, the smug jock’s hose was long and thick, his swaying balls low and heavy as he stepped into the stall and left the curtain open behind him.  

There was no guilt with him.  This was someone who clearly wanted people to watch.  I could tell by the way he closed the curtain that he’d just as soon leave it open, and despite his condescending insults whenever he did catch someone staring, I couldn’t fully blame him.  His body was a work of art, with broad shoulders, thick arms, a tapering waist, and not an ounce of fat in sight.  The fact that he couldn’t have been a day over twenty four surely helped, but this was someone who clearly put effort into their appearance.  

As I watched the water cascade down his back and over his solid cheeks, I didn’t even realize I’d started to reach out.  It wasn’t until my hand hit the glass, and then passed through, that I noticed I was moving at all.  I gasped, first at the flash of numbing cold that shot up my arm, and then at the sensation of warm, wet flesh against my palm.  I jerked my hand back as the man in the window jumped and started, spinning around to see who’d touched him.  I held my breath as he looked right at me, but as with Shane, it was clear that he couldn’t see me.  He blinked and grumbled before turning back around, my hand already reaching towards the glass.  

There was the shock of cold again, but this time when my hand made contact the young hunk only looked over his shoulder to reassure himself there wasn’t really anyone there.  He shivered and shrugged as I worked my fingers across his solid cheeks, his hand passing through my phantom limb when he reached back and rubbed at the area.  I reached up and gave his broad back a stroke, feeling the coiled muscle underneath, before sliding my hand back down.  This time I slipped my fingers into the valley between his ample cheeks and pushed against his tight hole, laughing as he gasped and went up on his toes.  I didn’t push all the way in, but his eyes were wide as I slipped my hand further underneath to cup his balls, his thick hose starting to twitch.  I couldn’t believe what I was feeling as the warm organ hardened in my grip, and neither could the blonde stud who just gawked at his hardening cock with a look of shock.  His body turned red with embarrassment as he pulled the curtain tight, no longer so eager to be on display as his body seemingly got itself off.  He stifled his groans as I pumped, his hips bucking reflexively instead of pulling away.  I couldn’t blame him.  I don’t know what I’d have done if I was in a public shower and started getting a ghostly hand job.  What he ended up doing was standing there for a suspiciously long time until his fat log blew all over the wall.  I loved watching him scamper red-faced from the shower, a towel wrapped firmly around his waist instead of slung over a shoulder like before.  

I shut the curtain and stared at my wet hand, my heart racing.  The drops of water that fell from my fingers onto the carpet confirmed it was all real.  I still didn’t know what I’d found or how any of it was possible, but those questions weren’t as important as deciding who I was going to look in on next.