Night Watch Man

I am a night watchman.
It means I spend my working hours prowling an empty and, after the company decided to cut electricity costs, dark building– socially, a hopeless job. The advantages are, I can nip into an empty office and browse the Net, or I can read any kind of magazine on the job, or I can look out of the windows.
There is an alley behind the building. Late at night when the bars close I can watch people walk or stagger home. Loud groups, solitary drunks, newly attached couples, single disappointed males, and also giggling girlfriends. Occasionally some of them slip into the alley for privacy. They don’t know I have a perfect view from the first floor. To be unseen from the street you have to hide behind a container – directly underneath a powerful lamp on the wall. I know when to check on the first floor offices.
My sightings are numerous. I’ll skip the guys, I cannot imagine anyone being interested in hearing about a guy pull his thing out, fart and spray the wall. Far more titillating is the sight of a young woman, maybe wearing a short tight dress, nylon thighs a little close together, peek discreetly into the alley, then walk in on high heels, trying to look casual. The furtive glances, the checking of windows while fidgeting with the hem of the dress, maybe even crossing her legs, before gathering courage to wriggle her tights and panties down and her dress up before squatting.
Believe me, there is a big difference between experienced outdoor peers and those who would rather not. I have seen a lot of awkward postures as they try not to spray their underwear and shoes. On the other hand there are the naturals who don’t even look around, just walk in, pull their pants down, get it done, and leave.
And there are those who don’t pull down. Maybe she had been dribbling a bit before discovering this secluded spot, maybe she was too drunk to care, or maybe she liked it that way. She was wearing a short but wide yellow skirt and a white blouse. Her gait was unsteady but determined as she turned into the alley, blonde pigtails swinging. She leaned her back against the wall of the opposite building, staring, as it seemed, straight at me. Then she spread her feet about two feet apart and let it flow. You might think she didn’t wear anything underneath, but to my surprise she lifted her skirt to check her black panties before moving on.
There was this elegant woman in her forties in an expensive–looking pantsuit, striding into my field of observation, head high and chest forward, who lost all attempts at dignity when she thought herself alone. She doubled up with her hands between her legs, dancing in circles, thong outlined under her tight linen pants. She fumbled frantically with her button, bent forward with her legs crossed, handbag dangling from her elbow. She succeeded in getting her pants down, but the pee poured from her before she got down in a squat. I bet her shoes felt squishy for the rest of the way.
I have a preference for girls going in pairs, or even in threes. I don’t believe I’m the only man with fantasies of intimacy between girls, and to me the act of peeing together represents a closeness I would have liked to share. In a way I do. I can imagine them walking from the pub, maybe a little tipsy and flushed. The dark one, with straight hair and black stretch pants, maybe saying, God, I should have peed before we left– then the redhead, in off–white jeans, saying, me too, maybe patting her belly for emphasis. The dark one smiles and walks with her knees close, round butt straining the fabric. Well, I’m almost going in my pants, she might say. The redhead stops, crosses her legs and bites her lips. Damn, I can’t walk another step; I imagine her saying. Look, there’s an alley, the dark girl points. Let’s drop our knickers. The redhead laughs, clutching herself.
That was imagination. The rest is observation. The girls hold hands as they tiptoe, legs moving from the knees down only, behind the container and into the light. They look at each other and giggle. I can’t hear the sound, but their faces are brightly illuminated. They pause, both with their hands on their buttons as if, only if you go first. Then the dark one pulls the zipper on the side of her hip and wriggles her pants down, exposing her black thong. She almost forgets that. The redhead has thin lacy shorts under her jeans. They squat side by side, laughing with relief as the pools grow underneath them.
In my mind I picture the inevitable drop in their panty gussets, maybe even a small stain on their pants. I watch their round butts as they disappear out of view, holding hands.
But that was not what I was going to tell you about. It was last night when a slender fair–haired girl in designer jeans without pockets stepped carefully into the alley, looked around, edged behind the container and put her hands on her button. Then the creep came. I saw him sneak after her, keeping close to the container and peeking around the back. Well, I’m a watcher, but I stay hidden. This jerk was reaching into his pants, and as the girl had pulled her zipper down he came at her.
I went down the stairs and out the side door in about twelve seconds. She was doubling up trying to close the zipper even as he pushed her against the wall with one hand, the other hidden. I’m not a big guy but I wear a cap, a blue shirt and a badge, and coming from the dark doorway I obviously looked frightening enough. Trying desperately to tuck himself in he sprinted off.
I turned to the girl. She was clutching the waistband of her half–open jeans, crying and trembling, and there was a very obvious wet patch between her legs. I kept my distance, letting her see my official–looking garments. Her crying turned to small sobs and she managed to button her very tight jeans even though her crossed legs were still shaking.
— He’s gone, I said. –You okay?
She nodded. –He scared me, she whimpered. –He scared me so I wet my pants. God, I have to pee. She held one hand between her thighs and rocked on her feet.
— If you want you can use the loo inside, I said. –It’s against regulations, but I guess this is an emergency.
— Oh, could I?
— Come on. I held the door for her, and she stepped in, still holding herself. I couldn’t help it, I was looking at her cute little butt and visible pink thong as she walked shakily in front of me. –To the left here.
We reached the restrooms and I pointed to the ladies’. She looked at me. –I’m still scared. Will you come with me?
I swallowed and nodded okay. For the first time in my life I entered the girls’ room, in the company of a very cute, very shaken and quite wet girl. She didn’t close the door to her cubicle, but maintained eye contact as she wriggled down her jeans and thong and sank down on the toilet. She sighed as the stream began to flow and I saw the shock start to wear off. As she lifted her butt to wipe she actually smiled, a shy, embarrassed smile that went to my heart.
She pulled up her thong and then looked down at her soiled jeans. –God, I can’t go home like this! What shall I do?
— There is a hair drier by the sinks, I said. –Could you use that?
She smiled. –You’re smart. She pulled her jeans off and went to fetch the drier. Lovely butt!
— Let’s go and sit somewhere more comfortable, I suggested. –There is a reception area down the corridor.
She unplugged the drier and walked barefoot along the hall. I pointed to a wall outlet and she plugged in before sitting down opposite each other. I couldn’t help glancing at the moist spot between her legs; she sat with her knees apart, busy drying her jeans.
She looked at me with a soft smile. –You have saved my life, she said. –Twice, first from that peeper, and then from the wrath of my mom. I wasn’t supposed to be out tonight. I even had a couple of beers. And she would have skinned me if I came home with wet jeans.
— Strict lady?
— You bet.
— How old are you?
— Eighteen.
I wished I were twenty years younger. She inspected her work, the stain was fading and she smiled warmly. She stood up – long legs, slim hips, narrow waist, small breasts under her tight short sweater, and a dark stain on her pink panties. She looked down at herself. –Oh well, she said, and took them off.
I tried desperately to keep my eyes away. She pulled on her jeans, zipped up and buttoned. –Look! It’s dry now, isn’t it? She turned and stuck her lovely rounded butt out. I looked as hard as I could, but there was no stain to be seen. She sat down again. –Do you think I could have a glass of water, and maybe sit here until the beer wears off?
— Of course. I fetched some from the cooler and gave it to her. She smiled gratefully at me and told me this was not the first time she had gotten so scared she wet herself. Once her mom nearly hit a deer while driving, and the sudden shock had made her wet her panties and skirt. Her mom had been angry, maybe because she herself had been frightened. And there was the embarrassing incident on the roller coaster. She sat relaxed on the couch, legs slightly apart, flat belly showing. I kept thinking of what was underneath the skin–tight denim and the wet stain I had seen. After finishing the water and getting a refill she rose. –I think I’d better go now. Maybe I could use the bathroom again?
She looked expectantly at me so I joined her. Again she chose not to close the door, and she kept talking to me while she wriggled her jeans down and sat. She was talking so eagerly she forgot to wipe, she just rose and pulled up her jeans. She paused in mid–sentence and giggled. –The last drop went in my jeans, she said, –but never mind. Thanks for helping me!
I took her to the door. –Your panties, I said.
— Oh. You can keep them.
I didn’t get her name, but boy will I watch that alley every night.
Aquarius