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m/f, hanging, footplay, necrophilia, frottage

Even though he could easily afford to live elsewhere, Carl lived in an incredibly shitty neighborhood. Drug dealers and addicts alike roamed the cracked, weed-riddled streets in broad daylight. Despite always being left empty, his car was broken into on an almost monthly basis. Scarcely a night went by without loud sirens blaring in the early morning hours.

The apartment itself was shitty as well. The building was an old house that had been divided into a bunch of tiny one-room, one-bathroom studios. Carl’s was on the second story and there was one more on that level, two on the ground floor and one in the basement. The ancient wooden floors creaked at the slightest provocation. Hot showers rarely lasted for more than a minute. The walls were basically uninsulated and the house was always sweltering in the summer and freezing in the winter.

The house had had an attic but when the roof had leaked into it, years ago, the owned had decided to just tear it out rather than fix it up. The result was that the two second story apartments seemed incredibly spacious because of the high roof/ceiling. But the exposed rafter beams gave the apartment a dreary, industrial feel. And now, when the roof leaked during a storm, it did so directly into Carl’s apartment, prompting the use of strategically placed buckets.

Carl had originally come to live there when he was a dirt-poor undergrad, subletting the room for the summer from an acquaintance. The rent was insanely low and so, despite its flaws, he agreed to stay after the person he was subletting from said that they didn’t want to come back. He eventually graduated with a degree in Computer Science and quickly found a job in the city. He made almost six figures but he still lived in the dilapidated old house for one reason:

The peephole.

It wasn’t until the end of his second year in the apartment that he discovered it. His room had come furnished with a few simple things: a small wooden coffee table, scratched and wobbly. Two beat-up bar stools for a tiny kitchen counter. A chest of drawers with an indefinable and unremovable smell to it. A few assorted paintings of banal landscapes, faded with age. And a large mirror, hung on the wall that divided his room from that of his second-story neighbor.

The mirror in particular had always creeped him out. It had a strange sheen to it that seemed unusual. He didn’t consider himself to be particularly attractive or exceptionally ugly but he disliked seeing his doppelganger in the apartment every time he walked into the room,
One day, he became particularly fed up with it and took the mirror down. He set it on the floor, turned it around and leaned against the wall. Problem solved.

Seeing the back to the mirror, Carl finally realized why it had looked so strange to him: it was a one-way mirror and he could see right through it to the ugly floral wallpaper on the wall it was leaning against.

This revelation naturally lead to his discovery of the hole the size of a dime that ran straight through the wall from his room to that of his neighbor. There was a strange tint to their room and he surmised that their side of the peephole was also covered by a one-way mirror.


He had no idea if his neighbor was aware of the hole or not. The turnover rate of residents in the house was so fast, he assumed that the hole must have been created by somebody long-gone. Perhaps the original owner, who had first converted the house to apartments. Either way, he had no desire to be spied upon and so, using duct tape and a piece of cardboard, he devised a flap that covered his side of the hole. But, being a flap, it allowed him to look into the adjoining apartment whenever he wanted.

Thus began his adventure in harmless voyeurism.

His interest in the peephole fluctuated. It depended on the nature of his current neighbor.
His first subject was an overweight man who he dubbed Beergut. Beergut was a recent divorcee and, as the nickname implied, was rapidly descending into alcoholism. His life was as boring as it was depressing and Carl all but gave up on the peephole while they lived beside one another. Like most of his neighbors, Beergut simply left one day and never returned.

As the years went by, Carl had the pleasure of getting to know a quite diverse cast of characters, all of whom were given colorful nicknames. There was Shakes, the meth addict who seemingly never ate, slept or bathed. There was No-Show, a man who barely spent any time in the apartment, basically only sleeping and bathing there, and even then only doing so about one night a week. There was Broodmother, a single mom who seemed to have at least four children, who came and went. There was never a dull moment with her but the racket the family made in the tiny apartment made it difficult to sleep and he was glad when she and her rotating cast of offspring moved out.

Every so often, his peepshow was sexual in nature.

The first of these was with Cletus, the redneck amateur pimp who whored out his chain smoking girlfriend, Six-Pack-a-Day, to seemingly anyone he could find. Cletus had even propositioned Carl one day as he was walking up to the house, although he declined for myriad reasons. Carl had had the opportunity to watch Six-Pack-a-Day get fucked by a fair number of clients (including a fellow housemate who lived in the basement) but none of these encounters had even come close to being erotic.

Another couple who had lived next to him were Roidrage and Eyeliner. Their sex together was loud, to say the least--Carl barely needed the peephole to know what was going on when the two of the went at it. In fact, their sex often looked downright abusive as Roidrage spanked and hammered away at her with all of his musclebound might. Eyeliner’s moans usually sounded pained and he never heard what sounded like a genuine climax from her. He never got a good look at it, but he liked to think that the excessive sound and fury was Roidrage’s way of compensating for a steroid-shriveled dick.

And there were many, many more. But among the dozens of neighbors that Carl had had while living in that apartment, one easily stood out. Maddie.

She was so special, he thought of her by her real name instead of a nickname. He had learned it by overhearing her answer a wrong-number phone call, clarifying the error by saying “No, this is Maddie.”

Before that, her name had been Blondie. This was obviously due to her dyed blonde hair but the name never really seemed to fit since she didn’t at all come off as a bimbo. In fact, nothing about her really seemed to fit. She kind of seemed like a hippie/stoner, due to her fashion sense: well-worn Birkenstocks, long plain-colored skirts and complete absence of makeup. But, unlike 90% of the people in the house, she never seemed to do drugs of any kind, even pot. And what kind of stoner would take the time and money to keep their hair dyed? And blonde of all things?


She had a multitude of ear piercings and one lip piercing, a ring on the left side of her lower lip, which kind of gave her an alternative/rocker vibe. But it didn’t go with the rest of her fashion sense. More often than not, she wore baggy graphic t-shirts with corny humor and dated references.

She wasn’t conventionally attractive but she was far from ugly. She intrigued Carl and he spent a fair amount of time spying on her, trying to figure her out.

She spent most of her time reading. Despite his best efforts, he could never really ascertain the titles. She never had friends over. Although, to be fair, Carl never let his friends see the hovel that he called home either. She worked at a local juice place, judging from the logo on her visor and apron work uniform that he sometimes saw her wearing on her way ir or out. She didn’t seem to have a boyfriend or any kind of significant other.

Irritatingly, he had never had a chance to even see her naked. Her apartment, like his, was simply a large bedroom with small kitchenette and a tiny bathroom in the back. His peephole gave him full view of the main room but he couldn’t see anything that went on in the bathroom. She always changed in the bathroom area and she slept in over-sized shirts. Did she know about the peephole? Or was it just her manner to dress immediately after bathing?

One Sunday morning Carl was idly lying in bed, playing on his phone when he heard a clatter from Maddie’s room. It was nothing to be alarmed about--he simply assumed that it was a heavy book being dropped or some furniture being rearranged. As innocuous as the sound was, it did mean that Maddie was awake and so Carl slipped out of bed to the peephole to see what he could see.

His prediction of moved furniture proved accurate: one of her kitchenette stools had been moved to the center of the room and had fallen over on it side. But what he saw next was something that he never would have predicted: Maddie, hanging from a noose that had been tied to one of the exposed attic beams above.

Her eyes were closed but her face showed her wincing with pain. Despite this, she didn’t seem to be struggling against her situation. Her arms remained at her side, pressed against the plain black t-shirt that she was wearing. Her legs were not kicking and remained straight, mostly hidden beneath an ankle-length pleated maroon skirt.

What to do?

Carl’s first thought was to rush in and help her. But how could he have known that she was dying? Doing so would expose the existence of his peephole. Nobody else was rushing upstairs to see what was the matter--they all must have written off the noise of the falling chair as unimportant, if they had heard it at all. And who was he to decide whether she should live or die? This was obviously a choice that she had made herself. Why should he interfere?

And so he watched.

As time went by, her face scrunched up more and more, as if the pain was intensifying. Her legs started to twitch slightly, perhaps involuntarily, causing her whole body to wave slightly. As her face began to redden, her mouth opened, as it trying to gasp for air. He heard a faint choking noise--the air was not coming.

Her hands clenched into fists as she seemingly concentrated on overriding her survival instincts and commanding her body into inaction.

Her face continued to redden. Her open mouth widened, now letting out a tongue the seemed to no longer fit inside. Her clenched fists gripped the fabric of her skirt.


One leg eventually made a spirited kick, producing a ripple of dark fabric in her skirt. She made a low whimpering noise and, for a brief moment, Carl reconsidered rescuing her. Maybe she was having second thoughts about it? But her body was still mostly inactive. He continued to not interfere.

It was difficult to see beneath her dark, baggy clothing but it seemed like her entire body was going into spasms. The toes of her bare feet became pointed but her legs continued to only make slight twitches. Her face was a deep shade of red and was beginning to turn almost purple. Her eyes remained shut in concentration. Her tongue lolled from the side of her mouth and produced a thin line of drool as she made soft gagging noises.

After one last full-body spasm, it was over. Her purple face sagged into a neutral expression. Her hands lay limp against her side. Her pointed toes relaxed.

And then, Carl was left to contemplate what to do next.

His mind raced with the possibilities. The safest thing to do, obviously, would be to just forget about it. Close the peephole, re-cover it with the mirror and wait for something to happen. Carl usually played things safe and so it was a difficult decision to not follow this course of action. But the opportunity was so unique…

He donned a pair of latex gloves, originally purchased for the cleaning of his bathroom that had never gotten done, and grabbed a clean dishcloth. He stepped quietly out of his apartment and into the hallway. He closed his door and paused in silence. He and Maddie were the only residents of this upper floor and the hallway outside their room was almost always empty but he needed to be absolutely certain that nobody saw him.

When he was satisfied, he turned to doorknob to Maddie’s apartment. Locked.

He wasn’t about to break into her apartment forcibly and he had begun to turn back to his own door when a thought came to him. He produced the key to his apartment and tried it on her door. Success! Of course the landlord would be too cheap and/or lazy to get different locks for all the different rooms in the house.

He silently crept into her apartment and carefully shut the door behind him.

After a moment of deliberation, he decided to lock it. Should anybody come up to her room, his excuse for being there was that he had heard a suspicious noise and she had not responded to his knocks. He could even have his phone out, as if in the midst of calling 911. His excuse for locking the door was weaker: he had formed the habit of locking his own door as part of shutting it. And so, he had done the same with her door, out of pure reflex.

At any rate, he was now in the apartment of a dead woman, secured behind a locked door.
He began by approaching and inspecting her more closely that he had ever been able to from the peephole. She hung a good three feet or so from the ground--the height of the stool she had stood upon--so he had to gaze upwards upwards to look her in the face. Her skin had begun to lighten in shade, although it was still a distinct shade of purplish red. Her tongue lolled from the side of her mouth, its trickle of drool now shut off. Her eyes remained shut.

Carl was no expert in crime but he supposed that if there were an investigation into her death, dusting for fingerprints would be the first thing they would do. Hence, the pair of latex gloves he had put on. With this barrier guarding his prints, he reached up and pulled open one of her eyelids. A clear, piercing blue eye stared at him. This must be why she dyed her hair blonde--the brightness of her eyes would not have shone so brilliantly against a backdrop of her naturally brown hair.


The lid shut itself when he let go of it. His grasp wandered over the rest of her face. He toyed with her mouth piercing, the ring in her now darkly-shaded lip. He had never kissed a woman with a piercing like that before and he imagined his tongue flicking it back and forth as he turned it side to side with his fingers. He considered doing just that, by pulling up a stool to put himself at her height, but his paranoia regarding leaving DNA evidence compelled him to stick to mere fantasies.

He fingered a lock of hair that had fallen into her face. It was difficult to tell through the gloves, but it felt soft and thick. He stood on his tiptoes, as close to her as he could, and deeply inhaled. He had expected a unique “death” smell but was not disappointed when he took in a simple aroma of freshly washed clothes and recently shampooed hair. It would seem that she had taken steps toward ensuring that she left behind a proper, tidy corpse.

Carl brushed the hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ears. He could see the piercings there more clearly now. One ear had three rings in the lobe and a bar through the upper ear. The other had four rings along the lobe and another ring in the tragus. They were all simple stainless steel. It made him wonder what other piercings she may have, hidden by her clothing.

His neck was beginning to ache from craning upward and so he stepped back and resumed his exploration at her feet. He had always just assumed that anyone who wore Birkenstocks like she did would have gnarly feet but he was pleasantly surprised. The nails were not painted but they were surprisingly well-groomed. He massaged her soles, smooth and soft, in his hands and was soon aware of his erection beneath his jeans. Her feet were at about crotch height and he rubbed the instep of one of her feet against himself, through his clothing.

Figuring that a dick did not possess fingerprints, he unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, freeing his erection from his underwear. He expected her flesh to be cold but she was still warm as he pressed the skin of her bare sole against his shaft and began to work it up and down. It only took one hand to keep this up so he continued his exploration.

He had considered disrobing her so he could finally get a good view of her naked body but he still had in the back of his head the possibility of somebody knocking on her door. It would be easy enough re-zip his own pants but it would be much more of a production to re-dress her. So he instead had to feel things out.

He ran a gloved hand along her lower leg, idly squeezing at the soft calf muscle. All smooth and recently-shaved. He worked his way up, groping at the soft flesh of her thighs. He had to reach around to grab her buttocks and her body swung toward him slightly as he did so. It felt like she was wearing a fairly plain pair of underwear, not a thong or any other sort of sexy lingerie. His hand slipped beneath it easily enough. Her overall body shape looked like it was fairly thin but her firm ass cheeks were more than a handful each.

As he made his way to the front of her crotch, he felt some warmth. He paused in brief worry. He had heard that people release their waste when they expire but had forgotten about this since, from the peephole, he had seen no sign of this. He carefully withdrew his hand from beneath her skirt. It was damp, but not stained. And there was no obvious smell of waste coming from her either. He could live with that. She must have gone to the bathroom thoroughly beforehand.

He resumed his exploration. Her panties were quite damp, although not enough to stain the crotch of her skirt. It was easy enough for him to imagine that this was sexual lubrication and that his use of her body was turning her on.

He pushed aside her panties and felt the distinctive texture of metal. It seemed that she had at least one genital piercing, a stud from the feel of it. He worked his fingers into her. It felt tight, well-lubricated and, like the rest of her body, was still warm.


He had to stop himself. The urge to untie her, throw her on the bed and have his way with her unresisting body was beginning to override his common sense. Looking down at his penis, he saw that it had been oozing pre-cum, which had coated the surface of her sole and his own stomach. He patted his pocket to the reassuring presence of the dishcloth. It would serve its purpose soon enough.

He switched hands and resumed his masturbation against her foot with his wet hand. His other reached up to one of his partner’s hands. Like her feet, her fingernails were unpainted but well-manicured. Her fingers were thin and delicate. No jewelry. He would have loved to wrap one of her hands around his cock, clasping it there tightly with his own.

Instead, he moved on, to her stomach. He slipped his hand under her shirt. He felt no gut or excess of fat, just smooth, soft skin like the rest of her body. Unsurprisingly, her belly button was pierced with what felt like a simple metal bar.

His biggest surprise with her came when he made his way up to her breasts. Now, like always, they were concealed beneath baggy clothing. Based on her overall trim physique, he had assumed that they would be of average size. But they felt enormous. At first he had thought that their size might be exaggerated by the padding of her bra but as he worked his way beneath this fabric he realized that they really were as massive as they felt. They were both pierced with metal studs.

He squeezed one and felt their size fill his hand completely, with flesh to spare. He was so mesmerized by this that he even took a moment to dry off his other hand so that he could grab both at the same time. She was, of course, still tethered to the attic beam so he was able to push her entire body forward like a pendulum. Gravity now pressed her breasts into his hands as he massaged and squeezed until his arms grew sore.

He gently released her as he relaxed his muscles. Her body swung slowly from the beam.

He ached for release.

He would have loved to blow his load across her unflinching face, to see the cum land on her hanging tongue and discolored lips. It might even land on the lip ring, filling its center and sticking there due to some sort of capillary action. Unfortunately, there was no way to get up that high without disturbing the “crime scene” too much.

Instead, he made use of her feet, conveniently hanging at crotch-level. He now employed both hands. With one, he pressed her already pre-cum-slickened sole against his shaft and worked it up and down. His other hand pressed the toes of her other foot against his balls, rubbing and kneading at them.

He needed to be careful about where he shot his load. As he neared climax, he released the foot that had been against his balls and aimed his ejaculation at the toes of her other foot. He released a burst of cum, which landed squarely where it had been aimed.

He took a moment to catch his breath before he surveyed his handiwork. Her toenails had not been painted but were now seemingly painted white with cum. The ejaculate even pooled a little into the crevices between the smaller toes. It was a shame to erase such a beautiful sight but he sighed and wiped each of them clean with the dishtowel that he had brought. He wiped her with care, so as to not leave any lasting impressions. When he was done, there was no evidence that the body had been messed with at all.

With his lust sated, his paranoia returned. He quietly exited her apartment, locked her door behind him and entered his own apartment. He let out a sigh of relief.


It was later in the day when he started getting nervous about the situation. In his passion, he had forgotten that semen was very identifiable genetic evidence and his wiping, however thorough, would not have eliminated everything. He contemplated re-entering her apartment to scrub them more thoroughly, with ammonia or something like that, but he decided that that would be even more dangerous. His next few days were very stressful as he was plagued with fear of being discovered.

His relief came four days after her death, when the landlord came knocking at her door. He could easily overhear his bellowed explanation that her work had called him, worried about her not showing up. From the peephole, Carl watched as the landlord used his key to enter her apartment and discovered the body. His reaction was more of annoyance than of surprise--it gave Carl the impression that something like this had happened before.

When the police arrived, they didn’t treat the apartment like a crime scene at all. Everyone involved seemed to think that it was all very cut-and-dry and no foul play was suspected. They didn’t even knock on his door to ask if he had overheard anything. And so they were certainly not going to swab her feet for genetic evidence.

Carl moved out of the peephole apartment a few months later, when his lease was up for renewal. There had been other neighbors after Maddie but none could ever be as memorable as her.


And that’s it for this story. I know that foot stuff is not for everyone, but I hope that the tags at the beginning did their job and turned away anyone who would not be into this. I seem to sense a pretty big overlap between the fetishes of hanging and feet. Or is this just me? Speaking of tags, I try to be as descriptive as possible but I worry that some of them may be too much of a “spoiler”. I guess it’s a line you have to walk between having someone read something they will not like and spoiling the contents of the story outright. Thoughts?

The other two stories that I have written for this site (under the same handle: VV) have been in a D&D-style fantasy setting, which makes a lot of interesting scenarios possible. This one, obviously, is not but I hope that it comes off as believable/realistic as possible, even if the sexual content is more subtle.

As always, any comments, suggestions or other feedback is welcome.


This felt so real also I enjoyed the foot stuff. Back to the real thing the guy is perfectly normal well as far as we go in his caution sure I would have loved him to live out the fantasy but I can agree with his discretion.

Hope you do more


The third, and just as fantastically beautiful work! Thank you! I waited a long time for it, and wasn't disappointed. Continue to write, please!


Loved your story! A bit shame that he didn't fuck her or get a blowjob, but for the sake of the story it's understandable. Would definitely read more stories from you.


Nice story, very sexy.

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