The Window.

It was one of the more fortuitous quirks of the architectural oddity that was Raccoon City Police HQ: in an unoccupied, out-of-the-way office, a little gap between ceiling and wall where - if he was so inclined - someone might see down into the women's showers of the gym. Actually, given Chief Irons's predilections, it was probably a completely intentional design feature - it'd certainly be one of his more humdrum perversions. But Albert Wesker, too - so dedicated to his duty, such an exemplary officer - had succumbed to the charms of the window.

It was all her fault, naturally. Sweet, butter-wouldn't-melt Becky Chambers, with an arse like a hip-hop video and a walk like she knew it. And she stuck her chest out, too - he could hardly call her well endowed, especially with Jill's ample bosom an ever-possible distraction, but it was enough, and the occasional bump of an erect nipple betrayed her pertness. She seemed at once oblivious (dropping a pen beside his desk) and shameless (taking her sweet time picking it up), the arguable predictability of the virgin/whore fantasy no barrier to its erotic potential.

Then he'd found out - quite by chance, changing a light bulb because those bastards from maintenance would never get round to it - about the secret window, his own little private peepshow. Wesker had never considered himself a voyeur, beyond the usual men's magazine fantasies. He would never have set up cameras, or anything so crass. But he wasn't a man to let opportunity pass him by, in work or in play. Thus, Captain Wesker, head of STARS and pillar of the community, had taken to observing his team's eighteen year old medic as she wound down after training.

The first time, the first wonderful, lucky time, he'd simply watched, amazed at what he'd discovered. His trousers felt tight against stiffening arousal, but he did nothing to relieve it. It was that whole allure of innocence thing, the young girl seemed almost sacred, not to be sullied by any direct expression of sexual desire. Over the weeks though, his inhibitions left him.

Usually he'd have about ten minutes, maybe fifteen. She'd peel off shorts and tank-top, toned body shining slightly with a thin film of sweat. Then she'd step under the shower, soaping up, the lather intermittently concealing what so aroused his interest (so to speak). Sometimes she'd wash her hair, arms bent upwards, breasts taut. The smell of the grapefruit scented showergel she always used drifted up, intoxicating him as he watched the performance. Then she'd wash the soap off, hands moving over her breasts, her thighs, her secret places. That was generally all he needed. In the throes of arousal, he liked to imagine her fingers lingered there, in her triangle of auburn hair. He hoped she never heard him, but a part of him did, fantasising about a private show rather than the more plausible sexual harassment charge.

This session was a little different. Late in the evening...she'd had a big stack of paperwork to work through, and delayed her workout as a result. There were only a handful of officers left in the police station, so it was easy for him to skulk away with a muttered excuse about the archives. Warm water traced a map of sensuality across her curves, highlighting yet further what already had the captain's undivided attention. Same show as before, but he could never get bored of this. Wesker gripped himself and watched as Rebecca massaged the aches of the day out of one narrow shoulder.

Something was different, though. She too seemed aware of how quiet the station was, how minuscule the chance of discovery was as - no, surely this was fantasy! - one hand was pressed between her legs, in an unmistakably masturbatory gesture. She closed her eyes, rubbing herself, one nipple coaxed to erectness under her free hand. He almost came right there and then. But held back, wanting to share her pleasure.

Over the sounds of running water and his own ragged breathing he swore he heard her murmur his name, as she reached her peak. The thought, fantasy or not, was enough to send Wesker, too, over the edge. Stunned for a moment, he relaxed into a musty office chair, before cleaning himself up. Nose back to the grindstone; he still had a lot of work to do. Back to the paperwork.

Down in the changing rooms, Rebecca Chambers leaned against the tiled wall, water running over her. Her thoughts were still filled with a certain blond-haired captain, of him maybe fucking her hard against the wall as she moaned his name.