Peeping Tom

It had been a long day of standing in three inch heels on a concrete floor behind the teller’s desk. Dealing with rude people with important problems. Moving money around like there was an infinite supply of it when her own rent was two months behind.

She fantasized about the rich men. Mama had always said to marry money. Love don’t last, she said, but money, honey, that’s happiness. She didn’t know if she agreed. Papa was piss poor and they seemed happy. But this one standing at her window now, he was six feet of perfect Armani and glittering Rolex. The smell of Italian leather rolled off him, and he stood austerely with bank book in hand. He was gray at the temples, his shirt was an imposing shade of salmon, and his tie shiny and one shade darker than the shirt. His eyes were hidden by $1000 sunglasses.

“Sir, I have to ask you to remove your glasses,” she said politely. Her tone wouldn’t give away her wet panties. They were just Fruit of the Loom. But they looked better than bargain bin on her ass.  She motioned with her pen to the sign by the computer. “Security reasons. The cameras have to get a good look at you.” She smiled. But it was more to herself.

He complied and slid his book and a roll of hundreds through the slot.

She completed his request, and he left without ever uttering a word. But she committed every inch of him to memory for later… She chewed her lip. What Mama didn’t know was, if you had money you didn’t need a personality. She wondered how big his cock was and blushed.

She closed the apartment door behind her and flipped the lock, then remembered it was broken. She’d notified management about it three days ago. It was a good thing she didn’t have any valuables. She kicked off her red heels and shimmied out of her pencil skirt. She took the clip out of her hair and let it fall in fire around her face and shoulders. She undid the fake pearl buttons on her blouse on the way to the bedroom.

‘Charly!” she called. She made a kissing noise. “Charly baby, where are you?” That was odd. He was always weaving between her ankles and meowing for her attention when she came home. He only hid when she had guests. She called and cajoled a few more times, to no avail.

In the bathroom she washed the makeup off her face and peed. Then, wearing only a lace half cup bra and those serviceable panties, she went to the dresser and took out her vibrator. Mr. Pink Shirt was still on her mind, and she was inventing a whole story around their meeting love affair as she settled back against the pillows.

Her eyes darted to the partially open closet… “Charly?” she could have sworn she heard something from there. Silly cat.

Her fingers were already lazily scratching her coppery mound. Her other hand holding her pink panties aside; he’d always asked why she left them on, why she didn’t just strip when she masturbated. She couldn’t answer him. It just feels good for some reason, she’d said. Like I’m doing something I shouldn’t. Her fingers dipped between her wet lips and she took them to her mouth and tasted.

Her eyes drifted back to the closet while her mind imagined Pink Shirt inside, watching her. His cock would be growing, straining against his trousers. He might even be touching while his gray eyes watched her with a wolfish aloofness.

Her breath grew ragged as soon as she placed the buzzing vibe against her sex. She rubbed it along her slit, like he would do the head of his cock. She bit her lip, like he would do as he kissed her. A hand went to a full breast, teasing the nipple from behind the lace and nipping and tugging on it, turning it from dusky pink to purple. She arched her back and moaned when the vibrator finally touched her clit-

She heard it for sure that time. “Who’s there?” she demanded, growing still. Her body was humming and she felt like she couldn’t hear over it. “Show yourself!”

Nothing for a moment. Then a deep masculine voice said softly, “Please don’t stop.”

Her heart did a somersault. But instead of jumping up and covering herself, she felt a full flush of heat, and a feeling that her flesh was rising to meet the intruder’s eyes.

“Don’t be frightened,” he said. He spoke barely above a whisper. “I won’t touch you. I just want to watch.”

The vibrations were insistent, and her hips were rising to meet them without her permission. Her heart thundered.

“Forget I’m here. I’m just a fantasy.”

Was she insane? There was a stranger in her closet, and she was lying spread open like a lunchtime buffet.

She slid the panties off, and shifted her body slightly. He now had an unobstructed view. She resumed rubbing, and now, now the man in the closet was Mr. Pink Shirt. Oh the ways in which the wealthy indulged their fetishes. She held the vibe against her clit, then slid it lower, let it slide into her cunt. She felt her juices running down over her anus as she slowly, deliberately fucked  herself with it. She pressed it against her g-spot and her first orgasm caused her to arch and moan and cry out. Was it just her imagination, or did she hear Mr. Pink Shirt whisper “Again.”?

It didn’t matter. She wasn’t ready to stop. The need swept through her like a tide. The vibe back on her clit and she rubbed out three more climaxes before rolling onto her tummy and reaching down to slide it into her ass, pushing up on her knees and letting the duvet muffle her desperate moans.

She finally lay spent, her hair covering her sweaty face, her body throbbing and limp. She drifted off and was later awakened by Charly kneading his paws into the small of her back. She stood and pulled a robe tight around herself, and crept to the closet like a child expecting ghosts. Gathering her nerve she flung the door wide, prepared to scream, but it was empty.

Accepted

Fill me with words of lust and care, of tenderness and need; of raking touches and tongues, of praying and fucking. Worship my body, let me worship yours. Running fingertips over your skin, over your scars, touching your flaws with reverence and wonder. Everything and nothing inside this moment against your vibrating body, and the sensations sing like tenors. Taste your sweat, your blood, your tears and fears and all those years of nothing. We’re found falling into this embrace and perhaps we’ll never let go, never wash it off, never be free of the mark. Eyes like tar, a smile like hunger. Surrounded by stars and satin, push me into the goose down with the hardness of your body, trap me here, eyes blind and limbs bound and make me yours as you are mine.

Cherish me and I will honor you. Fuck me and I will follow you. Make me forget and I will hold you here with my lust, my cunt, my lips. Stolen moments hidden from lives of normalcy. Do not let me down. Do not allow my fear. I will shelter in your breast, a secret you hold, and we’ll find it; our acceptance.

Bar-stool Confessions

He wanted to watch her.

“Watch me what?” A soft smile curved her lips. She enjoyed teasing him, seeing just how far he’d let her go before his face darkened and his lips formed a tight line. She would push just a little further than that, because she liked making it up to him, liked when his gruffness turned back to tenderness; usually after she was bound to the four-poster with his cock softening in her ass.

He didn’t play along this time. “In the shower.”

“Okay.” He had watched her in the shower before. She wasn’t sure why the sudden interest.

His fingers toyed absently with the base of his glass. It was sweating on the scarred and polished walnut.

“Anything specific you’re hoping to see?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I want to watch you pee. See how you enjoy it.”

She wished she’d chosen the high-collar over the scoop. It might have concealed the hot flush. “Daddy-”

“You don’t want to show me? Tell me why not.”

He was a handsome man. An intelligent man. He always wanted to know why. She’d often thought over all else that was what attracted her to him. He was in all things insatiable.

She played with her drinking straw. She had no good reason, other than it was a private thing. “It’s a private thing.”

He smiled then. “There’s to be nothing private between you and me.” He motioned the bartender and touched the rim of his glass.

“No.”

“It makes you uncomfortable. It shouldn’t. Why do you think it does?”

She squirmed. But the arousal awakening in the pit of her stomach was undeniable. “Because it’s new?”

He shook his head and sipped from his glass.

“It’s… dirty.”

He smiled his approval. “Do you think I think it’s dirty?”

She kept her eyes down. The crystal bubbles in her vodka and soda chased and raced one another to the surface.

He reached across the space and tilted her face up. “Well, baby girl?”

“No. You don’t.”

He let his thumb pass over her lips before he took his hand away, and his pupils dilated at the sharp intake of her breath. “No, I don’t.”

“Is it…”

He waited. Then, “Go on. Ask me.”

“Would it excite you? Sexually?”

His face relaxed and his eyes crinkled. “Yes, baby. Anything you find exciting excites me.”

The internal flush spread, encompassing her limbs and cheeks. She felt it manifest as a tingle into her toes and fingertips. He could have her, right here, right now. They both knew it. “It’s not just the peeing that is exciting.”

He propped his chin on his hand, as though settling in. “Tell me.”

“I mean… it feels good, right? It’s nice. A relief, and the warmth.”

“Yes. But there’s more.”

She drank from her glass, and he motioned the bartender again. The heat in her cheeks felt unbearably obvious. She kept her eyes down. “Yeah. It’s about what I see, when I do it.”

He made a humming, growling sound that was one decibel above inaudible in the noisy bar. “Tell me what you see, baby.”

She smiled at her glass, allowing those thoughts in. “I see you.”

“Always just me?”

He was so territorial. “Now, yes. Not always.”

“Hm. So you see your lover.”

“Yes.” She glanced at him. He was unreadable, intent but hooded.

“What am I doing?”

It took her a moment. It required getting lost in the fantasy, required drawing on her arousal in that moment to make voicing it okay. “You’re standing close, naked and wet, and watching.”

He leaned closer, began stroking her forearm with his fingertips. For all his severity, his touch was light, soft. The fine hairs stood up in anticipation of the next one. “Am I touching you?”

She nodded. Her fingers on her right hand played and twisted the tendrils behind her ear.

“Tell me how I’m touching you. Where.” This he whispered directly into her ear.

He leaned his own ear close to her mouth and waited.

“You start by touching my shoulders, playing in the suds.” She could smell his hair, his shaving cream, and let her lips barely brush against the rim of his ear as she spoke. “Your hands run down my sides, avoiding my breasts, and one caresses the low part of my stomach, above my mound, and the other traces the small of my back, just above my ass.”

He murmured an unintelligible sound of approval.

“Your touch is light, almost a tickle.”

“Because that makes you have to go.”

“Yes.”

“Mm. Go on, little girl. Then what?”

“You’re saying things to me, but it’s not the words I hear. It’s your tone. Encouraging and relaxing and assuring.”

He rested his hand on the nape of her neck, his fingers brushing hers. The contact added to her overall feeling of being heated. Or in heat. They were indistinguishable.

“You feel the shiver when I start to let go. It peaks my nipples. Then…” A pause.

“Don’t stop. Tell me. What does Daddy do then?”

Her heart did a somersault and her breath caught. The neurons were rapid-firing like an automatic, and electricity coursed over her skin. She wondered if he felt it. “You put your fingers in it.”

“In the urine?”

She nodded. He growled again. His lips brushed her jaw in front of her ear when he whispered, “I’m so hard right now. Hard for my girl.”

Something exploded in her brain. Something small that crumbled the wall standing between right and wrong, acceptable and not. Adrenal fluid flooded her bloodstream. Her juices flowed.

“Is that all?”

“No. You find my clit, while I’m still peeing, and you start to rub. You rub hard. I stop and start, but it isn’t intentional, just happens.”

“When you’re done, do you come?”

“Yes, Daddy,” she whispered.

“Do I put my fingers inside your hot little cunt?”

“Yes!” It came out as a hiss.

“What if I did that first? When you first started, so you filled my palm? So that rubbing your g-spot made it feel so good to release?”

Her words left her. She was going to come on the bar stool, in front of everyone. Her hand was in his now, and she gripped. Hard.

He pulled her head against his mouth. “Breathe through it, sweetie.”

He shielded her there for a few moments, until her breath leveled and her shoulders relaxed. He pushed the vodka tonic closer and she took a sip. Then another. He did the same. He watched her face intently. She smiled a wistful, almost apologetic smile.

“Stop that.”

“What?” she covered her cheeks with her hands for a moment.

“You were about to apologize.”

She couldn’t argue.

“Never apologize to me. This is what we do.”

“Who we are.”

“Yes.”

She smiled a real smile.

“Is that all you see when you’re there, in the shower?”

She met his gaze with a boldness so rare it caught him off guard. “Nope.”

“You’re going to make me come right here,” he teased lightly. But there was an unplumbed depth beneath his words.

“I see a lot. Imagine a lot. And have a feeling I’ll imagine much more now.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because it’s okay.”

He smiled and leaned in and kissed her. “It is. It’s more than okay.”

Lydia

It was a laserwash, one of those no touch deals. Gone were the days of giant slinging brushes buffing your car with blue suds that smelled oddly of bubble gum. He remembered fucking in those car washes, when Shel had been young and limber and perpetually horny. God, he’d loved that. So predictable too, almost a fetish with her. It got to the point where he’d get a hard on just driving by one.

Shel was gone. Cancer. Fuck cancer. Cancer in her breasts, metastasized to her liver and then her lungs. Those gorgeous breasts. Bouncing in his face while the car rocked inside and out. Her voice, her violet eyes boring into his while she told him to fuck her, the mascara streaking her cheeks.

The car was filthy. And he asked this young woman with him did she mind if they went through the wash on their way to dinner. He’d tried to get it done before he picked her up. Time management wasn’t his strong suit. Shel had always helped him with that, sending him reminders, hand-writing him notes, packing his lunch every morning at 5:30. Now he was always late. Always sad, always late.

This one, her name was Lydia. She wasn’t classically beautiful, but she had a smile that melted his sadness. And woke his cock. Was it her smile? She had an open, curious kind of face. He felt like he could ask her anything and she’d probably answer. Anything? She had short blonde hair that flew around her face and big green eyes. And a figure. He wanted to bite her. Everywhere. From her plump ass to her tiny waist to her smiling lips.

Yeah, those lips, too.

“No, I don’t mind at all.” She smiled sweetly and tucked her hands between her thighs. It was almost demure. Maybe it was his dirty old mind that made it something else. She was wearing dark slacks and a loudly colored blouse with a plunging neckline. She looked casual but put-together. And she smelled like sugar and flowers.

The wash bay was glass. They were alone, though. He looked for conversation starters through the sheet of weak suds flowing over the windshield.

He heard her turn slightly toward him. “I love car washes,” she said softly.

He looked at her and smiled. “Yes? What do you like about them?”

She laughed. It was a gentle sound. Her lashes brushed her flushing cheeks. “I’ve always imagined that people… you know…”

His heart thumped. His cock stirred. He teased her. “No, what? What do you think people do in car washes, Lydia?”

It was something in the intimate atmosphere. Like the closed car and waterfall around them made it a place set apart from the real world.

“I’ve always imagined that if I were with the right someone, we could get up to all kinds of trouble in a car wash.” She looked at him boldly, and he stiffened. Just like that. His hand moved there, without his telling it to. And she noticed.

He caught her eyes again before leaning across and catching her mouth. She kissed with an abandon, a lustful hunger that ignited his skin. He took her hand while he explored her mouth and placed it on his raging cock.

It was all the invitation she needed. She was a minx, this one. Wild and sweet and everything about her generous and luxurious.

Lydia was the first step. Lydia and her magic mouth, Lydia and laser washes.

Shel would approve.

Character Sketch – Domme

I dreamt of being accepted to the Spanish Riding School in Vienna when I was young. I dreamt of falling in love with an instructor who looked like that hunk from that cop show where the beaches were always white, the water blue and the girls nearly naked. I dreamt that he’d marry me, and on our wedding night, surrounded by misty white tulle, he’d ravish me sweetly and possess my hated virginity, and all would be right and perfect with the world.

I look at the boot, the shining black leather of the upper as I zip it up my thigh. It squeezes. Fuck, I hate my body.

But they don’t.

I have four appointments today. None of them will look like the television cop. But all of them will look at me like I am their queen. All of them will do as I say, or will risk discipline. And all of them will make my heart ache with the desire that just one of them might look past these trappings of leather and lace, and see a little girl with dreams.

I turn to look at him, kneeling on the carpet, and my mask holds my face.