The Things That Make Me Give In (4 page)

I remember how lovely her breasts were. Pouty, upturned things, capped with tight, rosy nipples. I thumbed my own in sympathy, passed my hand over the place I didn’t dare go – the aching V between my legs.

How she sucked him so lovingly, easing that thick perfect cock in and out of her little bud of a mouth.

But it was his reaction, really, that I enjoyed. The way his head went back and his lips parted. I could even make out the slight frown on his face, as though the pleasure was almost too much.

And then another girl joined the first, equally naked, equally lithe and lovely, and I realised that I didn’t know what too much was. He was only too happy to show me, however. He showed me when they kissed around his cock, and when they took turns sucking him and licking him, and when one of them disappeared from view and I knew she was between the other girl’s legs.

He fucked them one after the other, too. He made it last and last, never seeming to tire or get too close to coming. His body quaked under the pressure, and I saw him bite his lip and tug at his own balls and squeeze the base of his cock, but he got no closer than that.

I ached for him to come. And when he finally did, I shuddered from head to toe with the aftershocks of his orgasm.

It was sweet, that time. It was sweet watching him with the lollipop girl, and the nervous guy with his girlfriend, and just straight up with a chick pressed against the window.

But now it’s all a mess. Now it’s all ruined.

I didn’t know that he knew I was watching.

There’s no other way to take what he has done. It’s frank and clear – a note pinned to his window.

Fear thrills through me. He knows that I’ve been watching and wants to say to me:
your turn now
.

Though I have no idea what my turn could be. What on earth does he expect me to do? I didn’t even realise that he could see me and am still not sure he can, so is he wanting me to . . . do something else? Knock on his door? Send him a tape?

No.

Instead, he sends me a gift, a few days later. A prompt. A little purple bullet-shaped prompt, that buzzes when I switch it on. And a note, to go with it:
start where I started out for you
.

The words
for you
make me go hotter and colder than the little purple buzzing thing. I am drugged by the idea that he meant all of that – all that posing and jerking off and fucking – just for me.

I want to mean it just for him. I don’t know if he’s watching, but I sit before the window anyway. Just casual, not really doing anything. I could be watching birds fly by or people crossing the street, despite the fact that my window faces nothing but alley.

And his window, of course.

It takes a moment. A very long moment. I try to let my mind go blank, but really it has nothing to do with my mind. Instead my arousal builds itself up to some unbearable pitch – so unbearable that I have to do something about it.

I spread my legs.

It’s not that hard to do. I just scootch forward and spread them as wide as they will go, which is very wide indeed. The
knickers I’m not wearing leave nothing to the imagination. Nor does my skirt manage to cover my shame – it rides right up to the pussy I shaved last night.

I have no idea why I shaved it. I’ve never done it before and I don’t have any particular fetish for a bare cunt. And yet I wanted to, and now here I am as pretty and stripped-down as you please. I know how it feels, too – as smooth as the petals of a flower, made smoother and silkier yet by all this slipperiness I keep leaking.

All I have to do is think of him doing it for me, and I cream. I’ve been in bed with actual men and never got as wet as I am now, never come so hard and so quickly as I do when I think about my prey looking back at me.

Even if it didn’t excite me, I know I couldn’t stop myself from touching where I ache the most. My clit jerks, waiting for me to touch it, but when I do I can hardly stand the sensation. I just press my finger against it, too firm to let all of this messy pleasure crush me, but just light enough to let a little of it out.

My head goes back against the chair all on its own. I moan for no one, though I’m sure my voyeur can put sounds into my moving mouth. The thought opens me up further, prompting me to swipe more slickness over my swollen bud.

I open my shirt for him, too. I bare my breasts – though mainly so that I can touch my nipples. I’m sure he’ll like that, seeing me with my spit-slippery fingers all over my tits, teasing my spiky nipples into ever harder points. And how I look, too, so sluttish and brazen. Legs spread as wide as they will go, lips parted, clothes hastily pushed aside or opened.

I still have my work shoes on, too. I hang one leg over the arm of the chair and let him get a look at their sharp heels.

I’m stroking myself slowly, now, just slightly, but it’s making me shiver and shake. Orgasm is one sliver of warm sensation away. It’s just waiting for his gift, which I lick as if I’m putting on a show. I suppose all of this is a show, and would remain one even if he wasn’t watching.

But I know he is. I see something dark and heavy shift far far back in his apartment, something lurking – as though it’s OK for me to watch him, but not OK for him to watch me.

Which should probably be a turn-off. I should be mad that he doesn’t want to come right out into the open, but instead I can feel his shame fluttering all over my body. It kisses my clit and rubs against my tits, and I squirm in my chair at the thought.

I’m more wicked than him, a man who fucks all sorts of people in all kinds of combinations. I feel no shame, now, knowing that he caught me watching him. And I don’t mind him watching me right now.

How wonderful. How heat-inducing. I’m now so hot that turning on the little buzzing thing can’t push me into anything hotter, though I think it tries. I flinch away when I touch its busy vibrations to my still slick nipples, and then melt. I can’t touch my clit at all now because I’m stuttering on the edge of orgasm – those first little ridges of pleasure that threaten to give way to a slide.

So instead I push two fingers into my clenching hole, fucking myself in a way that feels good, but also makes me picture his cock with undeniable hunger. God, he’d feel so good sliding in, curving up to kiss that sensitive place inside me that my fingers can only just reach. I’d make him work just there, just right, as he did with the little redhead. Hardly moving his prick at all but very obviously stirring the thick tip against the bits she liked best.

Of course, in reality I probably wouldn’t make him do anything. In reality I’m usual bored and silent. But I don’t need to be either of those things here and I’m almost sure I’m going to come just from the feel of his phantom cock inside me and his eyes on me and the buzzing of the bullet against my stiff nipples.

Though I don’t. Instead I imagine us doing this for ever, this sex through glass. And then I rub the little vibrator just once
over my clit, and surge into an orgasm so vast and all-consuming that I shout over and over, and fear I will never come out of it again.

I would like to say here that we do not continue this for ever. We never do it again at all, and instead embark on in-the-flesh relationships with like-minded and sexually healthy people.

But I’d be lying. I mean, what is an in-the-flesh relationship, anyway? He probably isn’t half as perfect as he looks. I’m probably not half as perfect as I look. No, this is much better. I’m satisfied with his handwriting, and he’s satisfied with mine.

Or at least he seems to be, when I pin a note up asking him to get an anonymous blow job from some rough trade or similar. It’s not a particular fantasy of mine – I just stayed up all night, trying to think of something that would push him a little.

But I saw him – he just smirked when he noticed the piece of paper tacked to my window. And then he delivered the goods, as though it wasn’t anything at all. Some guy with a shaved head and thick arms, very clearly grunting as he fucked my through-the-glass-boyfriend’s mouth.

I watched the guy’s ass flex with something like fascination. I saw TTGB be as greedy as can be, just as he was with that nervous guy and his girlfriend. I saw him pretend not to look up at my window, as he jerked the guy to orgasm and had it spatter all over his face and the floor.

It was more arousing than I expected, though mainly because I wondered if it meant he would do anything I asked. Or if he would ask me to do anything.

And he did. He has done. Yesterday he pinned a note to his window, and now I’m expected to deliver. I suppose it’s only fair, and I can’t say I mind, exactly. He has odd taste, my TTGB.

He wants me to fuck someone. Fuck someone, only with their face completely covered. His exact words are:
make them wear a hood
.

I write back that he’ll have to give me a while – who am I going to fuck? But really it’s easier than I had imagined it would be. The need to meet the terms of our agreement makes me bold, and I accost some little peon in the copy room.

It’s just as easy as this: ‘Wanna screw?’ I’m amazed at how quickly he falls into line. What on earth made it all seem so complicated before? He just follows me home like a lost puppy, fondling me in the taxi and rambling about how sexy I am.

Of course, something like this is never going to lead to a deeper connection. That still remains difficult, I’m sure. Connections are about warmth and understanding, knowing each other’s needs and wants, loving each other even when it’s strange and difficult.

Not being afraid. And I’m sort of afraid, with this copy guy.

But TTGB’s eyes steady me.

I watch copy guy shucking his clothes as if they’re on fire, and it’s clear that he knows something is going on. His jittery gaze keeps flicking to me and then to the window, watching me watching for my real pleasure.

He doesn’t say anything, however. He only says something when I tell him that he gets to fuck me on one condition: he has to wear
this
over his head.

It’s nothing pretty or special. It’s just a paper bag with little holes punched in it here and there. In fact, it looks very depressing in my hand – sort of . . . like I’m asking him to debase himself. I don’t want to look at his face while I’m fucking him – God, no!

Though maybe the really depressing thing is that he doesn’t seem to care. He tells me sure, and shrugs, and I wonder if that’s just the arrogance of certain young men. He’s reasonably good looking and too sure of himself. The paper bag can’t possibly be because I find him repellent.

It’s all about me. I’m weird, I’m a little twisted. I need him to do odd things in order to get off, and hey, he doesn’t mind as long as there’s some fucking involved. The inside of his head is
too easy to read, and I suppose all of this would be very disappointing if it weren’t for the man watching me.

He isn’t disappointing at all. I can’t predict him. I don’t know what to deduce from him asking me to do this. Why doesn’t he want to see the guy’s face? Oh God, why? Oh Jesus, that
why
burns through me.

The copy guy thinks my trembling is for him. He smirks, shortly before I put the bag over his head.

And then he’s just standing there. Completely naked and not looking half as good as my watcher. TTGB is solid, fleshy, real. This guy is thin and insubstantial, a mealy morsel that I can hardly be bothered to eat.

But then I close my eyes and feel his mealy hands on me, and the hands become my watcher’s gaze, running all over my body. It’s he that undresses me, the blundering rapidity of copy guy becoming fevered desperation to get my clothes off.

He barely strips me down at all, however. Instead he pulls open my shirt and squeezes handfuls of my tits, and then simply yanks my skirt up and my knickers down. All of it fumbling and odd, because of course copy guy can’t see through the paper.

It’s a strange series of sensations. Being watched so intently – and indeed, when I open my eyes and glance out of the window, I can see him standing there, far more boldly – and yet being touched by someone who cannot see. I vacillate between the two sensations, ultimately ending up at something higher and hotter.

My breath is coming in pants. My legs don’t want to hold me up. I bend over my dining table obediently enough, but inside I’m careening around, roasting in my own heat and wondering what he would think of my liquid pussy.

Such thoughts make an idea form, and I blurt out to my little sex servant, ‘Turn my hips. Turn my hips so that my pussy almost faces the window.’

It takes a bit of manoeuvring, but finally I’m satisfied. My legs are spread, my sex is open, and he’s bound to be able to see my wetness, trickling down my quivering thighs.

‘Oh, you’re so wet. God, you’re a horny slut,’ copy guy says, and it’s hard to translate his voice into my watcher’s.

But I manage it, somehow. I imagine his deep, slightly husky voice and I urge copy guy to fuck me. I allow myself to be crude in order to snare him, but he barely needs any persuasion.

‘Fuck my wet cunt,’ I say, and he obeys – plunging in hard enough to lift my spike heels off the floor.

No preliminaries. Just exactly what I had wanted from TTGB not so long ago – his cock instead of my fingers, fucking into me. Clutching at my ass and getting ever more jerky in his already frantic thrusts, grunting about how hot I am, how he’ll fuck my pussy any time I like.

It could almost be the right person. I even look away from the window so that I can pretend he isn’t there – he’s here with me instead, shafting me until I beg for more. Until I cram my fist into my mouth and hold in all my guttural, greedy sounds, while the sounds of his cock sliding through all of my wetness try to make up for my silence.

Too quickly he tells me he’s going to come. I want more – of course I do, there are so many things I want! – but his eagerness and the swell of his prick in my pussy send tingles to all the best places. My nipples, as they rub and chafe against the not quite slippery table top. My clit, which is just begging to be touched.

The speed at which copy guy jerks and spurts into me makes it impossible to truly imagine it’s TTGB, but there’s another way I can engineer a little I’m-with-someone-else realism. TTGB would know that my clit was begging to be touched. He’d know exactly what to do, and so I take his place. I tell copy guy what to do as he’s busy stumbling away from me.