Watching Me, Watching You

by Gwennan Thomas

  He stilled his hand, wanting to hold back his orgasm before it was too late. But then it was too late. He watched Carol climax, heard her animal-like moan carry into the night, joined almost at once by the strangled cry of her companion – and joined almost at once, too, by his own stifled gasps. Peter closed his eyes and convulsions shook his body as warm, liquid seed burst from his shaft.

  Peter made his way quietly to bed and, soon after that, he felt Carol slip in beside him. She brought with her an aroma of chlorine and sex.

  Pierre had been sent on his way, of course. Like they all were. Carol always made it clear that this was going to be a once-only experience. That was the deal, take it or leave it. Pierre, like all the others before him, had taken it.

  ‘You awake, darling?’ Carol asked softly.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Carol cuddled into him, her body warm. ‘How did you enjoy the show tonight?’ she asked.

  ‘It was fantastic,’ he replied. ‘You were fantastic.’

  ‘How do you feel now?’

  ‘Thoroughly sated,’ Peter replied with a yawn.

  ‘Me too – at least for now,’ Carol said, letting out a throaty chuckle. ‘But tomorrow is another day.’

  Escape at Erotica

  by Philippa Blaise

  To be honest, I was feeling a bit miffed. There was nothing wrong with the authors’ panel, in fact it was going really well. The chair was doing a splendid job and my fellow writers were as charming and witty as ever. It was just that old comment that always seemed to crop up, about us looking so “normal” and being ordinary women who write very sexy stories. We slip on our pseudonyms and escape the daily grind – husbands, kids and work – by plunging into a different, sexier world.

  The thing was, I had a secret, known to only a few of my closest female friends. I longed to act out the sexual fantasies I wrote about and today I planned to do it. Here at Erotica I was going to live out my dreams.

  Erotica is the exhibition for all things erotic. Everything was here from anal plugs to yoni massage. There are trade stands, workshops, displays and thousands of kinky people dressing up to enjoy themselves and each other.

  I had taken on the persona of my alter ego, “Bella Javeria”, becoming her for this one special day. I was here to have some serious sexy fun, but no one seemed to have noticed! The day was passing pleasantly enough but, sadly, without any passion. Maybe it was my outfit. A little – as in extremely short – black dress and four-inch heels just couldn’t compete with the array of leather, latex and lace on display.

  Losing concentration, I surveyed the audience – and spotted him immediately. He was slim, fit in every sense of the word, and he was staring at me. Glancing down, I realised my dress had ridden up to expose my suspenders, the tops of my black stockings and a band of white thigh above each one. Instinctively, I moved to pull my hem back into place but instead, remembering why I was here, I wiggled in my chair to give him a flash of my bright red knickers. His smile and the bulge that appeared in his tight black jeans showed that he appreciated the display. He glanced up and our eyes met. He held my gaze and grinned. Things were looking up!

  As soon as the session ended, I made a bee line for him. I wasn’t going to risk letting him get away. But there was no need to worry – he greeted me like an old friend. He kissed my cheek and hugged me and then, leaving his hands resting on my hips, he said, ‘Hello, darling! You look wonderful.’

  I stammered, ‘Thanks, er …’

  ‘Phil. Call me Phil.’

  His voice was rich and deep, and now I was sure we hadn’t met before. I would never have forgotten that voice.

  ‘I’m so pleased to meet you at last – I love your work. You’ve given me so such pleasure I feel I know you intimately already.’ I couldn’t help but notice a slight emphasis on the “intimately”.

  ‘Er … that’s good,’ I replied weakly.

  He grinned. ‘You can tell a great deal about a writer from her work, especially an author of erotica. It is true you write your own deepest desires?’

  I wasn’t sure if this was a statement or a question but I nodded in agreement.

  Phil gripped me tighter, his hands sliding down to touch my bottom. He pulled me even closer and said softly, ‘I know why you’re here, Bella.’ He emphasised the name, my sex writer’s pseudonym, saying it as though it were a magic word, using it like a key. And then, without warning, he kissed me.

  After a moment’s resistance, I found myself returning the kiss. I wrapped my arms around his neck, drawing him close. Fortunately, my fellow authors and most of the audience had left the room. The last few stragglers were queuing by the door, waiting to leave.

  Phil looked thoughtfully at me. ‘So, let’s see, what do you like again? Oh yes, illicit love. Sex when you know you shouldn’t. Well, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Exhibitionism, we’re in a great place for that. And mild sub fem – you like that too, don’t you? Yes, that will do for a start.’ Then, with a hard edge in his voice, he said, ‘Take your knickers off.’

  I gulped. ‘What?’

  ‘Take your knickers off. They’ll get in the way.’

  I looked around doubtfully; this was a very public room. ‘But I can’t – not here.’

  ‘Come on, take them off. The next session starts soon – we’ve got about five minutes before the crowd for that one starts to gather. You’d better do it now before they arrive, unless you really want an audience.’

  Why, oh why had I worn stockings and put my knickers on before attaching the suspenders? Mercifully, the stragglers soon left and we were alone. I pulled up my dress and began undoing the straps. Phil watched, savouring the glimpses of my thighs. I had intended to finish the task as quickly as possible, aware that someone was likely to come in at any moment, but my Bella persona was in control and she couldn’t resist teasing.

  She took her time, slowly unclipping the suspenders then easing the knickers down. She deliberately showed my pubes – or, rather, the bare skin where they had once been – as I stepped out of my panties. I had shaved them especially for today. Defiantly, I handed the knickers to Phil. He put them in his breast pocket and arranged the flimsy silk like a handkerchief. Anyone looking closely would see what they were.

  ‘Good,’ said Phil. ‘Better fasten your stockings again.’

  I had forgotten the suspenders. I started to do them up, hitching up my dress to reveal my nakedness … just as the doors opened and the crowd burst in for the next session. Blushing as scarlet as the knickers in Phil’s pocket, I hurriedly finished and pulled the dress down to cover myself. Chuckling, Phil took my hand and led me out to the main hall. ‘Time for us to go – it’s a dominatrix workshop in here next. Not your scene at all.’

  Looking round the great hall bustling with people, I wondered how Phil was planning to … actually, what exactly was he planning to do? This may have been Erotica but full nudity and public sex were forbidden and, even as Bella, I was unsure I’d be able to handle doing something like that in front of so many people.

  Phil led me through the hall, guiding me by holding one of my bum cheeks, pinching it just enough to make it tingle. Then, frowning as though puzzled, he said, ‘I have to make a few arrangements. Where can I leave you? I don’t want you wandering off and getting into mischief … Ah, I know!’

  He guided me to one side of the hall where a whole section was devoted to bondage gear. All types of restraints, whipping chairs, stocks and locks, bars and chains were on display. Phil paused, inspecting the equipment. I shuddered. Was he going to put me in one of those things? I didn’t fancy it at all – far too uncomfortable and a bit too far beyond “mild sub” for my liking.

  With a sudden squeeze of my buttock, Phil moved me on to a display of giant beds, all fitted with wrist and ankle restraints. ‘Just the thing,’ he said. ‘You can test one of these while I make the arrangements.’

  Before I could protest, I was laid on a bed and Phil was fitting the loops ro
und my wrists. The restraints had been set up especially for this display. They were loose and had long straps arranged so casual visitors could play at bondage. I could manage this. It only took Phil a few moments to arrange the straps; he must have done this before. When I was neatly tied up, Phil said he would be gone for ten minutes and warned me not to move.

  In theory, I was helpless, spread-eagled on the bed in full view of the crowd. Actually, the straps were so long I could move around and my legs weren’t spread apart. Just as well with my knickers in Phil’s pocket.

  I settled back, enjoying the huge bed and the attention I was beginning to receive. People were stopping to watch me. It was pleasant to be looked at, admired and desired. I was getting turned on. Well, OK, I had been turned on already. The excitement of Phil’s commanding presence and his hand kneading my bum had begun to arouse me. My nipples were hardening, my clitoris was beginning to tingle and my vagina was getting moist. If I’d had any panties on, they would have been getting damp.

  I wanted to touch myself or to be touched. I imagined Phil’s hands on my breasts, pinching my nipples, squeezing, moving down my belly, a finger teasing my clit. My thighs and dress were wet now. I reached down to stroke my pussy. Damn! The straps weren’t long enough. I couldn’t reach.

  Remembering where I was, I looked up. Thank goodness the crowd had thinned. Only two people were still watching me, an older couple wearing rubber body suits. I guess I was making Mrs Rubber hot. She had surreptitiously put her hand on Mr Rubber’s groin and was giving him a quick, secret stroke.

  The temptation was too great to resist. I spread my legs wide, giving them both a good view of my naked and shaved cunt. It had an immediate effect on Mrs – her hand clenched, squeezing Mr’s balls. He squealed in pain and tottered off clutching his groin. Mrs Rubber took another look at my pussy before following him.

  Phil returned a few moments later. Thank goodness! By now I, or rather my clitoris, was in urgent need of attention. Phil looked very smug. ‘All fixed!’ he said breezily. ‘Now let’s get you out of there and find something interesting to do.’

  He took me to a stairway leading to the gallery that surrounded and overlooked the main hall. Giving my bottom a slap, he sent me up the stairs first, allowing him to look up my dress. Well, I’d give him a show if he wanted one! Halfway up, I stopped suddenly and bent over as though adjusting my shoe. I thrust my butt out so my dress rode up. I had timed it perfectly. Phil’s nose bumped into my naked derrière. However, he wasn’t fazed by my blatant display – he blew on my bare bottom! The sharp stream of cold air passed down my bum then over my pussy and clit, inflaming my desire. Phil took my arm and guided me quickly to the top of the stairs.

  A barrier of wrought iron topped with a wooden rail surrounded the gallery at just over waist height. I could look over it into the hall but anyone glancing up would only see my upper body. Two narrow marquees had been set up along the barrier on one wing of the gallery. In one, a lecture about London’s fetish scene was taking place but Phil led me into the other, which was empty. I looked around in panic. We couldn’t do anything here … could we? The canvas walls were practically transparent and the entrance opened directly onto the balcony.

  On the far side of the marquee, one of the joins between the sheets of canvas had been unfastened and Phil pushed me through the opening, into a narrow gap between the marquee and the barrier. It was just wide enough to allow me to stand and look down into the hall. Unless someone came into the marquee, we could not be seen from the gallery. My heart pounding, I wondered what Phil intended to do in this hidden but very public space.

  Something that looked like a microphone had been clamped to the balustrade. Phil squeezed through the gap behind me – it was a very tight fit. He pressed me against the rail, manoeuvring me directly in front of the microphone. It had been arranged so it was level with my crotch. Its head was a soft ball the size of my fist and Phil stood behind me, forcing me tight against it. I could feel his cock through his jeans – it was erect and hard against my buttocks. He kissed my neck on the sensitive spot behind my ear, sending a wave of pleasure rippling down my body. His hand cupped one breast and squeezed the soft flesh. He found and pinched the nipple through my dress, sending another wave through me.

  Phil’s other hand rested on my belly, holding a small box. He pressed a button and the “microphone” hummed and buzzed, throbbing against my groin. It was some kind of vibrator! Phil pressed me down harder, his hips pushing me so my clitoris touched the head of it through my dress. The simulation was intense, such a fierce sensation that I instinctively jerked myself away from it. Then I writhed to move myself back into contact with the lovely torment.

  Phil slid his hands down my body and grasped the hem of my dress. He eased the front up, slipping the material out from between the vibrator and my hairless pussy. His fingers moved back, sliding down my thighs and massaged the juice that was seeping from my cunt over my labia. Easing the lips apart, he manoeuvred my vulva directly onto the vibrator.

  All this time I could feel his cock, rigid, straining in his jeans and pressing against my bottom. I wanted it inside me. I imagined reaching back, undoing Phil’s trousers and guiding him into me. Then I couldn’t think at all. My clit was responding to the devastating stimulation. Pulsing with each vibration, the little bud expanded. I felt it growing bigger, filling up like a balloon. The insistent waves of pleasure radiating from my clitoris drove every other thought from my mind. I couldn’t feel anything else.

  The throbbing pleasure was building quickly, flowing into every part of me, filling my body more and more, the pressure building. Faster and faster, wave upon wave of energy. Searing-hot pleasure flowed from my clit. Every part of my body tingled, expanded, sensitised. The pressure became so intense I thought I would burst. I arched back, rigid with tension. I couldn’t breathe. There was a moment of pure ecstasy that seemed to stretch out forever. Then came a shuddering release. My body convulsed with the sheer power of my orgasm. My stomach contracted violently, over and again. My hands clasped the rail in a vicelike grip. I groaned and sank to my knees, barely conscious.

  I was still groggy as Phil took me to the nearest bar and he had to hold me upright until I was able to lurch to a seat. He looked shocked; the intensity and speed of my climax had surprised him as much as it had me, and his confidence and control were now replaced by concern. My head cleared quickly but my legs were still wobbly and my clit was throbbing. After a drink I felt better, though. In fact, I felt great – content but still aroused and so alive.

  When Phil saw that I had recovered, he said, ‘Well, that wasn’t exactly the effect I thought I’d have on you – do you always do that?’

  I was amused by Phil’s consternation and touched by how worried he seemed. I do have great orgasms, both from fucking my hubby and from my toys (I wondered where I could get a “microphone” vibrator to add to my collection!) but nothing like the orgasmic tsunami that had just engulfed me. I didn’t see any reason to tell Phil, though. I would just let him wonder. I smiled to myself, enjoying the shift in the balance of power.

  After a moment, he gathered his wits and asked if I wanted to continue our game.

  Oh, I did! What else had he arranged? Playing it cool, I just said I was fine now and what did he fancy next?

  The look of relief on his face was so sweet but seeing that I was OK restored some of his cockiness. With his voice taking on an amused, slightly imperious tone, he said, ‘Let’s see. What else does Bella enjoy? Doesn’t she do fem on fem?’

  Well, I certainly have written some very sexy girl-girl stories. In fact, I’ve won awards for them. But in real life, my lesbian experience was limited to chaste schoolgirl crushes and one disastrous experiment at Uni.

  Phil, sensing my apprehension, took the lead again. ‘Are you fit?’ he asked breezily.

  I nodded and he took my hand and led me back into the main hall, to a corner where performers from The House of Burlesque were displ
aying their skills. Two pretty girls in vintage corsets shimmied and twirled.

  Phil paused, watching them thoughtfully. Then, smiling, he said, ‘No … these burlesque cuties are far too sweet for a horny little slut like you.’ Somehow he made “slut” sound like a delicious compliment.

  He led me into the next aisle where an excited crowd of men had gathered. It was a film company’s trade stall. Rack upon rack of hardcore porn was on display. The crowd was watching two girls dressed in lacy underwear. They were sitting astride a blow-up couch, rubbing their crotches together through their flimsy panties. Another woman was encouraging them. She jumped on the couch, bouncing the girls around.

  Not hardcore porn! My mind rebelled. Enormous dicks and unimaginative, uncomfortable, joyless humping were not my scene at all. I wasn’t going to play this time. Phil had screwed up!

  I tried to move away but Phil directed my gaze to another girl at the back of the stand, slender and very pretty. She wore a cream-coloured basque and thong, white lace hold-up stockings and white stilettos and damn, her skin was so fair and flawless – the “alabaster complexion” I’d thought only existed in fiction. A short platinum-blonde bob framed her sweet face. Her lips were the palest shade of shocking pink.

  She looked up, saw Phil and smiled. As she came towards us, I saw her boobs were uncovered. She had small, pert breasts. Her nipples were tiny, exactly the same shade of pink as her lips. The hard little buds were sticking out, prominently visible against the whiteness of her skin. She looked fragile, pale and beautiful, like an icing sugar fairy. Demure, yet sexy as hell.

  She kissed Phil’s cheek then turned to me said, ‘You must be Bella. I’m thrilled to meet you. I’ve read all your books, I adore your work. I do hope you’ll like mine.’