Ah, who said romance was dead?
Exposure
by Kat Black
February 13
“11pm tonight,” reads the bold scrawl inked across the rectangle of card I pull from the matching scarlet envelope. “Be home and alone. Sit facing the balcony door with a single candle lit close by. Wait. Watch.”
My heart seems to stop then starts pounding again high in my throat. The commanding message ends without a signature. The card – luxuriously thick – is devoid of identifying marks. The hand-delivered envelope provides no hint as to the sender.
And I need no clues to tell me who is responsible for sliding the mystery note under my apartment door.
I clench the card, creasing it, as something hot and exciting ignites inside me, stealing all my breath. Already heavily wrapped against the wintry chill of my daily commute, I’m swamped by the sudden, sultry heat held trapped beneath the tailored layers of my clothing. The skin of my neck prickles against my scarf.
Drawn by an irresistible pull, I turn to look across the neat expanse of my living room to the sliding glass door that leads on to my tiny fifth-floor balcony. Not far beyond the frost-encrusted railings, a sleek residential tower identical to the one I’m standing in looms through the murky grey light of dawn.
A random scatter of glowing, golden squares adorns the tall façade, indicating that other early risers are up and setting about their day. But I only have eyes for the set of windows directly opposite mine. Ones shrouded in darkness, with curtains drawn tight.
Pulse hammering, I stare and wonder if he is there, staring back through a crack in the fabric. Watching me.
He loves to watch, I’d discovered, soon after moving in. But then, so do I, he’d learnt, at around the same time. Ever since that first electric moment of shared awareness, we’ve been engaged in a game of visual foreplay; tantalising each other and tormenting ourselves with the ultimate look-but-don’t-touch tease.
Over the months, we’ve grown ever more confident and daring – wearing less, showing more, thrilling to the danger of getting caught out and adding a whole new dimension to the term “Neighbourhood Watch”. And always, we’ve kept our distance, remained the most perfect of intimate strangers.
Until now.
The card I clasp so tightly in my trembling fingers conveys a message far beyond the written words. It represents a turning point, a promise of something new, something more.
I want to stop and consider the significance of it all, want to muse on all the possibilities and wonder what surprises “11pm tonight” holds. But right now I can’t afford to spare the time. Any further delay in departure will make me late for a business meeting that’s far too important to miss.
Still staring across at the blank, lifeless windows, I make a show of tucking the card into my overcoat pocket with deliberate movements. Then, with a swivel of my leather-booted heel, I turn back to the door, pausing only to flick off the overhead lights and plunge the room into near-darkness as I leave.
At 10.59 p.m., I allow myself to light the fat church candle sitting ready on my coffee table. The barely contained excitement fizzing through me makes my movements clumsy and I fumble the simple task.
Despite the hectic pace of my day, there’s been only one thing playing on my mind. Counting down the past fifteen hours to this final minute, with each and every second passing in a protracted crawl that sparks through every nerve.
Keeping a tight rein on my impatience, I force myself to slow down and concentrate on my preparations.
Candle wick finally aflame, I move around the room, turning off all the lamps and readjusting – yet again – the exact position of the chair I’d earlier dragged away from the dining table. The stereo stays as it is, filling the deeply shadowed background with a slinky mix of Parisian Lounge sophistication.
Everything is in place as the stereo’s illuminated clock ticks over and displays the magic number at last. Drawing a deep, shaky breath, I head to one side of the balcony door and pull on the cord that opens my vertical blinds.
The orange-tinged darkness of the city night outside is almost a perfect match for the candlelit interior of my apartment, so no reflection mars the expanse of glass in front of me as I sit.
Outside, the air is cold and clear, providing a crisply defined view of the building opposite. Here and there, slivers of light frame windows curtained against the seeping chill.
His windows remain dark but as I peer harder I can just make out a mellow flicker of light around the edges of his balcony door. In a nervous gesture, my hands smooth the silk of my short tunic-dress over the top of my stockinged thighs.
With a suddenness that makes me start, one side of the curtains opposite flicks back, releasing a blaze of golden candlelight. A shadow moves across the glass and then the other curtain is drawn away to reveal …
Oh my God. A woman.
A naked woman. Sitting in a straight-backed chair and facing out into the night in a position that pretty much mirrors mine. I stare at her in breathless shock, but she doesn’t react at all as her eyes are covered by a glossy, blood-red blindfold.
The vivid slash of colour looks startling against the woman’s pale skin and fair hair that so resemble my own. And that’s when it hits me. Is she supposed to be me?
The heels of my palms press into my thighs. Whatever I’d been expecting from him tonight, it wasn’t anything close to this.
My eyes flick to him as he steps behind the woman’s chair. Tall and strong and bare from the hips up, he appears more beautiful than ever with the glow from numerous candles gilding his lean torso. He looks directly ahead and although we’re too distant for me to clearly see his eyes, I know he is zeroing in on my single candle flame, using it as a reference point to find me in the shadows.
He waits for a moment, keeping that watchful attention focused my way, then places his hands on the woman’s shoulders and runs them in a slow and sensuous slide up the curve of her neck until his fingers bracket either side of her jaw. He pauses there, keeping the woman in a hold that looks both possessive and dominating as he smiles wickedly across the night-time void that separates us.
The world seems to tilt and I can hardly breathe as I begin to fully realise his voyeuristic intent. He’s going to use the woman to show me the things he wants to do to me, to demonstrate the way it would be between us. He wants me to watch as he touches me, makes love to me through her.
I couldn’t look away if I wanted to.
He forces the woman’s chin up as he bends his dark head to speak in her ear. A moment later she smiles and raises a hand in a little wave. The woman’s smile drops into an open-mouthed gasp as he tilts her head to one side and runs his tongue over her cheek. Turning her face upwards, he covers her mouth with his and from the working of his jaw and the motion of his head, I can see it’s a deep and passionate claiming right from the start.
My fingers curl around the hem of my dress as I watch, ensnared, imagining it’s me sitting in that other chair, tasting the wet heat of his kiss. My lips part and my tongue slips out to run along the seam, instinctively searching out his essence.
Opposite, the woman raises her arms to wrap about his neck but he pulls away and captures her hands. I can see the lowered brows, the stern expression she’s blind to. Can see his lips move as he speaks to her again while locking her hands together behind her neck.
Still standing behind her, he brings his own hands around either side of her body and cups her breasts in his palms, his olive-toned skin a stark contrast to the woman’s alabaster paleness. I bite my lip as I watch his fingers and thumbs close around the delicate pink of her nipples.
My own breasts tingle, nipples springing to full erectness. I fancy I can feel the warmth of those large palms covering my naked skin, feel the strength of those fingers squeezing and pinching until th
e first delicious sting of pain. My breath hitches.
As though my desires are somehow transmitted across the night, the woman arches suddenly under his hands, her mouth opens on a cry. I hear a gasp and realise my own body is bowed in sympathy.
Under a barrage of plucks and twists, she squirms, but doesn’t try to lower her arms as he keeps a steady stream of words pouring over her. I’d give anything to be able to hear what it is he’s saying; to know whether it’s the power of the words themselves or the timbre of his voice that binds her so obviously to his will.
My own stomach muscles flutter and clench when his hands skim down over her ribs and belly. He bends over her, going lower still, covering her upper thighs with his palms. Pulling her legs apart, he spreads her wide.
I shift a little to look past an inconveniently positioned railing bar and even that small movement causes arrowheads of fire to shoot from the hot, tingly place between my legs. Moaning, I press my own legs together and rock my pelvis, rubbing myself against the seat of the chair. I can’t quite tell from here how ready the other woman is, but from the sticky feel of my knickers, I’d bet she’s no wetter than I am.
Without letting up on the fast, demanding pace he’s set from the start, he plunges one hand straight between her legs. The other rises again to her breasts, sharing attention between them. His muscles shift and flex and the woman writhes as he invades her most vulnerable flesh with the kind of commanding mastery I’ve only ever dreamt about.
The banging of my heartbeat grows louder; drowns out the smooth strains of the music as I watch him drive her ruthlessly, relentlessly towards a place of pure surrender. There is nothing gentle in his stance or his movements, but riding his touch hard, the woman obviously loves every second of what he’s doing.
As do I.
My thighs fall open, making room for my fingers to stroke their way up the insides. Carried on the rising heat of my body, the needy scent of my own musk floats up to fill my nostrils. My skin feels drawn too tight – so sensitive that even the cool brush of silk has me shuddering with every move.
My fingers find the barrier of my knickers, rub over the damp warmth seeping through the crotch. A deep, heavy pressure sits low in my belly, pushing down behind my clitoris until I can feel the beat of my pulse throbbing there. I press the pad of my middle finger down over the spot and gasp.
On the candlelit stage opposite, he withdraws his hand from between the woman’s legs and straightens slightly. Raising the hand to his mouth, he makes me watch as he takes his time to lick and suck his fingers clean before bending again to sink them into her waiting depths.
Unable to bear any more waiting of my own, I burrow my fingers under the edges of my knickers. It’s sultry under there. My labia feel flushed and swollen. Heat and moisture trace the seam of my slit. I part myself and explore my hot, hidden folds. I’m ripe and juicy as a summer fruit, instantly coating my fingers with slick juices.
The fact that he has me so primed in so short a time without even touching me is staggering. I’ve no idea how, but by some amazing providence he seems to understand my most intimate desires and fantasies. He’s the nearest to a perfect lover I’ve ever found.
I moan and spread my legs wider, beginning to mimic what I see happening through the glass. In less than a minute I’m on the verge of orgasm.
The woman starts to thrash and buck. His hand rises from her breasts to her mouth, fingers pushing past her lips to anchor themselves deep inside, restraining her. And just like that he sets us both off.
She melts against his strength as he draws out her climax with his fingers and his words. I feel a spike of jealousy before I realise his attention is focused outwards, towards me. I shake and shudder and pant, wringing every last drop of pleasure from myself for him, giving him everything even though he can’t see it.
Boneless, I slump in the chair. The fine sheen of perspiration dampening my skin is given no chance to cool as he steps around the woman, hands busy on the front of his jeans. I burn with renewed heat as they drop away to reveal his cock, standing thick and hard and flushed against his belly.
Stepping clear of the denim, he guides the woman off the chair and takes her place, positioning his long legs to either side as she goes down onto her knees in front of him.
He wraps his hands in her hair and pulls her head towards his groin. The angle doesn’t allow me to see the moment that his erection disappears into her mouth, but I know precisely when it happens from the tightening of his features.
I wonder how big he feels to her; how warm and solid and satiny as he glides over her tongue? And his taste … is it sharp and salty with pre-come already or all earthy male?
I swallow as my mouth waters.
He wastes no time in urging the woman into a strenuous, uncompromising rhythm. He continues to talk to her all the while, although I notice the words come in ever shorter bursts; sometimes getting caught behind tightly pursed lips, sometimes being forced out between gritted teeth.
The woman’s hands, now free of their invisible bonds, disappear between his legs. His chest heaves and his arms pump in time with her bobbing head. More and more frequently his head dips to watch her work him with mouth and hands.
I want to watch too. So badly, my nose is pressed right up against the door before I’m aware of having left my seat. The heat of my breath clouds the cold glass in front of my face and I jump back, not wanting to miss a moment.
The pressure and the ache are back in my pelvis. I widen my stance, planting my stilettos a shoulder-width apart, and cup myself through my clothing. Rolling my hips, I grind myself into my palm, imagining how the steel-hard length of him looks slipping wetly between the woman’s lips.
I groan, tortured. Needing more.
I want him to fuck her. Right now. Want him to bend her over the back of that chair and take her from behind while he looks at me and comes apart hard.
I will it across the night but it does no good. He keeps the woman on her knees, working her harder and faster until his entire body draws taut.
Eyes closed, he throws his head back. Even from here I can see the definition of straining tendons as he remains locked like that for one two heartbeats.
Then he lowers his head and opens his eyes to look directly into my apartment.
Using his grip on the woman’s hair, he drives her face all the way into his crotch, meeting her there with a final, spearing thrust. His tightly braced muscles twitch and his lips pull back on the roar of his release. I feel the shockwaves of it reverberating right down to my core, even though it’s an utterly silent sound to me. In that moment I come again, crying out loud enough for both of us.
February 14
I stumble to avoid stepping on the envelope that flops at my feet when I open my front door the following morning. It’s larger and thicker than the one delivered yesterday but I can see instantly that the vivid scarlet colour is exactly the same.
My pulse, which has been revving all morning at the memories of last night, accelerates flat out as I bend to retrieve the envelope, then nearly stalls completely as I tear open the flap to reveal a red satin blindfold folded inside.
Another thick piece of card nestles alongside it. I pull it free and as my vision blurs I can barely read the words:
“11pm tonight. Be mine.”
Beer Bottle
by Jeremy Edwards
It was 2 a.m., and I was cleaning up after the Valentine’s Day party. I couldn’t actually remember how or why it had become an annual tradition for me to throw a big party on an occasion more conventionally celebrated by breaking up into small groups of two or three. But in my circle, people seemed to like it, even the couples.
Beer bottles dotted the landscape of my living room. I plucked each one from its niche and ferried them all into the kitchen. Some of them still had beer in them �
� as much as half a bottle, in some cases. I emptied them into the sink.
Except one. It was on the right-hand stereo speaker, and I knew it was Eveline’s. I could still see her sitting on the floor and putting it up there, skilfully, without looking. The small label around the neck of the bottle had a tiny, precise tear in it, and I remembered seeing her tear it while she spoke to my upstairs’ neighbour.
After all the other bottles had been cleared away, I picked up Eveline’s and examined it. Why, I wondered, would someone drink all but a half-centimetre’s worth of a bottle of beer? I thought about it, and reasoned that someone might do this as a way of resisting the temptation of a second beer, if her judgment told her she shouldn’t. If you haven’t, technically, finished Beer the First, then you won’t pick up Beer the Second, right?
I didn’t know if that had been Eveline’s motivation. But regardless of the reason for its condition, this not-quite-empty bottle symbolized one thing to me – unfinished business. To my mind, it was inextricably related to the opening she’d left me when she had departed: “I’ll be up for a while, if you want to call me.” Though she had not been the last to leave, the few remaining partyers had soon said their goodnights. Even after my perfunctory clean-up, I judged that only about fifteen minutes had elapsed since I’d hugged her goodbye.
I swigged the barely significant remnants of Eveline’s beer. In reality, it tasted only like flat beer, but I fantasized that it tasted like her. I closed my eyes and imagined smelling it on her breath, as she leaned in close for a kiss. I contemplated how the beer would taste on her tongue … and then I contemplated how her tongue would feel on my cock. I wanted another sip from this bottle – but it was bone-dry now.
I hesitated only a moment before heading for the phone, still holding the ghost of her drink. Hey, I assured myself, she’d said to call if I felt like it… and I felt like it.
It took her a good five rings to answer. “Sorry, Jim,” she explained. “I just got home, and I had to take a wicked piss.” Pissing away the beer she drank at my place, I thought. Why did she need to go home to do that? She could have peed right here. Maybe she would even have let me watch. Anyway, whether Eveline would have been an open- or closed-door pisser tonight, I was wishing she hadn’t left.
Sex, Love & Valentines Page 2