A Short Tale of Exhibitionism
This is how I dress. Slowly. In my bedroom. In front of a full-length mirror. I start naked. I end clothed. It is as simple as that. I do it every morning. But this time I am paying a little more attention than usual so I'll start at the beginning. The beginning doesn't happen here. The beginning is in the bathroom. The bathroom is across the hall. Fifteen minutes ago that is where I was. I can see it in my skin when I look in the mirror. It has that healthy, pink, just washed look. It has the look of someone who is freshly showered and scrubbed. I look radiant. I look clean and virginal (ho-ho). I look edible. I look as though every square centimetre of my body has been lathered and rinsed. And it has been. I gave myself a very thorough soaping in the shower. But that is not where this story starts. This story starts before that. This story starts with me and a bag from Boots the chemists. It starts with a can of shaving foam and a brand new pack of double-bladed razors. It starts with me filling the washbasin with hot water and damping down my pubic hair.
I've never had a particularly strident bush. That is one of the disadvantages of being a natural blonde. The hair between my legs is sparse compared to other women. In changing-rooms I have often glanced enviously at the verdant triangles that flourish on the lower bellies of brunettes. I've been jealous of those oily, luscious curls and the way they hint at the dampness below. I've had to be satisfied with flimsier hair; flaxen and silky but less well defined. In its own way, I suppose, it is pretty; but it doesn't have that knowingness that I see between the legs of darker women. It doesn't have the vitality that hints at stamina and sex. It looks better when it is wet. I like the way the ringlets mass upon my pubic mound. I like the way the water makes the individual strands stick together and glisten wet and spiky. It is punk hairdressing for my pussy--but not for long. I fill my palm with shaving foam and massage it between my thighs. I smooth it over my belly and press it into the crevice between my legs until my cunt looks like Father Christmas. Then I take a double-bladed razor and set about my beard.
I'm sitting on the toilet lid with one leg hoiked up onto the rim of the bath. I've placed a mirror too, leaning at an angle up against the towel rail. I need to be able to see what I am doing. I start at the top, nearest to the tanned pit of my navel. I stroke the razor down. Section by section I work lower. Each sweep of the blades exposes a further centimetre of smooth, pink skin. The razor clogs. I rinse it frequently in the washbasin and watch my pale, severed curls gather on the surface of the water. And when I reach my clitoris I change the blade. This is the part that requires concentration. I set my legs wide apart and approach from one side, pulling my skin tense with one hand. I keep the soft folds of my labia pressed beneath an extended finger. It is a delicate operation. But it is exciting. In the mirror I watch myself emerge as the twin blades chop each and every downy hair at the root. I change my grip. My fingers are slippery and my fleshy lips slide free. I recapture them and press them to one side and hold myself there while my other hand strips the opposite side of fur. I shift upon the loo seat and lift my legs higher. It is an undignified posture I guess. But if a job is worth doing, it is worth doing well. With careful strokes, I shave right up to the rim of my anus. (It is easier, I find, if I flex a little and make my rectum pout.) I neglect nothing. Not even the softest and tiniest of hairs. I stare in the mirror and decide I rather like the smudge of darker skin that surrounds the taught little star of my arsehole. It is the part of me, I think, that is most secret and concealed; but now, bereft of all trace of hair, it looks much more presentable. And then I lower my legs and climb into the shower.
The jet of water careens over my body. I'm not just wet between my legs now; I am wet all over. I let the water hit me square in the chest. It batters my breasts, its hot caress pulling my nipples erect with surprising speed. It is a very direct response and surprisingly pleasurable. I swivel from the waist, letting first one breast and then the other take the full force of the speeding water. I press my pelvis forward and let a cascade rush between my thighs and rinse away the last traces of shaving foam. (I know I could detach the showerhead from the wall and blast my cunt directly, but I have an appointment in half an hour and I know too well how my shower can distract me from other tasks.) Then I turn at let it massage my shoulders. I lean forward and feel water flow along my spine and stroke between my buttocks. I push out my rump and arch my back. A rivulet sluices across my anus and caresses my cunt. It is funny, I think, how this feels different without hair. There is nothing to disrupt the flow. The water seems to cling and pull at my tingling, just-shaved skin. It makes me feel more naked than I have ever felt before.
A small adjustment of my hips diverts the stream and sends it rushing past my clitoris. Its gentle touch is just enough to make me tighten the muscles in my thighs. I am suddenly conscious of the weight of my breasts. I want to touch them. I want to soap my hands and take my teats and tease them with my fingers. But my appointment is beckoning. I fight the urge and stand erect and reach for the shampoo. And when I emerge from that nearly scalding water I am pristinely clean from tip to toe. I am scrubbed and fresh and luminous; resplendent in the beads and drops of water that coat my naked skin. I towel myself dry and turn towards the mirror. I want to see my new self. But I am disappointed. The mirror is misted over. I stroke my palm across the cold, glassy surface and reveal a remarkable sight. What I have between my legs is not a pussy anymore. It is too raw and explicit to be a pussy. There is nothing furry or cute about it. It's not even a beaver. Beavers are whiskery with that interesting slit in the upper lip. (Which is, I guess, the reason for the euphemism--but what about those great big teeth! Boys, you do have some hang ups.) But I have no whiskers. I am completely plucked and bare. My cunt is not concealed but is prominent and predatory. And it looks bigger than it did before. You can see its full length, the folds of malleable flesh that run from the little knuckle of my clitoris to the entrance to my vagina. I move in front of the mirror. I enjoy my newfound nakedness. I like the way my lips push forward as if begging for a kiss. All cunts, I think, should be like this: big and proud and bold and bald. It is such a shame to tuck so delicious a thing away between our legs. A thing like this should be displayed with pride.
The steamy atmosphere deprives me of my vision. The mirror mists again. I wrap a towel around my hair, pull open the door and cross the hall into my bedroom. The cooler air chills my skin and brings renewed hardness to my nipples. I like the feeling of moving naked. I like the silence in my flat. It is a shame to shatter it with the roar of my hair dryer--but necessity calls. I have but twenty minutes to my appointment and I know I have to look the part. Ah yes, my appointment. I haven't told you about that yet. Do you think I would make these preparations without a reason? I am, in fact, following instructions. As I sit on the end of my bed and blast the moisture from my hair, I have beside me a parcel wrapped in brown paper. And on top of this parcel, open to my gaze, is a letter. It is the kind of letter that I like. A letter free of ambiguities. It is this letter that has told me to shave my cunt. It is this letter that tells me the time and place of my appointment. It is this letter that tells me what to do with the contents of the parcel. I muse upon it as I pull my hairbrush through my shoulder-length, blonde hair. And once my hair is dry, I set my hairbrush to one side, take the letter in one hand and pull apart the wrapping of my intriguing package.
Inside the brown paper is a sturdy cardboard box. It is sealed shut with packing tape. I split the tape with the edge of my thumbnail. I have strong nails but I tend to keep them short. Hands are practical things. They are designed to be used. Exaggerated fingernails are an adornment I do not approve of. I see some women whose fingernails are so long they look like talons. How, I always wonder, do they masturbate? Carefully, I guess. You could sever an artery with nails like that; though I suppose a compromise is always possible. I once had a friend who kept all her nails long except the middle one on her right hand. If anyone ever asked she would say she had broken it. But I knew better. To break the same nail again and again was too much of a coincidence. But all the same, a compromise like that is not for me. When it comes to masturbation, I am ambidextrous.
The lid of the box parts easily. I look inside. I feel a little rush of suspense. One by one I remove the items it contains and set them out upon the bed. Each one I see has been numbered. I arrange them in order, from one to six. I stare at them. A complete costume is ranged across my duvet. From brassiere to high-heeled shoes. All expensive. All brand new. All of them a present from a stranger. These are what I have to wear now that I have scrubbed and preened myself in accordance with the instructions. Just looking at them gives me a little thrill.
I suppose I should explain, before you get the wrong impression, that I am not a woman given to flamboyance. I know it may not seem like that, considering what I have just done in the bathroom. But just because I shaved my pubic hair you shouldn't jump to conclusions. What I did, I did because that is what the letter said. I did it because, despite the fact that I can be shy in certain ways, I am also a woman who will not reject a challenge. Shaving my pussy was a challenge. A gauntlet thrown down in front of me. It was something I couldn't resist. But it was, at least, something that I could do in the privacy of my own home. These clothes make it different. The contents of this parcel tell me that my newly naked cunt is not to stay at home. It is to be taken out onto the streets. It is to be taken out onto the streets dressed in these clothes.
In normal life, I have to say, my dress sense errs towards the conservative. I wear calf-length skirts, long-sleeved tops, sensible shoes and occasionally a suit. (I said I was not given to flamboyance. If you are a blonde, I think it is your duty not to perpetuate a stereotype.) But these clothes are radically different from anything in my wardrobe. I reach out and touch the skirt. A note pinned on it tells me it is number four. I feel the fabric between my fingers. It is suede. Smooth, fine, jet-black suede. A mini-skirt. A skirt little broader than a large belt. I think about my shaven cunt. I can see it reflected in the mirror. This skirt will barely serve to cover it. I could wear it with tights, I think. I transfer my curious fingers to item number three. My hand holds up a pair of sheer, lace-topped stockings. I drop them. I pick up number two. It is, of course, a suspender belt. A slim elegant suspender belt, the lace matches the lace tops of the stockings. At least, I think, I have been sent a bra. But when I take item one into my hands, I find it is not quite what I expect it to be. It is much less substantial than anything in my underwear drawer. Shit, I think, as I turn it over in my hands, it is cup-less.
I've only ever seen things like this in lingerie catalogues; underwear whose purpose is to display them rather than conceal. A voice inside my head tells me that I cannot wear these clothes. It tells me that I have done enough. It tells me that my pubic hair will grow again and that it would be ludicrous to step any further into this game. It tells me I should never have become involved. But then I look up and catch sight of me in the mirror. In my eyes, I can see the simmering excitement. The excitement of the unknown. The excitement of a challenge. I like the sight of me. I like the sight of my smooth thighs, the curve of my ankles, the fall of golden hair, the pink peaked swell of my breasts. Will they look better, I wonder, when they are supported in a cup-less bra?
And so I dress. I dress as I have been instructed. I take each item from the bed and put it on. First the bra. It lifts my breasts and thrusts them forward like torpedoes. Naked, nipple-tipped torpedoes. I've always thought I had friendly breasts but these look positively predatory. I take a quick turn in front of the mirror with my new aggressive chest. I relish the novelty of a cleavage. I can already see that I am turning into someone else. Then I hook the suspender belt about my waist; it clings tight with tentacles dangling over my hips. Then I roll the stockings onto my legs, smooth them and clip them into place. I wrap the skirt around my waist. I take the top--yes, the stranger has sent me a top, it is item five--and pull it over my head. And then I slip on the heels (item six) and stand again in front of the mirror. It is only then that I notice that I have not been sent any knickers. I am horrified and thrilled. The skirt is far too short. The lace of my stockings is clearly visible. My shaven pussy lurks just an inch above the hem. This isn't me, I think. This isn't me, but just perhaps it is someone that I might want to be for a while.
But now, I suppose, it is about time that I explained the origin of my parcel. I'm sure you must be wondering. The truth is that I know remarkably little about the person that sent it. He (I assume it is a man) is as big a stranger to me as he is to you. We have never met. We have never even spoken. I don't know where he lives or what he looks like. I don't even know his name. He came about by accident. It wasn't anything I had planned, though in fact it was me that initiated it. At this point, I am afraid, I must confess a weakness. Nothing serious, of course. It is just that I make a habit of reading the lonely hearts. There is something about the way that people try to attract a partner that intrigues me. I like the way they exaggerate and lie. I suppose they have to; it is not easy to set yourself out in twenty words. But about three weeks ago I spotted an advert that was different from the rest. All it said was: "Applicants sought for erotic intrigue. Send me your CV."
So I did. It was the first time I'd replied to an advert. I did it, I guess, because I was curious. But if I was curious then, I became even more curious when a letter arrived two days later asking for my clothes sizes. I replied by return of post and then I waited. After two weeks had passed I decided it was all joke. And then, yesterday morning, this parcel arrived. And when I read the attached letter I found that I was fascinated. It said, quite simply, that if I wanted to play, all I had to do was follow the instructions. I read them carefully. I read them three or four times. I thought them absurd and presumptuous. Then I thought them weird. I decided to ignore them; until this afternoon, walking home from work, a funny panic hit me. That's what he expects me to do, I thought. He expects me to ignore them. And that was why I walked straight into Boots, the chemists, and bought shaving foam and double-bladed razors. Curiosity, it seemed, had got me by the short and curlies, (Or it would have if I had any--I'm not so easy to get hold of now).
And that is why you find me here: dressed like a tart, knicker-less, in high heels with my breasts pushed up and my nipples making little button-sized bulges in the almost see-through fabric of this clinging top that not only bares my shoulders but bares my stomach as well. I'm going to meet this man. I've decided. I only have to do my make up and then I will be out of the door. I pick up the instructions. I take them with me to my dressing table. And then I notice, half-way down the page, the words: "Insert item seven." The shoes, I think, were number six. I turn back to the bed and lift the box and invert it. A small package falls heavily onto my pillow. It is wrapped, but a note attached to the paper tells me this is number seven. I pull apart the wrapping and find that I am holding in my hand two smooth spheres. They are linked together by a narrow cord about a centimetre long and a similar, longer cord dangles from the left hand sphere and ends in a small plastic button. A necklace? I think. Then I shake the balls and feel that there is something heavier that moves inside and makes them twitch like jumping beans. Christ, I think. Insert item seven. I realise that what I am holding in my palm are love-eggs.
I'm not a woman who is into sex-toys. I generally prefer animated flesh to plastic. I had a vibrator once; bought for me by a boyfriend who liked to watch me use it on myself, but when the batteries ran down I never replaced them (I replaced the boyfriend instead). But, all the same, these love-eggs fascinate me. Not so much because of what they are but because of how they got to be here. Someone had sent them. Someone who had probably sat, just as I was sitting now, and rolled them in the palm of his hand. I clench my fist about them and squeeze. They are harder and larger than I expect. My fingers will not close about them. They are heavier too. Whatever it is that causes their restless motion is metal--stainless steel I guess--an inner ball that rolls around inside the shell. Had he too felt this motion? Had he imagined them shifting in my cunt? Had that notion given him an erection? I rather thought it had. Insert item seven, I think. But first things first. I step towards my dressing table. I set the love-eggs down upon the wooden surface. They stare at me impatiently, like two eyeballs, as I do my make-up.
It is only when I am satisfied with my appearance that I pick them up again. I hold them up beside my face and stare into the mirror. My eyes look better now, I think. They are deeper and more seductive--more appropriate to my new clothes. Eyeliner, mascara and eye shadow have enhanced the blue of my pupils. My lips are full and burgundy. I part them. I make them into a perfect "O" and pop the balls inside. Like a pair of outsize gob-stoppers they fill my mouth. I close my lips. It amuses me to see me like this, my mouth full of balls and with a thread dangling from my lips. It amuses me because I am teasing myself. I want to know how it feels to have these spheres inside me. I rock my head from side to side. The balls joggle and knock against my teeth as the weights move inside them. In a moment, I think, I am going to put them somewhere softer. But first I want to warm them. I stand up and take my mouthful to the end of the bed.
In front of the mirror I hunker down and spread my thighs. The tight suede skirt rides up. I gaze at my pink, plucked cunt. Such a little slit, I think--though of course it isn't little, it is fleshy and protuberant; but all the same, it looks too tight to accommodate the big eggs I am holding in my mouth. I rock back and set my buttocks on the floor. My stockinged legs make a wide "V" in front of me. I take the thread and pull the balls from my mouth like a magician. They glisten wet. I lower them. I dangle them between my legs so that the lower ball bats against the entrance to my vagina. Then I take my other hand, extend my middle finger, and push. And as I push I watch. I like watching things going into myself. In fact, I am rather proud of my cunt. When I am in bed with a man (and if I know him well enough) I will often get him to position a mirror so I can see him enter me. I like the sight of a cock slipping inside me. I like the way that I can see its length before it disappears. I have a very visual memory. And so, even when it is pushed right to the hilt and all I can see is the base with my lips stretched around it, I can still remember all the details of the shaft I have inside my body.
But this time it is different. This time it is my shaven cunt that is being entered. This is something I have never seen before. The lack of hair seems to make it all the more explicit. My view is deliciously unimpeded. It takes just the smallest pressure and plop, it slips inside and vanishes. My cunt swallows it like a pill. The cord pulls its twin after it. It nudges at my lips as if it too were eager to gain admittance. A little further pressure with my finger and the second sphere joins its friend. I poke them further. Urging them deeper into my cunt. Pushing my finger inside me up to the second joint.
The love eggs settle tidily into the cavity of my vagina. This is funny, I think. I can feel them there. I can feel their alien solidity, their hard smoothness, expanding me from inside. But at the same time they are strangely passive and stationary. They are a presence rather than an invasion. Completely different from taking a cock. They are subtle rather than obvious. I gaze at my cunt. Pushing the eggs inside has flared my lips slightly, but apart from that--apart from that and the tell-tale cord that dangles down between my buttocks--there is nothing to reveal what I have inside. This makes them rather special, I think. It makes them my little secret. My secret that is shared only with the stranger that sent them to me.
I close my legs. I can feel my flesh tighten around the balls. I am surprised how comfortable they feel, how secure. I could keep these inside me all day, I think. And then I stand. I catch my breath and change my mind. No, I decide. I couldn't keep them in all day. The movement of my body has transferred itself to the eggs. They acquire their own momentum, joggling and rocking inside me. Christ, I think, it feels as though a secret finger is wiggling in my cunt. I take a step. The movement increases. It is both subtle and insistent. It is making me wet in a curious abstract way. The funny thing about it is that--despite the fact that it is the motion of my body that sets it off--it still seems to be independent. The vibration is beyond my control. Does the sender of this parcel know that? I think. Do they know how this feels? Do they know that they are stimulating me as surely as if they had reached out with their hand and pushed a finger inside me?
I take another couple of steps. Hell, I think, this isn't easy. The nagging balls inside me disrupt my stride. The simple procedure of walking, of laying one foot in front of the other, has suddenly become something else. It has become profoundly sexual. The damn things, I think, are fucking me from inside. How can I walk when I am being fucked? There seem to me to be three options. The first--and currently the most appealing--would be to sprawl upon my bed and add the ministrations of my fingers to the motion of the balls. Arousal has made me lazy. I feel the need to indulge. It wouldn't take me long, I think, and then perhaps, with an orgasm behind me, I would be able to walk more purposefully. But time is short, the bedside radio-alarm's clock tells me that I am already going to be late.
The second option would be to remove the balls. That way I'd be able to stride naturally to my appointment. But wouldn't it be cheating? I decide it would. The intention of the letter was for me to follow its instructions. And despite the fact that we have never met, I feel a strange sort of loyalty to my mystery correspondent. If I am going to do this at all, I know that I should do it right. Which leaves, of course, the third option. I must exercise mind over body control. I must fight the shifting inside my cunt and take my diligently prepared body out on the street. I must risk the gazes of passersby and concentrate on acting the part that has been written for me.
And so that is what I do. I take my keys. I descend the stairs. I step out onto the street. And all the time I concentrate upon appearances. I know I am being watched. How can I not be being watched when I look like this. I know that every step I take reveals a flash of milky thigh. I know my rigidly supported breasts shine through the fabric of my clinging top. I know I look a part that is not me. I know I look provocative and that male eyes clamp like limpets onto the swaying of my buttocks as I pass. But I know too what they do not know. That between my legs no lacy briefs conceal my shaven cunt. It would take only a mild gust of wind to show them that. And I know that inside my cunt two smooth spheres are moving. They knock and grind inside me, making me lubricious. It is as though, I think, a little man is clamped between my legs, hidden beneath my skirt while his body is pressed to mine and his hips jerk as he fucks me with a slim but bulbous headed phallus. Concentrate. I have to concentrate. I have to ignore the physical. I have to ignore the batting of that tiny button between my thighs. Is it visible? I wonder. Does it hang below the hem of my skirt? I banish the thought from my mind. I think only of the next step. For five long minutes, as I hurry to the appointment, I divorce myself from the feeling in my vagina.
It is hard to describe the trilling, pulsing horniness I feel when I finally arrive at my destination. The tension in my limbs has been building with every step I have taken. It has got me fired, my juices are boiling, I feel almost ready to explode. I have to stand stock still for near a minute; it is the only way to still those nagging balls. But even then, even after I have been free of movement, I am still simmering with lust. I could grab anyone on this street, I think, and beg them to fuck me here and now. I wouldn't care who they were. All I want is their prick. I want something big and hard and vigorous to lay to rest the yearning in my cunt.
Finally, when the flutters in my stomach have begun to subside, I am able to take the time to study where I am. And strangely, after all the anticipation, I find that I am somewhat disappointed. I am where I am supposed to be. I am on the pavement outside a shuttered shop with a narrow doorway. There is the street. But the street is just an average London street. There are offices. There are a number of restaurants. There are several shops. But there is no man. I look from side to side. A couple are walking listlessly towards me engaged in domestic conversation. They ignore me as they pass. I suspect they ignore me deliberately. I must look like a hooker who has strayed too far from my patch. From the other side an old lady with a Dachshund approaches and gives me a cold, disapproving stare. Perhaps, I think, this is all a joke. Perhaps all my preparations were in vain.
I swivel on my heels and step back into the doorway of the shop. Inside me, as I move, the eggs nudge me, reminding me of my expectations. In the doorway, I feel a little less vulnerable. I decide to wait. I will give him ten minutes to arrive, and then, if he doesn't, I'll make the perilous walk back home. Perhaps, I think, I might be able to find a private spot where I will be able to remove the treacherous love-eggs. Their presence is making things worse. On the other side of the street I see there is an Italian restaurant. Perhaps I could beg them to let me use the toilet. They seem to be busy. I can see waiters hurrying to and fro behind the plate glass. Inside people are dining, enjoying a quiet, relaxing meal. There's a table in the window. A dark haired woman is sitting with her back to me. Opposite her, facing the window is a man. I stare at him. His face looks curiously still. And then I realise that his face is still because he is staring back at me. I catch my breath. Something in my stomach seems to pull itself into a tight knot. It's him, I think. It's the stranger. He has been watching me all along.
Now I have an audience and everything becomes different. My disappointment vanishes. The presence of the love eggs is a thrill rather than an irritation. It is a thrill because I know that the man across the street knows that they are there. I want to show him my appreciation. I want to show that I am more than equal to the challenge that he has set me. And so I start to move. I begin to swing my hips from side to side. Through the glass I can sense his eyes on me. This, I think, is what he wants to see. He wants to see me appreciating his gift. I jerk my hips a little more. I'm getting the measure of the balls now; I am setting up a splendid vibration in my cunt. I wish I had music. With music I could dance. With music I could loose myself in rhythm (I guess I should have brought a Walkman); but here, in the stark daylight of the street I feel too exposed. My gyrations must be cautious. I cannot be too obvious.
But as I find the perfect pace, the solid trembling in my cunt begins to eat away at my inhibitions. The more reckless I become the more he will appreciate it. I step back a little further into the doorway and raise my arms. I lift them above me and press my hands against the doorframe. It's a good feeling. I can feel the cold air touch my armpits. The sensation emboldens me. (It may sound perverse but I like my armpits, I love to have them licked when I am having sex.) I glance quickly from side to side. The street is pretty much deserted and in the restaurant he is the only person facing the window. And so I push my legs apart. I make myself into a star-shape, framed in the doorway. And at the center of this star are my gyrating hips. Christ, I think, I cannot believe that I am doing this. I cannot believe that I am go-go dancing in a doorway on a London street for a complete stranger. But the trembling in my limbs tells me that it is true. The yearning in my body tells me that it is what I want to do.
I can feel the tiny skirt slipping up my thighs. The feeling of suede on skin is exquisite. I know I could reach and pull it down but I don't. I let it move higher. It is foolishness I know. I could get arrested for doing this. But what was the point of shaving my cunt if I am not going to let him see? That diligent preparation in the bathroom had a goal and this is it. I feel the skirt pull higher. I see his face through the glass become rapt. He is speaking; I can see. He is speaking to the woman opposite him, but his eyes are not on her; they are feasting on the sight of my freshly shaved cunt as it emerges beneath the hem of my tiny skirt. I keep my legs apart and angle my hips towards him. Can he see my wetness? Can he see the cord that dangles from my lips? I hope he can. I want him to see it. I want him to know that I have followed all of his instructions.
And as I increase my movements I begin to learn the benefit of a cup-less bra. My breasts begin to slide against the fabric of my top. I find I am undulating my torso to increase the sensation of nipple against raw fabric. I ache to touch my clitoris. Just the tip of one finger. Just the tip of one finger, correctly placed and pressing down, would shoot me to my climax within seconds. I watch his eyes. I see them focused on me. I can't take any more. I know I can be quick. And I know that he will appreciate this. And so I lower my hands. I slide a finger between my legs and crush my clitoris against my pubic bone while with the other hand I grip the bottom of my clinging top and pull it up to the top of my chest. I pinch hard at the distended nipple of my left breast. I feel cool air wash over my skin. And then I come. I come in public. I come with my breasts and cunt exposed. I come on the street just as a taxi trundles past (I hope it didn't impede his view). I shake and tremble and grip hard between my legs. I even slide a finger into my sodden entrance and press the balls inside (I almost feel that my convulsions might expel them from my body). And then I fall back against the door and gasp.
It takes me several seconds to gather myself. I pull the top back down over my protruding breasts and smooth my skirt back over my thighs. Only then do I nervously glance around. Thank God, I think. I don't think anyone saw but him. (Except perhaps the taxi-driver who may be going round the block and coming back for a second look.) I stand very still and try to compose myself. In the restaurant I can see that his face is still turned towards me. His lips, I see, are slightly parted but his companion still has her back to me. I risk, for the first time in the evening, a small smile in his direction. It is my first open acknowledgement of his presence. He doesn't respond. But when I step out of the doorway and walk back towards my flat, on slightly unsteady legs, I know his eyes are following me.
I get about fifty yards before I hear footsteps behind me. When I turn, he is already close. And as I turn I notice, close by my shoulder, the entrance to a narrow mews that runs behind the shops. I stare at him. I look into his face as he approaches. Then, just before he reaches me, I step from the pavement into the mews. I take three steps into the shadows and then lean back against the wall. It feels rough against my back but I don't care. I turn to face him. And as I do I set my thighs apart and lift one leg, pressing the heel into the wall behind me. Like this, I know, my naked cunt is on blatant display. He scrambles to a halt in front of me. I see him look back towards the street and then look back at me. First he looks at my face. Then his eyes slip down to my breasts. (I don't have to tell you how my nipples are erect and thrusting through the fabric of my tight top.) Then his eyes slip lower and focus between my legs.
This is exactly the moment I have been waiting for. I lower my hand and grip the button that is dangling between my thighs. I pull it. I pull it hard. The love eggs pop from my vagina. I lift them. Holding them so that they hang from the cord. Holding them so that he can see them glisten with my fluid. I raise them so they are dangling right in front of his face. And then I speak.
"Open wide," I say.
He does.
I pop the eggs between his lips and close his mouth with my fingers.
"Now fuck me," I hiss. "Fuck me and come."
My voice doesn't sound like my own. It seems as though it is coming from somewhere deep inside me. Somewhere deep and wicked. Somewhere that, until this moment, I didn't know existed. Wouldn't it have been more appropriate to ask his name? I think. But I don't care about his name. What I care about is the cock he pulls from his flies. It is a solid cock. A thick substantial cock. I reach out and grip it around the base and pull him to me. It is nice to feel his hard hot flesh. I manoeuvre him. I press him down (he is startlingly erect) and widen my thighs further. It takes only a second to find my cunt. I feel him push. I feel him slot inside. I feel myself being filled with an animate being. Living, pulsing prick, immerses itself it my sodden, eager vagina. This is better, I think. This is better than those plastic balls.
I feel his hands reach down and grip my legs. He lifts them, holding me behind each knee, and pinions me against the wall. I am suspended, floating, my high heeled shoes waving uselessly in the air as he begins to fuck. And this fucking is indecorous. It is fast and hard and everything a fuck in an alley should be. I moan and grunt and whimper as he impales me and screws me with muscular energy. I love every second of it. I love the way his prick feels as if it is ready to burst. And I love it even more when it does. I savour the pulsing throb of his distended knob as it erupts inside me. I imagine the jets of come spurting against my cervix. And as he crushes me there, pumping his ejaculation into me, I reach up my hand and stroke the back of his head.
Slowly he lets me down. My feet again make contact with the floor. I look up at his face and repress a grin. I am satiated. I have got just what I want. But all the same, the cord that protrudes from the corner of his mouth strikes a faintly comical note. I reach up and take it. I pull the love eggs from his mouth. It seems to me to be right that they should be there. If I came with them inside me, then so should he. But as I hold them up in my hand, a distinctly perverse thought crosses my mind. I see him part his lips to speak but I stop him with my finger. He looks at me. He looks puzzled as well as exhausted. (I'm not so small; it must have been hard work holding me up against the wall like that.)
"Will you do me a favour." I say.
I can feel his come crawling down the inside of my thigh. This seems as good a moment to ask for a favour as any.
He nods.
"Give these to your girlfriend."
"What?" he mutters.
"I mean it," I say. "I want you to walk back into the restaurant and give them to her. Straight away. Before you speak."
"But."
"But what? She'll know what to do with them."
"She will?"
"Yes. Trust me."
A look of hesitation crosses his face. But behind that I can sense an eagerness. Here, he can see, is an opportunity. An opportunity that it would be foolish to miss. I see him bite back any further questions. He adjusts himself, tucking his spent cock back into his trousers and doing up his flies. And then, with just the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips, he turns and walks back onto the street.
I watch him go. I stay as I am for a while. I think of him walking back down the street with the love-eggs clutched in his hand. Then I push myself upright from the wall and follow him. I know I should turn right and head back to my flat but curiosity has got the better of me. I want to know whether he is going to fulfil the task that I have set him. And so I find myself back outside the restaurant. I settle back into the doorway. I don't feel so self-conscious now that the love-eggs are no longer inside me; but still I wish that I had thought to bring a tissue. I am very aware of the semen seeping from my cunt; it is making my thighs sticky.
Through the window I can see him retake his seat. For a moment, he sits still without moving. Then I see him reach across under the table. He's done it. I think. He really has given her the eggs. I watch the back of the woman's head as she peers down into her lap and studies the gift she has been given. Then I see her lips move. I see him nod and gesture towards me with his hand. The woman turns in her chair and looks out of the window. I don't know what I am expecting to see on her face, but I am surprised by her expression. I am hoping, perhaps, for shock. But she doesn't look shocked. In fact, she looks remarkably calm. She is attractive too--a compact brunette with shoulder length hair.
I see her eyes seek me out. What, I wonder, does she see? I can't be sure; her face remains implacable as she studies me. It makes me a little self-conscious. I find that my hand has wandered and is pulling down the hem of the short suede skirt; but however much I pull, the lace tops of my stockings remain visible. She must think me outrageous, I think, dressed like this out on the open street. She must think me unduly provocative. I see her take in the sight of the high heels, the black stockings, the tight top, the flamboyant cleavage. I wouldn't blame her for judging me badly. I wouldn't blame her for turning back to the man opposite her and screaming in his face. If only she knew, I think, what we had done less than a minute ago in that mews fifty yards further up the street she would almost certainly scream at him. It would be a logical reaction. What would I have thought if the man I had been dining with spent half the meal staring out of the window of the restaurant and then for no apparent reason disappeared? I would think it rude. I would think it profoundly rude. Especially if I knew that during his absence he had hurriedly fucked and ejaculated inside a complete stranger. His come is beginning to worry me. Can she see it? I wonder. Can she see the snail-trail of semen that is crawling down my thigh? She looks clever; perhaps she has worked out what has happened.
Suddenly I feel rather sordid. I feel like a woman who has been fucked in an alley. I feel, I suppose, like I should feel; but the weird thing is I don't feel bad about it. If anything, I feel a strange sense of achievement. Whoever this man is he has brought out something in me. He has made me realise the potential of my own sexual recklessness. I know that whatever happens now I will not regret it. It will always be a memory to savour. Somehow, I think, he has succeeded in working a sort of magic; a magic that has gripped hard at some deep, latent sexual need in me. I look at him. I look at him with the satisfaction of knowing that just moments before I had his cock inside me. And as I look at him, the woman continues to stare at me. She is going to explode, I think. Any moment now she is going to turn and slap his face.
But she doesn't. Instead she looks down into her lap and then she looks back up at me. She stares at me for a moment and then her face breaks into a smile. The smile is broad and generous. It is a smile that seems to understand. And when I see that smile, I think to myself: I like her. I like her for not running screaming from the restaurant. I like her for her composure. For her ability to sit there with a sex-toy in her hand in the middle of a crowded restaurant and coolly assess her options. Perhaps, I think, those love eggs are charmed. Perhaps they have seduced her just as they seduced me earlier when I unpacked them in my bedroom. I see her speak to the man. I see her rise to her feet. But she isn't heading to the door. She is heading deeper into the restaurant. Of course, I think, she is going to the ladies.
In her absence the man won't meet my eyes. He stares at the tablecloth as though there was something interesting written upon it. Perhaps there is. I can't see from here. I suspect, however, that the tablecloth is blank. I suspect too that, having indulged his appetite in me, the man is feeling awkward. I wish I could speak to him. If I could I would tell him that it was OK. I would tell him that I liked the feel of his cock in my cunt. But I don't have the chance to give him this reassurance. All I can do is watch from outside. I must admit that I feel a little sorry for him. The two of us wait. Him at his table. Me in the doorway. We wait for the woman to return.
When she does, her walk is different. It is slower and more precise. I know why. I know exactly why. I know she has the eggs inside her. I know she has walked the length of that crowded room with a cunt full of plastic balls. Does she, too, feel what I felt as I made my way here to this appointment? Does she feel their insistent nagging inside her? Is her cunt becoming wet and hungry? I guess it is. I defy any woman not to react to those charmed spheres. Certainly, as she takes her seat in the window, I can see through the glass that a fiery intensity has invaded her eyes.
I watch her settle into her chair. I watch her position her shapely buttocks. She doesn't sit naturally. She sits instead with her hips pushed forward. What is she doing? I wonder. And then I see exactly what she is doing. Under the table she has pulled her thighs apart. Her skirt, a longer skirt than mine though still reasonably short, is bunched around her hips and a section of thigh is visible above the top of what are now obviously stockings. I see her lean forward and rest one arm on the table. Her other hand, however, does not stay in plain view; instead, it dips between her legs.
I can't believe this, I think. I can't believe the potency of those love-eggs. I watch her hips begin to rock beneath the table. Christ, I think. She is doing it. She is masturbating right there in the restaurant. Was this what I had in mind when I told him to give her the eggs? Yes. I realise that it is. I realise that this is what I wanted to happen. I stand frozen in the doorway feeling fingers of arousal begin to creep again around my stomach. Through the plate glass, I watch the motion of her pelvis increase. I can't see her face but I can see the face of the man opposite her. He is staring. She is being careful to keep her upper-body upright but I can see that he knows exactly what she is doing under the table. The hand between her thighs is moving rapidly. Just watching her makes me want to do the same to myself. I imagine what my own cunt would feel like, sloppy and wet with semen, but I don't dare touch myself. To do it once out on the street was reckless; to do it twice would be foolish. So instead, I have to satisfy myself with voyeurism. I can't help but admire her determination. She does not falter. Despite the movement of the waiters and the other customers, I can see by the increasing pace of her hand that it is her intention to take herself all the way. It is like "When Harry Met Sally", I think. Only this time the orgasm is real and she is silent. Will she get a round of applause? I wonder. I feel, as I watch her come, that she deserves one. She deserves one for her daring. But amazingly, no one but me and the man notice. I can see, as her thighs clamp together and hips jerk, that she is biting her lip to keep herself quiet.
She relaxes back into her chair and pulls down her skirt. I watch her. I can see she is flushed and breathing deeply. I see her raise her hand to the waiter and ask for the bill. (Did the waiter notice that the fingers of her hand were wet?) Then there is a moment of stillness. We wait. All three of us wait until the bill arrives. She leans forward and signs the slip and then she stands. I watch the man. He seems dazed. She has to place a hand on his arm and pull him after her to the door. And as they emerge out onto the street I find that I am moving too. I am crossing the road and walking towards them. Why? I'm not sure. I just know that I cannot bear to simply let them leave. I see out of the corner of my eye that a taxi is approaching and I watch as the man raises his arm to hail it. I step onto the pavement outside the restaurant and the taxi pulls to a halt behind me. The man steps forward and opens the door. I stop. I am standing only three feet from the woman. We gaze at each other. In both of our eyes, there is secret knowledge: the sense of something shared. The man turns back towards us; he is holding the door of the cab open. "Are you coming?" He asks.
I watch the woman's face dissolve into laughter. I find that I am laughing too. I find that I am laughing with her. And so when she steps forward towards me and takes me in her arms I am not surprised. I am not even surprised when I feel her lips press themselves against mine. I feel her tongue slide hotly into my mouth and I move my own tongue to meet it. Our mouths melt together. I swallow and taste and drink her post-orgasmic breath. I relish the feeling of her body pressed against mine. Is this where it was going, I think, from the moment I opened that parcel? I don't really care. All I know is that I feel an all-encompassing desire--a desire to keep this woman close. As her tongue circles mine, I feel her take my hand and pull it beneath her skirt. She presses it upwards. There between her hot thighs I feel a delicious and familiar moistness. I push my palm against her and find that her cunt, like mine, is clean-shaven. It is as though she is an echo of myself. And then, hanging between my fingers, I detect the slippery cord of the love eggs with its small smooth button. I gasp. I feel her move. Gently her lips relinquish my mouth and move towards my ear.
"Go on, pull!" she whispers. "It was very considerate of you to give them back; but they were supposed to be a present."
My mind whirls. What does she mean? I think. But before I can speak I feel her pulling back away from me. My fingers slip on the cord and then grip on the small button. I sense the resistance of her vaginal muscles and then a release. The balls drop and hang from the cord. Quickly I twist my hand and bundle them into my palm. She steps towards the cab. I follow her but she is already through the open door. I stand on the pavement staring at her as she takes her seat.
"It was you." I say. "It was you who sent the parcel."
She doesn't reply. She simply smiles, reaches through the door and strokes her hand down the side of the suede skirt.
"It's a perfect fit," she says. "You're just the same size as me."
Then she pulls the door shut and the cab pulls away from the kerb. I watch it trundle slowly to the end of the street. It stops, turns left, and vanishes. Only then do I turn and realise I am still standing outside the restaurant. Two men, at a table further back in the small room, are gazing at me with open mouths. I blow them a kiss and begin to walk slowly back towards my flat. My strides are easy and uninhibited but when I get a little further up the street, I feel that there is something missing. I duck to the right, cross the road and enter the dark mouth of the narrow mews street. And there in the half darkness I lean back against the wall and push the love-eggs back inside me. They are warm and wet with the woman's fluid and go in easily. They remind me of her kiss. And when I emerge back out onto the street I feel complete. I walk home with confident strides. I walk home in clothes that are not my own. I walk home relishing the feeling of being someone else. And as I walk, I abandon myself to the magical vibrations between my legs.
)
