Watching Me, Watching You Read online

  But I don’t think so. I watch them so often that they’ve nestled in close to my heart. I wouldn’t want to ruin the affection we share by actually meeting them. Better to stay by my window, watching. That way, they’ll always be my friends.

  The Breaking Point

  by Veronica Wilde

  ‘We’ve got a job this Friday night, Savana,’ said Martin. ‘Small dinner party, a group of co-workers. There’s only 11 of them so it’ll just be you on the tables.’

  Martin was my boss. He owned a catering business with his brother and I’d been waitressing all summer for them at their events.

  I nodded, because money was money, even though a dinner party of co-workers sounded boring. ‘Sounds good. What kind of co-workers?’

  He named a well-known software company. Not that that guaranteed good tips, but it was a start. Then he said what really mattered to me. ‘Sounds like all men, so nothing too fussy.’

  All men. I smiled. That was exactly the kind of catering job I liked.

  Catering was just my summer job, before I went back to college for my third year. So far, it had been dull. Last summer I’d had a clerical job on the 37th floor of a Boston insurance office, but this summer I was on the Maine shoreline, where there weren’t a lot of offices of any kind. So catering it was. The tips were good, but it lacked one benefit of my old office job – the opportunity to indulge my secret love of flashing.

  Flashing was something I’d discovered at 18, the summer after I graduated, when a neighbour accidentally caught me sunbathing topless. Since then, the wicked thrill of enjoying his stunned gaze on my nipples had escalated to letting men “accidentally” see my panties on the subway, or while bending over in a store. It gave me a sordid thrill, something to masturbate over later.

  My favourite flashing prey were businessmen, the kind you just knew were ruthless, aggressive jerks on the job, but fell silent with awe when they saw a college girl’s panties. Last summer’s office job had delivered up the perfect specimen, a gruff, fiftyish vice-president who barked at the support staff when he acknowledged them at all. Everyone hated him but I fantasised about him ordering me to strip, or bossing me around in all kinds of deliciously degrading ways. My pet fantasy involved him pulling me over his knee to spank me for some kind of office infraction. I dreamed of him taking down my panties and smacking my bare, quivering ass, then ordering me to spread my legs wide and show him my pussy. As the summer went on, my skirts got shorter and shorter and I would bend over filing cabinets in front of him, or crawl under desks to retrieve a pen. Each time I’d spread my legs just enough, while he stared at my crotch until I was wet and throbbing. But unfortunately the summer ended without him laying even one inappropriate finger on me.

  So be it. This summer my job was catering, and though the money was good, the opportunities for flashing were hit or miss. All of the wait staff were instructed to dress in black, but I wore different outfits depending on the occasion; black pants and black button-down shirt for more formal occasions, black miniskirt and black T-shirt for casual events. The skirt had been strategically selected, because it was a tight knit and could be tugged down to a respectable length, or edged high up my thighs. It was no accident that I got great tips when I wore it. And though Martin and Stan, the brothers who ran the catering business, never said a word, it was obvious they capitalised on what I was working too. Though they had a large staff of part-time help, it was me who got most of the smaller, informal assignments.

  Given the all-male crowd that Friday night, I wore the miniskirt. By that point in the summer, I was fairly tan, which brought out my green eyes, and I left my long, honey-brown hair loose that night. Dressing at home, I was sufficiently satisfied that I looked fresh, wholesome and innocently sexy. A dinner party of businessmen: this would be my kind of night. I could definitely bring the skirt up a little, bend over to retrieve some dropped napkins. It wouldn’t go as far as my fantasies did – it never did – but the tips should be sweet.

  The dinner party was hosted just off the beach, at a cottage that looked classic and weather-beaten on the outside but was remodelled to look like a luxurious magazine spread inside. The host wasn’t around when I met Martin, Stan and their bartender, Topher, at five o’clock. Topher had already set up the bar on the back deck, where the men would be eating. Lanterns hung in trees to create a golden ambience, rocking in the ocean breeze. I wandered through the living room to scan the family photos: fortyish blonde wife, two preppy-looking sons, a daughter in a field hockey uniform. And a salt-and-pepper husband, his face almost hard with confidence. The kind of middle-aged executive who thinks his skill in the boardroom entitles him to all kinds of dirty indulgences with girls. I swallowed hard, looking at it.

  ‘Savana!’ Martin barked. ‘Set the damn tables already.’

  Martin wasn’t really a jerk. He was just brusque by nature, domineering with the servers and obsequious with the clients. Stan, his brother, never raised his voice but had an ominous, predatory gaze that made many of the female servers uneasy. I could never decide if I wanted him to discipline me or not; I dreamed at times of flashing him, of teasing his cock until he put me in my place – but I sensed that he could turn the tables on me in ways I couldn’t foresee.

  ‘Doing it now.’

  I set the two tables on the deck while chatting with Topher, the bartender. He was a nice enough guy, who I never even thought about flashing. He was so enthralled just to ogle my legs or the shape of my small boobs, or ogle any woman, really, that it seemed pointless.

  The men arrived at dusk. The host entered first, more handsome than in his photos, with a broad-shouldered, bearish build. His co-workers ranged from their late twenties to their fifties, not entirely the group of middle-aged guys I fantasised about, but close. I was waiting with a professional smile, greeting them all with a friendly but neutral expression. I never made knowing eye contact or gave out a devilish grin. Not me. I was the innocent 20-year-old college student until the end. Exposing myself wouldn’t have been as much fun otherwise. Still, I didn’t miss the glances, from shy admiration to outright leers from some. Yep, tonight would be fun. And profitable too.

  The host ignored me. That hurt. Maybe he liked voluptuous women, or those his own age; I was definitely the lean and leggy type – coltish was the word I’d heard about me, and I knew that didn’t appeal to all men. Finally, when I was serving the stuffed artichokes, I saw his eyes linger on my waist. Specifically, he was looking at the waist of my skirt, which was of course hiked unusually high to show maximum thigh. He smiled knowingly. An ominous feeling passed over me. I tried to shake it off.

  The music was drowned out by their talk. Yes, these guys worked together but they clearly had that bond I’d seen in other highly successful people – people who travel more than they stay home, people who know foreign countries better than their own neighbourhood, and never stop talking about work because it consumes all of their time. And of course, I was well aware of some of the seedier ways businessmen bonded together. As the wine and Scotch flowed, their eyes lingered on my legs more and more, and I flashed my panties several times – picking up a dropped fork, then standing on a chair to adjust a lantern.

  After I bent over to retrieve a napkin, my legs spread just a little, I straightened up to find a blond man in his thirties going deep red as he stared at my panty-clad cunt.

  I smirked and turned back to the other table, my elbow knocking off a bottle of wine. It smashed on the deck.

  All chatter stopped. Just the song from the stereo played on, some classic rock ballad that sounded inane compared to dread mounting in me. I’d never broken anything this summer, not even a glass. Now an entire bottle of wine lay pooling on the deck. Babbling apologies, I knelt and mopped it up with a towel as best I could.

  ‘Savana.’ My boss Martin had appeared on the deck and his face was dark with fury.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I felt near tears, clumsy and stupid.

  Martin turned to th
e host. ‘I know that was from your cellar. I hope it wasn’t too expensive.’

  ‘About 600 dollars,’ the host said flatly.

  He had to be kidding. Why have such expensive wine on the table at a casual get-together? With trembling hands, I stopped mopping and looked up. The host’s grey eyes met mine without anger, but also without mercy.

  ‘Yes, it was a rare one,’ he continued. ‘Saved for this occasion, in fact.’

  Martin appeared to be at a loss for words. ‘I-I’m so sorry. I can take it out of her paycheque …’

  There was a slight pause as everyone likely did the obvious estimates of my meagre wages and how much I would have to work to repay that 600 dollars.

  The host’s eyes never left me. ‘Come here.’

  I got to my feet, the broken glass still a mess on the wooden deck, and approached him on shaky legs. Topher was watching from the bar and Stan had come out of the kitchen to watch as well. That made it worse.

  The host assessed me from his chair. ‘Look at you,’ he said. ‘Just a girl, still. A clumsy, callow, inexperienced girl who likes to show herself off.’

  Not really how I wanted any man to see me, but if it got me out of paying for his ridiculous wine, I’d go with it.

  ‘Maybe it’s not fair,’ he said, ‘that I expect you to pay for it like a responsible adult. Maybe instead I should punish you like the silly, immature girl you are.’

  I thought – I hoped – he meant send me home. Nothing else seemed possible.

  He looked at Martin. ‘Do you have any objection to me spanking her?’

  My face went a hot red. This had to be a joke.

  Martin looked stunned. ‘I … Savana?’

  The host looked at me. That same sardonic smile crept across his lips as when he’d looked at my skirt earlier, and I realised he knew exactly what I was about. He’d seen right into the heart of my dirtiest fantasies, and that meant – the realisation hit me with a thrill – that he knew how to deliver them too.

  ‘I …’ It came out as a whisper. My throat closed with a burning shame and yet a delirious excitement flooded my pussy at the same time. All I could do was nod.

  ‘Excellent.’ He gestured to me to come closer.

  Oh my God. He was serious. He was really going to do this. My stomach fluttered. But, I reasoned, he wouldn’t actually make it hurt. It would be more of a gesture than anything; a little performance to show off to his co-workers and embarrass me for ruining his wine.

  I stood between his legs, as directed. Without blinking, he tugged my short skirt up around my waist and showed my panties to the room. They were pink silk, chosen for flashing purposes to contrast with both my tan thighs and the black skirt. And now they were on clear display to everyone here. I tried desperately to remind myself that normally I loved teasing men with glimpses of my underwear. But being showcased like this made me feel like livestock being assessed on the auction block.

  ‘That’s my kind of ass,’ someone commented. ‘Tight and perky.’

  I glared at him but he didn’t notice. All of the men were looking at me from the waist down.

  The host slipped a finger inside my panties and tickled my asshole. I jumped. Just do it already, I begged him silently. Standing here like this with my skirt pushed up and my panties on display was unbearable. Martin, Topher and Stan were watching with unabashed curiosity and lust and I honestly didn’t know how I could ever face them again.

  The host’s large hand ran up the inside of my thighs, parting them. I jumped again, disgusted at the erotic current jolting my clit. Being spanked in public was bad enough. Showing how much it turned me on would be a humiliation from which I would never recover.

  His hand stopped just short of cupping my pussy. My every nerve screamed out silent commands to touch my clit, play with me, anything to assuage this tension collecting inside me.

  Instead, the host took my hips and pulled me effortlessly over his lap. Just like that, I was sprawled over his knees, my ass in the air, and feeling more undignified than I had ever felt in my life. All of the businessmen had collected around us now, making no bones about their enthusiasm for witnessing my debasement. I refused to let myself cry.

  ‘Let’s see her pussy,’ one of the men urged.

  My head jerked up to protest. Yet the host grasped my panties and with one tug, they were down to my knees. He nudged my legs apart until my bare bottom and my newly waxed slit were on full show for everyone there. My face turned scarlet with heat as Martin, Stan and Topher moved directly to get a good look at it. Oh God. A small warm gush soaked me. I prayed they didn’t notice.

  Without warning, the host’s hand landed on my right cheek. A murmur went through the men and he spanked me again, this time on the bottom of my left cheek. It was harder than I expected and that, combined with the deviant thrill of the night air on my pussy, made me jump and quiver as his massive hand came down again and again. I was determined to grit my teeth and take it but soon I was squirming and struggling despite myself, losing all dignity as he spread my legs even wider to the delighted hollers of the men.

  With a dirty chuckle, one of them reached forward to pull off my shirt. ‘Hey!’ I protested. This hadn’t been part of the deal. Everyone laughed as my bra came off next, my small tits dangling for the entire party to see as he groped them with open delight. Tears of shame and frustration filled my eyes as I realised just how hopeless it was to fight my own twisted desire for this.

  The host spanked the insides of each thigh before returning to my ass. The heat of the sting seemed to connect right to my clit and before I knew it, I was wiggling hard on his lap, succumbing to the thrill of being stripped, fondled and spanked in public just like my dirtiest dream. Again and again his hand came down as I shamelessly rubbed my clit against his hard leg. The men laughed at me, saying it was obvious how much I wanted it and that I’d probably smashed the wine on purpose.

  What happened next was something foreign to even my fantasies: the host slipped his hand between my legs and spanked my cunt, his hand covering my entire pelvis from my clit to the bottom of my lips. Oh God. No one had spanked my pussy before, I’d never even imagined it, and though he did it lightly compared to the spanking on my bottom, it was still a shock to feel the rhythmic slapping on my clit. But I apparently was over the knee of a master spanker, because he knew exactly what to do. With his left hand, he smacked my cheeks, making them bounce in a disgraceful rhythm, while his right hand pushed against my pussy over and over in a delicious friction until I was writhing helplessly on his lap.

  His fingers began to work over my clit, tickling me with expert agility. A long groan of bliss escaped me as he played with me, stroking and caressing my pussy with a skilled tenderness that was the polar opposite of the smacks on my bottom. The sheer sordid thrill of being degraded like this, with the added humiliation of the men knowing how much I loved it, ran through me like wildfire. I ached to be fucked, I was desperate for it. I spread my thighs as wide as I could, wordlessly begging to be entered.

  The host’s fingers pushed inside me, probing, rubbing and thrusting into my hottest depths. I almost wept with gratitude as my mind swam with fantasies of every man here lining up to use my pussy, one dick after another taking turns inside me. In my wanton delirium, I imagined even Stan fucking my mouth and slapping my tits, while Martin pulled my hair and pounded into my cunt.

  ‘Oh God,’ I gasped. My long hair hung in my face and my body felt like wet fire. Around me, phone cameras were clicking and the knowledge that I would be one of those naked girls men jerked off to online, a stripped and spanked object of punishment, exploded inside me in a violent, drenching orgasm. I came all over the host’s pants, fluid streaming down my legs. It kept coming and coming, all of the men hooting as they crowded around for a better look at my convulsing, ejaculating pussy. The spanking stopped but I was so far gone and devoid of all dignity that I fingered myself before their delighted eyes, extending my orgasm on and on.

&n
bsp; Finally I was done. I could barely think or breathe. Someone helped me stand up, as if aware that my wet legs were shaking too hard to rely on. I could barely focus enough to find my clothes but someone else handed them to me and I stumbled inside the house and found the bathroom. There I put a cool washcloth on my burning-hot cheeks, and caught my breath and tried to reconcile everything I had just done and learned about myself.

  Martin, Stan and Topher still hired me for events but never mentioned the spanking. Martin was embarrassed to meet my eyes, Topher seemed scared of me and, oddly, Stan now seemed to view with a grudging respect. Hey, it was just a summer job. But it had to be one of them who texted me a picture from a strange phone number: a photo of a naked girl sprawled over a businessman’s lap, a long tumble of hair concealing her face and her upturned ass a bright strawberry-pink. I couldn’t help admiring her bravery and abandon, or thinking of all the other adventures that awaited her, and no matter how I often stared at it, I could scarcely believe it was me.

  Cheaters Never Prosper

  by Landon Dixon

  I was chewing the rubber at Tony’s Diner, gnawing on one of his vulcanised steaks, when a dame pushed through the doors of the grease joint and took a gander around, made a bee line for me in the last booth down.

  ‘I only got dough for one plate of heartburn,’ I told her, as she folded herself down on the bench across from yours truly.

  She looked down on her luck, like a lot of guys and dolls courtesy of the Great D gripping the nation. A redhead with flighty blue eyes and a thin, nervous face, slim figure ragged by a faded green dress. She clutched a battered black purse on the table, her fingers dancing over the worn leather. I forked a chunk of grade C beef into my kisser and chewed, daring her to put the bite on me.

  ‘I-I don’t want any food, Mr Janson,’ she quailed, voice thin and reedy.

  I grunted, offered, ‘Uh-huh. Looks like you could use some meat on your bones.’ I sawed a chunk of steak free and set it out on an outstretched fork before it fossilized.