Watching Me, Watching You Page 5

  Lucy looked down and responded to the pleasure on Alison’s face with a silly grin of her own, causing Alison’s heart to flutter and almost break through her chest. Lucy had that effect on her and she realised the girl would always have her enslaved with that smile.

  Alison placed soft kisses on the girl’s tender lips, flushed red and swollen but still perfect. She had gone down on many women, but Lucy’s youthful exuberance made her feel alive, as if this was her first time too. She looked up at her younger lover, eyes bright like a puppy waiting for praise, waiting for validation. She was aware that Lucy’s love juices were smeared over her chin and cheeks and that she probably looked an ugly mess. But Alison didn’t care how she looked. Her lips tingled still. Her whole body seemed infused with Lucy’s scent. She wanted to bathe in the fragrance for ever more.

  Alison also wanted to confess her love for Lucy but didn’t wish to scare her away. The teenager had her whole life in front of her – and Alison suspected that old baggage would not be wanted on that voyage. So instead, she professed her love with a kiss.

  Lucy didn’t resist as Alison feared she might, but accepted her gift. She licked her lips pointedly, tasting herself. ‘What do you taste like, Alison?’ she asked.

  ‘Much like you, I suppose. Would you like to find out?’

  ‘I’m not a dirty lesbian!’ Alison’s heart sank, but Lucy cheered her with a beaming smile. ‘But I am a dirty girl, or believe I could be. Do you have one of those strap-on dildos? I thought perhaps you could … you know.’

  ‘Why don’t you unroll the sofa bed while I get ready?’

  Alison was in the bathroom for only a few minutes, yet when she came back, Lucy was already lying on the bed, waiting. Wearing the strap-on, Alison lay on the bed next to her and, lovesick, got butterflies just thinking about what they intended to do. She leaned forward to kiss her angel on the mouth, but kept it light and brief, so keen was she to move down to Lucy’s breasts.

  The girl’s nipples grew instantly hard against her tongue. Lucy moaned as Alison sucked on them, her hands roaming across her younger lover’s warm belly, edging lower, searching … but Lucy was keen to proceed without further foreplay. She pulled Alison on top of her and in between her spread legs.

  Somehow, defiling her angel with a plastic phallus felt wrong to Alison. The false cock, not overly large, still looked intrusive nestled against Lucy’s shaven pussy. She grew decidedly nervous, watching, delaying as the girl lay looking into her eyes. Lucy obviously noticed Alison’s concern. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not a virgin.’

  Alison reached for the hard plastic shaft and guided its bulbous tip to the entrance of Lucy’s vagina. The girl was still wet from her licking, her labia bloated a little, slightly red and parted. Alison had no trouble feeding her the first inch or so of the toy, but hesitated before sliding it in further, enjoying her brief moment of power. Her guilt and the sense that she was taking advantage were fading fast too. Lucy was a woman who knew her own mind. Alison was only doing what Lucy desired.

  She pressed her hips forward, sliding the false cock deeper, gazing at the girl’s face, watching as her eyes opened wider and wider. Surprise? Wonder? Delight? For the first time in Alison’s life she wished the cock was real, wished she could feel the tightness of Lucy’s vaginal muscles gripping her warm flesh. Sadly, such pleasures were not meant to be. Instead, she had to rely on Lucy’s expressive eyes. ‘What does that feel like, honey?’

  ‘Hard! So very hard. Is there more?’ Alison pushed the dildo in deeper, again watching Lucy’s eyes. The feedback from the strap-on was not sensitive, but Alison knew she had nudged something deep inside the girl. Lucy gasped. This time there was a definite look of wonder in her eyes.

  Alison felt a sudden flash of guilt – no matter how much Lucy wanted this she still felt slightly uneasy about defiling such perfection. Now the girl was rubbing tiny, quick circles around her clitoris, working on her nipples as she neared orgasm. Her eyes opened wide for an instant, and her mouth stretched in a silent scream. She drew in a deep breath … ‘Fuck!’

  A simple exclamation that highlighted everything in Alison’s head. She was thrilled to have made her angel come so hard, but she was still wound up too. Her nipples ached and she felt like she’d cry if she didn’t soon get her own release. So she kept pounding into the girl, her ardour carrying her ever onwards. She was so close, so close …

  When Alison’s orgasm came, the rush of emotion was a blessed relief – a jolt so great its sheer force stopped her in her tracks. She was pressing down on the dildo, jerking frantically, unaware of anything else but the sheer ecstasy of those few seconds. She opened her eyes and realised Lucy was coming again, raising her hips and grinding against the toy. Alison forced herself to continue, using short, savage thrusts until the girl cried out for her to stop.

  Alison rolled over next to Lucy, both women breathing hard. They lay in silence, until Lucy sat up, bright eyed. ‘That was so intense! Thank you, Alison.’

  ‘There’s no need to thank me, sweetheart. Don’t you realise how happy you’ve made me?’

  ‘I’ve never thought anyone could come that hard.’

  ‘You did all right yourself for a beginner. I hope you’re not too sore.’

  ‘I don’t care if I am.’

  Lucy was already up from the sofa bed and looking for her clothes. By the time Alison turned to face her, she was fully dressed in her bikini, T-shirt and skirt, and combing the tangles out of her long hair with her fingers.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘no time to hang around. I must get home before … well, I don’t want to be late.’ She strode over to Alison who hadn’t yet fully recovered and was now feeling silly with the false cock sticking up from her crotch. Lucy kissed her once on the lips, smiled, then affected a mock-serious expression. ‘Alison, who will you spy on once I’ve gone?’

  Alison blushed, turning a deeper red. She did not like to think of herself as a pervert. Yet there was no point denying the truth – not with Lucy. Alison was a voyeur. She was now a defiler of innocent young women too. Yet, she was in heaven. ‘I’ll think of something,’ she said.

  ‘I have a webcam on my laptop. I can set it up in my new digs so you can keep an eye on me, if you like.’ The girl gave Alison a wicked wink.

  ‘Oh Lucy! You must think I’m a terrible person.’

  ‘Yes, quite despicable! Thank you again, Ali. You’ve certainly given me something to remember. Bye!’

  Who’s Watching Who?

  by J R Roberts

  I love my day off during the week. Tuesday, the day I don’t set my alarm clock to startle me into forced wakefulness. Pure heaven to wake up naturally as the May sunshine starts to send its warming rays through the pretty white voile curtain hanging at my bedroom window, chasing away the cool of the night. The twitter of cheeky sparrows and the coos and burbles of courting pigeons, mixed with the muted hum of distant traffic filters in, the gentle music of the morning that I am so familiar with. The crystal suspended at the window spins on its invisible thread sending rainbow sparkles around the room.

  I live on the top floor of a three-storey apartment block, so no one can see in. These lovely warm spring mornings are to be cherished – we get so few with our unpredictable English weather. I push back the thin duvet with its pale lemon cover, kick it right off the bottom of the bed and stretch out on the white cotton sheet. The warm breeze creeping through the open window ruffles the curtain and caresses my body. I always sleep naked.

  Should I get up and make a cup of tea or just lounge for a bit longer? So many difficult decisions to make on a girl’s day off! I roll on to my tummy and doze a bit longer.

  Crash! I’m startled awake. There is the frantic beating of wings as a flock of panicked pigeons takes flight from the roof. What the hell was that? The soothing song of the morning is replaced by the harsh sound of men’s voices mingling with bangs, crashes, metallic clangs and a van door slamming. Oh no, it’s the builders starting work. The
old warehouse opposite my block is being converted into luxury apartments. My neighbours and I opposed the planning application, but we didn’t stand a chance against a rich developer with connections.

  They’ve already gutted the old building and started the rebuild. The plans say it will be three storeys, so the top floor will be on an eye level with me – damn, I guess I’ll need some proper curtains soon. The shell of the ground floor has been completed and they’re working on the first floor, so for now they’re still below my level. But each day the building reaches upwards, threatening my privacy.

  I feel a little exposed, stretched out naked on the bed with a crew of builders just below me. As I think of this, a wicked little smile settles on my face – what will happen when they’re working on the top floor? There’ll be nothing between them and a clear view into my bedroom except a flimsy voile curtain sprinkled with gold stars fluttering in the breeze, allowing them glimpses of my naked body on the bed. Will they look, or be gentlemen and keep their eyes on their work? A few weeks ago, I saw them nudge each other as a leggy young woman teetered along in high heels on the street below. A wolf-whistle, shrill and crude, cut through the other city sounds to follow her up the road. She ignored it, hurrying on without a backward glance, and I heard them chuckle to each other.

  I stand up and watch them from behind the voile. As long as my apartment is not lit from inside, it should hide me. There are five regular builders and one in particular has caught my eye, dark-haired, tall and slim. They all wear white hard hats with a logo on the front, fluorescent vests that usually end up being tied around their waists when their T-shirts come off in the warm weather, jeans or shorts, and builders’ boots. I am treated to views of muscled, tanned chests and backs, strong arms with bulging biceps and the flash of boxer shorts above their waistbands. As we are experiencing an early mini heatwave and the days are getting hotter they glisten with sweat, stopping for cold soft drinks and holding the icy cans to their foreheads to cool off. Hmm … I can’t complain about the view.

  Nothing to rush up for today so I think I’ll go and get that cup of tea.

  I pull on a pink vest-top and a pair of white knickers and, as I walk past the full-length mirror in my bedroom, I stop to view my appearance. Pretty good figure. Small but pert breasts crowned by ruby nipples – visible through the soft jersey of the vest. A flat tummy and a nice, rounded bum that looks great in jeans. Hips a little narrow, maybe a bit boyish. Legs slim, which gives them the appearance of being longer, especially when I slip on a pair of killer heels and stand on tiptoe for the full effect. My unruly mane of chestnut hair frames my face and falls in a wavy cascade down my back. I refuse to straighten it, which is the current fashion – I like to be different in subtle ways, to stand out from the crowd. All in all, not a bad package, I think, and I wink at myself in the mirror as I pad off into the kitchen.

  Tea made and a plate of toast in my hand, I wander back to the lounge. In here, the windows are floor to ceiling, giving me a panoramic view of the city – for now anyway, until the monster building opposite creeps up and blocks the view from my ivory tower. The main window is split in half, the top part opening a limited amount. I set my tea and toast down and pull aside the same thin curtain as I have in the bedroom and push the window open to its limit. The breeze wafts in, flipping the edges of the curtain, and I settle cross-legged on the carpet to enjoy my breakfast and watch the building work below.

  Sitting close to the window, I scan the scene below for my favourite builder. I capture him with my gaze and study him from my private vantage point. He’s tall, certainly over six feet, and though he isn’t the most handsome, he’s definitely the sexiest – slim hips and a neat little bum encased in his blue denim jeans. His shoulders are broad and as his damp T-shirt sticks to his back in the heat, I see the muscles tighten and flex under the material. It’s going to be scorching today so I think that shirt will soon be off.

  I’ve been single for a while, after the messy breakdown of a long relationship, but just lately I’ve found myself thinking it would be nice to be part of a couple again. Nights out and quiet nights in, in front of the TV with a DVD and a beer, cuddled up on the sofa. And I really miss sex. One-night stands just aren’t my thing. Fantasies, my fingers and a trusty vibe are my bedroom companions for now but more and more I’m longing for a male body in my bed, warm and comforting, hard and urgent … .

  My mind begins to wander as I watch “my” builder.

  Today they are erecting scaffolding. Skilfully, they hand materials to each other as they expertly construct a metal skeleton around the rising blockwork of the building, so soon to invade my airspace. Maybe this will be my last Tuesday with total privacy above the city. I wonder what my new facing neighbour will be like – probably, with my luck, a lecherous old peeping Tom!

  My builder is high up on the scaffolding frame just below me; I can see the muscles in his strong brown arms tense and bulge as he lifts and balances poles and planks as they are added to the bones of the growing structure.

  The men call to each other occasionally, a laugh can be heard, muffled conversations.

  Then someone shouts, ‘Adam!’

  My builder answers, ‘Yo?’

  ‘Want a Coke?’

  ‘Yeah, mate.’

  A builder lower down throws him a can, which he catches with one hand.

  So my builder is Adam.

  The alien building sounds and the workmen’s shouts die away as they take their break, and the pigeons start to settle and coo again.

  It is as if Adam is re-enacting that famous Diet Coke advert just for me! He takes off his white hard hat and wipes his sweaty brow with his forearm, then rubs his hand through his damp, dark hair, making it spiky and scruffy. He balances his hat on the end of a pole and peels off his sweaty T-shirt, wiping it down the centre of his chest before tucking a corner into the top of his jeans, revealing the waistband of his boxers. Then he leans back against a horizontal pole of the scaffolding to relax and opens his can of drink – he’s close enough that I hear the hiss.

  His body is wet with sweat and very brown from hours spent working in the sun, making his skin shine. He’s muscled in a wiry way, not an inch of fat on him – maybe a little too skinny, in fact. From what I can see he has little body hair apart from that oh-so-sexy line which stretches down his stomach and disappears into the top of his underwear. His jeans are low on his hips, as men wear them, displaying a flat, firm stomach and the taut muscles that run up each side from his groin to his pelvis. And as he relaxes back, taking long swigs of cold cola and watching the world below move slowly by, I watch him.

  My fingers gently stroke the front of my knickers as I fantasise about him.

  Naked and aroused, he must look amazing. I imagine kneeling in front of him, unzipping his jeans, easing him out. His penis lying hot and heavy in my hand, twitching as if it has a mind of its own, as blood rushes to engorge it. And as I grasp it firmly, flesh and blood become as hard as bone. My eyes close as I imagine him like this, hips thrust forward, swollen cock inches from my face. Sitting on the floor of my apartment, living the moment in my mind, I lean forward, flicking my tongue out to taste the salty pearl-drop of fluid leaking from him …

  I open my eyes to see him looking straight up at the window and I jerk back and snatch my hand away from my crotch like a naughty child caught with her finger in the honeypot. Did he sense that he was being watched? He can’t see through the curtain, can he? No, no lights are on in the apartment so he can’t.

  Suddenly I want to be naked, just as I’m imagining him naked. I feel daring as I stand up in front of the window, hidden only by the mesh curtain, and pull my vest top off over my head. Slowly, my knickers come down and I flick them across the room with my foot. A strip, just for him. His gaze has turned away and he’s about to go back to work. But I’m off to fantasyland and he’s coming with me.

  My breasts feel smooth and warm as I think of him stroking them, nipples beginnin
g to stiffen under my touch. I’m getting aroused and he’s leading me back to my bed.

  I take a last look at him through the bedroom window – he’s replaced his hat and has gone back to work on the scaffolding. Once I’m lying on the bed I’m too low to see him, but in my mind he is right here with me.

  As I lie flat on my back, my hands do the caressing but in my mind it is Adam. He uses feather-light touches to tease and arouse me even more. Fingers circling sensitive nipples and gentle tugs feel like soft lips and a flicking tongue. A track of fingers walking down my body, over my ribs and the soft flesh of my belly, feels like a trail of kisses. My hips instinctively rise as I picture him moving around to kneel on the floor and my legs slowly open to give those insistent lips full access to my waiting body.

  My eyes are closed and I’m away with my fantasy. Lost to the world, in my secret erotic world where only the man I choose comes with me.

  ‘Adam,’ I whisper.

  The tip of a wet, probing finger becomes a warm, slick tongue, stroking is licking, and my free hand mimes entwining itself in his short, dark hair as I pull him in to me. My hips rise and fall as this tall, slim, sexy builder lavishes pleasure on me. Moans escape me and my temperature rises as a breeze ruffles the curtain through the open window, sent to cool my hot body.

  My movements and caresses become more urgent as I ask my invisible lover, ‘Make me come.’

  I relax and slow things down, quietening the rhythm of my body. Then I build the tension again, twice over until I’m desperate for the orgasm that waits impatiently in my body for me to release it. I’m alone on my bed, a wanton woman intent on her own pleasure, using the image of a man she’s never met to satisfy her needs. I think of him, lean and hard, and I’m ready to push for my climax.

  ‘Adam … oh, Adam.’