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Renowned erotica mavens Rachel Kramer Bussel and Alison Tyler's book, Hide and Seek: 21 Tales of Exhibitionism & Voyeurism has a lovely, playful tone, one that really grants you permission to tap into that prurient, childlike sensuality (much like the game that the anthology is named after). The voyeurs and exhibitionists herein have a refreshing awareness about their predilections, rather than any sort of hidden or forbidden mentality. The folks in these stories know they're being watched, (or are proud of watching), and push the envelope and flirt with sexual tension in a way that made me melt into each vignette. Though the scenarios are primarily boy-girl (and boy-girl-boy), women (well aware they're fully entitled to ogle and be ogled) predominate. At her behest, a woman's lover buys her very own prostitute display window for her in Amsterdam's famed Red Light District ("Red Light, Green Light," Shanna Germain). An exhibitionist porn starlet's creamiest girl-girl action fantasy comes true, on camera, filmed by a female director ("Interview with a Porn Star," Radclyffe). A hunky window cleaner's big bulge and penchant for flashing it seduces a woman who has the best seat in the office — you guessed it - the window seat ( Counting the Days, Saskia Walker). These intense stories explore the yin-yang dynamics and pleasures of the observer and observed, sans shame, predictability, or trench coats. The only thing to expect here is lots of flirting, fondling, and jacking and jilling off.
Oh, yeah, I like to watch almost as much as I like to be watched. Almost.
I am always watching. Memorizing. Capturing. I pay attention to everyone around me, growing silent sometimes in crowds so that I can be sure I haven’t missed something important.
Can’t help myself. So I don’t even bother to try. And that’s what made reading the stories for Hide & Seek so fucking hot. I was eavesdropping once more, able to view the fantasies—my favorite types of fantasies—right up close. What I especially like about the voyeur/exhibitionist fetish are the two halves of the puzzle. The way they fit so neatly together. The stories in this book fit just as well…
Do you want to watch your woman pick up a hot guy to fuck?
Lizzie and Next Big Thing danced, they danced closer, bodies brushing. They kissed, and they retired to the bar. They shared cocktails. They felt each other out with conversation. They kissed some more. His hand slipped to her ass. At some point he asked for her number. She told him she had a boyfriend, but she was allowed to play around as long as he could watch. (“The Corners of My Eyes”)
Or do you want to get busy in the cab ride home, while the sultry female taxi driver watches in her rearview mirror?
I can tell you’re going to come, and now we’re clear of the midtown traffic, hurtling down Eighth Avenue at a breakneck pace. It’s almost like the cab driver is in competition with us, trying to see if she can get us where we’re going before we can finish. (“Operator 84”)
Would you like to fuck on the beach while strangers watch you with binoculars?
I ought to be outraged at the thought of somebody spying on me while Gavin and I are making love, but the idea’s got into my head now, and I’ve a feeling it’s stuck there. Instead of tilting the parasol so that our distant watcher—or watchers—can’t see us, I get up, take hold of it, and twist it around out of the way so it doesn’t obstruct their view. And while I’m up here, I lift my arms and do a sort of supermodel thing, pushing my hair back from my face in a way that makes my boobs rise in my bikini top and salute the sun. (“Glint”)
Or do you desire being the one peering out a window?
She bent her head back and cupped his cock in her hands and tipped it up. Then she opened her mouth.
Thomas breathed in short, hungry bursts. His whole body pressed into the telescope, rocking it with the rhythms he was seeing. (“The Astronomer”)
You can be on display for a crowd full of anonymous, hungry watchers:
All around the room were windows—ten in all, with black slats covering them. Soon, a person would be behind each window. Customers who had paid would watch the slats go up and see into the room where we were standing. This was so they could watch us make love. There was no way for us to see into the rooms. Each window was a two-way mirror. They could see in, but we couldn’t see out. It would give the illusion of privacy.(“Peeping Tom, Dick, and Harriet”)
Or is it enough to simply think people know what you’re doing, to wonder if they know?
She was standing before she knew she had done it. She should take her purse. Should she take her purse? … She took out her wallet. She put it back. She picked up her whole bag again. Was Silvio watching? Was his daughter? (“She Grinds Her Own Coffee”)
Better yet, why choose? Hide with the characters in half the stories, seek with those naughty players in the other. Get turned on by them all.
At least, that’s what I did.
Introduction: Showing Off in Style
Compared to all the other sexual acts one could engage in, voyeurism and exhibitionism may seem a bit passive. Watching, spying, ogling. Teasing, flaunting, putting oneself on display. But the characters in Hide & Seek push the envelope by finding new and inventive ways to spy and be spied on, letting us know just how active, enthusiastic, and passionate they have to be to get what they want the most.
From windows to rooftops to webcams, these naughty boys and girls take pleasure wherever they can find it. That might be in the backseat of a cab, knowing the driver’s clocking every move, or putting on a live vibrator sex show for one’s husband. They might be going about their workday, only to find that a stranger has a little show-and-tell, of the adult variety, in mind.
I tend to think that all writers are exhibitionists of some sort, begging readers to feast their eyes on our most salacious output. We want people to watch us get naked as we explore our deepest fantasies, the kinds that make us blush and squirm and shift in our seats. We want to offer up a piece of ourselves to you, letting you look to your heart’s content. But we writers are also voyeurs, constantly absorbing everything around us, our eyes zooming in on the pertinent details, the little moments that make sex all the hotter for their simplicity. We notice the details, and we want you to know that we’re watching your every move. Don’t think that sigh or ankle crossing or primping or cleavage or erection has gone unnoticed; we’re watching, and we like what we see.
In many of these stories, characters are made to wait, wish, and fantasize. There’s no telling just when your favoring Peeping Tom will return to rake his eyes all over your body and make you feel naked even when you’re not. There’s no telling when she’ll bring home a plaything and offer him to you for the price of a sex show. There’s no telling when you’ll find yourself in public, in flagrante, being seen—and savored. The opportunities for quality viewing or flaunting of the sexual sort can’t be called up as easily as pay-per-view. You have to strike while the iron is hot, or keep your eyes peeled for the hottie who can’t wait to strip down just for you. It’s this search for the perfect partner to complement their kink that makes so many of these stories soar. Without an accomplice, they’re just putting on a solo performance, but having a pair (or more) of eyes trained on you while you get off can bring out the inner porn star in all of us.
So instead of passivity, maybe what the successful voyeur and exhibitionist need is cunning, timing, talent. Yes, it’s a skill you can be good at, knowing when to push your lover to give you more and when to back off. Knowing when it’s okay to forget about the opera on stage and create your own right there in your seat. Knowing when that blow job she’s about to give you is just too picture-perfect not to capture on film. Knowing when to stay put and pass on a threesome in favor of seeing her writhing in the arms of another man. All these tricks of the trade and more are revealed in this steamy collection of stories where anything can happen.
And if you want to test your own talent for showing off, don’t just hide this book at home tucked away under the covers. Go ahead, I dare you, read it at the park, on the subway, on an airplane. Read it where you know people will be watching. Or read it in a corner of a busy room where you can raise your head between stories and train your eyes on the person you most desire. Maybe you’ll discover you’re a natural.
Rachel Kramer Bussel
“Like This” by Rachel Kramer Bussel
When I first hear Tim’s request, I’m not sure I can do it. It’s one thing to spread my legs in the name of sex, to let him inside me, to show off my pussy to him as he’s about to devour it, both of us so far gone we’ve practically melted into each other already. At those times, I know what I’m getting into, know we’re about to join forces, merge our hot, needy bodies—pink, wet, warm flesh against pink, wet, warm flesh—sinuous and connected. I’ll bend over any way he asks if he’s going to touch me with those magic hands, that hot tongue, that powerful cock that he commands so well. That’s easy for me because we’re both moving, acting, doing. It’s a ritualized mating dance, an erotic call-and-response, my signal followed immediately by his pounce.
I know exactly how powerful my pussy is to him, and how hungry he is for it, and I will gladly open wide to offer myself as his own private sexual all-you-can-eat buffet. But even though we’ve been together since college, which I’m sad to admit is over a decade, showing him what I do on my own is different. That’s my time, my space, my moment to go places I can only get to with the hum of my vibrator and my mind spinning to outer space. I’ve always needed personal privacy, both for solo sex and my sanity, pockets of time that are meant for me and me alone. I’ve never though about how I look when I contort myself into all kinds of positions that make yoga look like skipping, spread my body in ways I’d have thought impossible until fueled by the rush of arousal.
With him, I have a little routine, though I’d never really thought of it that way before. He sits before me, and I spread my legs wide in the air, try to gracefully arch my strong thighs as my wetness glistens. I look up at him and often feel the creep of a blush tickle my cheeks. Sometimes I hold onto my ankles or, if I’m particularly limber, my heels, parting my legs as I think about his dick plunging inside. I smile at that special blend of lust and embarrassment as the scent of my arousal wafts its way upward to my nose. He waits patiently, even though I can see his hard cock, ready and raring to go. I run a finger up my slit, and feeling the wet, soft flesh there, truly feeling it deep inside, sometimes startles me. Tears start to form in my eyes as I do it again, and again, with one light, increasingly shaky finger until I gently part my lips, my thumbs doing the same for the hood. His eyes dart from my center to my soul, from my open lips to my open lips, taking me all in before he overtakes my body with his. I want to bare everything for him because I know he’s about to enter me, to give me the one thing I can’t give myself. I can get over my shyness because I can see, in an instant, how hard I’ve made him, and I know it’s only a matter of time before he can no longer look without touching.
Then, it’s up to him. Sometimes, Tim takes his cock and rubs the head against me, without even entering me just yet. It’s not about getting inside but about watching the collision of our bodies, watching the collusion, watching hard meet soft, covering himself with my dew as he parses every second out into a slow-motion image he’ll replay in his mind. It’s like an introduction, a getting-to-know-you greeting for someone you’ve seen around for years but want to reacquaint yourself with. I, in turn, watch him, watch his eyes riveted to that spot where his cockhead is starting to make me truly ache, the dull throb moving from the entrance to my hole all the way inside, tunneling through me until I feel hollow. The longer he does it, the longer the ache lasts; I’ve often woken up the next day with a pang so strong I clutch him, then shove my fingers inside myself to try to quell it. Looking at his face, I’m no longer blushing, but biting my lower lip, swirling my tongue over the soft, plump pinkness as my teeth dig into the paler flesh beneath my lip. Watching him watching me, watching us, is the hottest live-action porn I’ll ever see.
So his request to see what I do when I’m alone shakes me up. That is not what I’d consider pretty or anything close to foreplay material. Unlike our pre-sex ritual, it’s not leading up to anything; my masturbation is the main event, no need to lure anyone in with a preview. I can be lying in bed reading, lounging there in silk pajamas one moment—and the next, naked, on all fours, long hair tossed to the side while I ride my plug-in vibe hard, bucking up and down against it. When I get myself off, it’s not a Georgia O’Keefe painting come to life. It’s not a slow-build, soft-focus, petal-parting anything. Granted, we don’t always exist in the rose-colored gloss of gentle grinding, Tim and I. When he’s had his fill of watching, of filling me with a burn so hot I’ve been known to draw blood from sinking my top teeth into my lower lip, he slams his cock into me so swiftly and strongly I often come right then and there. By that time, I don’t care what he sees, what he cracks open inside my skull as he screws me like there’s no tomorrow. That phrase sounds trite only if you’ve never done it so hard you don’t care if it’s your last breath, so hard that nothing else exists. I don’t care if he sees me sniveling, crying out, contorted, aching for him while he’s fucking me, because I know, even if I’m too overwhelmed to do anything but shut my eyes, what he’s feeling. It’s the two of us against the world, and there’s no question who’s going to win.
Still, I’m nervous that he won’t like what he sees. That I won’t like what he sees, that this will shatter some fifth wall that makes our relationship work, removing all mystery. Because the truth is, my masturbation sessions are, in their own way, even fiercer than that, fiercer than when he skips the preliminaries and slams me up against today’s chosen piece of furniture—the bed, the couch, a chair, the sink—and fucks me with his fingers in my mouth, his cock so deep inside me it feels like a part of my body. When I’m alone, all bets are off. I’m so far from pornographic I’m into grotesque. At least, to my mind. I don’t think about what I look like when it’s just me and one of my trusty vibrators, me letting out all the things I can’t find release for in everyday life. In fact, I try not to think too much at all—it kills the mood. I just go with what I feel.
But this is Tim, my Tim, after all. He’s asking, with a look so open on his face I can’t deny him. I know he loves every inch of my body, so even though I’m still unsure, I settle him at the far end of our bed, with me on the other, and set forth. “Okay, but I’ve warned you. Sit right there and don’t come any closer. I do it like this,” I say, and then turn on the vibrator. At first, I have to pretend to myself he’s not there. He may be my husband but he is still a spectator, someone invading my private, very personal ritual, even though I’ve invited him. He knows I masturbate, but knowing and seeing are two different things. “Unh,” I say out loud as the power of the toy propels me somewhere else, somewhere far from my marital bed.
I will my mind to forget Tim, to forget everything as I lift one leg up onto the wall, grateful for all the yoga I’ve taken that makes me limber enough to reach the positions that get me off best. With one foot flattened against the wall, I stretch the other one out to my side as the round, white head of the electric miracle glides against my clit, seeking the right spot to call home. With my left hand, I reach up for the headboard, needing the strain of muscle in my arms and legs to loop back through my body to my clit. Without that, the vibrations are meaningless. Strong, sure, but just not enough. I let out a shuddery breath that brings tears to my eyes as the curved white head sinks deeper into me, nudging against the top of my pussy while still giving ample sensation to my clit. Soon it will be time to stuff something inside me, too. Sometimes it’s my fingers, sometimes a toy, sometimes whatever’s handy. I once used a fat magic marker, circling it and feeling the tip pressing against my G-spot. I’ll try anything when I’m alone, but with Tim as my VIP audience member, suddenly, I’m flustered.
It doesn’t matter that he will be happy with whatever I show him, that in fact, he doesn’t want a “show” but reality. That ups the ante all the more, because no matter how much I pretend, I’m not alone. There he is, and I hope that what he sees won’t change what he thinks of me. But then my fantasy life takes over, the one where it’s not just Tim but Liza, too. A smile breaks out across my face as I spread my legs even wider, practically shoving the buzzing toy into my clit, slamming it hard as I contort and become one with my vibrator and thoughts of a threesome with my husband and gorgeous best friend. It’s never going to happen, but that hasn’t stopped me from wanking my way to countless orgasms thinking about it. I wet my fingers with my mouth and shove them deep inside me while I rock, knowing I’m blocking his view for a minute, but not caring. Then that becomes too much, and I lean back, part my legs, and do some snooping of my own. I sneak a peek through my slitted eyes at Tim; he’s got his hand on his cock, his eyes fixed on my cunt, and he looks like he’s halfway to orgasm himself.
Rather than making me nervous, this spurs me on. He likes what he sees; maybe I don’t look so weird, after all. I turn the vibrator down to a lower level and move more slowly, letting my body do more of the work. I let the few tears that have been hovering at my eyelids drop onto my cheeks. I flip over onto my stomach so my ass—the one Tim’s always wanting to grap, slap, and bite, the one I always thought was too big and too round before we met—is right in his face. For a few seconds, I remove the vibrator and spread my lips for him, hoping he’s watching. I’ve never done that before when it wasn’t an invitation to come inside, no RSVP required. Now it’s more of a “look what I’ve got, don’t you wish you could touch it?” parting of my pussy lips, and the power of holding, and withholding, races through me. I turn the vibrator back on and settle down onto it, letting it rest against the bed as I straddle it. I feel even more exposed like this, but it reminds me of my favorite fantasy, the one where I’m face down, my head buried in Liza’s pussy, while Tim plows me from behind. The harder he fucks me, the deeper my tongue slams into her, so it’s almost like he’s fucking her. I like the idea of being the middleman, or middlewoman, as the case may be, my body just a conduit for their pleasure, even as the mere thought of it sends juices leaking down my inner thighs.
I lean my head against a pillow, burying my face in its soft, clean whiteness. I’m probably blushing because even though Tim’s behind me, it feels like he can see inside me, too, as if baring myself like this means giving him free reign over my thoughts. What would he make of them? Would my most twisted fantasies turn him on or send him away? I realize as I turn the vibrator back to high, its screeching permeating the room, drowning out my panting as I then plunge my fingers inside my pussy, that it doesn’t matter. All Tim can see is my spread legs, my ass, my cunt, my fingers, my toy. He sees only what I allow him to, nothing more. I start to hear his grunts over the noise of the vibe and when I look over, his hand’s moving at lightning speed. I turn over once again onto my back and watch him master his own unguarded bliss. At the money shot, his eyes are closed and he’s as gone as I’ve wanted to be this whole time. I’d thought I was there, but until I see him let go 100 percent, I can’t truly relax. Once he’s done, it’s like I have permission. I’ve been putting on a show, however subtle, instead of giving him what he wanted, the antithesis of a performance. I’m his wife, and yet it feels like until today we’ve hardly known each other.
Armed with the blessing of his orgasm, I let go once and for all. I growl, I moan, I thrash. I beat the toy against my cunt so hard that it hurts, but I like it and want more. I think about me and Tim and Liza, about strangers invading our bed, about two cocks in my mouth at once. I twist into a ball, toss aside the toy, and press my palm against my hot flesh. I pinch and tug and pull on my clit until the most strangled scream erupts from my throat. I shove as many fingers as I can get into my pussy and squeeze them tight. My climax is the kind that rushes up to me and then takes its time, hopping forward, sliding back, dancing some mixed-up fusion mambosalsabreakdancebeat until I’m slain, caught, trapped between its jerky hands and quick hips, its tornado-like swirl capturing me. That’s how it feels when I come like this, not like a speeding bullet but a fireball bursting into flame, the embers echoing through my limbs until I’m burned to a crisp.
When I’m done, I summon just enough energy to turn off the toy. I stay huddled in my personal shell, wondering if I’m now too naked, too exposed, if both of us have ventured to the point of no return. Tim takes the purple blanket I knitted for us after our honeymoon, the one with the holes and splatters, and covers me with it, kisses me on my forehead, and whispers in my ear, “That was beautiful. You’re beautiful. Just like this.” Then he leaves me to myself, my dreams, my questions, my pounding heart that’s slowly coming down from the ledge. I bring my fingers between my legs, press them against my skin, and wait to drift off.
When I wake up in the middle of the night, he’s next to me, naked, sprawled every which way. I peek at him in repose, stare my fill, before tossing off the blanket myself. I want to be more naked for him from now on, want to take some of the magic of this night and hold onto it, use it to see each other as only we can. He may not know it yet, but he’s unleashed a monster. This was just the beginning.
“For All The World To See” by Matt Conklin
Christina is at her most beautiful when she looks like she does right now: eyes wide, mouth open, brown hair carelessly tossed around her face, waiting for me to do something—anything—to her. I’m standing in front of her while she’s perched patiently on our couch, naked. I’m wearing brown cords and a light-blue, button-down shirt, but that doesn’t really matter. I’m not looking at myself right now but at her staring back at me. She’s waiting for me to tell her what to do, to slam her back against the couch or lift her up by her hair, to order her to spread her legs or turn over so I can spank her. I can tell her almost anything and she’ll lap up my words, get off on hearing them spoken just for her. Her submission is written clear across her face, the makeup she’d so carefully sported when we sat down to dinner two hours ago now largely worn away. Her lips are still wet and dark pink, but from being bitten, from her tongue sliding over them in trepidation and anticipation, not from any gloss. I watched her while I ate my dinner, let my eyes bore into her until she had to blush and look away. Even knowing each other as well as we do, I still wield the power to melt her simply with my eyes. The look on her face at this moment is one I want to remember forever, one I’ve captured in my photography studio but still never managed to fully do justice to. Right now she’s quivering before me, live, for my eyes only, though she’s too fucking gorgeous for me to be that selfish all the time.
I like to capture her with a click of the shutter when she doesn’t know I’m watching, bent over the fridge searching for the milk, fresh from the shower, staring deep into her computer screen. She puts up with it because, deep down, she likes that I can capture a side of her she rarely sees when she looks in the mirror. But she knows that I also see something deeper, that when I push her to her limits, I see her masochistic soul laid bare.
“I want to suck your cock,” she says with so much earnestness I know she means it all the way through. Her face contorts when she says it, the ache traveling all the way down to her cunt. I can see the effect the words alone have on her body. She doesn’t need to lick her lips; I know she can practically taste my dick on her tongue. It twitches in my pants as I look at her, the silence extending between us as she waits for my response. My initial urge is to whip out my cock and immediately shove it into her open, warm, wet mouth, slam it deeply down her throat, pin her shoulder against the back of the couch and fuck that sweet, soft hole of hers until she’s choking on me. I could, and she’d practically come right then and there from the invasion.
I know exactly how it would feel because I’ve done it before. When we first got together I literally could not wait and would have her naked within minutes of coming home with me, have her hands around my cock or my tongue deep inside her or her spread out before me while I slammed into her over and over. Back then, I’d barely had time to watch my cock disappear down her wide-open, eager throat, with nary a moment to register the beauty of those lips pressing against my shaft, her cheeks puffing out, the glorious, arousing struggle written across her scrunched forehead as she matched my thrusts with her own. She’s never been the kind of girl who just lies there and takes it. Even tied up and almost immobilized, she makes sure I know she wants me, that she’ll do anything to have me. I’m glad to be older and, hopefully, a little wiser, because the rewards for me of waiting are ones that only reveal themselves when I draw out the torture.
“You really want to suck my cock?” I ask. The more either of us says it, the more we both want it. The first time she said it I had to struggle to hide my shock. I’d been with girls who knew their way around a blow job before, but never ones who’d asked for it with such reverence, such passion, such need. Never a girl who trembled when she spoke, who asked with the slight fear that I might say no, that I might be the kind of guy who prefers girls on their backs than on their knees.
“Yes, Matt. I really want to suck your cock. I’ll do anything if you let me take it between my lips.” She whimpers then, and I slap her across the face. Not that hard, but hard enough to see the pink bloom on her rounded skin. She stops whimpering and looks up at me, the threat of tears lurking behind her eyes, her pale, pretty face lit up by the marks of my fingers. This she wouldn’t ask for, but I know she wants more. I step closer, my erection clearly visible through my pants. She swallows, her eyes darting from my cock up to my face and back. She has her legs tucked under her almost daintily, as if she weren’t a dirty, horny slut with a nipple ring and a desire to be smacked around and fucked so hard she screams. I pinch the other cheek, then run my thumb along her bottom lip. Her lips part, but I don’t press it inside; I watch instead as her body unfolds into an even more willing posture. I push my thumb down the slight cleft in her chin and on to her neck, pressing just deeply enough to make its presence felt. She keeps her eyes locked on my face the entire time. I pinch her left nipple hard, twisting it between my fingers. The dark pink flattens as I twist it, and I pinch harder, waiting for the noise to go with what I’m seeing, the soundtrack to my sadism. Finally, after pressing even harder, harder than I’d planned, she lets herself indulge in a small tremor. I slap that breast, making sure her nipple meets my fingers as I do. All the senses I’m using converge at once—sight, touch, smell, hearing (taste will come later)—blending together as each touch makes her gasp, each pinch makes her redden, each word makes her musk that much stronger.
Christina keeps opening her mouth and then closing it, taking deep breaths that clearly precede something she wants to say but chooses not to. I like seeing that indecision splash across her features, like watching her struggle over what to ask me to do to her, never knowing if reverse psychology will get her what she wants, or straight-up begging. It’s like she’s physically handing me her power as those pink lips widen and shut, tears rushing to her eyes the longer I hold off making a decision on just how to defile her gorgeous body. The truth is, the cruelest thing I could do isn’t hit her but ignore her, walk away like I don’t need her just as much as she needs me.
I used to be the kind of top who worried about what my subs were thinking every second of our play. “Is that okay? Do you like that? What do you want?” I’d ask. In trying to be solicitous, I’d killed more moods than I cared to remember. I could see their bodies deflate, going from puffed up, proud, and perverted to sunken, shy, and stubborn. With Christina, thankfully, I know what she wants most of the time and can read her well enough to make educated guesses. I thrust my right knee between her legs, winnowing them apart, slamming the fabric up against her shaved, wet pussy, feeling its heat against the denim wall.
“Spread your legs and keep them spread,” I say, and she does, maintaining the position with some effort. Her thighs tremble as she sits there with her sex spread before me, pink and beckoning. Again, my cock throbs with the need to be deep inside that other hole, my favorite, to press against those soft, pale thighs with my hands, as if holding her open for me, then sliding into that velvety tunnel. “Put your hands over your head and tilt your head back, Christina,” I say. God, I want to take my clothes off, but I can’t just yet. She’s putting on too sexy of a show right here to bother with anything other than watching.
She does, her hands rising to reveal underarms marked by only the barest of stubble, triceps on the verge of becoming firm but still fleshy enough for my taste. I don’t know where to start, because her whole body looks so tempting. Soon, I promise myself, I’ll get to sink my cock between those lips, which are now gently parted, her eyes closed as she presents herself to me. I trace a finger along her slit, but she tries to close her legs to lock them around my arm. I swiftly remove my finger from her wetness and press her legs even farther apart. Christina lifts her head and looks up at me as I look at her cunt. I see the large, asymmetrical lips falling on either side, the promise only hinted at beneath. I push harder and see the strain in her thighs, the wetness beginning to leak as she fights to hold the pose for me. She doesn’t mention my cock, but from the look on her face I know Christina is still dying to suck it. I use my knees to keep her legs open, leaning over her on the couch with one armed balanced on the back of it, the other resting against her neck. My lips are inches from hers as I look at her face, so much younger without glasses or makeup or armor of any kind.
I exert a light pressure against her neck, more a stroking than a squeezing, feeling her heart beat beneath my fingers. “How badly do you want to suck my cock, Christina?” I ask, then lift my hand to pry open her mouth, holding it for a few seconds while she struggles to swallow. When she doesn’t answer the instant I take my fingers away, I grab her by the back of the hair, twisting her away from me, then tugging her back. Another slap across her cheek echoes through the room. “Do you really want my cock buried all the way down your throat? Do you think you can take it all? And even more importantly, do you think you deserve it?” We both know perfectly well that in this state, she could probably stuff three cocks in her mouth, so horny is she, but I need to hear her say it as many times as it takes for her to break, to topple some of that greedy pride she holds so dear.
“Yes, I want it. I want to feel the tip against my tongue and then take all of your cock into my mouth. I need it, Matt—you know how badly I need it. I’ll do anything,” she says, more quietly than before. And that’s when I get the idea for what will happen next. I’m still impatient, but thinking about the way she swallows my cock—the way her lips glide up and down and then somehow, in an instant, have it all the way inside—forms an image in my mind I know others will want to see as well. I’ve photographed her before, but stills can’t compare to live, hard-core action
“Come with me,” I instruct, standing up and pinching both nipples for good measure before lifting her up from the couch. I carry her to my room but not to the bed. “Get on your knees right there and wait for me,” I say, pointing directly in front of my computer…and my new webcam. I’d gotten it because my buddy Charles said it would be easy, and he’d been right. But thus far, considering I wasn’t looking to get laid or flirt or any of the more traditional purposes, I hadn’t seen fit to use it. But now I wanted to give someone, anyone, a chance to see what a good little cocksucker Christina was. And even though I like to watch a lot more than I like to be watched, I’m turned on by the idea of strangers seeing her swallowing my dick. I don’t know why, I just am.
Christina looks up at me, her breasts sloping gently downward as she stares me with that same look of need across her face. I slap her again, and this time tears do spring to her eyes. “Matt, I need to suck your cock, please just let me taste it,” she begs, then gives a little sigh-moan that has me unbuckling my pants. She opens her mouth, unbidden, letting me look inside there, too. I pushed my pants off until I’m standing there in my briefs, my cock barely contained by the soft black cotton. I slap the other side of her face, just because I can, then lean down and kiss her.
“You like it when I hit you, don’t you, Christina? Tell me the truth.”
“Yes.” She’s shaking as she looks up at me, her eyes wild with my cock so close to her, pink blooming on her apple cheeks. “I want you to slap your cock across my face.”
Either she really wants to suck my cock or she’s trying to make me come in my pants because the dirtier the words that spill from her mouth, the more turned on I get. Maybe I’ve heard them before and maybe I haven’t, but with her it doesn’t matter. It always feels like the first time, like I’m spoiling some innocent girl who deep down just can’t get enough, which isn’t too inaccurate a description of my Christina. Outside this apartment, she’s all “please” and “thank you,” giving directions, tipping well, a good Samaritan. But with me, she’s a slut par excellence, and if I didn’t give her what she needs, I know she’d leave me for someone who could. Good thing we’re a match made in crazy, kinky heaven.
“Close your eyes,” I tell her, and she does, but with a look that tells me she doesn’t want to. I know she likes to watch for as long as she can, likes to see my cock up close, likes to flutter her eyes open when she’s swallowed the entire thing and look up at me from down there, as if asking for approval. But I slip a small, black blindfold over her eyes so nobody will be able to tell it’s her. As a reward, I let her lick the contour of my cock through the fabric. Her tongue immediately darts out to trace my hardness.
I tease her, holding her by her hair and peeling down my briefs so only the head is available to her touch. “Kiss it,” I say, and dutifully, she does, her lips meeting my engorged flesh and almost making me cry out in a very unmanly whimper. “I’m going to let you suck my cock, Christina, but there’s a catch. You’re such a good little blow job giver that I think your talents could be appreciated by many rather than just little old me, so I’m going to put my cock and your mouth on my webcam so people can jerk off to the way you suck my cock. I bet lots of guys are going to wish they had you kneeling before them with that pretty little mouth just waiting to devour them, and they don’t even know how fucking wet you are right now and how hard I’m going to fuck you after we’re done with this. They don’t know how I’m going to make you bend over with your hands on the ground in front of you, your palms and your feet flat on the floor while I fuck you the way you like it best, or how I’m gonna slap your ass while I do. They don’t know how really dirty you are. They don’t know anything about you and they don’t have to. All they’re gonna know is how greedy you are for my cock, how much of a pretty slut you are when you beg to have your mouth filled.”
I shove two fingers into her pussy to make sure she’s getting as turned on as I think she is, and she gasps, clutching my arm. I curl my fingers, then bring my thumb to her clit while I let her lean against me, taking great, heaving breaths as I bring her right to the brink of orgasm, then stop. “I guess you like the idea of the whole world watching you do what you do best, isn’t that right?” I say. She raises herself back to her previous position and nods. My only regret is that I can’t see her pretty brown eyes, can’t see if they’re fearful or excited or teary or alert. But the blindfold adds a whole new element of excitement. I’ll be watching her as well as anyone who cares to, but she can’t see any of us.
I step away and turn on the camera, and a close-up of her face looms on my screen. Then I step into the frame and see my cock, but it looks different in front of me—digitized, enhanced, slightly removed. I look away, giving that view to those who don’t have a Christina in front of them, live, hungry, and horny. I slap her face with fingers still wet from her juices, then feed them to her, two and then three and then four. “Unnhh,” she mumbles against my fingers, and I slide my briefs down with my free hand while fucking her mouth with the fingers of the other.
“I think you’re almost ready for my cock, Christina. What do you think about that?” Her throat immediately opens wider, allowing me to press farther. And by then even I can’t wait anymore. I pull my fingers out, then hold my cock out to her lips. She immediately starts devouring it, her hand reaching for the base to hold onto. I flick it back, then firmly place both hands behind her back while my cock shoves deep down her throat. “Keep your hands there; you don’t need them to suck me,” I tell her. She grunts her agreement and then starts doing what she’s been begging for all night. She has ways of letting me know what she wants even without stating it, so by the time she’d asked so clearly earlier, I knew. I knew from the way she ate her food, slowly, the fork lingering in her mouth. I knew from the way she played with my fingers over dessert, tugging them and staring at them longingly that she needed this hole filled the most, that her throat needed to be filled with the gift only I can provide. Her mouth is a marvel, a miracle, as she slides back and forth along my length, sucking me sloppily, her body shaking with the effort to stay in control even as her insides are leaking all over, tears, saliva, pussy juice spilling forth as she rocks to and fro.
I’m so hard I feel like I might pop any minute, but I wait so I can fully appreciate the view. Her pink lips are wrapped around my pole, her invisible tongue gliding along the underside. She easily takes all of me into her, then stays there with her lips pressed up against the base, nuzzling the strands of hair strewn there, pushing farther, as if seeking some hidden treasure of cock she can unlock with the right pressure. I grab her, twining my fingers through her hair, and immediately she backs off a little. Even with the blindfold on I can see what this is doing to her, see how with Christina her mouth is just as sensitive as her pussy, the two connected in ways I don’t always understand but appreciate nonetheless. I ease her head all the way back, then slam my cock into her mouth, sneaking a peek at the camera as I do.
“You’re so beautiful like that,” I tell her, and she smiles around my length, or tries to, the effort endearing and adorable as I let her explore my cock with just her lips and tongue and nose, one hand wrapped around a wrist behind her, struggling not to reach for my body to balance herself.
“Isn’t she?” I ask the camera, leaning over to press a button to let it zoom in on her face for a moment before pulling back. Up close or from my vantage point, she’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, reduced to raw need that’s finally being met. She’s left with only three senses by which to process what’s happening, and she makes the most of them, her nostrils flaring as she breathes in my scent, rubs her face against my hot spear, licks long lines up and down, and then moves back to the head, which she paints in circle with her tongue.
I watch all of it, memorizing her pink, wet lips, the way the same cock I’ve held in my hand thousands of times looks completely different in this context. I don’t pay too much attention to it when I’m jerking off. It’s not that it’s small or shabby by any means. But I don’t have that need to stare at it as proudly as I do now, showing it off for unnamed viewers even as I show off my girl’s most prized possession—her mouth. I hold my cock in my hand and, as she’d suggested, slap it across her face. Her tongue scrambles out eagerly, and I slap it with my cock, then beat it against her lips before plunging back inside. I hold my fingers around the skin at the base, pressing against my balls as she pushes forward to meet my digits, her soft lips kissing my knuckles as she swallows me again and again. The sound of her breathing is getting louder and louder, and I realize that as fun as it would be to do a real money shot and splatter her lips with my come, I need to fuck her more than I ever have. I almost lose it when she pulls off and says, “I love you, Matt.” For her, this is not just about sex, not just about proving herself the best cocksucker I’ve ever encountered. It’s about loving me, worshiping me with her mouth, with herself. I lean down and kiss her, my big tongue claiming her small mouth, then turn off the camera. She’s all mine again.
“You’re mine, you know that, right?” I ask as I slip off the blindfold. This time I do see tears streaking her face and they’re gorgeous. I lick one cheek and then the other, tasting their saltiness. Up close like this, I see the tiny freckles that come and go with the sun, the faint marks and lines that you can only see from such a tight angle, the ones I really do think of as mine alone to view at my leisure.
“I’m yours,” she says, keeping her eyes on mine even though I know she wants to get to my cock again. I can’t look away, and instead of what I’d planned, I put her on her back. Lifting her legs onto my shoulders, I rub my cock against her cunt, graze her clit with the head. She’s so wet I can’t hold off and I sink inside, leaning down so I’m crushing her breasts against my chest. I see her hair, now even more tousled, spread out before her, stray bits of glitter along her forehead—see the spots where her lips are chapped from overuse.
I reach my hand between our bodies and press against her clit hard with my thumb, then shift just so to that position that always make her look like she’s about to pass out. I watch her face for the show that never gets old, no matter how many times I press Repeat, the one that I feel in every inch of my body as the tunnel of her cunt tightens around me before the ecstasy takes over, the culmination of her night’s work written all over her body as she looks up at me one last time with those big, brown eyes before letting herself sink into the bliss of orgasm. I pull back and then slam into her, plunging as deep inside as I can before pulling out and coming in a single stream of hot lava that has her twitching all over again. I lie down next to her and hug her as tightly as I can, letting her keep right on shuddering into my arms. This is the Christina I plan to marry, the girl who’ll go where her deepest desires take her. Sometimes I want to share such beauty with the world, and sometimes I want to be the only one who gets to bask in what she offers up to me. Christina gives me the power to choose.
But no matter what, I get to watch.