by Roz Lee
He nods and she lines up again, then pushes hard until it's clear his tight muscles have relented and let her in.
His head arches back and I see the edge of his mouth stretching wide in a grimace. Does he not like the feeling of being breached in the ass? Is he moaning now, in pleasure, or in pain? Then I realize he is not grimacing. He's exhilarated, and the thought excites me almost into orgasm right then and there.
“Yes, fuck him,” I urge as her hips begin to drive her cock home. He reaches between his legs and pumps his own organ as she thrusts hard into his ass.
The sight of her breasts jiggling as she holds onto his hips and pushes her way into the depths of his body is too much, and I feel the telling clench of an orgasm take hold and then push me over the edge.
I scream this time as I come, my breath fogging the window and my hands clutching the ledge. They come too, almost at the same time as me, and then I hear the tell-tale guttural moan from Will and I know without even looking that his second orgasm of the evening is arcing through the air in a spray of creamy cum.
I'm not even touching myself right now. I've moved my hands away to leave everything open and clear, so Will can see the spurt of fluid and the clench of my pussy as my body releases, my puckered little asshole squeezing tight, and the pulsing of my engorged clit as everything shatters at once.
Release. Agony. Ecstasy. Oblivion. Everything and everyone explodes until finally, all of us are spent.
I collapse against the window frame and a sob escapes. Too much. I can't even hold myself up any longer.
But then strong arms are there, supporting me, offering the love and comfort that I crave.
“Isabel.”
Relief fills every fiber of my being as I turn and fall against him. Those strong arms of my husband hold me firm. “Will.”
I can't even speak properly, I'm so spent, but I feel his grin break through against the top of my head and his lips press a delicate kiss on my scalp.
“Amazing. You're amazing. Your body, your total lack of restraint on these nights…” His arms tighten around me. “I can't get enough of watching you. Izzy, I love you.”
The ferocity in his tone shocks me. I look up and into his eyes and read there just how much he means it. My butterflies are back, only now they're beating so hard against the walls of my stomach that the echo resonates right through my whole body. This is what it felt like when we were teenagers and Will first asked me out. I'd forgotten the giddy excitement and anticipation.
Only, right now it has nothing to do with sexual anticipation and everything to do with the anticipation of being held. Being loved.
I snuggle my head against his chest, and even though he's still wearing a shirt, the heat and the strength of his embrace is all-encompassing. He really loves me. I know it. I feel it in his touch.
“I love you too, Will. And I love that you get pleasure from this, well…fetish, I suppose it's called.”
“Yeah. Course I do. You ready for bed yet?”
I nod. Danny will likely be done after that last performance. But even if he's not, for some reason tonight, I'm done. I need to go to bed with my husband, and I need him to hold me.
Touch. The one thing I will never have from Dan is the one thing I yearn for from my husband.
My arms snake around his waist and squeeze in return. His skin is warm and on this cold winter's night it is so reassuring to be in my husband's arms. “Take me to bed, Will.”
I let out a huff of breath when he suddenly sweeps me up into his arms. My feet in those red stilettos dangle uselessly, and I rub my heels together, shucking them off. I don't need them anymore tonight.
He looks down briefly when they thump on the floor, then meets my gaze. “I love you in those heels, but I love you even more without them.”
I wrap my arms around his neck. “Thank you.” I'm not talking about the shoe comment, and he knows it. I see the knowledge in his eyes, and in the wry, self-deprecating grin that lifts his mouth at one corner.
“My pleasure, hon. I'm just glad…you know…that you found something to enjoy.”
He lowers me to the bed, so much more gently than Dan did with his companion earlier in the night, and tucks me in before sliding in beside me. “As long as I get to keep doing this…” He slips one arm beneath my shoulders and wraps the other over my waist, spooning me tightly. “Then I'm a happy guy.”
The realization hits in that instant, making me stiffen for a moment before relaxing into his embrace. “I'm happy too, Will.”
Dan always sends his partners home and in the end he sleeps alone. I, on the other hand, am so much luckier. I get to do this every night. I nestle my backside into the curve of his body and my eyes drift closed. The best of both worlds. “I love it when you touch me, Will. When you hold me. When you…love me…”
The last thing I feel before the gentle drift into sleep is the tickle of Will's fingertips across my skin. Touch. The last taboo. And my husband does it to perfection.
Words that will never be said
Last night was incredibly satisfying but it resulted in me sleeping through the alarm and now I'm running late for work. When you're in retail, it's important to get there in time to open the store. Or so my manager keeps telling me, whenever he rosters me on so early.
There's buttered toast in my mouth as I exit our building and I'm scrabbling through my purse for the car keys when I look up and…he's there. Danny. Standing right in front of me at the bank of mail boxes outside our building.
He's pushing a small padded envelope through the opening of one of the boxes, only he stops what he's doing when he sees me. I feel my eyes go wide and I'm positive I'm gaping. I glance down and back up. Yep. It's our mail box.
He's even more gorgeous up close, and I'm right about his eyes. They are blue, though I never got the full effect of their amazing heat until right now, when he's standing only three feet away and surprise turns them from brilliant aqua to a slightly darker hue.
My mouth drops open and I stand there like an idiot, until I suddenly remember that the damn toast is still in my mouth. Oh, my God.
I quickly swallow then start to say something…anything…even just a simple, “Hi there.” But I can't do it. The words stick in my throat like a wayward crumb from my food and won't come forth even when he lifts a slow hand toward my cheek.
Danny. Oh my Lord, are you really going to touch me?
My heart skips a beat then resumes its tattoo at a faster pace than before. For a second I think maybe he's going to do it. He wants to. I read the flare of longing in his eyes and wonder if he can see the same uncertain hunger reflected in mine.
The last taboo. His fingers almost graze one of the wavy clumps of hair that somehow always work loose from my hairclip no matter how diligently I try to tie it all back.
Will loves the bits of my hair that slip free. When he's off work and we sit together to watch television he's always playing with my curls, letting the strands slip and slide through his fingers as if it's a form of stress relief.
With Danny, though, it just doesn't seem right. I hold still, unable to bring myself to lean those final couple of centimeters toward him. Will we finally connect? Alarm wars with excitement and I'm not sure which side is winning. Something significant is about to happen and if I move a muscle, even to undertake a task as simple as breathing, it might destroy the perfection of the moment.
But then his hand drops away without touching me at all, and when the shift of air from his brief movement rustles across my skin, my shoulders sag and I know which side has won. Relief! My breath hisses out shakily and almost turns into a laugh when I hear the same hissing sound leave his lips.
Oh, Danny, my mirage lover. There are so many things I want to say to you. So many things I'd love to do with you. And yet I can't. We can't. It would destroy everything we have. And I think you know it, too.
His head dips to the side as he studies me in silence. I feel like his gaze is ravishing me, fea
ture by feature, as he commits my image to memory. I know that's what he's doing, because I'm currently doing exactly the same to him. Then he nods once, his lips twisting in a crooked grin that acknowledges our unspoken connection.
We both realize at the same time that the package is still suspended half in and half out of our mail slot, held in place by his grip. Will he pull it out and hand it to me? He studies it, clearly considering, then with a sudden determined movement he pushes the envelope all the way in and it disappears inside the box.
Dan takes two steps away and pauses, then looks back at me again, his brows coming together in a quizzical frown. He opens his mouth, snaps it shut, and then he's gone, just that quickly.
I blink hard, swallowing down the regretful ache that still clutches at my throat. All the words that will never be said. All the actions that will remain forever in my imagination.
Oh, Danny. I can’t yet bring myself to touch the post so I leave the box unchecked and continue toward my car. Whatever it is, it will be waiting there for me this evening. Perhaps it might be something I can wear during our sessions?
A sudden joy fills me. I'm so lucky. My husband, my real flesh-and-blood partner of over twenty years, continues to love me no matter what secret fetishes and desires lay beneath my ordinary façade. And I love him, too, despite what we've been through these past couple of years. He's the one who always holds me tight whenever I need it most. He is real. I know we'll get through this rough patch. I can already feel a lessening of the constriction that held me so cruelly in its grip when I first found out what he did.
Yet I also have my dream lover. My beautiful and “safe” mirage, Danny, who keeps me from starving in a world that doesn't always understand the desires that drive us.
Perhaps I am also Dan's mirage, in a way, and that's why he understood today when I hesitated. If you try to reach for a mirage and it turns out to be less than what you hope or expect…
Danny and I are correct not to break the fantasy by letting reality intrude, I'm sure of it. Will is my reality and I don't need anyone else to play that role.
This week I will continue to get on with life. My ordinary, extraordinary life. And next Sunday, at midnight, I will be waiting once again by the window, hoping to live out my voyeuristic fantasies and engage in a sensual game of watching where everyone who plays is a winner.
∞∞∞
Please read on for Roz Lee's voyeuristic offering:
Lookin' Good
LOOKIN’ GOOD
A Not Vanilla (Voyeurism) novelette
by
Roz Lee
I Hate Him
Let me be frank. I love my girlfriends, and I live for these casual meet-ups at The Lone Star. The world-famous honky-tonk is the place to see and be seen in Ft. Worth. I would never tell my friends the real reason I come here—let them think it’s to see them. But if every one of them decided never to set foot in this place again, I’d still come.
Everyone talks at once, which is the norm. Our numbers vary from six to twelve, depending on work schedules, dates, and the weather. We sit around, consume copious amounts of alcohol, and catch up on everything from work-related issues to celebrity gossip. The more drinks, the looser the tongues. I owe my knowledge of many things to tequila shots and margaritas. Some things you can’t un-hear, you know?
Men passing through our lives are discussed in detail except for two. April won’t dish on her fiancé, and we long since quit expecting her to, and I refuse to talk about Travis. Some things are private. Right?
That’s the way I see it, anyway.
There aren’t enough tequila shots in the world to make me tell them what happened between me and Travis. Sometimes, I still can’t believe what he did or continues to do for me. I love the man, more than I’ve ever loved anyone, but I can’t bring myself to commit to a lifetime with him.
He doesn’t come to The Lone Star every week, but our favorite band, Barbed Wire, is playing tonight, so natch, he’s here. I’ve never seen his date before. Where did he find this one? She doesn’t look like she belongs this far west—too polished, like a Dallas sorority girl. Yeah, I recognize the style. Perfect blonde curls hanging down her back, lips artificially plumped and painted a shade of red best left on barns. Her clothes scream high-dollar country chic. No self-respecting cowgirl would be caught dead wearing a silk blouse with curtain-fringe trim.
I, on the other hand, am a self-respecting cowgirl. I’m wearing my usual night-on-the-town outfit—a black tank top with an outline of the state of Texas on the front in pink rhinestones over a denim miniskirt, leaving my legs bare down to mid-calf where my favorite boots take over. The custom-made, black ostrich hide, with inlayed yellow roses along a hand-stitched vine, complete with thorns, cost me a fortune. But they’re my signature. I only take them off to work and to fuck, and sometimes not even then. Just ask Travis.
No, wait. Don’t. He’s got the tramp eating out of his hand—literally. Gag.
He’s doing it for me. He has no interest in the woman. He’s never interested in any of them. They’re all for me. I both love and hate him for it. Once, I thought it would be wonderful to have a man know everything about me and still love me, but now that I do, the reality is enough to destroy me. And it does, over and over again, every time he brings another one to The Lone Star. I want the gifts to stop, but they never will. Which is why I can’t be with him. He’ll never quit doing it for me, and as much as I love him, love his generosity, I hate it, too.
Needing to pace myself, I look away, pretending interest in the conversation at our table. It’s too early to let him draw me in, though, in the back of my mind, he had me from the minute he sat in my line of sight.
Penny sips her beer—no fancy drinks for her—and recounts in detail meeting some rodeo star who blew into her family’s western-wear store the other day. I couldn’t care less, but I smile and laugh and ask stupid questions like everyone else. Once upon a time, I would have been interested in the firmness of his ass and the way his jeans molded to his package, but that was before I met and fell in love with Travis, my very own rodeo star. After experiencing firsthand the way the man rides a mare, no one else will do. Yet, I don’t think I could ever be happy with him.
Barbed Wire launches into their first set. Like a drug, their music swirls through my bloodstream, stirring up moods with their poignant lyrics. Whoever writes their songs has been in love. They understand the incredible high of sharing body and soul with another person, and they know the shattering heartbreak of exposed secrets. Their set is a mixture of sad and happy sprinkled with some humor and occasionally despair. Typical country music, only better than most. I’ll never understand why they haven’t gone on to the big-time. Rumors come and go about contracts being turned down, but no one ever says why. Secrets. Everyone has them.
It’s all I can do to keep from cutting my eyes in Travis’s direction. Even though he’s paying the required attention to his date, I can sense his gaze on me. It’s always the same, part lust and part apology. He wants me to be happy. I get it. What he doesn’t get is I’ll never be completely happy as long as he continues to remind me of the one thing I loathe about myself.
Giving in to my inclinations, I glance his way. The sight of her pink tongue licking barbeque sauce from his fingers makes me want to weep. Certain parts of me do, which makes me want to cry, too. It’s like this every time. I don’t want to watch, but I can’t help myself. The more sensual the scene, the more I’m drawn to it. He knows it, too. Damn him.
I squirm on the stool, trying to alleviate the throb between my legs without touching myself.
Beth elbows me in the ribs. “He’s here again,” she says, pitching her voice to be heard over the band. It isn’t humanly possible to be less discreet. “He’s lookin’ good, don’t you think?”
Everyone at our table gawks at Travis, even the ones who have to turn around to do so. To say Travis is lookin’ good is the understatement of the century. Trust me, he’
s got nothing on the rodeo guy Penny has been crushing on. I’ve seen the guy. Travis is a good six inches taller, and, where the other guy could be described as lanky, absolutely no one would apply that adjective to Travis. His shoulders are broad, his chest muscled and covered with enough hair to make your tits stand up and beg when he brushes up against them. You could do laundry on his abs. It’s a good thing he rarely ends up on his ass when he competes, ’cause there ain’t an ounce of fat back there. It’s all muscle, girlfriend. Don’t get me started on how his backside looks in a pair of jeans. Well, everyone who’s ever seen him knows already.
His eyes are the exact shade of faded denim, framed with long lashes I would die for. No matter how often he shaves a shadow of his dark beard shows. He knows it drives me crazy when he lets it grow a day or two. From where I’m sitting, it looks like his face hasn’t seen a razor since day before yesterday. The man is trying to kill me. I swear.
I shrug for the benefit of the girls at the table then tip back the tequila shot I’d been hanging onto since arriving. It might as well be acid for all I taste.
Suddenly, getting blind drunk sounds pretty good. I raise the empty shot glass above my head, waving it around until our waitress gets the message. A few minutes later, she takes the empty, plunking a full one down in its place.
If I look at Travis, he’ll know exactly what I’m trying to do, and he’ll be angry. So, I don’t look. Instead, I raise the glass to my lips and tilt it up, throwing my head and the liquor back at the same time. Just like watching Travis, I have to pace myself with the drinking. Yeah, I want to get shit-faced but not as much as I want what Travis is here to give me. This time, I slam the thick glass onto the table, leaving it there while I savor the burn in my gut and wait for the tequila to blur the lines between virtue and obscenity.
