Sex with a Sting: Six Erotic Fantasies with a Kink in the Tail

by Foxwell, C. D.

  Today, she walked past at 9.11am. That was about average. He noted the time down on a small pad. He had started scribbling down the times on the third day of watching her. Was that creepy? He just found it interesting. He liked thinking about what she did in the time between when she went to the school and when she returned.

  She walked slowly, like a relaxed cat. Almost sauntering. The sun seemed to sparkle in her hair. She wore pink lipstick. He could see it even from his window. He imagined her putting it on in the morning. She wasn’t a mum who would drop the kids off in the car while still wearing slippers and her hair in curlers. Did women still use curlers these days?

  He was on the first floor, so he viewed her from an angle. As she passed, she looked up at him, quite suddenly. His instinct was to hide, to duck away. But that would just look more suspicious. So he stayed where he was, frozen to the spot. Surely she couldn’t see his eyes from there? With a glare from the sun on the window? No. No chance. He could be looking at anything as far as she was concerned. So he stood, hand in his pocket, a slight thrill coursing through him. Then she looked away.

  This had happened before. At first, he thought he was imagining things. But now she had looked at least three times, maybe four. It was as if she knew he had been watching her and she was trying to catch him out. She never looked angry. She just glanced, almost checking that he was there.

  Was this wrong? He was married after all. Did this make him a Peeping Tom? A pervert? A sex pest? Maybe. But it didn’t stop him imagining running his hands through her hair or gripping her arse or carefully placing his thick cock between those voluptuous tits…

  Fantasies. Harmless fantasies.

  She knew he was watching. She had first clocked him a couple of weeks earlier, looking out his window while she took the kids to school. The first time, she just smiled. She could tell he was looking at her and she enjoyed the sensation of being looked at. She could feel his eyes following her as she walked down the road to the school.

  After that, she would try and sneak a look every time she walked past, to see if he was standing there. He always was. She knew that he was waiting specifically for her. Sometimes she would deliberately look right at him to try to make him feel uncomfortable about his obvious voyeurism. Other times, to be coy, she would pretend to ignore him completely, hoping this would drive him even crazier.

  She never had a very clear view of him, she could never gather the nerve to stop and get a proper look. But what she had seen, she liked. Smart, ironed shirt and simple tie. Broad shoulders and no gut. Short, dark hair. Rough, designer stubble. The eyes… she knew they would be blue, piercing, clear, somehow betraying a primal instinct.

  So she started thinking a little more about what she would wear to drop the kids off. A few weeks earlier, it would be whatever she could find that was reasonably respectable in the few spare moments she had in the mornings between showering, checking her husband had sorted out the kids’ breakfasts, getting the kids ready for school, kissing her husband goodbye and gulping down a black coffee. Now, she found herself rising 15 minutes earlier, just before the kids woke at around six. She would go to her wardrobe and try to imagine what the man in the window wanted to see.

  Sometimes it would be her skinny jeans, which she knew her arse looked phenomenal in, because her husband had told her that many, many times. Once or twice it would be a short, tight skirt, the kind she hardly ever wore these days and absolutely not appropriate for a walk to school, but she was sure he would get a kick out of seeing her in it. She wore fishnets. She wore a taut blouse with buttons that strained hard against the pressure of her boobs. On one particularly warm, sunny day, she wore a spaghetti-strapped top, cut off denim shorts and sandals. That day, as she returned from the school, she looked him right in the eye for at least three seconds, almost daring him to come and speak to her. But he just stood there, impassive, staring back, hands in pockets. She knew – she knew – that he was desperate to touch his cock while he looked at her.

  She fantasised about him. About him jogging out to meet her in the street. About him trying to chat her up while she played hard to get and pointed at the ring on her finger. She thought about marching into his office, closing his door, of accusing him of stalking her and then, once he had feigned innocence and begged forgiveness, dropping to her knees in front of him, unzipping him, taking out his penis, and sucking him dry.

  Was that okay? Was she allowed to fantasise like that? Was it harmless? What would her husband say about a fantasy like that? Does everyone do it? Even happily married people? Who was worse – him for so nakedly staring at her, so lasciviously drinking her in every day? Or her, for encouraging him with her revealing clothing, for letting him know she was watching him too?

  He knew that she knew he was watching her now. She had made that clear. He felt they had established something – a connection of sorts. Once that has happened, it is difficult not to want more. Now, seeing her from a few metres away, from behind the glass, from inside his dark office, was no longer enough. He needed something else. He needed to be closer.

  The thing he wanted was to walk past her. To be near her, to get a proper look, to maybe even catch her scent as she ambled by. He arrived at work from the same direction she came from, so, in order to achieve this wish, he one day left home a little later than usual. His wife even commented on it, pointing out that it was strange he should leave late, because he always liked to leave at exactly the same time each day. He smiled back at her, unable to offer an excuse or a reason.

  That day, he walked straight past his office. He walked another 300 metres or so up the road, past the school. He looked at his watch. 8.51am. That should do it. He scanned the area and did an about turn. To him, turning around on the pavement and walking in the opposite direction always looked suspicious. Probably to everyone else it just looked like he had forgotten something, or gone the wrong way, but he still felt self-conscious doing it.

  He took a leisurely walk back in the direction of the school and his office. He could see a small crowd of mums and dads and a few kids at the school gates in the middle distance. No sign of her yet. He craned his neck to see if she was approaching this group from the other side. Soon, he was getting dangerously close. He wanted to see her there, at the gates. He might be able to take a close look without her even seeing him. Was she running late? He couldn’t wait to see what she was wearing.

  Ah, there she was. Joining the throng, bending down to kiss the little ones goodbye before sending them inside. Now she was standing, talking, gesturing and laughing with the other parents.

  As he approached the school he could see her in profile. She was dressed all in white. Her long cotton skirt billowed in the wind, occasionally affording sly glimpses of a tanned leg. Her top was tighter: elegant, yet sexy with thin straps around her neck. At the top and around her waist, it was in a crochet style, with small voids in an intricate pattern, keyholes with which to see her sunshine skin contrast with the creamy fabric. The material was more solid and tighter around her boobs, but right in the middle there was a large gap, flagrantly exposing a tantalising glimpse of cleavage.

  He tried not to stare as he edged closer. He tried not to drink in her hotness, her incredible, scalding sex appeal. He was afraid she’d catch him. From behind the glass he could at least claim to be looking at something else, to simply be staring, absent-mindedly, out the window. This operation required more subtlety. As he approached her, he kept his eyes nice and high. He flicked his glance between looking straight ahead and looking at her, for milliseconds at a time. It took every ounce of his strength not to look for longer, or to steal a glance at that perfectly round booty. He was taking one last look as he was about to pass behind her when, quite suddenly, she turned round. They looked right into each other’s eyes. Briefly but unmistakably, she checked him out, her eyes running up and down his body. It was a lustful look that none of the other parents would have noticed because it was so quick. But he saw it. He was s
ure he saw it.

  It fuelled his fantasies.

  Over the next two weeks he would sometimes repeat this trick. He would walk past the school then slowly stroll back, hoping to see her at the gates. Twice he mixed things up by organising a brief meeting with a co-worker at a coffee shop first thing in the morning before timing the walk back to the office to coincide with her return from the school. Each time, they exchanged a look and even a smile. This subtle flirtation became more brazen each time they saw each other. They would hold each other’s gaze for longer and longer. The look would become more overtly sexual, more obviously hungry.

  At night, he found himself lying awake while his wife slept, his cock growing at the thought of her. He imagined devouring her in an alleyway, ravishing her in his office, fucking her at the back of a half-empty cinema...

  Every day she looked forward to seeing him, whether it was by the school gates, near his office, or at his window. She never changed her routine. It was always the same. She relied on him to find her, she expected him to be somewhere where he could see her. She liked it when he was somewhere different, somewhere he had not been before, catching her unawares. Like that first time at the school gates, giving her that dirty, desirous look in front of all the other parents. Or the time he was walking with a colleague, an attractive younger woman, actually, but even while he was speaking to the colleague, he stared at her. Right at her. Fixing her with those blue eyes until she had blushed and looked away.

  She wondered how this was going to end. Who would make the first move? How would she react? Like him, she would sometimes lie awake thinking about scenarios. She would imagine him secretly watching her in bed as she allowed her fingers to travel down her body. She imagined him hiding, thinking that she didn’t know he was there. She imagined him getting hard as she masturbated. She imagined him jerking off as she watched her, and it made her wet.

  One day, he timed his walk wrong. He tried the stroll past the school gates, but she was nowhere to be seen. In front of him, a gaggle of parents moved off together, laughing in the sunshine. She wasn’t with them. He was already late for work. His occasional recent lateness had been commented on by the secretaries, who teased him about it. “You always used to be first in, last to leave,” they squeaked. “What happened?”

  He quickened his pace. He would see her tomorrow. Or maybe he would see her in a minute, from his window. From the window, yes. She was probably a bit late. He walked faster, wanting to make sure he was up the stairs and in his room and looking out his window before she passed. His pace caused him to trip on a loose paving stone. He didn't fall, but staggered forward, jogged, and regained his balance. Immediately, he heard laughter behind him. He turned, and there she was, emerging from the school gates, mocking him. “Were you trying to style that out?”

  “Yeah, I guess I was. Did it work?”

  “Not really.” She laughed again. She caught him up and stood close to him. Very close.

  “So... don't I know you?” he asked, smiling.

  “Well, you’ve spent the last few weeks staring at me.”

  “Staring?”

  “Yes. Here, on the street. From your office window, too.”

  “You saw me in the office?”

  “Oh yeah! Pervert!” she laughed.

  “How could you be sure I was staring at you? How could you tell?”

  “I knew.”

  “You wore all those… clothes,” he stammered.

  “I did.”

  “For me?”

  “Mmm,” she covertly pinched the bottom of his tie between her thumb and forefinger and tugged it, pulling him closer. She thought about touching his chest. His shirt was agreeably tight in that area, around his strong upper arms, too. “See, I'm not totally blameless in all this… I've been perving at you too.”

  “Have you?”

  She nodded. Before he knew what he was doing, he had grabbed her gorgeous body at the waist and pulled her into an alleyway. He pinned her against the wall, their bodies pressed together.

  “What would my husband say?” she protested, but her eyes betrayed her innocence. He kissed her, softly at first, but then deeply, hungrily, and with desperation as he felt her react, her tongue searching his mouth, her hands at the back of his head. His hands scrambled up and down her body. Their kissing increased in intensity. Her hand went to his trousers and she felt him. Hard. Straining. “Oh God,” she murmured. She unzipped him, but he stopped her.

  “Not here.”

  “Come back to mine.” Less a suggestion, more a demand.

  He kissed and bit at her neck. “I can't. Work.”

  “Come back to mine. Fuck me.” He was desperate for her. And here she was, in his arms, her tongue on his neck, her hand on his cock, his fingers sliding up her skirt, feeling the soft, smooth, delicate skin at the top of her thighs. He kissed her again. “No. Tomorrow?” She pushed him away.

  “I’m not sure I can do tomorrow.” She slipped under his arms, and was back out on the pavement, leaving him there, breathing hard, fly undone, hard-on raging. He leant his head against the cold brick wall.

  She hurried home, replaying the moment in her head. Scalding herself for letting him take her so easily, for giving in, for inviting him home before she knew what she was saying. She shouldn’t have done that, but she was lucky that he had refused. She congratulated herself for slipping away. It had taken all her willpower to do that. She could have taken his cock out right there. She could have made him come in that alleyway. She could have slid her thong to one side and guided him inside her if she had wanted to. She could have let him fuck her, metres from a busy road, up against the wall. Quickly. Feverishly. Anyone could have seen them. But she had managed to get away. She had left him there, gasping. She had won that round.

  As she lay in a hot bath that night she thought again of the incident. She recalled his lips on hers and the feel of his dick underneath the material of his suit trousers. She closed her eyes, sipped her wine and, with the door locked and the kids asleep, she stroked her pussy until she shivered to the orgasm her body had been demanding all day.

  He was consumed with thoughts of her, too. Should he have followed her back home instead of putting her off? He regretted that. But it had seemed wrong. And he had to go to work. Images of his wife flooded his mind. He stared at the TV from the sofa, but he couldn’t concentrate. He thought about how close he had come to just yanking her knickers down and fucking her in the alley. He slid a hand down his boxers and began masturbating, praying his wife or kids wouldn’t suddenly come bounding down the stairs. He pulled quickly, urgently. He thought of her in the alley, of lifting her thigh to his hip, of pressing his cock against her panties and then wrenching them to one side so he could enter her. He thought of her roughly grabbing at his shoulders, inching her body up and down his hardness. Very quickly, he came.

  The next day he needed to be in his office early. He was expecting a call. Still, it allowed him to look out the window again. Unfortunately, the call came at the wrong time and he missed her passing by in one direction. Desperately, at 9.18am, he was back at the window, hoping he hadn’t missed her completely, but there she was, approaching at that same moment. She wore tight black jeans that hugged and cradled that arse he had briefly got his hands on, and a tight white t-shirt through which you could probably see her bra, if you were a little closer – and if she was wearing one. He cursed his luck to be so far away, behind the glass. As she walked by, she looked up at him for several seconds. A wanton, lustful look. Using the hand in his pocket, he stealthily brought himself to a full erection.

  She had been disappointed not to see him on the street. She suspected he did it deliberately to pay her back for slipping from his grasp the day before, for turning him on and then running away. But that had been his fault. She had offered herself right there and he had refused. His work was more important. Her husband was often like that. Now he was playing the game too, denying her another touch, another kiss, another
brief fumble, or more.

  She was glad when she saw him in the window, though. She knew she looked good that day, several of the mums at the school had even commented on it and she caught her son’s teacher sneaking a peek at her chest. Let him watch, she thought. She looked up at him and smiled and hoped that she was teasing him enough to make him want to go and jerk off in the loo like a horny, desperate teenager. Even that lurid thought turned her on. She needed to be with him.

  He was thinking the same thing. He returned to the routine of walking past the school then doubling back on himself. When he passed the school gates he looked for her, but there was a real crowd of people – more than usual, and he couldn’t pick her out. He couldn’t just stand there so he kept walking and then ducked into the alley further down the road. He waited, watching the various mums and other people passing by. He skulked behind a brick pillar so people wouldn’t be able to see him clearly.

  Finally, he spotted her. He stepped out and tapped her elbow. She turned, a little startled, but he was already retreating into the alley. She followed him, glancing over her shoulder to check no one was paying her any attention. He had his back to the wall. She stood close to him, her feet either side of his, her pelvis pressed against him, her hands on his firm waist. They kissed, passionately, almost unable to contain themselves, painfully bumping teeth even, but not caring because they were so rapt by lust.

  He grabbed her arse, pulling her against him, while she roughly jammed her hand under his belt and inside his loose boxer shorts. She leant back a little as she let her hands squeeze his iron dick. They were breathless. He took a hand and roughly kneaded her breast, grabbing at it, pawing at it, trying to push his hand down her top and inside her bra. Then, all of a sudden, she withdrew her hand, batted his away, and took a step back.