by Violet Blue
I wore my irritation for him like a weight belt the rest of the day. Why did he leave my stuff on the porch in a bag that could have easily passed as garbage? Anyone could have grabbed that bag. I slowly rotated my head, letting the hot beads of water from the showerhead roll down my shoulders. The thoughts consumed me as I soaped. Not even the liquid heat was helping to reduce my tension. What if someone had picked that up off of his porch? Why didn’t he warn me so I wouldn’t open it in a public place? What if someone had seen it over my shoulder? Would it have been a happy surprise with their grande latte? Would they think my milky cream skin was a lovely complement to coffee?
My soapy hands rounded along my full breasts making quick swipes then slowing, molding me like his had done when he put the camera down. I slid one hand down and squeezed my inner thigh and dragged two fingers along my lips as my other hand worked its way back to my chest. He always had the most talented hands. I looked down, seeing my nipples perky despite the shower’s heat. I rolled them each between my fingers. This is what he saw. My nipples like life rafts floating in a sea of flesh, surrounded and begging to be tugged. This is what the trash man would have seen. This is what the coffee drinker would have seen. I twisted my tight little nipples until the pressure tingled its way down to my center.
After my shower, I found myself one part irritated, two parts intrigued. I couldn’t clear my mind of the thought that someone could have seen that photo of me, and what that person might have felt after finding it. The more I thought about it, the more I liked the fact that I might have interjected the idea of sex into his or her day. I slipped out of bed and grabbed my digital camera from my purse. Climbing back under the covers, I clicked on the camera and switched off the light. I shimmied out of my panties and threw off my gown. Then I lifted the sheet and snapped a shot of the length of my nude body, stretched out and bright white from the flash.
In the morning, I printed the picture from my home computer, folded it twice and traveled with it back to the coffee shop near my ex’s house. The barista handed me a tall hot chocolate and a muffin and when he wasn’t looking, I dropped the picture into his tip jar.
That night, the camera got a little closer, with my knees bent, tenting the bedsheet and the lens pointing directly between my thighs. That one I posted on the coffee shop bulletin board, hidden partially behind a flier offering dog-walking services. A shot of me on my hands and knees would have been more suitable, I mused.
Imagination is the ability to form mental images, sensations and concepts in a moment when your senses fail you for information. You can close your eyes and imagine how a woman might appear embarrassed to find a photo of your naked breasts when she opens her dinner menu. Can you see the confusion creep across her face, then the blush trickle to her chest, flushing bright against the plunging neckline of her black dress? Then see her forehead crease as disgust sets in. Picture the way her husband pretends to agree with her dismay as she shoves it his way, him trying not to look too closely at this seemingly disgusting image. See him pressing his wide palm against his awakened crotch as his wife yells for the waiter’s assistance.
I thought of that palm all night as I sprawled naked between the cool, thin cotton sheets, pressing my fingers against slick folds as I imagine he might have desired. I can’t be sure who got the menu I laced that night; yet, whether or not they planned to order accordingly, it seems they got the special.
Menus are easy to access, I discovered. Whether it’s a coffee shop or a fancy restaurant, there is plenty opportunity to insert yourself into people’s lives. That’s why they became the scene of my first few experiments. You see, what my ex had unwittingly taught me by leaving that photo in public is that there is a fine line between embarrassment and eroticism. The body language of surprise is similar to the body language of sex: widened eyes, gasping, trembling, mouth dropping open, the sharp jolt of tension that passes through your chest. If approached correctly, what may have originally surprised then embarrassed you can be redirected to surprise and excite you.
The last of the restaurant rotation I left inside the seat of the piano bench at a seafood place that featured live music on Saturday nights. On top of the sheet music was a distant shot of my ass, glowing with handprints. The camera’s timer had come in handy and with every second countdown, I slapped my skin a little harder, priming myself for the perfect shot. Maybe the piano man would find it after a long night of playing, hide it from his bandmates and stop in the restroom before his drive home. Leaning against the chilly marble countertop, he would sweep his hand along his cock like playing a slide trombone, picturing his pelvis bumping against my strawberry cheeks and making my sweet cunt sing.
I toured an open house in a nearby neighborhood, posing as an interested homebuyer. Inside one of the kitchen drawers I left a new photo of me. The realtor revealed that the house was move-in ready since the previous owners had already moved into their new home. So move in I did…on a dark-haired couple who was also touring. “This may sound strange,” I said to them when they stopped to examine the kitchen sink fixtures. “But you two look great in this house. Something about it just suits you.” Later I pictured them as happy new homeowners, him wearing a paint-stained alma mater T-shirt and her in short shorts, surrounded by boxes and trying to settle into this new house. She would be putting away knives and spoons and discover a folded picture of legs in fishnets straddling a kitchen chair. “Honey, come and see this,” she would say. He would enter, stand behind her and wrap one arm around her small waist, using the other to hold out the photo for examination. “Hmm,” he would mutter as they stood in contemplation for a moment longer, until she started slowly grinding her rear into him and he pulled firmly against her waist, pressing himself harder into her. Quickly her short shorts would be down and his T-shirt would be flung and they would fuck on the kitchen counter, her hands reaching above her head to grab the shiny sink fixtures for leverage.
Sitting naked on my bedroom floor, I lathered my feet up to my calves in baby oil, leaving them slick and shining. Then I sat cross-legged, being careful not to block too much of my naked center from the camera lens. I carefully threaded a pearl necklace between my toes, beads becoming slick as they passed through. I shaped the trailing end of the necklace into a heart. Click.
I walked onto the first floor of a nearby hotel and dropped the photo, sealed in a manila envelope, at the doorstep of room 169. It seems the lucky resident got a side order of my glossy toes and plump clit with his room service. In the hotel locker room adjacent to the pool I slipped the string of pearls between my legs and rubbed along folds slicker than baby oil.
Then I needed to see my viewers: once, with the photo taped to the front of a TV on display as I watched for reactions from the next aisle over; once with it shoved under the windshield wipers of a four-door sedan with me watching from my rearview mirror; once, gripping my breast in hand while my newspaper blocked my unbuttoned blouse. I had to see who would be so lucky as to pick up the newspaper in which I had hidden my photo.
Tonight there is no newspaper kiosk. No locker room. No open house. Tonight I can only wish for a businessman in a wrinkled gray suit and the picture he might hide away. I’m meeting my brother downtown for dinner and I intend to play it straight. No camera. No pictures. No photo of my ass in a thong slipped at someone’s feet under a bathroom stall door. No shot of an ice cube clutched and melting between my knees. No hiding it under a neighboring plate.
The cab slows as it approaches the restaurant and I slide forward on the magenta leather seat, leaning in to see the tally I owe. The tires stop and I’m pulling out money, but the driver clears the meter to zero. I’m confused. “What do I owe you,” I’m asking, while catching his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Not money,” he says, and his hand is traveling from the meter to his upper thigh, gripping muscle and jeans as one big handful.
I’m still confused as I look again at the meter then at something poking out of the dashboard. And now I see
it. The picture I thought was still with my phone charger and cracked turquoise earrings. The picture I had opened by surprise in a coffee cup from an ex-lover. The picture of me tweaking perky, pink nipples. The picture that must have slipped from a plastic grocery bag during my ride home weeks ago. The picture I didn’t intentionally leave behind. The sun-faded picture now stuck in a crack in the dirty dashboard of this cab. This stranger, who has me behind locked doors, is picturing me naked. On his dashboard and in his backseat, I am wide-eyed and breathless.
WANT
Alison Tyler
“Just leave my stuff alone.”
“I didn’t touch your stupid stuff.”
“Liar.”
“Bitch.”
We used to be friends, Lia and me. We were tight. We could hang out all day long and still have things to talk about in the evening over a beer, or a margarita, or a cosmopolitan. But when we moved in together, everything changed. Her personality—always larger than life—seemed to spill into every corner of the apartment. I felt as if I couldn’t exist in any room except my own. And even there, she’d track me down, stomping into my private haven, spreading her Opium scent everywhere.
“Did you move my hair dryer?”
“Of course not.” I have short hair. I let my curls dry naturally. I’d have no need to touch her styling tools.
“Did you take my shoes?”
“Why would I take your shoes? We don’t even wear the same style.” Lia was all about sky-high heels, while I favored battered motorcycle boots.
She was always accusatory, and finally, I simply stopped talking to her.
Our other roommate, Vincent, didn’t like the behavior. “You’re not going to speak?”
I shrugged.
“To me, too?”
“Well, you’re fucking her, so you’re going to take her side, aren’t you?”
That was actually my biggest problem. Lia had moved in with the two of us. And in a week, she and Vince had started up a relationship. They fucked on the kitchen table, on the sofa, in the shower. I hadn’t wanted to look too hard at what was annoying me the most—because I think if I had, I’d have seen such a strong streak of jealousy in me that I wouldn’t have been able to drown the emerald monster in my beer.
Vincent’s eyes took on a strange glow, and he simply patted me on the head as if I were a stray dog and walked out of the kitchen. I sighed and grabbed another Heineken. So it was only three p.m. It was five o’clock somewhere.
That night, Vince came into my room. I was wearing my headset so I wouldn’t have to listen to the two of them howl, and I was typing on my computer. I didn’t look up. I didn’t even acknowledge his presence until he ran his thumb over my iPod and shut down my volume. The move was strangely erotic. I could imagine his thumb running just that softly over my clit.
“What’s up?”
That same look was in his eyes. Christ, he was so goddamn handsome. Why did he have to look like that? Why did he have to be so doable and go for her instead of me?
“I want to apologize.”
Now, I settled back in my chair. I was intrigued. “For what?”
“For Lia’s behavior.”
“Shouldn’t she be the one to apologize?”
“She will. I assure you. But I have to say, I didn’t stop her from treating you badly. She’s been rude and inconsiderate and, you know, bitchy. But she’s going to pay for that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, tonight, you’re going to listen to me punishing her.”
Had I been mildly interested before? If I had suddenly turned into a cartoon, my eyes would have bugged out of my head and my tongue would have lolled between my lips. In reality, I simply leaned forward, as if quietly intrigued.
Our bedrooms were connected to a bathroom. Vincent went to the wall and opened the adjoining door. Then he walked through the small tiled space and cracked the door that led to his room.
“You can stand in the bathroom. Sit on the counter. Press your face to the slit. Whatever you want. You’ll be able to eavesdrop on Lia’s discipline.”
I was instantly wet. I couldn’t tell if Vincent knew, but I felt the dampness in my panties. I crossed my legs, and Vincent smiled.
“Of course, there’ll be a payment involved.”
“What do you mean?” Did he expect me to give him money?
“Tomorrow night, she’ll get to hear you.”
“Get to hear me what?”
“Get to hear you cry.”
My thoughts felt molasses slow, dark and thick. “What are you talking about?”
His lips curled into a smile. He seemed to appreciate my feistiness. In a very patient tone he said, “Tomorrow night, Lia will get to listen to me punishing you. I’m going to put you over my lap and turn your pale cheeks the color of a red, velvety rose.”
How had he guessed that at night I fantasized about a man spanking me? That the thought of handcuffs turned me on? That the image of a dominant man in control was all I ever needed to get off…? Vincent’s eyes were such a pretty green. I stared at him and imagined him doing all those things to me. But then I remembered what he’d proposed. The thought of her getting pleasure from my pain made me shake my head.
“No way.”
Vincent laughed, which incensed me.
“No fucking way,” I repeated, adding the expletive to let him know my feelings. I was so pissed at her. We’d been friends. There was no way on earth I was going to let her enjoy the sound of her boyfriend spanking me. What did he think I was? A tool?
“You’re going to change your mind,” he said.
“What makes you think I’d let you do that to me?”
“Same reason she’s going to let me do it to her. You want it.” And then he left the room.
Well, fuck him. I slammed the door to the bathroom. Let them have their own kinky little spank fest. I would have no part of it. I put my headset back on and returned to my typing. I’d been hired to abridge an ancient Chinese morality fable, and I knew that I could easily lose myself in my work. At least, I could until the sound of Lia crying out reached me even through the earphones. First, I turned up the volume. Come on, Anthony. You and your Peppers have more power than a bitchy blonde, don’t you? I got closer to the computer. I continued nipping and tucking—a word here, a line there. I had to cut nearly a third of the book—but my first pass was in slow, steady spanks. I mean, slices. Fucking hell.
Her cries increased in volume. I responded by turning my sound up louder. I could feel the rhythm in my core.
But then the song ended. And before the next one started up, I could hear her. I let my thumb caress the volume control. I thought of Vincent’s big hands. I turned off the iPod.
Would they know if I moved into the bathroom, if I got closer so I could really hear and maybe see? They couldn’t possibly. I stood and walked as quietly as I’d ever walked before across the floor. The sounds in the other room didn’t stop, didn’t pause, didn’t change in any way. Silently, I opened the door to the bathroom and stepped inside. The noises were louder now—sobs and sighs. I stood entirely still. Had they heard me? Did they know I had given up all sense of decorum and headed into no-man’s-land?
If anything, the sound of Lia’s cries upped in intensity. There was no way either one of them could have heard my stockinged footsteps.
Still, I held my breath as I tiptoed my way across the cold tiled floor then aligned my face with the crack in the door and peered inside. There were candles. Everywhere. Who knew Vincent was so romantic? That fact made me hate Lia even more. Fat ivory candles burned on the windowsill. Twisted black spirals flickered on the dresser. Candlelight provided the only illumination in the room—but it was enough. Enough for me to see…
My thighs clenched involuntarily. I felt a jolt of arousal zing through me. I’d never watched anyone fuck before. Never eavesdropped. Never peeked. No, they weren’t fucking—not yet, anyway. But what they were doing was definitely a turn-on
.
Vincent had Lia over his lap, and he was punishing her sweet, sassy ass with a paddle. I’d seen that ass swish down the hallway. I had seen it when she’d bent over to unload the laundry, seen it when she went prancing out the door in a far-too-short, schoolgirl skirt, which I now saw was in a crumpled ball on the floor. But this was my favorite time. Because he was wielding that paddle with finesse, and Lia continued to cry out and kick her heels and pound her fists uselessly in protest. Or mock protest. I wondered if she could have gotten free if she had tried hard enough. But then I saw Vincent grimace and grab both of her hands in one of his. He pinned her wrists neatly at the small of her back and then let go a volley of blows on her hindquarters.
Damn. That must have hurt.
I swallowed hard, and then I did something completely unexpected—to me, anyway. I put one hand down under the waistband of my yoga pants, and I touched my clit. Just touched it, mind you. I didn’t rub. I didn’t press. I simply set my middle finger right against my clit and watched.
Vincent discarded the paddle on the bed and lifted Lia in his arms. Was he going to console her? Was he going to kiss away her tears? No. He moved her so that she was right in the center of their bed, and he picked up a pair of handcuffs.
Holy hell. This was getting better by the second; at least for me, if not Lia. Because she looked a bit scared as Vincent moved on to bind her ankles to the footboard. I was starting to really enjoy myself. But then a thought occurred to me. He had told me that tonight I could listen to Lia, and tomorrow night… I pushed that thought out of my head. There was no way he could make me. No way they could force me…not if I didn’t want them to.
