Flaunt It: Paolo's Playhouse, Book 1

by Natasha Moore

  Is he watching? Does he see me? I toss away the dress and tear open the sheers. My reflection stares back at me in the wide expanse of glass, my eyes wide, my bra and panties dark against my pale skin. Is anyone out there?

  See me! I want to scream. I dare you to see me!

  I open the sliding glass door as far as it will go, then step into the opening. A slight breeze brushes against my sweat-slicked skin. The sax is crying through the speakers. I grab onto the door jamb and the edge of the door, arch my back and toss my head as the saxophone hits the high note. My body is crying too. For a touch. For a taste.

  I brush my fingers lightly up my arm, across my shoulder, tickling the skin and sending shivers of awareness raining along the surface. I catch the bra strap with my finger and slide it off my shoulder. Then I do the same with the other side. The straps brush against my upper arms like the tips of teasing fingers. I leave the bra in place for a moment while I cup my breasts in my hands and roughly tease my aching nipples with my thumbs and forefingers. Flames of arousal lick my skin and I struggle not to tear the bra off my body. Instead, I focus on the music, match my movements with the sensual rhythm of the blues and continue to move.

  The vocals burn into my brain as the music steers my body. Lyrics of longing and loss, of need and sorrow, of searching and wandering. I sway to the music there in the doorway of my tiny balcony, in full view of anyone else craving more than this solitary existence.

  Or am I the only one?

  I reach behind me slowly and unhook the bra as I imagine that nameless, faceless lover watching my performance. His mouth waters. His palms itch. His cock aches with need. He can’t take his eyes off of me. He thinks I’m doing this show just for him.

  Since he’s invisible too, I don’t have to tell him, as the bra slides off my arms and hits the floor, that I’m doing it for myself. It’s the only thing that makes me feel alive. My pussy twitches in expectation. I’ve had enough teasing. Enough yearning.

  I step out onto the tiny balcony and lean back against the cool glass. The curtains of all the apartments facing me are still drawn tight. My eyes drift shut and I can feel the fingers stroking my skin. I sway slightly from side to side in time with the music, then sweep my hands up over my stomach and gather my breasts in my palms. They seem to swell beneath the kneading strokes. My nipples are even needier than before and I almost cry out when the fingers pull and pinch them.

  My pussy throbs, need pulsing through my body in time with the drum beat that anchors the melody in the background. I drop my head back against the glass, hitting the large plastic clasp that holds my hair up. I reluctantly let go of my breasts, reach up and release my hair. My dark curls swirl around my shoulders. I drop the clip to the floor and open my eyes in time to see it bounce and slide through a space in the narrow, black, wrought iron railing.

  As I glance up from where my hair clip disappeared, I notice the light is on now in the apartment directly across the courtyard from mine. I freeze when I think I see the curtain move slightly. But I realize I don’t really care if someone actually is watching. In fact, my heart races and my body becomes even more alive at the thought that someone might be. The curtains don’t move again, if they ever had to begin with.