Dedication
To Laurie, for being willing to take a chance
Chapter One
I’ve always been invisible.
Growing up in foster homes, that was a good thing most of the time. No one teased me. No one bothered me. But no one saw me, either. I’ve been on my own for a long time now but nothing seems to have changed. Today is just one more in a string of lousy days and I can’t wait to get home.
I’m stripping my clothes off almost before I slam the apartment door closed behind me. What a fucking day. Sweat prickles my scalp beneath my heavy hair and the damned starched collar makes my neck itch. The evil brown flats that pinch my toes are the first to go, kicked across the room.
I’m so damned tired of being invisible. Just when I think I’ve found a job I like in a city that’s interesting and a top floor apartment with plenty of closet space, I discover people are the same everywhere.
In their little cliques. In their own little worlds. Keeping me out.
I tear the shirttails of my white blouse out of the waistband of my skirt, nearly popping the buttons in my rush to get it off. I wouldn’t have to wear long sleeves in the middle of the summer if the stupid office air-conditioning wasn’t cranked up so high.
When I’m finally free of the shirt, I fling it onto the black leather sofa. I can breathe better already. The khaki pencil skirt is the next to go. I slither it down my hips and kick it away. The frustration choking me seems to ease up with each article of clothing I shed.
My pantyhose are strangling me. As usual, I put a hole in them with my fingernail as I rip them off. I buy them by the dozens because I’m never patient enough to be careful when I remove them. They end up on the floor over by the shoes.
Down to my plain white cotton bra and panties, I pad down the short hallway to the huge walk-in closet I made out of the spare bedroom. Tingles of anticipation dance along my skin when I step through the doorway.
While I’m always in a rush to get out of my work clothes, this is the moment when I make myself slow down. There’s no need to hurry anymore. I have the rest of the evening to savor this, the best part of my day. I don’t want to be in some crowded bar anyway, surrounded by people I don’t know, talking about stupid things. Laughing. Having a good time.
Fuck ’em all. This is what I live for. The money I make answering phones pays for everything in this room. One side holds my work clothes, the khaki pants and calf-length skirts. The button-down blouses in white and beige and pale blue. The sensible flats in brown and tan and ecru and ivory. Classic. Practical. Boring.
Turning my back on that side of the room, I peel off my cotton undies and pitch them in the hamper. Then I walk into the bathroom and turn on the water in the shower, hot and hard. If this was my place instead of a rental unit in a city I picked out of a hat, I’d get rid of the plain white tiles and the steel blue walls, the utilitarian vanity and the downright ugly light fixtures.
I’d turn this room into a luxurious spa, somewhere to relax after my lousy days at work. I’d put in a steam shower and a jet tub and cover the walls in a soothing sage green with heated travertine tiles on the floor. It would be a calming space where I could pamper myself before I got on with the rest of my night.
The small room starts to fill with steam, so I step into the shower-tub combination and pull closed the shower curtain. I sigh with delight as the spray from the massaging showerhead I installed washes away my sweat and frustrations. The lavender scent of my shampoo is already relaxing me, and by the time I rinse and condition my hair and scrub the moisturizing body wash over my skin, the day’s worries and problems have washed away.
Before stepping out of the shower, I adjust the spray to a sharp pulse and lift off the handheld showerhead, directing the pulsing water at my breasts. It stings my nipples like tiny needles. Or greedy teeth. Then I lower the showerhead until the force of the water pummels my pussy. I suck in my breath at the sharp bite. But I only tease for a moment before I pull it away and turn off the water. I don’t want to get ahead of myself.
Wrapped in a plush blue towel, I dry the worst of the moisture out of my naturally curly hair and clip it up on top of my head. It’s useless to try to tame it, just like I can’t restrain the wild need bursting inside me. I return to my walk-in closet, eager to prepare for the evening ahead.
I toss the towel into the hamper and then pump a generous squirt of shimmering body lotion into my hand. The sweet aroma of cocoa butter bursts into the air and sinks into my pores as I began to slather the scented cream along my arms. I hum with pleasure. That damned office air-conditioning is so drying.
The lotion is warm and silky, oozing between my fingers as I smooth it along my feet and ankles and calves. I squirt out another palm-full of the pearly white cream and start on my thighs. After a moment, I close my eyes as I massage the lotion in wide circles up my sensitive inner thighs.
When my eyes are open I can feel my body beneath my fingers, smooth and not quite as firm as I would like. The shimmer from the lotion makes my legs look pretty. As the moisture seeps in, the surface looks fresher, softer, sexier.
When I close my eyes though, I feel fingers stroking my skin, the soft pads massaging me. It’s easy to pretend someone else’s hands are on me now. It’s been so long since any fingers but my own have caressed me, held me. Touched me.
The emptiness makes my stomach ache, but I push it away and concentrate on the sensual pleasure of skin on skin. Even if it’s just my own.
I finish smoothing the lotion over my body, my not-quite-flat stomach, my long arms and legs, my ordinary breasts. I linger there, on my breasts, kneading the firm flesh, rubbing the sensitive nipples between my thumb and fingers—making sure the lotion is absorbed completely. A couple sharp pulls start that delicious tingle shooting between my legs.
As much as I enjoy this ritual every evening, I’m soon anxious for the next part to begin. I turn my back on my work clothes and face the other side of the closet where colors burst from every hanger.
This. This is what I live for. Why I put up with colleagues who ignore me. Who chat with each other and laugh when they should be working. Who talk about meeting for coffee or drinks and never say a word to me. They didn’t even keep their voices down while they made their plans this afternoon. When they glanced at me, I quickly looked away, not wanting to see the rejection on their faces.
I dive my hands into the lingerie drawer and run them over the satin, the silk, the lace. Red is the color for tonight. Perfect for my mood. The thong I step into barely covers my tightly trimmed curls. My excitement has already made them damp.
I feel more daring than usual tonight. Today’s snub pushed me over the edge. I reach for the red demi-bra I’d ordered online but hadn’t even tried on yet. I slip my arms through the slender straps and snug it up under my breasts. After I hook it behind my back, I step in front of the full-length mirror.
The push-up bra fits perfectly, tight enough around my ribs to notice, but not enough to restrict my movements. I wouldn’t want to do that. My heart beats a little faster as I see the way the cups stop just short of my nipples. They’ve beaded quite nicely as they peek over the top, obviously looking forward to brushing intimately against whatever garment I choose for tonight’s performance.
I don’t know why I bothered with the panties. They’re soaked already.
Some nights I linger here in my safe closet, taking my time while deciding which dress to wear. I love to run my hands over the various textures, the different colors, debating necklines and hemlines. But tonight I’m anxious to get started. Ready to crank up the music and feel the blood pulsing through my veins again.
The silk wrap dress will be perfect. The fabric slides sensuously against my skin as I slip my hands through the a
rmholes and draw it up my back and over my shoulders. The long sleeves are tight, an erotic binding along my arms. When I wrap the bodice over my breasts, my nipples send tingles of delight shooting straight between my legs. I tie the sash tightly at my waist. Quivers of anticipation dance in my stomach.
Now for the shoes.
I love shoes. My mood, my attitude can change completely depending upon the shoes I put on my feet. I stand in front of the rows of pumps and sandals and boots in colors to match every outfit hanging beside them. It’s a toss-up between the red sandals with the half-dozen skinny straps that hug my foot like a lover’s hand or the red pumps with the sparkly bling on the heels and toes. I hold them up to the light and the bling wins. I step into them, and my muscles stretch and tremble in anticipation.
I practiced for hours before I could actually dance in four-inch heels. I could barely toddle around my living room for the first few weeks. But now I don’t even have to think about it and the way they make my legs look, long and lean, is so worth it.
I turn to catch my reflection in the mirror. My dark, heavy hair is still clipped up, but stray ringlets have escaped around my face. I trade out my tiny pearl earrings for some shiny silver ones that dangle almost to my shoulders. I add some dramatic make-up, deep ruby lips and creamy blush, thick mascara and bold eyeliner. My nipples poke at the silk, my skin shimmers beneath the light. Some days I think I must have a split personality. No one at The Information Station would recognize me now. Sometimes I don’t recognize myself.
Or is it the mousy phone rep with the boring wardrobe that I don’t recognize? When did I become her? How did it happen? I run my hands over my body and push the questions away. There’s no time for deep thoughts right now. I’m restless and ready for action.
Foreplay can only last so long before the body gets anxious for the real thing. I turn away from the mirror and walk down the hall and through my tiny living area to the other end of the long space which was intended to hold a table and chairs.
To my left runs a breakfast bar that faces the corridor kitchen. One bar stool is all I need for a dining area. Against the wall in front of me stands my state-of-the-art sound system and the row of CD cabinets. The stretch of hardwood floor calls to me to begin.
This is my dancing space.
The front wall is taken up by wide sliding glass doors that open up onto the world’s tiniest balcony. I draw open the curtains, pull back the sheers and peek out. It’s getting dark already. Three floors of apartments in the U-shaped complex face a dreary courtyard, barely more than a couple trees and a concrete path that’s broken and overgrown. Not much to look at, but is that any reason to keep the curtains drawn day and night?
I have never seen any of my neighbors open their curtains. Ever. Is it because they don’t want to look out or because they don’t want anyone looking in? If it weren’t for the occasional glimpse of a man or a woman walking through the courtyard or climbing the stairs, I’d think I was living in an empty building. Alone in my apartment, I sometimes feel as if I’m haunted by the ghosts of the other tenants. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve imagined them.
I think it’s slowly driving me crazy.
The short skirt tickles my thighs as I close the sheers and draw the curtains again. First things first. My body is buzzing with the restless need to move. My heels rap sharply on the wooden floor. I choose one of my favorite CDs and slide it into the player. I take a deep breath and let out a sigh as the sensuous notes glide over me. Stress drains completely from my body and excitement jumps in to take its place.
Months ago, I’d started dancing as a way to burn off all the frustrations from my job, my co-workers, from all the restlessness that had been building inside me during the day. Some nights I would stomp and whirl wildly to flamenco music. Some nights I would sway and bend gracefully to a classical orchestra. If my neighbors have ever been bothered by the music, or my dancing, they’ve never complained.
But then, maybe I live unheard as well as unseen.
Tonight the blues have me tightly in their grasp. I begin to move my hips—slowly at first—stretching my arms and legs until the muscles are warm and fluid. The music is warm and fluid too, flowing over my senses, guiding the dance. I circle the room, covering the floor with slinky steps. My heart speeds up, pumping my blood faster, sending waves of anticipation rushing along my skin.
I run my hands along my body, tracing the curves, the silk soft against my fingers. My breasts rest heavy in my hands as I cup them, squeeze them. I close my eyes and let out a shaky breath. My nipples tingle as sharp fingernails scrape across the tips, then roughly twist them, tug them. The tingles shoot through my body and head straight for my pussy.
My skin sings with the arousal playing across its surface, my body aches with the craving that throbs deep within me. I pulse my hips to the beat of the music, slide my hand between my legs and press my palm against my aching sex. A low cry of need slips from between my lips.
I open my eyes and stare at the long, dark curtains that separate me from the rest of the world. The dance isn’t enough any longer. Hasn’t been enough for a while now. I need more than blues riffs and warm muscles and the swish of silk on skin to feel alive.
I can’t remember when I first started stripping to the music, but I remember clearly the night I first pulled open the curtains before I began to take off my clothes. It was only a couple weeks ago, on my birthday, and I had been yearning, somehow, to connect with other people.
I’d still been timid fourteen days ago. That night, I’d drawn open the heavy curtain, but left the thin sheers closed. My heart had pounded against my ribs as I stripped down to my fancy black satin underwear to the rhythm of a salsa beat. I’d nervously stayed in the shadows that night, but I could have just as well been under a spotlight. It hadn’t mattered. There’d been no sliver of light to betray the movement of a curtain. Nobody saw me.
Day by day, I grew bolder.
Tonight, I step up to the curtains and yank them open without a second thought. Darkness has fallen. The lights are still on behind me. If anyone looks out, will they see more than my silhouette behind the sheers? Can they see the red silk that hugs my body? The heels that make me stand tall and thrust my breasts out?
I can’t see out into the darkness and at this moment, I really don’t care.
The throaty cry of the saxophone sends shivers up my spine and I slowly unknot the sash at my waist. I slide the narrow strip of silk through my fingers as the dress gradually parts. Although I know no one sees me, I imagine someone’s dark eyes staring at me out of the shadows. He’s looking at my cleavage laid bare by the parting red silk. The dress slides open and my nipples prickle as the fabric glides across their sensitive tips.
Can he see them, this imaginary man watching me? Can he see my nipples tighten and poke against the fabric as it catches on their tips? In my mind he can see it all. I spread my arms wide and the dress floats to each side, revealing my pushed-up breasts, my exposed stomach, my barely-there panties, my long bare legs.
I’m still moving my hips to the beat of the music. Still feeding off the heavy bass and the soaring brass. When I roll my shoulders, the open dress falls back. It can’t slide too far down my body because the tight sleeves halt the fall of the fabric. The sensual sway of the melody, like the sway of the dress, feeds the need building inside me.
The need to move. The need to be seen.
I can almost feel his eyes on me, this imaginary voyeur. His hungry gaze lingers on my tight nipples peeking up above the bra, then sweeps down my body, zeroing in on the spot between my legs. Can he tell I’m wet? Are my panties darker between my legs? My hand drifts down and I cup my sex, sliding my palm along the damp silk. I press tightly against my pussy and feel the heat on my hand.
The dress is in the way now. I need to be free. I grab the edge of one sleeve and tug, dragging it down my arm until I finally pull it off. My skin is sweaty and the last sleeve sticks, clinging as if it doesn’t wan
t to let go, as if it wants to keep me bound in the red silk forever.
But soon I’m free and I begin to strut around the room to the beat of the music, the dress hanging from my hand, sweeping the floor behind me.
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.
See Me Page 1
