My Sunday Story this week is one which I have written as part of my forthcoming collection: Can You See Me?: Erotic Tales of Voyeurism. It’s a little bit of a teaser for you, so you get an idea of what the book will contain. To be honest, the stories span a wide range of subjects, and follow all kinds of erotic voyeurs. They range from the romping lighthearted to the soulful to the dark, but they’re all really sexy. Or they will be – when I’ve finished them all off (pun most definitely intended…!)
The collection will be available, all being well, in full at the very end of the summer, but before that can become a reality I am looking for beta readers (someone who would like to give me feedback on the first version so I can improve it) and for anyone who would like to receive an Advanced Review Copy (ARC) in return for an honest review on Amazon or Goodreads – or both, if you wish. I’m very happy to hear from anyone who would like to both beta read and receive an ARC, too. If you would like to get involved, do please contact me and I will tell you more. I really would love the help!
In the meantime, here’s a complete short story from the collection (I’m not mean enough to only give you a teaser to the story – you’ve got the whole thing). Oh – and if anyone notices that my French is at all dodgy, PLEASE let me know… Also let me know if you’d like translations of the French at the bottom of the story, or in brackets. I want to keep my readers satisfied…!
Happy reading! Ina x
WINE GLASS, PEARLS AND TIE
He sits back in the chair, naked apart from his watch. He fingers his wine glass, stroking up and down the stem between his finger and thumb. Drawing its lip in between his own, he takes the liquid into his mouth, and she watches the motion of his throat as he swallows. He turns her on.
Her eyes follow the parting of his lips as he stares at the screen where she removes her jacket, revealing the milky texture of her shoulders. She perches on the end of the bed and watches herself in front of the mirror, her deep red lips pouting at the reflection. She knows his eyes are on the reflection as she watches herself tracing a line around her neck, her finger moving under a delicate string of pearls he had given her a few Christmases ago. A sign that he claimed her as his. Slowly, she undoes the zip down the front of her black dress, letting it fall to the floor as she watches herself walking forward to the mirror and sit, legs either side of the pink velvet stool.
She watches his hand. The wine glass balances on the edge of the armchair, his fingers holding it rigid. Her breath comes a little heavier, knowing he is watching her sitting there, waiting, as she runs her fingernail along the top seam of her stockings, creating tingles against the warm soft flesh of her legs, and unclips the cobweb covering from the suspender belt. She watches how his erection stirs and how he places his fingertips, fully conscious of so doing, onto the swelling head. She smiles.
She follows the moving image of her pale arm as it raises to the top of her head and lets down her hair. She watches him watching it tumble, his eyes never moving from her body. She faces him, her dark eyes making contact with his blue ones, as she raises each leg high in the air and rolls down each stocking in turn. His tongue appears between his lips and rests there a while. She knows he is waiting for that moment when she moves back over to the bed and lays down, one leg straight, the other angled in a V, her deep red toenails sinking into the dip in the bed as she begins her play.
Her perfectly painted fingernails trail their way from the pearls, down her skin, until they circle the rise and fall of her breasts. She knows they are beautiful, even hidden behind the black lace, but she knows that he can glimpse her nipple through the flowers and loops. He is leaning forward slightly in his chair, his finger and thumb dallying with the head of his cock, and she bites her lip, grazing her teeth against the clear sheen that covers her lipstick, as she sees his cockhead swell, force his fingering movements wider apart, as if by the casting of a spell the ridge appears and she finds it impossible to move her gaze from it. She wants to lick it. But she remains still.
Her eyes are fixed on him; her head tilts and she watches him watching the idealised version of her. The glass is beginning to shake a little in his hand and she wishes she could remove it from his fingers before he spills wine all over the carpet, but she has to remain where she is. Her palm skates across her stomach, lower, and she stops. He can see the other her reflected in the mirror as she draws her fingers to her mouth and lets two of them enter her lips, and she stares straight at him. Those eyes, big and black and mascara laden, they entice the motion of his hand as she slides her wet fingers beneath the black lace of her knickers. He rattles the glass onto the side table, and presses a button, and she watches him listen to her moans, clear and long, her whimpers, tiny, fast, and just for him. She excites herself, enjoying the feeling of wetness under her fingers, and she wishes he could see that. Her back pulls into an arch on the bed, her mouth one lingering moan of arousal.
She watches. He knocks back his wine and pours another, almost without looking, the red around the lip almost over the edge without him. But he won’t be far behind. He pulls it to his mouth, devouring the redness, while his hand works himself at the sight of her, because of her, for—who? Her fingers run over her pearls. She watches his eyes as he sees the cinematic fantasy push her fingers inside herself, knowing by heart his directions, signalling his ownership of her. The blue in his irises grow fierce as he grips his erection, waiting for what comes next. And she recognises the flaring nostrils, the twitching mouth that gulps the wine, the way he blinks a little more often, knowing what will come; he has watched it so many times before.
She notices how his body stiffens; the bare muscles that ripple through his torso stand to attention at the scene in front of him, his hand gripping the stem of the wine glass so hard she worries it might break beneath his grasp. His eyes are on his own tie that drapes across the bed, and on the man dressed in a partially open crisp white shirt who picks up the dark silk and pulls it through his fingers, letting it rub against the crotch of his tight black trousers. She looks: his cock is fully hard now, and his hand wraps around it. She swallows hard as the smooth red gleam strains to escape the skin at the tip, and she tries not to give herself away with her own hard breath. Her finger quite instinctively touches her nipple through her bra to find it aroused, hard.
Her on-screen self is laying on the bed, waiting for the man to beckon to her. “S’agenouiller devant moi,” the man says. She rises to her knees to obey his command and kneel in front of him, and silence reigns as her fingernails undo the man’s shirt buttons one by one, and her palms run across the chest of thick, black hair that she finds there, until she pushes the shirt sleeves off his shoulders. The man undoes his trousers, pushing them down his legs together with his shorts, until his fully engorged erection rests itself on her bra. From where she stands, a sweet pain sweeps her face as, from the armchair, that cock pulsates and he tugs at it, stretching it slowly, his eyes fixed on this image of her and the man.
“Enlève ton soutien gorge.”
She complies to the unknown man’s request, undoing the clasp between her breasts, exposing her round flesh to the stranger, sitting back on her heels as his head comes down to run his tongue over her nipples. Her eyes turn to the camera, to him, sitting in his chair, his chest moving harder in and out. He drinks the dregs from his glass and pours a third. This time, the liquid overflows and spills onto his hand. She keeps her eyes fastened onto the spot she knows he will inhabit as he watches, as his tongue sweeps across the decadent, unexpected wetness. And she knows he is watching those foreign white hands as they push her back onto the bed and run down her body until two strange thumbs press against the front of the black lace between her legs.
Leaning against the doorframe, frowning at the way he necks his glass in time to the man pushing his thumbs against the damp in her crotch, the memory itself is enough for her body to react, to add to the wetness there, to begin to swell within the knickers she wears today. She relives the way that the expert pressure of those thumbs made her aroused and hard under their tips, she watches him, too, drinking and stroking, drinking and stroking. And she sees the hatred in his eyes, and as ever she’s unsure who it is aimed at.
From her position at the door, she sees how his fingers gnarl around his own cock. His eyes remain glued to that image of her as the stranger pulls away the lace, revealing the intimacy of her body to them both. The stranger looks up and smiles across towards the armchair, or at least it’s exactly as it appears, and she hears his deep, throaty growl in reply. “Fuck. Fuck you. Fuck it—fuck it. Do it, then.”
And she watches how his hand moves fast, desperate, as the man whose name he doesn’t know pushes himself into that celluloid cunt. How her eyes, bright on camera, turn to look at the lense, as the strange murmurs of “Fuck, vous êtes mouillé. Je suis si grand,” invade the room, lingering in the air. How, as the man thrusts himself inside her, over and over, the desperation becomes a visage of pain, and she can hear the wetness of her juices that delight the stranger grating against his desire. She watches herself knowing she is holding his gaze, and wonders if this—this is what he envisages doing to her. It’s something she never manages to ascertain. No matter how many times she plays it through in her head beforehand, the scene can never transfer into the reality she wants. And it hurts, deep inside.
The man picks up the tie. His tie. Always the same tie he likes to watch. From the chair, his breath comes fast and whistling through his tight lips as the filmic flesh across her breasts and neck begins to glisten and she turns serpentine, her creamy skin writhing purely on instinct against the black sheets. From the door, her real, living hand makes its way between her legs, moving gently at his frantic motion in the chair, trying to ignore the way he has finished another glass of red. How the first bottle is empty. Pressing hard against herself as she watches the tie slide between her thighs, trailing her juices along the silk. Remembering the beautiful coolness, the moment of gentleness, against the heat of her bruised, swollen sex.
He is going at it with the wine. With his hand. He is going to find his release in the armchair, she is sure. Soon. It must be soon. She is desperate to see.
“J’aime ce lien.” She smiles: she likes the tie, too. The way the stranger who fucks her slips it around her spine and, holding both ends, pulls her up by the arch of her back until his lips reach her ribs, and the flit of hot breath teases her breast with every kiss as he continues to slide in and out of her. She watches, knowing how wet she is on that bed, how her own desperate desire begins to override performance. Life in her head begins to entwine with the real, the warmth, with the lust of this man. And she watches, rubbing harder on her sex as the screen mocks her with the sight of the nuances: the way her eyes turn from him to close at the touch of the stranger’s lips; at the moans that come without her having to touch herself.
He has turned the sound right up. Her moans echo off the walls. Another glass gone. He will come. Any moment. And it will be a success.
The tie pulls tight across her back; the man slides it to her shoulder blades, lifting, pulling her up towards him, forcing her to come face to face with him. Her celluloid self no longer looks over at the armchair. She looks into the deep brown eyes of the stranger and sees a reflection of her own, and even from the doorway, she sees that second—that connection. The tie, his tie, falls to the floor and strange familiar hands hold her, lift her onto him.
“Chevauche moi. Baise-moi. Fais-moi jouir.” His mouth encases her ear as she takes her intimate direction for the scene from him now, riding his cock, fucking him hard. He will come inside her as he wants; she will make him come inside her. The stranger’s words fill her, in English now: “I want you. Will you let me fuck you again?”
And she watches the way her actress self looks at the stranger, at the way she moves her hips in time with his thrust as her arms wrap around his neck as she does as he wants. There’s desperation in her fucking. Beads of sweat cover her skin. She has to make him come, She sees how she smiles and remains silent as her forehead touches this new one that she has never encountered before, how she knows that at that moment the stranger was the only one that mattered, his words still in her head—and she is grateful that the naked form, in the final desperate throes of his own particular excruciating pain in the armchair, never took the time to learn a word of French, or that he can’t hear the whisper that still haunts her ear.
Now. It needs to be now. Before it’s too late.
She watches as the screen leads them towards the end, how those foreign hands aid the movement of her hips as she rides up and down on the engorgement between her legs. The palms grace her gleaming wet skin with warmth, a slow, soft movement up, holding her under her ribs as he lifts her for a moment and takes control of the thrusting. They lower her down once more and trace a pathway over her breasts, and in her ear, she watches the lips move, speaking her language. “Let me come again, after this time—with you.” and she knows, there, right at the second she looks into his eyes, she considers answering, telling him yes, she will let him come every day, if only the camera is rolling for the one who sits in the armchair. And if there is no camera—?
Those hands slip onto her collar bone. She stands rigid, as she watches him watching a strange man’s lips on her neck, like so many time in the past. His mouth moves higher; this isn’t allowed. His hands slide against her neck, and his lips take her mouth in his. She cannot breathe, watching. She knows if she looks at him, he will not be moving his hand anymore. She watches herself taking in the stranger’s mouth, intoxicated by the desire that fills the air around them there, on those black sheets in front of the camera. All performance gone. His hands press against her neck, sliding under her pearls, up to clasp her face. The celluloid captures the ‘crack’ well. She watches as the pearls fall across the bed, some pinging on the floor, and the two strangers fucking as if eternity were only a moment away, their lips moulded to each other, as the sign of her ownership lays in tatters around them.
The wine glass shatters against the bottom of the screen. Why does he never press ‘stop’? Why watch it over and over again? He is very drunk, but he recognises her when she stands in front of him. The cheap green suitcase catches her eye beyond where she stood a moment ago, but she has to concentrate—wants him to look at her. At her.
“I’ve done as you asked. The suitcase is at the bottom of the stairs. There isn’t much.” She holds his head, making contact with his pain. “Do you still want this?”
He nods, and she stands, taking the hand that hangs beside her.
“He was easy to find. We’ll meet you in the studio when you’ve—when you’re ready. I’ll show him to his bedroom now…”
Into his hand she pushes a string. “I had them mended. See?” She leaves them with him, and she feels the agonising burn of his stare upon her back as she disappears up the stairs, clasping the hand of the stranger with the deep brown eyes who has come to stay. Just briefly, she peers at him through the railings: he has his eyes closed. She knew he would.