The Mating of Love Birds (18+ only)

This Sunday story is another little offering from the collection of voyeur tales that I am working on. Just another little teaser, but a little bit of teasing won’t hurt, will it…? It’s not the story I had planned to post (you’ll have to wait for ice-cubes until another time), but I hope that some readers like it.

As always, I welcome any comments and feedback prior to e-book and hard copy publication. Do feel free to contact me, either in the ‘comments’ section below or by contacting me here.

(Oh, and for anyone interested, I am now on Instagram! You should be able to find me at: http://www.instagram.com/inamoratawriter).

Happy reading! x

Your eyelids close, and I watch them flicker beneath their tissue layer, giving way to the rest that follows the ecstasy of your perfect fuck. The breath that, just a short while ago was heavy, becomes gentle once more, a whisp that the night air captures and caresses as it finds its release.

The moonlight wants you; she steals in through the fluttering voile that separates your body from her primeval beauty. But she finds you, laid in post-euphoric stillness, the miniscule beads of perspiration your skin sparkling under her gaze and mirroring the wetness of your own enjoyment. I watch how the moonlight makes that glimmer, too, on the lower part of your belly and laced in the hair at the base of your cock, as you remain there, beautiful and statuesque, untouchable. Above your head, the moonbeams reveal the outlines of the love birds on the wallpaper I bought. You knew how much I loved watching the birds; how I held on tight to my moans and let them fill my throat as with both hands I held the binoculars in that rickety wooden bird hide, the birthday ribbon still attached to the case and the message: “For love birds”. I felt your tongue rough and wanting against my slick folds, circling like the birds in the air, brushing against each other but knowing, deep down, they will never get too close. When did you put up the roll of wallpaper?

The sheet covers you from the hips downwards once again, where your entire nakedness was available to my eyes before. Your thrill is still there, floating in your memory; you are still hard underneath the white cotton sheet. The thrill never leaves my memory; you are always inside me, fucking me—my body and my mind. But it hurts. It always hurts.

The artificial glow hanging in the adjacent room ruins the moonbeam strokes on the curves of your arms and the rise and fall of your chest; it breaks my vision of you as a marble muse. Her bathroom light makes you stir against the pillow, and you moan into its softness, never opening your eyes to see, never leaving the thrill of your bed that lingers in the arms that hold her and the hips that thrust yourself into her expectant cunt. But she turns it off, and I watch her silent movement towards my side of the bed. Why is she not holding you? Why did she get out of bed? I would never have let you fall to sleep in that bed alone. Not after that.

Her nakedness moves silently back to her lovenest; she sits on the bed, and she flicks her hair back, fluffing up her feathers after her bathroom preening, and half reclines on my pillow. The moonlight catches the roundness of her breast, her nipples standing small and hard, still recovering from the pull of your lips. I saw each one; the flick of your tongue up her breast, the circular motion with its tip before your mouth covered her nipple, and with my own finger I could feel the tongue against it within those lips. I waited, holding my breath, my eye sockets forming beads of sweat against the plastic pressed against them, waiting for that tug, and the way she pressed the back of her head into my pillow, leaving her neck exposed for the attack that always drove me wild. And it had the same effect on her.

Biting my lip, I watched as her back arched at the kisses you trailed down her tight skin, your hand pressed up against her breast, moulding it in your palm, keeping her nipple hard with your thumb. My eyes remained pressed to the glass, hard, as your lips took their journey between her breasts and down her body, over her belly, against the tops of her thighs; your legs slid down the bed, taking the sheet with you, as your mouth encased her clit. I knew what you were doing; I mimicked it with my fingers, and I watched her face, the way her hair moved against my pillow as she basked in heat of your mouth against her wet lips, the way her mouth opened and a sound I couldn’t hear filled the air around you as your tongue slid inside her.

I watched, unblinking, my fingers taking their lead from your cock as it revealed itself against the bed, the sheet crumpled on the floor and no longer depriving me of the sight of you. My clit throbbed against the touch of my palm as my fingers thrust themselves inside, delving into a love affair with my loneliness, as my skin began to stick to the plastic around the lenses. They let me see how you mounted her, letting her feel your cock push its way against her nerve endings and her soft tissue to discover her raptures. And I saw it in her face, in her closed eyes where the eyeshadow began to melt as her passion rose to spill over onto the surface of her moonlit, beautiful body, as you moved in and out of her. I watched her arms, long and slender, stretched by moonbeams, reach around you like wings that envelope you and pull you in; her lips made love to your lips, she disarmed you, left you passive. And I carried on, my two fingers making their own love to my disused, discarded nerve endings and soft tissue, but I never closed my eyes once. I have never closed my eyes to you, to what you are.

You let her roll you over, and my mouth salivated at the sight of her body on top of yours. Her hips moved with such expert grace as you behaved like the baby blackbirds we saw once, their mouths all open, crying out for sustenance, needing to be satisfied. And she did, didn’t she? She let you suckle on her breasts—did you want there to be milk there? Was there? Have you managed to be the baby bird, first in the line to be fed her honeydrew droplets, your mouth enclosed over her breast, sucking, sucking? Her head thrown back, her hips rising and falling against your cock, and every so often a moment in which she allowed me a visual morsel as she lifted higher, or so she could alter her position to be more comfortable riding you.

I watched, my hand pushing up against my pussy, my fingers slathered in my juice as I lifted them out further, pushed them in harder, but no-one could see. I watched the moonlight cast a shadow across your chest as it glimmered down her arching, curling back, rippling across her side, and caught the outline of her swollen belly. I didn’t have to imagine her cry, the sound it made, how it carried through the open window; I pushed up, opened my sash, and I heard it for myself, even as I watched the writhing of your torso under her, the sweet agony that swept across your face, as you came deep inside her, as you do every time I watch you in the moonlight. My own orgasm rips through my body at the sight of your face as it always was, and the memory of every time you came inside me makes my pussy ache in several hundred different ways. The tears stream down my face and I can’t hold the binoculars that once were touched by you. They fall around my neck as I am faced with the aftermath of my release, the wetness, the tears, the emptiness. Always the emptiness.

I return the lenses to my eyes, and she is nestling on my pillow against the back of your head. Your subconscious tells you to stir as her slender fingers weave their way across your shoulder to cradle the top of your chest, her breasts pressed into your back, her belly less so, shining like an ostrich egg in the moonlight, her raised hipbone still excruciating and beautiful to me as she reaches with her knee and hooks your leg in between hers. You lay entwined there, your combined release basking on the bedsheet in the glimmering streaks that appear it to me as it leaves her, slowly, as a lover reluctantly finds he has to go. I watch from my hide, through the lenses that take me straight to your bed, at the way you turn in your sleep, always, and reach out in the dark. Pulling her in close to your body. And stare straight at the window.

It was what you wanted, wasn’t it, when you gave the binoculars to me? You know that I never can resist the mating of love birds.

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