This is the fourth instalment of my dark, erotic short story, “Audience for the Marionette”, which features in my erotic short story collection on voyeurism. You can read a little more about the collection here.
We left Marionette performing for the special client. Instead of doing what her Master expects her to do, she changes her routine…
I do as he asks: touch myself. I never do this, not for any of the other special clients. I usually just sit there, bubble-covered and playing cheeky Victorian performer.
The spotlight glimmers on his face as he cranes his neck, trying to see between my thighs. Murmurs float to the stage: “So real, so beautiful.”
I part my legs for him as far as I can, pushing my pussy into the spotlight, so he can watch my fingertip dip, watch my mouth open and my eyes grow wide as I indulge my touch in the secrets within, never explored except through the old man’s morning words and self-indulgent smiles.
He is captivated, I know he is. My hands work my entire body, one caressing, one touching myself to make his cock twitch inside his clothes. Oh, that’s so beautiful. Oh, look — I did that.
His face has the same kind of expression I have seen on my creator over the years when he’s carving a beautiful masterpiece. Or when he’s exploring me. I know what that look means. And if my special client — my new love — gives me that look, I am compelled to please with a new reality conjured specially for him. Just as I wish the old man would do for me. It’s all I want. My one wish, if only such things were ever granted to me. Why won’t he give me that one elusive wish? Does he keep it locked away? To keep me unreal…?
I sit on the edge of the stage, my legs either side of the big lever, one thigh stroking up and down against the wood. What will make his eyes burn bright? What can I show him? What is more — more real than the performance? Heels on the edge of the stage, I show off the folds and curves the creator tells me are perfect. I want to know if that’s what he sees when he looks at them? If I touch them, brush against them, make them move in waves like this… Oh, his cock is so stiff; he can’t keep his thighs still. My pussy is making him writhe in his bindings. Look at his face — how he wishes he were free to satiate his needs.
I roll my finger over the hard little round button. Oh, what is it I’m feeling? His eyes are fixated on the motion of my finger, flicking up to watch my open mouth.
The way he looks at me… I need to give him more. I need to explore further, go beyond the boundaries the old man has set me. I want to watch that face, that body, as it enjoys me.
What more is there of me to see? Fingertips tracing their way into places they’ve never been, leaving new sensations, creating sparks that set light to my inner cavities as he cranes his neck. What have I found? A hole. No, two. He’s gasping, gagging on his own dry mouth as my finger pushes into the first one.
“More. I want more.” His voice almost chokes him, as I smile and stretch my fingers so I can press my fingertip against the other one, too.
“Do it. Fuck yourself there.”
My finger buries deep leave me with an ache. I need to do something — anything — how do I make it better? Balancing on one hand, my perfect pussy between his tied hands and his pulsating face, I work the fingers in and out of the hole at the back. In shoots an ache to my chest; out brings it back down so it hurts all the more between my thighs. A beautiful pain, reflecting the beautiful agony of his gaze. I have him captivated. I have never had this before. No-one has ever looked at me in this way. There must be more I can offer up to him. Oh, his cock is telling me. It is straining. I wish I was allowed to see it. I want to look at his cock. I want to fuck his cock.
“I’m wet. I…you’re making me wet. I might come. Oh fuck, I never expected this.” His face is alight. I’m making him happy.
Something bangs in my chest. Oh! It’s as if it beats. Is it beating? Yes. It beats for him. His expression changes, His eyes dark, wide, fingers clenching; he wails as I grab the lever and pull it towards me. Let me imagine it to be his cock. Let him see what it can do, what it would look like to be inside of me. So I slide my perfect pussy onto the wood, sink its end in. His face becomes one big ‘O’ and he is desperate now, his body a mass of building arousal needing release. And… Oh!
What have I done? Have I triggered sap in my wood? There it is. My own dripping wetness. He sees it, tries instinctively to reach it with a frantic mouth, his fear of the lever forgotten. I am showing him what Marionette can really do, what she really is. Because of him, I am discovering me. His eyes no longer watch my fluid run down my inner thighs, nor do they watch the pounding I give myself on the lever. His eyes are connected with my own, burying themselves deep into me. Finding my heart. Oh, looking at him, and I know I have one! I can’t lose contact now, although a pain rips me in two and my body throws itself back in a silent, exquisite anguish. The same rapturous pain is on his face, in his eyes, and his body thrusts in the chair, until I can’t help but see the trace of wetness pooling in his trousers. I watch, fascinated, as his chest thrusts and his cock remains hard, his gasps intermingling with his short moans.
My gaze never leaves his body as, slowly, his breath calms, his chest rising and falling more easily.
Another gift. I have to let him see what he has given me. For the first time in my life — life! — I step off the stage and onto the floor. He must see what he has done. Look, Sir, the old man’s grubby fingers have never done this. Look what you have done. Look at my perfect pussy, and how the juices flow for your eyes alone. Can you see, now I’m pressed close to your face? Look — let me scoop it up on my fingertip. Watch me taste it. I can taste it! Musky, strange, new. You have created it, Sir. You have done this to me.
I could be everything I want to be, with him. I could give him everything he needs, every day, whenever he wants. He could see all of me. He could know me, inside and out. Visions overtake my head — of being a real woman who can please him, letting him see as I step out of the bath and dry myself, stroking my newly formed soft skin with the towel as his eyes devour my nakedness. Of bending over the table as I bring his meal to him, pushing the curve of my breasts close to his face; or maybe over the bed, legs wide, as I rearrange the duvet for him to lay on as he watches me undo the ribbon at my chest, the open-front nightie falling to the floor, leaving me standing there in the knickers he chooses for me. Of turning to the mirror and sitting on the bed, watching my hands over my breast as the other fondles the soft folds between my legs. Watching his mouth open as I push in my fingers and make love to his eyes. Master of my heart, watch me all day and all night.
You can read more about my darkly erotic voyeurism collection here.