Hide and Seek, page 2
When he finished his task, he dropped the squeegee and reached into his pocket and pulled something out. He scribbled on the piece of paper with a stub of pencil, then held it up against the glass for me to read. I stepped closer and read the scrawled message:GREAT LEGS. NEXT TIME WEAR A SHORTER SKIRT.
I smiled, I couldn’t help it. He grinned, saluted, and hit a control panel, hanging easily on the ropes as the safety cradle disappeared from view.
Well, that had woken me up. Wear a shorter skirt? What a cad! Sure, I was up for some fun and games, especially with a hunk like him, but when was the “next time” that he was referring to? There was only one way to find out.
“I just had the most amazing shock,” I said to Audrey as I poured filter coffee into my mug. “Some guy was hanging on the outside of the building cleaning the windows.”
Audrey gave me a superior smile. “Not what you expect to see this high up, is it?”
“Not exactly. How often do they come around? I’d like to be prepared next time.”
“Oh, usually every six weeks.”
My heart sank. I’d be finished with my contract and gone by the next time he appeared.
“Until they started the building work opposite,” she added. “It’s every Friday on that side of the building now, so you’ll have to be prepared for another visit next week.”
“Oh, I will be.” I sidled off, trying to contain my smile.
That second week went much quicker. In fact, counting the days till Friday took on a whole new meaning. I was looking forward to my visitor, instead of wishing the days away until the end of my contract. I didn’t even think of bringing the binoculars in; I had something far more interesting to focus on: the arrival of the dishy window cleaner. What would happen if I did as he suggested and wore a shorter skirt? Where would it go then? I raced through my stacks of audio-typing while at the back of my mind I tried to decide what to wear.
Audrey commented on the fact that my typing had speeded up. She had so little to do, she had to eavesdrop on me to fill her timetable. If it wasn’t for the prospect of the window guy, I would have told her to stick her job. She didn’t approve of me, that much was obvious from the start. I’d heard her on the phone to the temp agency, asking if they had “anyone more suitable, someone the right caliber to work in a legal office.” Too bad for her they didn’t have anyone else, right? And she so did not approve when I arrived for work on that second Friday, wearing the leather miniskirt I usually saved for clubbing, knee-length boots, and a skin-tight, lizard-print shirt that dipped low into my cleavage. I waved when I passed her desk, where she sat open-mouthed, glaring at my outfit.
The morning went far too slowly, and I was up and pacing around between the desk and the window when the shadow of the cradle finally began to descend. And this time I was even more mesmerized, because as the window cleaner lowered into my field of vision I realized he was stripped to the waist. Boy, what a sight for sore eyes that was. He was built, all right, all that physical work had given him a great body, and the day was warm enough for him to sun himself while he worked. He grinned, eyeing me appreciatively as he washed the window. I reached for a piece of paper and wrote him a message:GREAT ABS! DO YOU APPROVE OF THE SKIRT LENGTH?
When he broke into a laugh, I’d have paid dearly to hear the sound of it. He nodded, his mouth forming a whistle while he eyed the gap between my boots and the skirt. With his eyes on me like that, I was suddenly aware of every inch of my body. My breasts felt tight. My sex was heavy, responsive to every signal he was giving me, to every nuance in his body language. I turned on my heel and gave him a better look, hands on hips. He reached into his pocket and scribbled on his notepad, slamming the paper against the glass:OH YEAH, THAT’S MUCH BETTER.
BUT I STILL CAN’T SEE WHAT COLOR YOUR UNDERWEAR IS.
I laughed. What a lad. And something about the setup, with him on the other side of the glass like that, made me feel even more daring than I might have been under normal circumstances. I was no shrinking violet, either way.
His squeegee was hanging idly in one hand; the other leaned up against the taut ropes of the safety cradle as he watched, riveted, while I slid one finger down into the front of my shirt, idly toying with the top button in my cleavage. He licked his lips. My sex clenched; my panties were already damp with expectation. Seeing him through the barrier of the impermeable glass had created a void of discovery, a safe zone to test each other out. I popped my top button, thrilled by the effect I was having on him. He mouthed something encouraging. I let another button pop open. He nodded, one hand gesturing for me to continue. I felt like I was part of an act in a live sex show. The thought spurred me on. I stepped closer to the glass. We were possibly twelve inches apart, but he was so untouchable. I undid the final two buttons, my hands pushing the fabric back to reveal my sheer lace bra.
He shook his head, his eyes glazed, and ran one finger down the length of the glass in front of my breasts, smearing the damp glass with his touch. He continued to stare while he grappled in his pocket for his paper and pencil and wrote me another note:WILL I GET TO SEE MORE OF YOU NEXT WEEK?
He scrunched the paper in his hand after I read it, and his eyes were molten with arousal. I nodded and blew him a kiss, winking. As he reached for the controls on his cradle, his other hand ran over the impressive bulge in his jeans, and he flickered his eyebrows at me. Then he was gone. Only the smear on the glass remained to remind me of what had passed between us, a sticky remark on the intervening sheer pane. I touched the inside of the glass, placing my own mark against his. Man, was he ever sexy. And he was making me so hot. I stalked over to the air-conditioning panel and turned it up to full blast, my mind racing with ideas of how to up the ante the following week.
By the time that third Friday came around, I’d been thinking on it long and hard, to the extent that I’d even dreamed about the guy twice. Both times it was the live sex show imagery, and the idea fascinated me. In the first dream, I was dancing for him, slow and sexy. He was riveted, sitting back in a low chair, his erection straining through his jeans. In the second dream, I stripped naked and then watched as he tried to lick my body through the glass. When I woke, I was twisted in my sheets, my fingers crushed between my legs as I wanked myself off.
My excitement levels built over the week, and my imagination was running riot. To top it all, Audrey had pissed me off big time, which left me feeling even more rebellious. I was ready to pull pints in my local pub rather than listen to her miserable condescension a moment longer. That sense of rebellion and the fact the guy had filled my thoughts all week long meant that I was edgy with rebellion and high on my own physical arousal.
Thank God it’s Friday, I murmured to myself, yet again. But this time I smiled at the idea.
The window cleaner looked at my floating summer dress with a surprised expression when he winched down into view. I waved and then turned my chair to face the window, to face him. I sat down in it, staring straight at him, smiling. He wrote his message:HEY, YOU’RE BREAKING MY HEART HERE.
THAT SKIRT IS WAY TOO LONG.
He mimed an aching heart, his expression teasing me all the while. I shook my head at him, swinging my chair from side to side, then I kicked back in the chair, one strappy, sandaled foot jamming up against the window frame, the dress sliding down my thighs and pooling in my groin.
Oh, yeah, he loved that.
I pivoted on one heel, my chair moving from side to side. I knew he was watching the flash of scarlet G-string I was wearing, and it fueled my fire. Between my thighs, a nagging pulse begged for attention. I let my hand tease along the hemline of the dress. He lifted his head, his eyes on my fingers. I picked up the piece of paper I’d left handy and scribbled on it:WHAT DO YOU THINK NOW?
Quickly, he replied:I’D LIKE TO PUT MY HANDS UNDER IT AND TOUCH YOU.
It was just the kind of response that I’d hoped for. He was really up for this. I ran my hand over the surface of my G-string, one finger sliding beneath the fabric. He nodded his head, scribbling again:YOU ARE SO BAD!
“You better believe it,” I whispered, as I pushed my fingers into my damp slit, where my clit was begging for attention. With a quick, practiced action, I arrested it between two fingers, my whole body jolting with the sensations that instantaneously roared over me.
The guy started craning his neck, as if he could see inside my underwear if he tried hard enough. Logic had clearly gone from his mind by that point. For me, the fact that one gorgeous man was watching, wanting me, completely mesmerized by what I was doing, was like a drug heightening the experience, channeling every dart of pleasure into a major roller-coaster ride. I slid down in the chair, my back arching against it as I worked my clit. My fingers were sticky, the flimsy fabric of my G-string quickly growing wet. His mouth was moving; he was saying something to himself, and his eyes were glazed with lust.
“Yes,” I whispered at his silent form. “Yes.” I managed to nod at him, my lips parting, when my clit throbbed unbearably and density gathered in my core. As I rode the wave, I became aware that he was moving. The cradle was disappearing out of view. Had I gone too far? Had I embarrassed the poor guy? I doubted it—he’d pushed it along this far. And I’d really got off on the secret, silent performance for the man on the other side of the glass. My body was thrumming with sensation, my energy levels soaring.
I let my foot slide down from the window. I couldn’t help thinking about how it might have looked to him, from the outside. Perhaps he’d gone off somewhere more discreet to have a wank. The idea infused me with a sense of raw power, heady and intoxicating. That was when I heard voices outside.
“Fuck.” I tried to pull myself together.
There was some sort of disagreement going on in the corridor. Audrey sounded put out. I grappled my dress into place, spinning my chair to face front. The door sprang open.
“There must be some mistake,” Audrey said, in a bewildered tone. “We had the interiors done just a few weeks ago.”
“It’s contracted, trust me.”
I blinked, several times. It was him. He was there, standing in the doorway to my office. He’d put his T-shirt on, come inside, and found my office—and now he was walking inside. Dumping a bucket on the floor, he grinned at me and slammed the door shut behind him. A stifled cry of dismay emitted from the hallway.
Now what was I going to do? No glass shield, no gap the equivalent of thousands of square feet separating us. My blood roared, my heart thumping out a fierce rhythm. Given that I was already totally wired by what had gone before, his 100 percent physical presence tripped switches I didn’t even know I had.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t resist.” He put his hands on his hips, observing me with hungry, watchful eyes. He was even sexier in the flesh, or so it seemed, and the sound of his voice ran torrents of sensation over me. I was delirious with arousal, unable to stop myself responding in kind.
“Couldn’t resist seeing it in the flesh, huh?”
He strode over. Pure testosterone oozed from him. Had I really caused this? Tut-tut, I mused. Must be more circumspect around rampant males. I had to laugh. I couldn’t believe he’d actually fought his way past Audrey and was standing right there inside the office.
“You better believe it. That performance was enough to drive a man insane.” He knelt down and swung my chair round so it faced him. His eyes were green, bright green. I ran a finger over his stubbled chin. He captured it in one strong hand, giving me a look that announced he was taking control of the situation now.
“I had to get me a closer look,” he added, and the smile he gave me was full of raw, undiluted sex appeal.
Before I knew what was happening, he’d grabbed my legs and hauled them apart. If I thought my little bout of exhibitionist self-pleasuring had been hot, I wasn’t prepared for what came next.
He ran his hands down the inside of my thighs, feeling his way toward the hot niche at their juncture. He stripped my soaked G-string down my legs, manhandling me with ease. The way he looked at me where I was wet from pleasure sent a hot wave of self-awareness over me. Then I suddenly forgot how to be self-aware when the tip of his tongue found its way into the sticky, cloying heat of my slit and he was eating me up. I nearly lifted off the chair!
His tongue was agile and intuitive. He explored the territory of my sex before he began mouthing me, his tongue lapping against my swollen lips and over the jutting flesh of my clit. Rivers of sensation flew through my groin. My hands were knotting in his hair, my hips bucking against him. When he pushed an inquisitive finger inside me, I quickly came a second time, my body shuddering.
“Do you do this with every woman you meet courtesy of your squeegee?” I managed to ask, as I surfaced.
“Nope, most of them do a runner when I appear. Not you, though.” He gave me that suggestive smile of his. He had one hand resting on his crotch, where he was rock hard inside his jeans. I was just contemplating how quickly I would hit the jack-pot a third time if I had the pleasure of something that hard inside me, when I heard a sound.
“You’re fired.” It was Audrey. She stood in the doorway, her hands gripping onto the frame, glowering.
“Too late—I quit.” Let’s face it: It was only a matter of time before I walked out or got fired. It had been well worth it.
“I’m sorry,” the guy whispered, one hand squeezing my thigh rather endearingly. He was genuinely concerned. What a sweetie.
“No problem, really. I was out of here, anyway.” I leaned forward and pushed my fingers into his hair, hauling his head back. I kissed his mouth deep and hard, reveling in the sense of deviance that roared in my veins.
I glanced over just as Audrey staggered backward in the doorway, shocked to the core by my response, her mouth opening and closing like a fish’s.
The man kneeling between my legs followed my gaze and chuckled low. “If you’re looking for a new job, we need a receptionist at HQ. It’s not a posh place like this, but we have a laugh. And it does mean I’d get to see you again.”
His smile sent an after-tremor of pleasure right through me.
“Not to mention the fact that a chick like you would be a hell of a lot more fun than the dragon they sent us from the agency.”
“You reckon?” I asked, pushing him onto the floor on his back, straddling him and reaching for his belt.
“I reckon,” he said, grinning widely when he felt my hand reach for his cock.
What was the old saying about being in the right place at the right time and grabbing opportunities when they come by? My hand tightened on his cock. It looked like office work wasn’t going to be so bad after all.
RED LIGHT, GREEN LIGHT
Shanna Germain
The room is small, more like a storage space with a huge front window. Right now, it’s hidden from the street by a red velvet curtain. Another curtain divides this space—which holds only a tall wooden chair and a mirror—from the rest, which has a bed, another chair, another mirror, and a table with a lamp. The air smells like sex and old silk flowers. But everything’s clean—nicer than I expected—with fresh sheets and clean floors.
I wonder how much Danny had to fork over to rent this window. I hope it wasn’t more than a hundred euros or so, especially since I’m not likely to make the money back for him. I know if I asked him, he’d just shake his head and say, “You should never ask how much a gift cost, Luce.” He’d run a hand through my blond hair, give my earlobe a tug. “That’s why it’s a gift.”
It’s a gift I’ve been wanting since Danny and I came to Amsterdam the first time, almost five years ago. Since the first time we walked these red-rimmed streets, hand in hand, watching the women in their rented windows. Some knocked on the glass at the men going by, others put their lipstick on in little mirrors, as though they were sitting alone in their bedrooms, oblivious to the men roving the street. Men swept by us, their hungry eyes on the windows, on the women in their string bikinis and high heels. “I want that,” I’d whispered, tugging on Danny’s hand, never daring to believe that he’d understand what I was asking. Never daring to believe that he would deliver.
Now, I grab a handful of the heavy curtain and peel it back just enough to see onto the street. The district’s famous red lights are already out and twinkling, even though the sky is still an evening gray. A window directly across the way is already open. Behind it, a leggy woman with a black bob sits on a chair just like mine, her legs crossed demurely, her chest barely covered by a slip of fabric. Against the black light, her white skin looks mushroom pale, the fabric a ghostly green. Already, men crowd around her window. The backs of their heads are bathed in red light.
I look for Danny, but I don’t see him. I know he’s watching from somewhere. That was part of the gift. That he would watch. That he would let me see him watching.
It’s nearly time. I go into the back room to strip off my jeans and sweater. I don’t know why—it’s not like anyone can see through the curtain in the front room. Maybe I just need this one final moment of privacy before I put my body in that window for everyone to see. It’s been eight years of marriage since anyone besides Danny has seen my body. Now, I feel like the whole world will.
I slide into the maroon lace panties and corset—another gift from Danny—and slip on my highest black heels. I take a peek at myself in the mirror. The glass is old, and my face wavers in the uneven surface. But it gives me a good idea of how I look. Long, blond hair down around my shoulders, dark-red fabric contrasting with my pale skin and my nipples trying to press through little holes in the lace. I let my breath out in a rush and run my hand down my belly. It’s flat when I’m standing, but I have no idea how it will look when I’m sitting down.
