Hide and Seek, page 5
“Good, so good. Can you tell how hard my clit is?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s sticking way out, and the more you tease it the darker it gets.”
I moaned and circled the head of my clit. Watching her lick her lips and blink rapidly while she followed my fingers was making my pussy spasm, and I knew I didn’t have much time left. “I’m going to come soon.”
“Can I play with myself?”
“Do you want to come up here and watch the movie?” I held my breath, almost afraid of what she might say.
“Oh, no.” She shook her head vehemently. “No. I want to watch your come spurt out on your fingers.”
My legs jerked and I couldn’t hold back a tiny come. I moaned and clamped my fingers tightly around my clit, preventing the rest of the explosion. “Go ahead. Play with your clit.”
She yanked her zipper down and shoved her hand into her jeans. Even though her body convulsed, she never looked away from my fingers. I was still squeezing as hard as I could, afraid if I stroked even once I would come all over the place.
“Hurry,” I whispered, “if you want to come with me.”
The cords in her neck stood out as she shook her head again. “Watching you come will make me come.” She looked up at me, her eyes glazed. “Your pussy is so beautiful, so open and wet.”
My clit couldn’t get any harder, and I rubbed it faster, big sweeping circles reaching as far down as my opening and then back up over the top, sliding the hood down and over the head with each swipe. “Watch my clit,” I gasped. “I’m going to come.”
She whined and pumped her arm faster, mumbling, “Please come, please come, please come.”
“Here I come,” I cried, pushing down hard as my cunt pulsed like a small heart.
And I did. She put her face closer but didn’t touch me, and my hips jumped, and I gushed over her lips and her chin and her neck while her eyes rolled back in her head and she came with her hand digging in her jeans. Then she sweetly licked me clean while I watched the girls on the screen and came again.
After that, we got off together a couple of times a week. She especially liked to crouch between my legs in the shower and hold me open with both hands while I hit my clit with a stream of water from the shower massage. The whole time I was making myself come, leaning against the wall on trembling legs, she described the way my pussy jumped under her fingers and how my clit stood out from my body and how the rivulets of come ran down my legs and mixed with the water in pearly strands. She could predict the exact second when I got ready to come from the size of my clit and the color of my pussy.
“Oh, yeah, you’re gonna come. Right. Now.”
And the minute she said it, I’d let loose all over. Then she’d suck on my clit while it was still hard, before I was even totally done coming, and bring herself off in her hand. While she was moaning and coming and mouthing my clit, I’d come again, too.
It got so all she had to say was, “Let me see your pretty pussy,” and I’d be ready to come. So, no, I didn’t have any trouble working myself off in front of other people. I loved it.
“I’m comfortable with public masturbation,” I told the director, hoping to sound professional.
“Good. Let’s take a look at you.”
I spread my legs, and as soon as she looked down, I felt my pussy swell. I’d shaved so everything would show for the camera, so I couldn’t hide a thing.
“Hold yourself open for me,” she said, adjusting a portable light so that it bathed my lower body in hot, bright light. “Use both hands.”
I felt a trickle of come slip down between my cheeks. I hope she didn’t see my fingers tremble as I pulled my outer lips apart. I knew from masturbating with a mirror how my cunt looked when I was excited—how my lips got thick and red and wet and my clit got long and fat. She must have been able to tell how turned on I was because she glanced up at my face and smiled.
“Looks like you’re doing okay.”
“Yes, fine,” I said casually while my clit twitched and got stiffer by the second.
Click.
I imagined the way my pussy would look in the photograph, open and glistening with come.
Click.
My big pink clit, stiff and exposed, shamelessly aroused.
Click.
I started panting.
“Your cunt’s a great rose color. That will look terrific on film.”
Every click of the camera was a caress. My stomach started to hurt. I wanted to come.
“Can you touch your clit a little like you were going to masturbate? I want a shot of that gorgeous clit.”
“Okay,” I whispered, almost choking on the word.
Click.
I pressed two fingers on the base of my clit. It jumped right up and my belly rolled.
“Work it up just a little more. It looks fabulous when it’s erect.”
Click.
“Now pull the hood back and get it wet.”
I painted my clit with come, and that made me so horny all I wanted was for this to end so I could go somewhere and finish myself off.
Click.
“Oh, that’s a nice look. Jiggle it a little so it plumps up.”
I did, and it was so good, and I should have stopped but I couldn’t and I came. I tried to hide it, but it hit me so fast my whole body jerked off the bed. “Ooo! God!”
“Do you always come that quickly?” she said, clicking away while my pussy pumped.
I shook my head no, whimpering pathetically, still pulling at my clit and coming.
She lowered her camera. “Just really worked up over the audition?”
“I think,” I gasped. “I think it’s…Oh, God, this is embarrassing…”
“Hardly. You’re perfect, but I still need to know what set you off so I can time the come shots in the scenes. Unless you can hide it a whole lot better than this.”
“I can’t…not usually,” I confessed, thoroughly humiliated. “I come hard.”
“Then I need to know your trigger.”
“It’s you looking at me. At my pussy.”
“You get off on having people admire that beautiful cunt of yours?”
“Yes.”
She laughed. “Oh, baby, you’re going to love this job.”
She had no idea and neither did I. I’m easy to pick out in the films—I’m the girl smiling right at the camera and coming, so nice.
OPERATOR 84
Thomas S. Roche
It’s a long ride, as the crow flies, from Tribeca to the Upper West Side. But traffic’s next to nothing at four in the morning—even on Saturday night.
We’ve been dancing in one of those exclusive clubs—you know, the one you like so much. You always get turned on when you’re dancing. You always get really turned on.
Maybe that’s why you can’t wait.
Or maybe it’s because we’ve stumbled upon one of those rare New York fixtures—the female cab driver. Instead of grunting at us and talking about politics, traffic, or the weather, she asks us in a musical voice, “Where can I take you?”
There’s plenty of room in the backseat, but you snuggle up against me, your body lithe in its tight little black dress. You lean back and kiss me.
“Tenth and Seventy-seventh,” I tell the driver. Smiling, I add, “And make it snappy!”
“You’ve been reading too many detective novels,” she says, smirking a little. She’s somewhere in her mid-twenties, probably a student. She’s got long blond hair and pretty eyes, which she disguises with a Yankees cap pulled down indelicately over her face. “Been dancing?”
By then, you’ve started to snug up your black dress and reach under it. I look down at you with my eyes wide; I want to ask you what you’re doing, but I sense instinctively, from knowing you so well, that nothing is going to stop you—so I may as well enjoy the ride.
“Yeah,” I tell the driver. “We’ve been dancing.”
Your lacy thong comes smoothly down your thighs, over your ankles. You kick off your flats and tuck your panties into the pocket of my dress slacks.
“Lots of great dancing down in Tribeca nowadays,” says the cab driver, looking at me in the rearview mirror. I can see the side of her face, and she’s smiling; she’s got a bright, enticing smile, and I spend about five seconds trying to figure out whether she knows what’s going on. “Yup, the neighborhood’s really bouncing back.”
“Uh-huh,” I say as you reach for my cock. “Bouncing.”
By then, you’ve slid down behind the seat and you’re kneeling between my legs. Knowing better than to argue with you, of course, I spread them enough to give you access.
“Yeah,” I say, my breath coming short as your hand closes around the rapidly growing bulge in my pants. “There’s nothing quite as great as a night dancing.” I swallow nervously as you make short work of my belt and pants, apparently not caring if the driver recognizes the telltale jingle of my belt buckle, the revealing sound of my zipper going down.
“Sure,” she says. “Dancing’s great. Getting all sweaty. All those bodies pressed in against yours…” She utters a girlish giggle, something I never expected to hear from a cab driver of any gender. “Meet anyone interesting?”
Your lips descend on my hard cock, sliding down effortlessly as your tongue works against the underside. I have a lot of difficulty speaking at this point, but I manage to carry on the conversation. “Oh, well, you know,” I croak. “My wife and I...We weren’t really there to meet people. Just to…dance.”
“With each other,” she says, turning to look at me and smile as the cab comes to a stop in traffic.
“Yeah,” I say, as your mouth works its magic on my cock. “With each other.”
“I can tell. Does your wife like dancing?”
My cock slips out of your mouth. “Oh, yeah,” you say from between my legs, slurping a little as you lick your lips. “I love to dance.”
For a moment, I’m afraid the cab driver’s going to lean over the seat and look down, but she doesn’t. Instead, she turns back around and hits the gas, giving your mouth on my cock a unique sort of gravity as you slowly pump my hardness in and out. I’m having trouble now, struggling not to moan as the cab driver talks about how much she loves dancing.
“I love wearing something really sexy when I’m dancing,” she says, glancing back to smile at me. “I can’t dress sexy with my job, obviously. So I really like to doll up when I go to a club.”
Now you’ve pulled my pants all the way down; they’re around my ankles and your mouth is on my balls. “Oh, really,” I say, my throat tight with the effort of speaking. “What do you like to wear?”
“Oh, you know, something like what your wife is wearing.” She glances back again, her eyes dark with mystery. “Where’d she go, anyway?”
“Oh, I think she’s asleep,” I murmur. “She had a bit to drink at the club.”
“I bet. I guess there’s no reason to stop now.”
My ears ring as I realize, without a doubt, that she knows what’s going on. But both of us maintain the pretense, even as you take the hint and climb up into my lap—facing me.
“Yup, there’s something very sexy about getting dressed up to go dancing,” the cab driver says as you take my spit-slick cock in your hand and guide it to the entrance of your pussy. The cab driver looks back at us. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I distracting you?”
You moan softly as you settle down on top of me, my cock deep inside you. You slump forward against me, heavily, and your hips start grinding in that way you do, barely moving but causing almost more friction than I can take. You know how to make me come—but, more important, you know how to make yourself come, and your hand is wedged tightly between our bodies, rubbing your clit.
“Of course, wearing something like what your wife is wearing, I can’t wear much under it. I mean, when it’s tight, you know, you get panty lines. I have to go with a little tiny thong. Do you find that, too?”
She glances over her shoulder, pretending not to notice that you’re grinding on top of me, kissing me hard as you drive my cock rhythmically into your pussy.
“Yeah,” you moan softly. “Sometimes I don’t wear anything at all.”
She giggles, turning back to the road. “Me, neither,” she says. “Of course, I didn’t want to say that, but sometimes I just go with nothing on under my dress. Saves time later.”
“Yeah,” you say. “Oh, God…Saves time…”
I can tell you’re going to come, and now we’re clear of the midtown traffic, hurtling down Eighth Avenue at a breakneck pace. It’s almost like the cab driver is in competition with us, trying to see if she can get us where we’re going before we can finish. But you’re quick as a wink with that hand on your clit, and you don’t try to camouflage your moans when you come. Your body presses hard against mine, your hips pumping rapidly, and you moan loudly, throwing back your head and whispering “Oh, yes, oh, yes, oh, yes…”
Which is when I come, my hips working my cock up into you, your smooth thighs pressing against mine. I’m not quite as loud as you, but any notion that the cab driver is clueless is long since gone. I clutch you tight and kiss your neck as my orgasm dwindles.
When I open my eyes, I see that the driver is turned around in her seat, her legs tucked under her. She’s watching us—openly, shamelessly.
“Here we are,” she says.
You slide off of me, my cock slipping out of you. I reach for my pants and start to pull them up, groping for my wallet as I do.
“How much do I owe you?” I ask, my face reddening.
“Oh, look at this,” the driver says. “I forgot to turn on the meter. Well, we’ll just call it even.”
“Thanks,” I say as you smile at her and get out of the cab.
“Operator eighty-four,” she says, smiling as she hands me a card. “I work Fridays and Saturdays.” She’s taken off the Yankees cap, and I can see her pretty eyes flashing under the street-lights. She turns back around and puts the cab in gear.
“Next time, though, don’t expect the ride to be free.”
GLINT
Portia Da Costa
What the hell is that?”
There it goes again… that flash of light from the cottage on the headland. Is it what I think it is? Is someone up there spying on us with binoculars?
“Whassup?” grunts Gavin from beneath the towel he’s got plonked over his face to keep the sun out of his eyes. I’m surprised he even heard me over the football commentary on the radio. I thought he was totally tuned in to the European Cup. I didn’t think he was actually paying attention to me at all, but it seems he is.
“Nothing…I’m not sure…I just keep seeing a flash of light or something from that cottage up there.”
Suddenly, I’m reluctant to admit my suspicions. They’re pretty stupid, after all. People stare out to sea with binoculars all the time. There’s nothing to say that whoever’s in the cottage is looking at us, if, indeed, they are using binoculars. It could just be sunlight glinting off a windowpane that’s flexing in the heat.
“Right,” Gavin mutters, reaching down to idly adjust himself in his trunks while at the same time turning the radio up with his other hand.
Git! He wasn’t really listening after all…
If Gavin had his way, we’d be back at our own cottage and he’d be in front of the telly, watching his precious football instead of just listening to it. Me, I could fancy a bit of steamy, sweaty afternoon nookie—but Gavin, in typical lad mode, seems to be satisfied for the moment with a few beers and the beautiful game.
But it’s our first seaside holiday together, and it’s the sunniest day since we got here, so I’ve insisted we hit the beach, football or no football. To give him credit, Gavin accepted this with good grace
Ack, there it goes again! That glint of light…
What are you looking at, you horrible perv? There’s nothing going on down here for you to lech and wank over…Would that there were!
I’m not really complaining. There’s actually been plenty of sex since we arrived at the cottage and plenty of orgasms. But it’s all been pretty basic stuff, if you know what I mean. Missionary, routine foreplay, the odd bit of oral…Satisfying, and almost throat-catchingly tender at moments, but just missing that indefinable something in the thrills department. No adventure. No spice. No Factor X.
Nothing daring and kinky like doing it in public while someone watches through binoculars.
What the hell is the matter with me? Where did that come from?
I ought to be outraged at the thought of somebody spying on me while Gavin and I are making love, but the idea’s got into my head now, and I’ve a feeling it’s stuck there. Instead of tilting the parasol so that our distant watcher—or watchers—can’t see us, I get up, take hold of it, and twist it around out of the way so it doesn’t obstruct their view. And while I’m up here, I lift my arms and do a sort of supermodel thing, pushing my hair back from my face in a way that makes my boobs rise in my bikini top and salute the sun.
Get a load of that, whoever you are, I challenge, running my hands down my neck and my shoulders and then down the sides of my breasts. Lingeringly and lovingly, as if I really fancy myself…It’s a shame there isn’t more of an audience, actually, but there’s only me and Gavin here on the sand this afternoon. This is a more or less private beach for the little cluster of cottages that hug shallow cliff top and the edge of the band of dunes to the west of it. You can’t get down here by road, so there’s no passing trade, and we’ve got this pretty expanse of pearly sand all to ourselves.
“What’re you doing, love?”
I jump and spin around, and find Gavin has shed the facial towel and is watching me, hands behind the back of his head and eyes narrowed against the sun. Which is a great pity, because his eyes are one of his finest features—brown as brandy and very deep and dark and sexy.
“Oh, just looking around…getting the lay of the land and all that.”
