Fuck. Well and truly trapped. Good thing I don’t have to piss.
Time becomes meaningless, ticking away as I stand still in the darkness. At least it smells lovely in here with all her clothes. Her scent wraps around me like an intriguing hug—comforting, yet also slightly arousing in its utter femininity—a combination of whatever soap she uses, and a faint whiff of something warm, like coffee and vanilla. I didn’t get close enough before to really notice, but it’s wonderful.
Minutes—hours?—later, just as I’m starting to shift my weight from foot to foot, she gets up from her desk. I perk up.
Please be going for a walk…
Her form flashes by the sliver opening I left in the doorway, but she’s headed for her bed. I frown, cocking my head, then nearly suck in a breath when I realize she’s removing her jumper. It lands atop a small pile of laundry in front of the closet door, quickly joined by her flirty little skirt. Watching as her perfect shape comes into view, I’m utterly frozen. Everything else falls away—the sound of my own breathing, the ache in my feet and persistent crick in the base of my neck, the dryness in the back of my mouth—until all that exists is the rush of blood to my dick and the slow reveal of more and more of her body.
And what a lush, curvy, tanned, soft body it is. Clothes do her no justice. She ought to be naked more. Inside, obviously—no one else gets to see this.
She removes her shirt and stands for a moment in what looks like a black lace bra. Fuck me, I do love a bit of lace and silk. It’s like the best wrapping for the best kind of gift. She unhooks it in a practiced move and it joins her shirt on the floor, treating me to the sight of the soft lines of her nude back.
When she hooks her thumbs into either side of her panties, my heart jerks in my chest, drumming faster and harder as my desire mounts… I have to reach down to adjust my hardening cock in my trousers. The urge to take it out is almost unbelievably strong—even a few rough squeezes might soothe this unbearable, aching rigidity—but I don’t dare.
She lowers the waistband of her panties, shifting her hips back and forth in the most mesmerizing sway I’ve ever seen. My balls tighten. Blood pounds in both my heads, and my thoughts feel thick.
Moving out of the narrow view I have, she climbs onto the squeaky mattress, and then her feet appear at the end of the bed I can see. Her feet kick apart.
I shift until I can see her torso, pressing my face as far as I can into the wall for the proper angle. Her body is tan against the white sheets. The sight of her curves sends waves of hot need through me—only made worse when she cups her breast and tweaks the tip roughly.
She skims her chest, her tummy, and as her hands move south towards her center, I bite a fist to keep from groaning. Or trying to coach her. I want so badly to tell her what to do to please me. I want to watch her fingers emerge, slick and shining with her own arousal. I want to watch how an erotic order lands—whether it makes her want to give in or fight. Both, I hope.
That’s it, Madison. Touch yourself. Show me how you like it.
Breath bated, I wait for something else to happen—a moan, a whimper, a soft wet noise from an aroused body. She curls up on her side and reaches into the drawer next to her bed. And I’m suddenly very,veryglad I’ve already got my fist to bite down on because there’s no way I would have survived the shocked delight of seeing a bottle of lube and a vibrating mini wand in her hand in silence.
She likes toys.
Well, we have that in common, love.
Fuck.
When buzzing starts, I exhale slowly, because it feels like an electric shock to my own system. I’ve never wanted to see something more than I want to see what’s happening between her propped legs right fucking now. Do I risk opening the door wider? Would it even provide the correct angle?
A low, throaty moan joins the sound of the buzzing, and a shiver crawls down my spine, lingering and fizzling out almost painfully at the base. As she makes more infuriatingly seductive noises, I squeeze my eyes shut. I need to get ahold of myself. Yes, she’s the most spellbinding creature I’ve seen in a long time, but I’m a grown man in full control of his desires and faculties.
Still, every gasp sends a surge of blood to pound painfully in flesh that’s already impossibly hard. Every whimper makes me grit my teeth so I don’t breathe out louder than I should. Every moan makes me clench my fists to keep myself from cracking open the door further.
Would she make the same noises riding my face? The vision is so sudden and intense that I lick my lips, as if I’d find her taste there.
I don’t know how long I listen, wishing I could see more, but eventually my own arousal settles into more of a crackling fire—still burning but no longer raging out of control. I wait for the crescendo, or some sign of her pleasure, but the buzzing suddenly stops and I frown in confusion.
Is she just very quiet when she comes, or…
The heavy sigh she emits sounds frustrated. “Fucking anti-anxiety meds,” she grumbles as she sits up.
My lips twitch. I don’t know what anti-anxiety meds have to do with this specifically, but it must be difficult for her to come—I’ll need to keep that in mind. I’ve had quite a lot of fun with orgasm denial in the past, but when achieving orgasm is difficult, it’s not something to weaponise.
Her feet disappear, her door opens, and the bathroom door closes. Faintly, I can hear the shower come on.
As quietly as possible, I crack the door. The bathroom door is still open, but her shower curtain has fogged with the heat, and she’s facing away. I take my chance and slip out of the closet. Staying low, I make my way to the front door—something made substantially harder by my substantial hard-on.
“I was never here,” I whisper to the cat as I pass where he’s curled on the couch. He lifts his head inquisitively, and I can better see the line of black fur across his head that almost looks like a bowl haircut, making his look of wide-eyed wonder seem especially human and dopey.
Next time I’ll bring him some treats.
When I get back to the van, I get the cameras online and debate doing something about my erection, but I can’t quite shake the mental image of being a pervert in a white van—a peeping Tom touching himself while the object of his fixation blithely shows him more than she’d meant to.
