Story Codes: M/F, Consensual,  Masturbation, Exhibitionism

by Jess C Scott

It’s one of those nights. Closed the curtains and locked my room door from the start. Now I’m
bringing the lights down a little lower.

This is how I like it.

I look at myself in the mirror. I love having a big mirror. I like the undivided attention.

The gear, the get-up? Nothing too fancy – no leather, feather boas, spikes or handcuffs for
me. I saw a couple chained to each other by the wrist with a set of cuffs once. They were
making out on the street at night.

I’m standing in a simple white camisole. The only other item I have on is a ruffled leopard

I start thinking of what it’d be like, if there was a boy here.

"Hello, foxy," he’d greet me in a low, smooth voice.

He’d be standing behind, holding my hand, the other circled around my waist.

He would lean in to nudge the loose strands of hair off the back of my neck so he could place
the side of his face on the exposed area of skin there. Start kissing, exploring round the neck,
gradually going up to the ears. His hands over my milky-white breasts, the tips of his fingers
instead of mine, working the nipples, now becoming erect. I see them, hard and prominent
against the thin silken fabric.

The first wave hits me, quick as a lightning bolt.   

Things...start to spin, a little. What if this wasn’t actually my room? Where would I be? Who
would I be?

I’d exotic dancer...the hot sexy starlet of my own show. Or I’d be a waitress at some
sleaze joint, a bar hostess a kinky call girl at a local convention, whatever. Cash would roll in
by the minute with every strut.

Politicians, rock stars, businessmen, rich men, men: they’d be all around – smoking betting
drinking laughing good touching romping fingering up a girl’s butt pouring some booze and
licking it off another’s tits.

Legs shoulder-width apart, hip thrust out to one side with a slut’s inviting look and pretty pout.

It feels good.

I slide one hand across the tabletop. I rip the small plastic mirror hanging off the wall and
position it to get a better view and angle of things.

I turn to the side, then turn around and look back at the reflection in the mirrors. Eye the
contours of my body down - the sharp curve of the breasts, the slight arch at the small of the
back, the tight butt, the slender slant of the thighs, toned calves tapering off at the ankles.

So I’d slide in across the table, and this big shot tycoon of a business guy would reach under
and waste no time caressing me. He’s in a three-piece suit and shirt and tie. With a Cuban
cigar or cigarettes that may or may not be his I don’t know.

"Is this how you like it?" he’d say.

He might slip me an expensive watch or gift or something later if he was the gracious sort.

I bring my hand up behind his head, massage his neck and then shoulder blades. Go down
sitting astride him moving, a languid friction up and down his thigh. He’d lift my top to get a
good look at the assets underneath.

Yeah. I straddle across my own seat, grinding the corner of the computer chair in my room,
gamely lifting up the camisole over my head and tossing it aside.

I hold my chest high, bringing my hands up to first cup, then rub and gently squeeze my
breasts. My body gives a slight tremble; I hear the shallow, quavering couple of sharp breaths
that I take. My head eases back in reflex to relieve the tension. I’m wet.

Jerking my body around, crossing my legs for a moment, one thigh wrapped over each
squeezing the other, closing my eyes, trying to envision a little more of   

This man. Then I decide to get up in the middle of it. We’d find a spot with a little more
privacy. We didn’t have to, not necessarily, but I’d treat him to a special show reserved for the
esteemed admissible.

I get up and switch positions. The previous was all right but a bit of a hassle. I don’t want to
feel too sore. I’m in control of anything that I decide to do or not do. I relish it.

I go for the edge of the bed this time. It’s softer with no obstructions, and I’m in more comfort.

I’d go to a private chamber or bedroom. Someone comes in, a man but not the same tycoon
that I was with earlier. Someone I was willing to almost have inside of me, before he’d be
drugged from the alcohol I’d served him earlier and out stone cold, and then I’d run away and
take all the bling and spare cash that he had on him.

But not quite.

This one is younger, handsomer, taller and fitter. Tanned, lithe and lean.

He gazes at me before quietly shutting the door. One more look and we’re both going to
devour each other alive. He’s loosening his tie or collar I don’t notice the clothes what he’s in
because what I care about is what the clothes are covering.

He moves slowly, unhurriedly, as I recline and lie on my back on my bed in my boudoir. I’m so
relaxed in his presence, I can even close my eyes and drift into a semi-state of calm and
disregard to what is happening in the room. I’m starting again slow too, enjoying this torturous
dragging out of foreplay finger-strolling along the inner arms, down first with my fingers facing
in and flipping my hand over the other way as I travel back up.

It’s still always the breasts, that are the most sensitive when touched, and are the immediate
signal for the body to return and respond to his gentle motions, be it kisses, light kisses over
my eyelids and down my body or turned over on my back, lazy licks and flicks of the tongue
across the surface, all the softness with which he brings about the contact between our flesh.

He is listening to me, making love to me; I want to feel him too, and I want him. This is how it’s
supposed to be. He is also holding back, waiting for me when a faint sigh that seizes midway,
escapes from my parted lips; I breathe through my mouth as I continue rhythmically stirring,
rubbing all the right zones, my body writhing with delayed s a t i s f a c t i o n as I decide to
relent give in and give myself to him. My body arches up as we start to move, he’s moving with
me into me thrusting into me rocking hard and we’re both living in the moment the whole body

And later I’d climb right over to give him some head, whatever and however he liked

I can see my image in the mirror: heavy breathing the increase in awareness, legs suspended
nearly on tiptoe. It’s all I can do to keep from waking people up in the apartment block, but the
restraint really makes it better and we’d continue going on, playing this way, giving ourselves
to each other body against body.

I reach out for a shirt that’s been thrown on the floor and crumple it up. Place it directly
beneath me and rub my clit hard on it, for that added bit of stimulation.

We’d get there together.

But I don’t need to be concerned, I don’t even have to know what’s going on anymore. I yield
completely to my body as every frenzied nerve and muscle does its work I’m shaking
undulating my hands his hands this total hot stranger’s hands all over me I’m gonna come

I and this perfect specimen of a man

and there’s the /blood rush amidst the sweat the heat falling back, stretching out
cascading onto the top of the bed a great workout the safest kind of sex there is! the powerful
liberation from within.

So I conclude and am happy to find that I do love myself, and have my own ways at which I
show it.

Even if I happen to be my one and only audience.


Copyright© 2009 Jess C Scott

Jess C Scott runs a website collective, which can be found at Work
has appeared in Yareah, an English-Spanish literary and arts magazine, 55 Words, Clean
Sheets, FlashShot, and Blink Fiction. She is currently hard at work on a short story collection.