Indecent...Desires. Jane O'Reilly
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participated in, even though I hadn’t really participated. And so I started waiting for him on a regular basis, night after night, hoping for a repeat performance. But it didn’t happen. Until one day, in a moment of madness, I slipped an anonymous note through the letterbox of his building addressed to the man on the top floor and asked him to stand by the window at nine that evening and jerk himself off.
And he had.
If I thought I’d been excited the first time I’d seen him, it was nothing compared to that night. It was a bit ridiculous, really. I’m thirty-four. I have a pension plan and my own flat and until six months ago I had a husband. I wasn’t some naive teenager who had never seen an erection before.
But if I’m honest, it wasn’t just the sight of his cock that excited me, although I can’t deny that Mother Nature has been kind to him in that department. It wasn’t watching his body shake through his orgasm, though that definitely added something to proceedings.
It was the fact that he did as he was told.
So here I am, sitting on the edge of my bed, wearing the sensible black trousers and pressed white blouse that are an essential part of my job as a receptionist at an accountancy firm in town, waiting for him to start, waiting to see if today is the day that I crossed the line and asked for too much.
I think of him as mine, though he’s not mine. He will never be mine. The fact that we’ve never met aside, he’s too young. And because as my ex-husband told me right before he left, no sane man could possibly tolerate a control freak like me.
I grip the edge of the bed, my palms sweaty against the ironed cotton, and fight the urge to lean forwards, to get on my knees in front of the window so that I can get a better look at him. He’s so young, so beautiful, with that flop of dark hair over his forehead and fat-free body. Every time I watch him, I tell myself it is the last. That I won’t surrender to this again. And every night, I find myself twisting the sheets as I think up increasingly demanding scenarios for him to play out for me in front of the window. There seems to be no limit to my imagination.
Tonight I have him stripped bare, every inch of skin uncovered apart from the base of his prick, around which is coiled a purple silk tie. His face moves into a grimace as he takes his cock in a tight grip and fucks into his hand, twisting his wrist as he reaches the end of his shaft. I know exactly how this is going to play out. He’s touching his balls now, tucking his fingers under them, exactly as my note told him to do. Play with your cock until you’re desperate to spill all that lovely, thick semen. Then pull the tie tight around your swollen prick, tight enough to hurt.
I hold my breath, waiting, waiting, my breasts swollen and hot inside my bra, a sharp ache between my thighs. But I never do anything about it, because that would be wrong. That would mean acknowledging how much this excites me, and I should not be excited by it. And I have this terrible fear that if I touch myself, if I surrender to the feelings this creates in me, I will jinx it somehow. That it will end, that I will be found out. I don’t think I could handle the shame if that happened.
So I sit and I watch, and the shame threatens to swamp me but I can’t look away. And on the opposite side of the street, the beautiful man who I like to watch stands up from his chair. He moves closer to the window, closer, until he can place one hand flat against the glass. His hand is still working, faster now, his balls jerking as he fucks himself with a tight fist. The end of his cock is dark and swollen, and I can see him bracing himself. He’s close, I think to myself. His mouth moves, forming words I can’t hear, but in my imagination they’re dirty, and that turns me on even more.
He stares directly at my window as I hide in the darkness and watch him, my beautiful angel, as he takes that hand away from the window and pulls the tie tight, so tight that it makes me press a hand to my throat in shock. His face twists. You went too far, I think to myself. Far too far.
I cannot breathe, cannot think, totally in his spell as he pauses, that tie knotted so tight round the base of his cock, keeping him hard. And then he angles his hips forwards, gives the end of his shaft a quick tug, and the whole world stands still as he stripes the window with streak after streak of thick, white come. He stands there, chest heaving, for what feels like forever as the evidence of his pleasure slides down the glass, his gaze fixed firmly on my window. Then his mouth curves into a smile, and he wipes a hand over his face, and those dimples that appear in his cheeks make me weak, and I know that I didn’t go nearly far enough.
The scene is still playing out in my mind as I make my way into work the next morning. I like to arrive twenty minutes earlier than everyone else, so I can drink coffee and peruse the stationery cupboard and generally enjoy the space and the new carpet smell. I like to be prepared when the rest of the staff walk in. Being late is my worst nightmare.
But this morning I’m wired, unable to settle, and the coffee only makes me feel worse. I didn’t sleep well and none of my usual remedies worked. All I could think about was the man on the other side of the road. I wondered what he thinks when he reads my little notes, who he thinks is sending them, why he follows them.
When I’d done with those thoughts, when I’d chased them round in circles for hours and got nowhere, I started to think about what I could do to push him further. What I could make him do next. I have so many ideas, so many shocking, filthy ideas. Just when I think I’ve reached my limit, my brain conjures up some new scenario. Take the one that I wrote on the note I slipped through his letterbox this morning, which told him to film tonight’s session and upload it onto the internet.
The problem with all this is that it leaves me incredibly aroused, which isn’t a good state to be in at work. I cannot think straight with this hot, furious urge, my whole body so tense that I feel like I might explode if anyone comes near me. I check the clock that hangs on the wall behind my desk. I’ve got twenty minutes before anyone else arrives. It’s enough. I lock my handbag in my bottom drawer, and then I quietly slip away to the loo. The stalls are empty, the whole place filled with the lingering scent of lemon cleaner, and it’s probably the most disgusting place in the world for what I am about to do, but I have to. I can’t stand it any longer. I lock myself in a cubicle, take a deep breath. One last chance to talk myself down from this. But I can’t, I can’t.
Time is of the essence now. I’ve got to hurry. I’ve worked so hard to build up my reputation here, sensible Meredith, reliable Meredith, Meredith who can handle anything we throw at her. Meredith, who masturbates in the toilets because she’s too desperate to wait and too uptight to do it at home. Maybe my ex-husband was right. Maybe there is something wrong with me.
There’s definitely something wrong with me, I think, as I shove a hand deep into my bra and pinch my nipple tightly between finger and thumb. The relief I feel is palpable, though it fades into insignificance compared with what I feel when I push a hand into my underwear and stroke myself through the lace. I dig my feet into the floor and finger myself in earnest. My clit is swollen and when I slide my fingers into my slit, I find plenty of slippery wetness. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to take my time over this, to savour it, but my ex always said that I took too long. He also said that I wanted it too much, that it wasn’t normal for a woman to want it that much, which is why I try so hard to resist.
But I’ve been failing more and more, recently. Oh, my intentions are good. But I don’t seem to be able to hold onto them, not when I’ve spent all night dreaming of the man across the road, when the ache is so severe that I can hardly function.
Focus, Meredith. Focus. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and think only about the ache between my thighs, about how much better I will feel when that ache is gone. I rub myself harder, even though it makes my wrist ache. I bite into my bottom lip as I feel my clit swell, as I think about the man over the road and the show he puts on for me. I wonder what he would do if he knew that he’s becoming an addiction I don’t know how to control.
But I must control it. I’m thirty-four and I want a husband and a baby and I am not going to get either this way. But oh, that beautiful hard stomach and that