A Voyeur's Valentine

Note:

I originally started writing this story with the intention of submitting it for the Valentine's Day contest. Unfortunately, I found that I write a bit like how my dog, Tiger, eats a baby carrot. She won't devour it the way she would, let's say, a bacon treat (and who can blame her? bacon is irresistible), she takes her time with the carrot; it's more of a process. She'll stare and lick and nibble at it and if you come too close, Tiger will object with a low growl, and move it to another room. While I won't admit that I growled at anyone while I was writing this story, I'm not so sure I can deny it either. In any case, writing this tale took me longer than I expected. It was a process.

And, as a disclaimer, I want to mention that I'm not sure how to classify this story. I don't think it's what I've seen described as a "stroke" vignette yet I hesitate to call this literary erotic fiction. Honestly, it being my first story (ever) I'm not sure what would give me the gravitas to classify my work as anything other than a fun way to pass some free time. Fun for me at least, to delve into my imagination and let my mind drift off into some other place, some dark alternate reality, while I wrote it.

I'll let you decide if it's fun for you too. I hope it is. I hope it's as satisfying as a hot strip of bacon (Hot. Bacon. There is a pun in that sentence which aptly applies to this genre, not just my dog).

I had some help from two Literotica editors on this story. Thank you to both shygirlwhore and destodes777. Your feedback was invaluable and helped me forge ahead to complete my first piece of erotica.

A Voyeur's Valentine

by Jackson Drew

The overhead fluorescent lights are all too bright. It seems to me that the clientele would prefer it dimmer inside. More private. I know I would rather have a greater feeling of anonymity. The lighting doesn't fit the personal nature of this small shop. Instead the lighting feels industrial, more like an auto parts store or an office supply super store. Not that there should be anything particularly illicit or shameful about browsing among vibrators and penis pumps and anal plugs and fury handcuffs, yet, I still feel awkward. I feel like a pervert.

A couple comes in laughing and I glance over my shoulder. They don't take notice of anyone in the store. They go right for the rack of erotic DVDs and romantic board games. Someone else is asking the girl behind the counter to direct them to bachelor party favors. I return my gaze to a sleek display of glass dildos that look like they could be exhibited as art on a mantel. They are twisted in exotic ways that remind me of colorful variations on Brâncuși's Princess X.

I try to stand in such a way that anyone observing me from across the room would think that I'm a curious but thoughtful consumer - perfectly comfortable examining the differences between glass dildos and the merits and advantages of each of these unique shapes. I'm not though. In fact, I'm having a hard time even imagining how some of these glass creations could be used in a satisfying sexual experience. There are no diagrams or illustrations to give me a clue either, just colorful advertising that says

tapered tip

,

use hot or cold

, and

gently curved shaft.

I am fascinated and my overactive imagination has me slightly aroused.

"Can I help you find something?" a girl asks from behind me. She startles me and I feel like my feet must have left the ground when she speaks. "A little jumpy aren't ya?"

It's the girl from the counter. "Jesus! You scared me."

"Sorry," she says without a hint of sounding apologetic. "You've been here for a little while. Thought maybe I could point you in the right direction."

I try to quickly concoct a story about a gift for a girlfriend. Of course, it would all be bullshit. There is no girlfriend. There hasn't been for quite a while.

And I'm not even sure why I'm here at all. It's a Wednesday afternoon and I simply didn't feel like going back to my apartment. I didn't feel like sitting at my kitchen table eating dinner alone or laying on my couch slowly drifting between reruns of 90s sitcoms and game shows on tv. I wanted to be around people. I wanted to be out.

"Let me guess, trying to spice things up a bit for tomorrow?" asks the girl. Her lips curled into a cunning smile.

"Tomorrow?" I ask, confused.

"Yeah, tomorrow. Thursday. Valentine's Day," she says slightly exasperated, her eyebrows raised.

"Oh right."

"What does she like?"

"Who?"

"Your girlfriend. Or, boyfriend. Whoever you're buying that for." She vaguely gestures towards the display of glass dildos. "Or is it for you? We have some great options for men."

Immediately I feel my face get hot and I'm thinking that my cheeks and forehead must be glowing red. I want to say something witty to deflect my embarrassment but nothing comes to mind so I just give her a short laugh.

"Well, if you have any questions just ask. They're great. I have the red one there and this one." She picks up a long braided piece that looks like an 8 inch long pretzel wrapped with a single long strand of red licorice and wags it enthusiastically. My eyes go from the glass dildo to her face.

She is smiling excitedly and I notice her round green eyes and her small mouth and that she isn't wearing much, if any, makeup. I notice her straight shoulder length brown hair streaked with hues of red and faint tints of purple. And I notice that despite her plain appearance her features are soft and she is still pretty.

I can't help but picture her tangled up in bed sheets, her cheeks flushed, panting heavily, her hips thrusting rhythmically upwards as she pushes the pretzel shaped dildo deep into the soft folds of her pink kitty. I imagine the muffled wet sounds coming from between her legs as she works the glass toy gradually faster and I imagine her light and breathy moans as she nears climax.

Embarrassed at the thoughts racing through my head, I momentarily divert my eyes to the floor as my face grows hotter.

"I recommend popping it in the microwave for a few seconds," She winks.

"Nice," I say approvingly returning my gaze to her face. "But, no girlfriend. Actually I just live around the corner and just sort of wandered in. I wasn't really ... I was just curious."

She looks at me for a moment before gesturing me to follow.

Now back behind her counter she's holding a business card between her index and middle fingers. It seemingly came from no where. A slight of hand that would have made David Blaine wide-eyed in surprise.

The girl taps the edge of the card on her chin thoughtfully, as if maybe she's having second thoughts, before finally extending her arm and offering it to me.

"Give her a call if you're looking for some company tomorrow. Valentine's Day is a shitty day to be alone."

************************************

It's a quarter past six and I'm sitting alone at a busy bar trying my best to save the empty stool next to me for Trish. I doubted that was her real name but that was the name printed, in dark grey script lettering, on the business card. That and a phone number.

I scan the faces around me, looking for someone who looks like they are looking for someone but the crowd is thick - shoulder to shoulder - with couples laughing and flirting. I study their body language - how they lean towards one another. I notice the playful touches on an arm or hand. I can tell which couples are on a first date. I sense their awkwardness. Some of the couples seem so painfully uncomfortable that I doubt they'll last until tomorrow. But Valentine's Day is a shitty day to be alone, right? Some company is better than no company, I think.

My call to Trish had been short and hadn't gone exactly the way I would have scripted it. I had made some notes on the back of an old take out menu before calling - things to talk about in case she wanted to chat; wanted to get to know me better. I listed my favorite restaurants, shows I binge watch on Netflix and a few hobbies. We didn't get to any of it. We kept to the basics - where and when and how much. It was all business.

She told me that she'd be wearing a long black leather jacket. Other than that she didn't give me any clue how I'd identify her. "I'll find you," she had said confidently. I was less certain but decided not to make an issue of it.

There is a tap on my shoulder and turn expectantly but it's the bartender. He doesn't say anything, doesn't try to shout over the music and noisy conversation - just points to my empty glass and wears a quizzical and compassionate look on his face. I think that he thinks I'm being stood up.

I feel the bulge from my inside jacket pocket pressing against my chest. There I have three envelopes. One filled with enough twenty dollar bills for three hours of Trish's time. Another envelope with an additional four hundred in case things go well and a third with a single fifty to give to her as a tip at the end of the night. It's all of this cash that makes me pretty confident that she'll be here.

"Hey, I'll take a drink," says a sweet voice in my ear. I spin around and I recognize her immediately. Trish is the girl from the sex toy shop. One in the same.

She looks different now. Where she was plain before now she's made up. Her eyes are shaded in lavender and are brushed and outlined in black. Her lips are pink and glossy. Her pale skin now looks sun kissed. She looks flawless, like she's been photoshopped for a fashion magazine cover. She looks gorgeous.

"Hey, it's you," I say, not completely surprised. I had my suspicions when we spoke on the phone but her voice had sounded thicker like she had just woken up. "You look amazing. Thanks for coming."

She shrugs as she takes off her coat, folds it once lengthwise and places it over her barstool. "I like bourbon and ginger ale," she says to me as she slides onto her seat.

The bartender gives me a nod and an approving smile as I order her drink. Nice one, is what that smile suggests. I'm sure he thinks that we're on a first date (in a way we are) and doesn't suspect that in reality I've drained my savings account of birthday and Christmas money, sacrificed buying a new Fender Strat or upgrading my phone all to avoid being alone on Valentine's Day. Either way, It's one indulgence for another. That's how I rationalize it to myself.

She rests her hand on my shoulder and pulls me forward. Not hard. She has a light, feminine touch - almost more of suggestion than a physical act. I know what she wants me to do though and I angle my head so that my ear is near her mouth. At the same time I find myself looking down the front of her shirt. She's wearing a loose fitting, low cut blouse and there is no way to avoid it. Her breasts aren't large but with the help of a push up bra they look plump and round. I think about touching them lightly, bringing my lips to her nipples, feeling her soft skin brushing against the side of my face. I feel excited and guilty at the same time, like a school boy who has inadvertently caught sight of his teacher's cleavage as she bends down over his desk. A sheepish, juvenile thrill.

It occurs to me that this is not a mistake. She wants me to notice her breasts. It's the role she's playing, part of the seduction. It's what I'm paying for.

"So, what did you have in mind?" she asks quietly - barely loud enough to be heard over the noisy crowd around us. Her lips linger near my ear and I feel her breath on my neck. I feel the tip of her tongue tickle my earlobe and small chills run down my back and just like that I start to get hard.

She laughs as she leans back. She's teasing me in a playful way and I don't mind. It feels good to be flirting, I feel like we belong alongside all of the other couples around us.

"I don't know. I didn't have anything specific in mind. Just hang out, I guess."

"Just hang out?"

"Is that weird?" I ask laughing. "What do you normally do?" She stares back at me with her eyebrows raised.

"Alright, stupid question," I admit. "I've just never done this before."

"So you're nervous," she states as a fact rather than as a question.

"I wouldn't say nervous. It's not like I'm a virgin or never had a girlfriend before," I say a little defensively. "More just curious."

And it's true. I am curious and wondering if there are reasons, other than the obvious, why she sleeps with strangers. Maybe I'm hoping she'll find that she likes me enough to let me keep my envelopes stuffed with cash and buy that guitar after all. But I'm kidding myself, that won't happen. And I'm not that selfish anyway. I'll gladly pay for her time and talents even if I can't completely understand why she does the things she does; the things that I imagine she does, in dark strange rooms, on too firm mattresses, between stiff and endlessly bleached white sheets.

I'm all at once appalled at her sheer recklessness and in awe that she lives this way; carefree and on the outer fringes of normalcy. It's an incomprehensible lifestyle to me.

"Alright, so you're the quiet curious type," Trish says as she takes a sip of her drink. She looks satisfied, like she's got me all figured out. I'm not so sure it's all that easy. I don't feel like I'm a

type

and am slightly annoyed at being so easily categorized.

We're both silent for a few moments and I grab my drink to fill the passing seconds with action rather than silence; so that there is an excuse for the pause in conversation.

"So what are you curious about?" she finally asks.

I take my time answering. To me, she's a locked box, a puzzle that begs to be solved and this is my chance to probe and see if I can get her to reveal some small details about herself. But as I toy with the idea of delving into Trish's mysteries I begin to question if I'm truly interested in her darkness or exploring my own.

"I'm sort of an observer I guess, and I'm fascinated with what you do."

"An observer, huh?" she says as a slow smile spreads across her face. "A voyeur then." She takes another sip of her drink. "So, do you want to watch me?"

I think of the pretzel dildo.

"Or maybe you'd prefer to see me with another girl? Ah, that's too easy. Of course you'd do that." She shakes her head and squints at me. "What about another guy?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Why not? Have you ever just watched before? I mean two people doing it right in front of you. Not actors. Not performers. Not two girls at a strip club you paid to paw at each other, I mean two real people. Unapologetic and unscripted. Two people fucking so close the musty smell of sex comes at you in waves."

"I saw a couple of girls playing with each other at a bachelor party," I say

"That's what I'm talking about. It's not even close to the same thing," she says as she finishes her drink and slams the glass on the bar. "It's a total act."

I want to ask her if she's acting right now, but I don't.

"C'mon," Trish says as she stands up. "I've got an idea that I think you're going to love."

I catch up to her outside and she's already halfway down the block on her cell phone. Trish holds one thin finger to her lips shushing me and I notice her nails are painted the same color as her eye shadow. She is talking to someone but keeps her head down and her back to me and I can't hear what she's plotting over the rumble of city traffic.

"It's all set," she says as she turns back to me.

"What is?"

"You're going to love it," She sings with a crooked smile.

We zig zag our way through the cool night and the crowded city sidewalks. Conversation comes easier while we're moving. I feel more comfortable and confident outside, moving around.

She asks me where I like to hang out and I wish I had the list I made on the back of the takeout menu. We talk about where we went to college and I'm surprised to find out that we both went to Rutgers. I joke about grabbing a late night gyro from the food trucks lined up along College Ave. and she laughs and I'm feeling like we could be on a real date.

"What was your major?" I ask.

"Graphic Design," she says. "But I didn't finish."

I wait for her to elaborate but she offers me a cigarette instead.

"I don't smoke."

"You don't hang out with escorts either, do you?"

I shrug and accept the cigarette she lit and take a short drag. It burns my throat and immediately I get lightheaded and have to stop and sit on the bumper of a parked delivery van.

Trish laughs so hard she snorts and we both start cracking up in small giggle fits. For a second I think we could just as easily be college friends hanging out on campus just outside of Surf Taco on a Friday night.

Finally she grabs my arm and drags me to my feet. "C'mon, we gotta go."

Twenty minutes later we're standing outside a hotel room. She's adjusting her clothes and fiddling with her hair. "I look alright?" she asks.

"What are we doing here?" I ask in a whisper. She doesn't say. She doesn't look at me, she just knocks on the door. A tall average looking man of about forty answers quickly. "Hi, I'm Trish!" she says enthusiastically.

The stranger opens the door a few inches but pauses when he sees me. "He's with me," she says. "He's the one I told you about. This is just kind of his

thing

." She shrugs and leans against the door frame.

Is it really my

thing

? I don't think that it's been determined that my thing is to passively watch two people have sex. Yet, I'm still standing here. I'm not fleeing in disgust. I admit to myself that I am, in fact, curious, if not excited. Trish declares it so emphatically that I start to wonder if she truly knows me better than I know myself.

There is a flicker of annoyance in the strangers eyes but finally he swings open the door and lets us in.

The room is small and decorated in pink and black lacquer furniture. There is a bed, a writing desk with a narrow straight back chair and a scrawny arm chair. It's thirty years out of style.

Trish directs me to the arm chair. "You don't say anything or do anything, got it?" She says in my ear. "You just get to watch."

I nod, feeling a little like a scolded child being sent to a time-out. I'm out of my element, out of my comfort zone. I have a hard knot in my stomach, my mouth is dry and I'd like a glass of water but choose to sit quietly.

Trish disappears in the bathroom and the stranger and I avoid eye contact. I pretend to be preoccupied with making myself more comfortable in the chair to avoid the awkwardness between us. When Trish finally returns she's only wearing a lingerie set. Her bra and panties are black lace with a pink trim that matches the pink bows on her thigh highs. She's stunning even in the bad yellow light and stands half naked in front of us with the radiance of a rock star.

It is, in fact, just a performance, I remind myself.

She holds up her phone. "We need a little music," she says. With a few flicks of her finger slow jazz dance music fills the room. Electronic and funky. It's music made for sex.

"And we need less lights." She finds a switch near the door and turns off the outdated wall sconces. The room goes gray. The only light now comes from a single floor lamp in the opposite corner. She drops her phone on the desk and turns to face us.

The stranger is sitting on the edge of the bed and she walks to him slowly her hips rocking seductively to the music.

I watch him with her. He knows what he wants. His gaze is unwavering and saturated with lust and desire. Not desperation exactly, but certainly with animalistic anticipation, like a wolf stalking a lone unsuspecting hare. Easy prey.

Trish doesn't seem to notice or to care. I guess that she's used to it. Used to silent, lustful aggression.