An Appreciative Audience

It was the end of a long, hard day – the third of a five-day conference in a foreign city, a long way from home, a long way from where I wanted to be. I let the door to my hotel room swing shut behind me as I fired up the air-con, grabbed a cigarette from the packet in my pocket, and flopped into a chair by the window. I'd left the lights off – there was nothing in my room I particularly wanted to see, myself included.

What a shitty day. Dealing all day with conference delegates in foul-to-indifferent moods had left me in a foul-to-indifferent mood of my own. I hated my job, hated my life and hated this trip. I wished that I could just close my eyes, and it would be Friday – I could grab my bag and go, head for the airport, get on a plane and go home. I opened my eyes again – still looked like Wednesday to me. Shit.

I lit up and took a calming drag, looking out at the city lights – or at least, looking at what I could see of them. Three-quarters of my high-rise view was occupied by the hotel next door, barely a stone's throw away, a field of dark blank windows punctuated by the odd back-lit curtain, and one or two with the curtains open but nothing of interest discernable inside. Past the hotel next door I could see the street below, but I was too high to make out anything more than the passage of headlights and brakelights. Fascinating stuff.

Upon another drag on my cigarette, I noticed some action in the building opposite. Lights snapped on in a room more or less across from mine, and they quickly dimmed down to a level less harsh. My eyebrow raised of its own accord, as the room's new occupant walked into view – a lady. A pretty decent-looking sort of lady, too – not a jaw-dropper, but nicely proportioned, with a face you wouldn't flee screaming. She wore a sensible grey sort of skirt-suit, with a white collared blouse beneath; it made me imagine that she was on a business trip too, holed up in a hotel room for the duration of some interminable conference, just like me. Perhaps she was in town for the same conference as me.

I watched her as she milled around her room, and she slipped off her suit jacket. 'Hello,' I thought, 'are we in for a show?' Nope; she disappeared into the bathroom for a minute, shortly reappearing with as many clothes on as before. She released her long hair from its business-like bun; she fluffed it out a bit, running her fingers through it, her eyes closed as she treated herself to an impromptu scalp massage. I realised that I had been watching her for longer than I ought; I didn't like to think I was a creepy pervert, and she was entitled to her privacy, after all. But she continued to move about with no apparent intentions of closing her curtains, and the dimmed lights lent a sort of sultry, seductive air to the whole thing, so I decided: stuff it. If she didn't have the decency to shut her curtains, I didn't have the decency to stop watching her. Fair's fair, after all – and I certainly didn't have anything better to do.

She walked up to her window, right across from me, and I was suddenly glad I had left my lights off – I wasn't in the mood to be busted as a perv. Would she be able to see me despite the darkness in my room? No, I was sure she wouldn't – these hotel windows are glazed against the sunlight, so with the lights out I was most likely well-obscured in the darkness of my room. She wasn't looking at me, anyways, nor at any part of my hotel building; she looked across and past the building, down at the street below like I had done previously. As she looked at the city, seemingly lost in her thoughts which took her a million miles away, she started undoing her blouse.

'Ooh!' I thought, as I sat up and took interest. 'Here we go...'

She stood right up against the window, away from the dimmed light in her room, so she was slightly obscured by shadow as she popped her buttons one-by-one, slowly, lost in her thoughts as she stared out at the city. Her bra came into view as she let her shirt fall open – black, very nice, and I could tell despite the dimness that there was a pretty laciness to it, the upper vestiges of the cups crafted from a sheer material. She was in possession of a rather nice pair of breasts: C-cups, most likely, a good size and proportion, and shapely too. I imagined being able to lay hands on them, shifting in my chair a little to alleviate the growing strain in my pants; they would make a nice handful, I thought.

She let her shoulders drop, and the shirt fell away behind her, and she reached behind her to loosen her skirt – her breasts standing up and saying "hello!" as she reached behind herself. The skirt didn't take much work, and away it fell, slipping to the floor and revealing a nice long pair of legs along with a shapely set of hips and a black pair of panties matching her bra. Her body had a different look about it with the clothes removed: altogether more shapely, curving in and out quite nicely, athletic and voluptuous all at once – an impressive feat, really. And she just stood there in her underwear, one hand up against the frame of the window, staring unseeingly out at the city below; she had a hand placed against her stomach, hovering above the line of her underwear, her little finger trailing distractedly along the elastic. "Go on..." I thought, willing her on, mentally urging that hand to do a little exploring. "Go on..."

Her hand slipped downwards, past her knickers to rest against her thigh. Her other hand fell to the other thigh; from there, her fingers traced slowly upwards, along the contours of her body, up the sides of her hips, criss-crossing across her chest, tracing lightly over her breasts and up along her neck back into the nape of her scalp and through her hair, her eyes staring blankly out at the city all the while. What was she doing? Was she remembering the touch of a lover, the gentle teasing caresses of someone special back home? Her hands reversed their course: down her neck again, lingering a little longer upon her breasts which rose at the touch of her hands, then quicker down her abdomen and back onto the sides of her hips, her fingers splayed outwards more this time to take in a wider sweep of her pelvis, then tracing slowly and tenderly down low again, along the sides and fronts of her thighs.

"Damn," I thought as I popped the ash off my cigarette. This was so hot. I mean, sure, it was pretty PG-13 so far, but it was incredibly arousing all the same: the blank faraway look in her eyes; the slow caresses of her own hands; the yearning, the rising expectation clear to see in the set of her body. I wondered if I was the extent of her audience, or if there were others: I was in a big hotel, and the rooms were packed in fairly tightly – if I could see her from my room, she could probably also be seen in twenty other rooms in my hotel. What she was doing: was it deliberate? Was she putting on a show for everybody, or was she simply lost in herself, lost in her thoughts, a million miles away from this city and anyone who might see her? It was an interesting thought, but I put it aside; she was doing what she was doing, and whether I wanted to or not, I simply couldn't tear my eyes away. It was enough of an effort to remember to blink.

Her hands continued their slow course up and down her body, each time lingering a little longer on her breasts and about her pelvis, her fingers spreading out more and more with each pass, taking in and feeling more and more of herself. Finally it seemed she could stand it no longer, and her hands made a beeline for her crotch; she rubbed herself gently through the material of her underwear with two fingers of each hand, and as she did I saw her sink her teeth into her bottom lip. She was horny as hell and there was no mistaking it, yet she also seemed determined to go slow, to tease herself, to build it up, to treat herself to something special.

She shortly let one hand wander upwards, away from its most pleasurable task, and it found a breast to caress; her hand wasn't shy about it, giving her breast quite a forceful rub, cupping it with a solid grasp and teasing the nipple between two fingers. It seemed that her imaginary or remembered lover was quite the eager beaver: most keen to touch it all, feel it all, make his caresses known. She left off her caresses for a moment to reach behind her, and shortly her bra was unhooked and gone, consigned to the floor with the rest of her clothes; her breasts, still very comely even without the support of her bra, were not long uncovered as both hands went to them; and as she pinched, cupped and fondled her breasts she bit her bottom lip again, and her hips bumped and grinded just a little of their own accord, her legs spreading a little to perhaps allow some cool air to flow against the undoubted warmth and wetness of her pussy. And all the while, she stayed right up against the window, leaning forwards just a little as she toyed with her breasts, so much so she was nearly hard up against the glass.

She didn't keep both hands upon her breasts for too long, though: letting one fall, scampering down the smooth skin of her belly, tucking quickly beneath the waist of her underwear, her fingertips landing upon the hotness of her cunt. I took another drag on my cigarette as I watched her touch herself, barely twenty yards away, almost right in front of me; I realised that without even thinking about it I had been doing the same, lightly stroking the growing hardness in my pants. Her mouth fell open and her head fell back as she rummaged about beneath her nether-wear, stroking herself and rubbing up and down.

I imagined feeling what she felt, I imagined myself doing to her what she was doing to herself, as though I was the invisible, imaginary lover that caressed her. I imagined standing close behind her, right against her, making the hardness of my cock known against the soft curve of her back. I imagined cupping her breast in one hand and reaching down into her panties with the other; I imagined the sound of her quivering gasp as I ran my fingers over the growing hardness of her clit, tracing down to slip just a little way into the grasping moistness of her cunt, and back again to tease her button once more. I watched her as she did this to herself, and her head tipped back once more; I imagined that her head was tipping back to rest against my chest, and I imagined muzzling into the soft, beautiful curve where her neck met her shoulder, laying kiss after kiss against the tingling tenderness of her neck that would have burned and boiled exquisitely upon her skin.

It seemed she could stand it no longer, and she pulled at her underwear, nearly tearing them apart as she ripped them down her legs and kicked them away; I was losing control of myself too, and I felt I had no choice but to do the same, standing and letting my pants and shorts drop and grasping a firm hold of my achingly-hard cock. My eyes drank in her utter nakedness as she pummelled away at her pussy with both hands, pounding two fingers into the soft, hot wetness of her cunt with one hand and rubbing fiercely, furiously away at the nub of her clitoris with two fingers of the other – and at the same time I pounded at myself, strangling my cock and wanking it hard, punishingly, without forgiveness. We both stood at our windows and masturbated furiously – my eyes locked on the awesome sight of her as I stood enshrouded in the safety of darkness; her eyes closed, head tipped back, breasts pushing forwards and hips grinding and pushing back against her hands, still silhouetted against the dimmed lights of her room, sexy and exposed and completely unaware or uncaring. We may have gone at it together for five minutes or thirty seconds, I'll never know; time went and took a break, it was a moment that stretched out and lasted a lifetime, but eventually we both heaved and convulsed and we came together – she braced one hand against the window frame, reared back and screamed, hollering noiselessly as she worked and worked at herself even as she came; and I felt my orgasm climb from the souls of my feet, pool under pressure at the base of my shaft, and spring like a jet right out of me, my essence jizzing hard like a stream against the window and then globbing down onto the sill. We were both spent, heaving heavily as we fought to catch our breath, quivering slightly as we descended slowly from climax. I felt an incredible satisfaction – for me it was an emotional release as well as a sexual one, my pent-up anger and frustration melting away under the heat of what we had just done. I took one last puff on the cigarette, which I had kept a hold of in my spare hand all this time; as I did so I looked across, and she was smiling, looking right at me.

I froze. No way. She could see me. Could she see me? She couldn't, surely – my lights were off, the windows were glazed, there could be no way she could see into my room or see me; but there she was, looking right at me. She had the cheekiest look on her face, grinning at the naughtiness of what she had done, what she had shared, the show she had put on; she mimed a puff on an imaginary cigarette, and it clicked into place.

It was the cigarette. She could see the cigarette. She couldn't see me, or anything else in my room; but what she could see, all she could see, was the glowing butt of my cigarette as I puffed on it, and held it loosely as I watched her, and left it hanging in my spare hand beside me as I beat myself silly and we masturbated together. She didn't know who was watching her, what he looked like, or even what he was doing to himself; all she knew was that she was being watched, and for her that was enough, it drove her to the heights of frenzied, kinky ecstasy just at the thought of exposing herself, touching herself, performing for some anonymous stranger in the room across from hers. And as my jaw hung loose with amazement, she fired off one last cheeky wink, and then she finally drew the blinds.

"Well fuck me," I heard myself say. "Don't that beat all?" I simply stood and stared at the drawn curtain in her room, pondering the possibility of contacting her. Was there a way to find out which room she was in over there? Could I count the floors up from the ground, figure out how many rooms from the end of the hall would be hers? Should I have tried to send her a message, scrawled my phone number or room number on the back of my own curtain? I considered these possibilities for only a moment, before realising they smacked a little of desperation; I felt pretty much spent for the night anyway, and I was sure she did too. We'd had our fun, she had put on her show and I had watched and wanked. It was fun, but it was done.

Over the next two days I found myself enjoying the conference a whole lot more, looking upon the trip in a whole new light. I remembered the business suit she had worn – however briefly – and I remembered thinking she may have been in town for the same conference as me, so I kept half an eye out for her, but of course I didn't see her again; she didn't appear in her window the next night either, she must have checked out that morning. I will most likely never see her or see anything like that ever again, but I tell you: that's okay. Just to see what I saw, even once – to be an appreciative audience for her and share in what she had done – was more than enough. I will always be thankful and grateful for what I saw that night, and I hope that by sharing this story I may encourage a few good-looking ladies out there with a bit of an exhibitionist bent to maybe leave their curtains open and end their day with a treat for an anonymous neighbour. Believe me, it will be well-appreciated.