Eye of the Beholder

I had been so captivated since Sharon walked into the room, that I hadn't really looked at the room itself. It was as I sat outside, sipping from the glass of erotic champagne, watching Sharon slink out of the satin negligee, then slide the chair toward me, that I noticed the missing couch. The chair ended up where the couch had been, right under the window, but facing almost directly toward it. It was cheated off to the left side where Sharon was pulling a mirror away from the wall, angling it toward the chair.

The mirror was for her benefit, all I saw in it was a patch of wall. It was placed so she could watch herself. This neither surprised nor bothered me, so when I saw her glance at me to see my reaction, I just winked. She returned a smile, then turned to pick up something out of my sight to the right. It was a sort of large vase, wide-mouthed, with several peacock feathers in it. She set it by the chair, then moved the table with the champagne bucket and the box she had brought into the bathroom with her to the other side of the chair.

I must have looked a question to her, perhaps even opened my mouth to say something (though I can't imagine what), because she once again raised a finger to her lips, then lowered her eyes, crossed the room, and turned on some music; I'd heard her play it before, but didn't recognize it, or even the artist for sure--perhaps Johnny Hodges, sultry saxophone, sparse strings--it was the perfect soundtrack to her. She closed her eyes for a second, swaying gently to the opening strains, then half-danced her way back across the room. Finally, she poured us both more champagne and settled into the chair.

What a picture! It's a zoom-in from a distance: a small house, a window at the back surrounded by lilac bushes, concealing one recently-confirmed voyeur, naked from the waist down (I had taken the opportunity to get more comfortable), sitting on a low stool with a makeshift end table, sipping champagne through an open window with a stunning brunette, certain exhibitionist, probable narcissist, cascades of hair falling about breasts marginally contained by the barest pretense of a bra, one leg on the cushion of the chair, knee up, heel pulled in under her, the other leg splayed out languidly against the other arm of the chair, stretching her crotchless panties open to reveal shaved lips, parted and wet. In front of her is an ornate, wood-framed mirror, to her left, a vase full of peacock feathers.

I was suddenly caught, completely unexpectedly, by the humor of the situation, and laughed out loud: a big, happy laugh soaked with total disbelief at the luck of it all. My laughter interrupted her reverie for just a moment, then brought a warm, satisfied smile to her lips as she closed her eyes and lowered a hand to her lap. I did the same, without closing my eyes, of course.

With the chair where it was, I was about three feet from that luscious pussy, and Sharon knew it. She teased me with it, stroking it and arching up towards me, then pulling the lips back, licking a finger and rubbing it gently over her clit, up and down, up and down. She dipped it into her, bringing it out glistening, and rubbed some more, a little faster now, then slower as her coming orgasm approached a bit too quickly. Reaching out, she pulled a peacock feather from the vase and slowly drew the full length of it up her slit, over her clit, again and again. Each time was a little slower, her whole body a shudder waiting to happen. Finally, she took the feather by the tip and held it out though the window to me, lifting a foot to rest on the window sill as I took it.

I held it to my nose, savoring the exquisite smell of her sex. I ran it over my tongue, then reached out with it and stroked it up her clitoris. She had kept her eyes closed, not wanting to spoil the moment, so when the feather hit her clit she started, then shook with what I took to be a small orgasm. I stroked it ever so slowly, up and down, while she writhed in the chair under its caress. I saw her eyes open slightly, her head turn just enough to watch in the mirror as the feather slid between her lips, a smile slowly growing on her lips.

This was torture. It was maddening, frustrating beyond belief. It was also the most incredibly erotic thing I had ever experienced. It was like I had been having orgasm after orgasm for weeks, and we were still on foreplay. It was uncharted territory. I had no idea where it would go, or how, or how I would react to it. I could only flow with it.

I had been on the edge of an orgasm for a while, slowly stroking myself to the same rhythm I was using on her. She hadn't been bothering to hold off, moaning and shuddering almost continuously. She had managed to slip a hand around behind her, and had been massaging her anus, first rubbing the dripping juices from her pussy down into it, then exploring it gently with a finger as I stroked her with the feather. She reached up into the box with her free hand and pulled something out. It was wrapped in her hand, so I couldn't see what it was at first, not until she slowly began inserting the beads up her ass. They were about a half inch around, and she slowly pushed them up into her with a finger, moaning as each entered. Captivated, I had stopped stroking, both her and me. When she had inserted the last one, she held the remaining string out to me, about two feet of it, looking at me as if to see if I knew what to do with it.

I grinned and took the string, taking the opportunity to stroke a finger along her hand while I was at it. She drew her hand back quickly, then laid her head back again, her fingers returning to her clit. She had taken the feather when she gave me the string, recognizing that I would want a hand free, and now she was brushing it lightly over her nipples as she worked on her clit. She was so aroused that it seemed like she was having continuous orgasms, but her fingers were flying faster and faster. As she began a low, gutteral groan, I sensed the timing was right, and slowly, ever so slowly, began to pull out the beads.

Her orgasm was stupendous. She was convulsed by it, thrashing and screaming, shaking her head back and forth. As the last bead came out, she shook three or four times, then lay there panting. It was so completely erotic that I never even thought about cumming myself.

Just then, I felt a feather stroking up my inner thigh, over my balls and up the length of my shaft. I hadn't even noticed her picking it up, but it tipped me--no, heaved me--over the edge, one of those thunderous orgasms that come along only occasionally, the kind you remember for life. I opened my eyes to see her leaning back in the chair, looking totally spent, feather in hand with a huge, self-satisfied smile on her face.

- O -

For the longest time, we just sat on opposite sides of the open window, each watching the other, as a haunting saxophone melody wafted through the lilac blossoms. She had silenced me, finger to her lips, twice already, and I must say I agreed with her. As it was, we were enigmas to each other, and the mystery was an integral part of the eroticism. I wouldn't know what to say anyway. This had absolutely blown me away, and though I could only judge from her reactions, I'd say it did a pretty good job on Sharon, too.

I was terribly aware that the chemistry of this relationship was uncertain, possibly fragile, and I didn't want to do anything to jeopardize it. I was still trying to understand it, and I suspected Sharon was doing the same; I saw it in her face. I appreciated her boldness in breaking this into the open, understood the courage it took (assuming she was as hooked on it as I was), but I still didn't know if it was a good idea.

Even now, as the post-orgasmic afterglow faded, things were different. She couldn't just go off to bed. I couldn't just leave her to her own devices (so to speak). I think we both sat there for so long because neither of us quite knew what to do next. I was certain that I hadn't been invited inside; her reaction when I touched her hand had left little doubt of that. I wasn't about to push it, anyway. There was a lot to process here.

Just then, it was taken out of our hands: it started to rain, softly at first, but with that steady build that tells you there's lots more to come. I held out my hands to the rain and frowned, then shrugged and started to pull on my pants as gracefully as I could. Sharon made a sad face, waved goodbye, a small wave with just the fingers, then blew me a kiss and left the room.

To Be Continued...