Helens Game

I started this months ago in a flurry, then as usually happens lost interest and moved onto other fragments of stories.. Recently I discovered it afresh and I've been obsessed by it ever since, re-writing the original idea, hopefully improving it into the dirty little story you see before you. Any feedback good or bad is welcome and gratefully received.

Hope you like it, have fun.

Kowalski.

* * * * *

Part 1.

The microwave bleep, bleep, bleeps, telling Helen her lasagna is ready. Lost in her own thoughts, she fails to register the noise at first.

Sitting on the sofa in her small living room, still wearing the uniform of her work, a navy skirt and white blouse, her legs tucked up beneath herself, Helen is feeling familiar desires growing. Her mouth is dry, with lips sore from her near constant nervous biting over the last couple of days.

It's nearly always the same. She puts it off and puts it off, denying her feelings. Lying to herself that this time she can resist, yet at the same time making her plans, arranging her quiet night in, trying to ensure there are no distractions.

Her attention is on the well thumbed yellow telephone directory sitting on her coffee table, beside a half finished cup of tea, long cold.

How long has it been since the last time? A month? She doesn't know exactly but it feels like an age. The intense shame she feels after each time has faded, as always gradually outshone by the bright urge to do it again.

Tonight the urge is bright indeed, stronger than ever in fact. All day in her office she's been distracted, fidgety and horny as hell, barely producing any work at all. A male colleague even asked her if she was all right. Ha!

How she longed to tell the truth.

Just looking at the directory when she's in this kind of mood makes her panties wet. In the past, the thought was enough, for years it'd been a favourite fantasy of hers. She'd been slightly drunk the night fantasy became reality, even putting the wine bottle to good use. Seven shame filled months had followed before she did it again, stone cold sober, yet high as a kite and without chemical help. From then on the floodgates had opened, once she even did it twice in one night.

Helen reaches forward and hefts the heavy book from the table, sitting it on her lap. To have the book in her hands sends giddy little ripples through her.

She wants to touch herself as she starts to flick randomly through the pages, just the thought of pulling her panties to one side and doing it makes her want it even more. It's a delicious feedback loop, but an urge she manages to ignore, for now at least.

Her exploration of the directory is meandering, with no initial focus. However, after a couple of minutes of flicking through the entire book, as it always does, a letter comes to the forefront of her mind. Immediately, yet for no real reason that Helen can think of, it seems right.

Tonight it seems, will be brought to you by the letter C.

Her initial decision made she remembers the lasagna, life intruding on her dirty little game. She doesn't fight it, after all she's starving, but more than that she likes to draw the game out, almost teasing herself, letting the anticipation bubble and swell, until it becomes a red mass of delicious need, burning her from the inside out.

Due to the wait the lasagna had stopped steaming before she withdrew it from the microwave. 'A Healthy Meal For One', that's what it says on the box.

She sits down at the tiny, barely big enough for two, table in the kitchen, tidily set with her knife, fork and a small glass of water. A forkful of lasagna passes between her lips, her tongue seeking the sensations it can offer her. However, unsurprisingly, it's bland, her mouth hardly notices its presence. Largely ,this is down to the uninspired and low calorie recipe, but also because her mind is focused almost entirely elsewhere in her body, in all truth it could have been 'The Ultimate Lasagna

tm

' and yet Helen would likely still have been oblivious.

After several more disinterested mouthfuls she looks up and across to the kitchen window, and sees that the blinds are open, the wet winter darkness pressing against the glass. The surrounding houses are packed in close, several of her neighbours could well be able to see her sitting at the table, under the harsh fluorescent light of the kitchen, all they need to do is glance in the right direction.

An extra little frisson of excitement itching within causes Helen to put aside the half eaten lasagna. It's nearly time to make her next choice, but it need not be rushed, she has all the time in the world. Of more importance is the growing tension between her legs. It would be so simple to scratch that itch, to turn it into warm glowing pleasure with a finger or two.

But what if someone was watching? She dwells on that thought.

What if someone was watching?

Would they know what she was doing? Would they see the movements of her hand and guess correctly? What would they do if they did? Desire gnaws at her insides, her pussy clenching around an object that isn't there.

She's very wet, and getting wetter, she doesn't have to touch herself to know it, besides, someone might be watching though the rain spattered windows.

Someone might be watching

. Almost of their own accord her legs open until the navy skirt stops their outward motion. It would be so easy to push a hand between her thighs and touch herself. She moans at the naughtiness of the thought and the way it makes her insides quiver.

She wants to, oh God how she wants to, but she knows the neighbours well, a lot of them she regards as friends, if they saw and new what she was doing? Just at the thought of it a hot flush of shame colours her cheeks, but with the shame comes a strengthening of the heat between her legs, a sickening wave of need spreading out from under her increasingly wet panties.

Her hands disappear beneath the table, sliding flat over her lap, fingertips finding the hemline of her skirt. She shouldn't, she knows she shouldn't, but the feelings are so strong tonight, her body craves the adrenaline of something new.

She hitches it up, closing her legs to ease its journey up her toned, heavy thighs. Until it's as high as it will go, bunched up against her curvy hips and the chair she sits upon.

Heart pounding, she slowly opens her legs, exposing her white cotton panties to anyone who may be watching, cloaked in the darkness beyond.

With one hand resting flat on the table she closes her eyes, letting her mind wander. Immediately she sees a man, illuminated by the light from the kitchen. He's standing just outside the window, hair plastered flat and lank against his forehead, rain dripping down his impassive face. He's perhaps in his fifties, well built, dressed in a dark suit, tie and white shirt. He's looking in, watching.

Helen spreads her legs even wider, until they can go no further, hip joints screaming in protest. She touches herself, sighing as she brushes the damp front of her panties with delicate fingertips.

She feels little sharp points of stubble poking through the cotton, she always keeps herself trimmed neatly and very short, but rarely shaves completely unless a partner requests it. She likes the prickly feel of her stubble, likes the sensations it gives her.

With a deliberate lack of haste she hooks a couple of fingers beneath the damp material and pulls it to one side, exposing her vivid pussy to hungry eyes both imagined and maybe real.

The man at the window, he looks in, his gaze angled down beneath the table, between her thighs, zeroing in on her flushed, slightly parted lips. He licks his lips and looks up, making strong eye contact, his hand rising to take the door handle. When he speaks his voice is smooth and ocean deep.

"You have a beautiful cunt. If you'll let me, I'd like to taste it."

Without waiting for her reply he twists the door handle, opening the door and stepping calmly inside.

She opens her eyes, gasping, all watchers banished into their dark hiding places of the night. She's desperate to plunge her fingers inside herself, to feel her slick muscular walls gripping them tight. She's ready for the next stage, wants it badly now, this fun new game can wait, growing darkly in her fantasies for another time.

With more than a little reluctance she covers herself up again and makes her way back to her living room, picking up the directory.

Her floor is covered in a cheap grey carpet that she inherited from the flat's previous owner. She cannot afford to replace it but instead bought a white rug to place in the center of it. She kneels down on the rug now, it feels soft and luxurious underneath her.

The directory gets placed, as always, just in front of her knees. She leans forward, her back arched, and places her palms down on the thick tome, her eyes closed, focussing and savouring every second of the build up.

Without opening her eyes she takes her hands from the book and straightens up. As she does so she slides her hands up her thighs, taking her skirt up with them again, exposing, milky skin and eventually the soft lower curves of her rump until her fingers find the elastic of her knickers.

She eases them down, pulling them off the damp flesh to which they stick, tugging them down until they hang taut, just above her knees. Soon her skirt follows, undone, and allowed to slide down her thighs, to cover her knees.

Her pussy revels in its new found extra freedom, it begs to be touched, Helen finds herself almost overcome by its silent yet powerful siren song. A single rivulet of her sex juice dribbles onto her thigh, tickling her sensitive skin as it begins its slow decent. Soon there will be more.

She resists the urges, feeding off the sweet tension in her body, almost giddy with it, and leans forward to open the directory.

She rifles through the pages, ignoring the business section and finding her way to where the Cs start in the residential section.

A. Cabalero. She always finds a strange pull towards the first name in a list, number one, numero uno, but as ever she ignores it and moves on into the deeper parts of the listings.

The room is warm, at least it feels that way. As she turns the page with one hand she unbuttons her blouse with the other. Today, unlike most days, Helen is bra less. She almost religiously wears a bra at all times, determined to look after her plump and perky breasts.

Except that is, when she wakes up feeling like she did this morning, wanton and more than a little naughty. She's been flirty with everyone at work today, especially one of the new young Lecturers, and she loved the way his deep blue eyes had kept straying downwards as they talked, lingering where her nipples pressed brazen against her blouse.

He's married, to a lovely woman apparently, although Helen has never met the lucky lady. Helen is sure though that he wants her, perhaps it's wishful thinking but something in his eyes, and the way he keeps on coming to her office for silly little reasons suggests not.

She slips her blouse from her shoulders, letting it fall behind her back. A small, golden St. Christopher hangs on its delicate chain, glinting at the very top of her cleavage.

As one finger slides slowly down the pages of the directory, she caresses her proud breasts with the other hand. Fingertips leave tingling, circular trails behind them, her nipples growing fat and stiff.

Her pussy may be out of bounds for now, but as she begins to make her final choice, she allows herself free reign over the rest of her body.

Turning the pages, scanning the list of names, trying to picture the person behind them, often Helen wonders what draws her to a particular name, never coming up with any real answer.

She's seeking a name that sends some kind of connection, a spark of something that feels more than just random. After turning a few pages She finds a name... Collins. D. drawn to it by an unknown force, just like always. As ever she does not know whether the person is male or female, young or old, ultimately it doesn't matter.

"D. Collins, D. Collins," she whispers the name over and over to herself, closing her eyes, wrapping her lips and tongue around the name. "D. Collins." Both hands find her fat brown nipples now, rolling and tweaking them erect, her face tilting up to the ceiling as she imagines the person behind the name.

In her mind it is David Collins, he's about 37 years old and married, he works out regularly to keep himself in shape and is a faithful husband, at least that is, in body, in his mind he dreams of being with other women.

In reality D. Collins could be anyone, Helen has no real idea who he, or just as likely, she is, but in her fantasies the recipient is always a few years older than her 25 years.

The thick, padded envelope lies ready on the small coffee table. Placed carefully next to it is a Biro and a couple of first class stamps.

Helen lifts the directory from the floor, rising naked with it, leaving her clothes behind on the rug, she carries it over to the table. Sitting down on the very edge of the sofa she places the heavy book down next to the envelope and takes a deep breath, opening her thighs for the easy access she'll need so soon.

Leaning forward she brushes loose locks of her long, almost black hair behind her ears and then picks up the Biro.

Looking at the directory she makes a mental note of the address and then copies it onto the padded envelope, checking it several times to make sure it's correct.

Sitting back for a moment she basks in a warm glow, the preparations, the relatively boring but necessary preliminaries are almost over.

She picks up a stamp, the dry glue on one side needs moistening.

Resting it carefully, glue side up, on the fleshy pad of her middle finger she lowers it between her legs, her mouth is dry and she's biting her bottom lip as her finger approaches the wet heat of her pussy.

Helen spreads her thighs even more, as far as she can, like before, her hip joints burning with the strain. Her other hand, white knuckled, grips the front of the sofa.

Her pussy is desperate for contact, and with the delicate touch of the stamp upon her raw flesh she releases a little moan. The little rectangle of paper sticks to the edge of one sodden lip, soaking up her juices. She peels it away and applies it carefully to the envelope, pressing it down hard to make sure it's well stuck.

She takes the second stamp, also guiding it down to her heat, pressing it slightly below her eager hole, where her juice dribbles heavily, drowning the glue in her flow. When she peels it away it's slippery with come, almost too wet to stick to the envelope, it slides across the surface at first as she tries to press it down, but the glue eventually does its job, finding purchase on the paper.

She leaves the envelope waiting, ready on the table and stands up, Everything is set, and she's more than ready for the next stage, the part she dreams of day and night, the main event.

Starting to leave the living room for her bedroom she steps over her clothes, sees her panties lying discarded on the rug. A flashback from the kitchen comes to her, the moment those panties were pulled to one side. That dark window.

Overwhelmingly aware of her nakedness, yet acting on a playful impulse too strong to resist she makes her way back to the small kitchen. Walking straight past the table with her meager meal on top she approaches the window. Her arousal making her reckless, freeing her from previous restraint.

The night is black and wet, a few lights shine in overlooking windows, sparkling in the rivulets of water running down the window. She sees her reflection in it, wanton and free.

No matter how many times she visits the gym, she's never been able to slim down her heavy thighs or reduce the curve of her hips. It doesn't matter how many lovers fall in love with those curves, she's still always wished to reduce them. All that gym use has meant though that her unknowingly fabulous curves are firm and toned. Only the hint of a belly gives away her weakness for chocolate muffins.

Looking at herself reflected against the night, she sees something rarely witnessed by herself, a hint of her beauty, and longs for someone to be watching as she steps closer to the darkness, drawn forward by her desire, closer still, until one, then both nipples brush the cold glass. Closer.

Her breasts become flattened disks, her breath fogging the glass as she presses her belly, her thighs, her whole length against it.

"Look at me." She whispers, her nose tracing patterns in the fog as she writhes against the window, a hand dipping between her legs, touching parted flesh.

"Look at meee."

For a minute or more she stands there, pressed against the night, exploring the slippery folds of her cunt with gentle, probing fingers, desperate to plunge those fingers deep within. Helen knows she would quickly come, she's already close, very close.

The thought of someone who knows her but who she's never spoken to, seeing her coming against the glass is dangerously exciting, but it slowly dawns on her that although someone might be out there, equally she may be alone, and unwatched. The glow fades, she has to be watched, that's what this night is all about.

In her bedroom she knows that D. Collins is waiting, offering unbroken attention.

Her imprint is left behind, slowly fading on the glass as she makes her way, not without a hint of sadness, to her room. That trace of sadness fades swiftly and utterly as she walks into the bedroom and approaches her small computer desk. Sitting next to the mouse is a small piece of paper with a Hotmail address printed upon it. The address is brand new and never been used, she set it up especially for today.

Next to the slip of paper is a video cassette. She picks this up and turns to the large camcorder she set up on a tripod earlier.

Her hands are shaking and her heart hammers in her chest as she puts the blank cassette into the camera. She looks through the viewfinder. The end of the large bed is perfectly in frame, a fresh set of clothes lies upon it, she'll wear these to work tomorrow, sharing a secret with them all day.

Satisfied with the view Helen approaches the bed, her pussy aching as she picks up the most important item of clothing.

The black wool of the balaclava is soft and thick. She squeezes its soft warmth in her fingers, bringing it up to her face and rubbing it on her cheeks. It smells freshly laundered.

She parts her legs and lowers the balaclava down her body. It feels divine and Helen moans as she presses it softly against her sex, the fibres catching on her short stubble as she draws it back and forth.

It fits snugly over her head, her long black hair flowing from the back. She smells that laundry smell again, tainted now with the heavy scent of her sex. Her face is hot under the thick wool, she likes it that way.

Slowly, starting with a crisp, white pair of panties she gets dressed again. A wet spot blossoms on the cotton almost instantly. Her excitement grows as each item goes on, thinking of when and how she'll be removing that item so very soon.

Satisfied and desperately ready, she turns back to the camera and sets it recording.

This is it.

Part 2

Dan Collins lays awake in the dark, he's sure his wife is asleep beside him, her back facing him. He toys with the idea of waking her up, telling her about it, but he can't do that. It was sent to

him

. What would Tabitha think? Jesus, he knew exactly what she'd think, she's always been a little distrustful of him, not without some cause admittedly. Something like this would blow her apart.

Of course, if he did wake her up he could do something with the erection he was currently stroking.