The first time it happened by accident, at least on my end. On the Friday, I had moved in with a new flat mate, a woman I know from work. She'd given me the keys and gone to off to Brighton. I didn't expect her to be at home when I walked in on Monday afternoon. In fact, I thought that the noise from her bedroom was the alarm on her radio which had gone off at odd times over the weekend. My flat mate, (hereinafter fm for simplicity,) is the sort of woman whose radio alarm would be set to go off at 2:30 in the afternoon on a school day. I walked into her room to turn it off.
There was a man lying across her bed with top of his head towards the doorway. His eyes were closed and his hands folded under a dark head of hair. fm knelt between his legs rolling his cock in her palms. Her course blonde curls, damp with effort, hung over her face. I froze, but I must have made a noise. fm raised her head and lifted her heavy hair. She had on what I'd call deliberate underwear; a low cut black satin bra with a ruffle of pleats at the top that fell forwards enough to expose the pink half moons over her nipples. The panties were on the floor at my feet in the doorway. She looked directly at me, smiled a confident smile and silently mouthed the words,
"watch me."
I have always thought of myself as more of a sexual exhibitionist than a voyeur. I wear short dresses and I don't always wear knickers underneath, though London winters demand boots and hold ups. In the summer, I love it when a sudden chill makes my nipples hard and visible under my tee shirt, or standing chest high in the sea, I'll slip off my suit bottom and feel the motion of the tide between my thighs. Nothing too obvious, I would never flash my tits in a nightclub. I never go to nightclubs. I go to coffee shops and pubs with my laptop and, I hope, I give off an air of sex. I like the attention; that look in a man's eyes, that bleary, curious, slightly naughty look that asks what I'd be like naked.
But that afternoon, I discovered that watching can be as arousing as being watched.
fm is a stylist; she dresses minor celebrities; actresses, daughters of the famous, for public appearances and photo shoots. She has also styled a few bands and a nighttime soap and is therefore much cooler than I am. I write freelance, often fluffy little interviews of minor celebrities; actresses, daughters of the famous and what they wear.
We met when I was doing a profile of a new actress who is also a daughter of someone famous. The actress had just played the ingénue in Victorian costume drama and wanted to vamp up her image. She hoped to accomplish this by appearing in a newspaper supplement in some very expensive underwear suggestive of what she might have had on under her costumes in the film.
The photographer was a mutual friend who knew fm well enough to insist that she was the woman to hire for lingerie expertise. The studio was in his flat. There was a hair and make up girl too, a sometimes model who was sleeping with the photographer. fm arrived in jeans and four inch heels carrying three enormous bags filled with fragile, tissue-wrapped little nothings in lace and satin. There were shoes and boots as well, none of them designed for walking, or standing, for that matter. fm unpacked and arranged everything over and around the photographer's sofa. It could have been the evidence table at the trial of a Victorian madam. I'm not a girly girl, but the three of us fell on fm's trunk show like pigeons on a pizza box.
The actress was laced into an ivory and rose striped corset with a ruffle of lace above the garters. She said the boning was tighter than anything she'd worn on camera. Scarlet O'Hara waist; the tightness made her breathing necessarily shallow. Her breasts bobbed up and down like two opaque bubbles on water.
It turned out that she didn't like being the only one in the room in her underwear, she was stiff and nervous as hell. The photographer was getting grumpy. fm asked,
"look, would you be more comfortable if we all looked as ridiculous as you feel?"
The sometimes model pounced on the sofa and snatched up a plunge bra, garter belt and sheer backed panties in the signature black lace over pink satin of a famously decadent label. She pinned up her hair before she changed.
fm stripped off completely without a hint of self consciousness. She wriggled into a sand coloured basque and French knickers embroidered with pale blue and rolled on sheer stockings before she stepped back into her snakeskin heels. fm is already tall. She turned to me and said,
"34 c?"
I'd only known her for an hour. She picked out a pair of frilly chiffon shorts and a shell coloured corset and tossed them to me with the authority of a Parisian fruit seller handing over the peaches you asked to have ripe for dinner that night. They fit. I needed help to lace up the back.
We all cooed over the shoes and stockings. My corset had no straps for stockings so I chose some lace garters. Needless to say the atmosphere relaxed. Pictures were taken, mostly of the actress, and were pretty hot as I remember. We even got her to hang upside-down off a chair with strappy stiletto clad ankles crossed above her head. I got my fluffy interview and sent the girl home in a black cab which I hailed in the street wearing the photographer's raincoat over my corset. Back upstairs the four of us shared a few bottles of wine. fm, the model and I pranced around the studio looking like extras from Moulin Rouge. I suppose we bonded.
Before you tell me that women don't do this, let me assure you that one gets pretty immune to nudity working in or around fashion. It stands to reason that if your job involves wearing clothes you will spend a lot of time taking them on and off. Even the actress has loosened up. I saw her tits out on TV twice last week.
Here is a tip. If you are ever going to end up watching someone have sex they had better display an abundance of body confidence from the get go. Go and find yourself somebody who likes to be looked at. fm likes to be looked at.
fm and I worked together a few more times, recommended each other for jobs and had the occasional boozy dinner together. It was over one of these that she mentioned her need of a flat mate. I was in a relationship that had been dead for months, both of cheating like mad but not admitting it. He owned our flat; a lot of London couples limp along for years held together by real estate. fm's offer was an easy way out, plus, I'd been to her flat, all be it for a very drunken Christmas bash. What I could remember of it was nice.
As I said, it was Friday; she was taking the train to Brighton that night,
"Be back next week. You should move in over the weekend; clean break. Get your stuff next week when he's at work," she said.
Before we paid the bill she pulled a spare set of keys out of her bag. At the time I did think it a little odd that she had a spare set of keys in her bag. I now know that she generally has several spare sets of keys in her bag and a casual sexual relationship with a trustworthy locksmith who changes the locks and makes new keys every couple of months.
I'll spare you most of the details of my new digs but a bit about the layout of the flat is important. Watching tip number two, you need a comfortable place to watch from. Standing stunned in the doorway was a novice's choice. I was a novice then. But for languid feature length up all night viewing pleasure you need the right setting. A little distance as well; too close and you may as well join in, (also good, but a different subject,) too far and you miss out on the details.
Our flat is on the top floor of once grand Edwardian house. As with these conversions in any old city, the ceilings are lovely and high but the internal walls are curtain thin. The external door has a lock with a changeable entry code unique to each of the three flats. Our front door is on the second floor and our flat incorporates a stairway with an intermediate landing up to the top of the house. If you turned left at the top of the stairs you would get to the kitchen and living room, but we won't.
Straight ahead is a hallway two metres wide with a bathroom at the end. On the right there are two identical bedrooms with doors set next to each other. Both headboards are against the shared wall. The left side of the hall is lined with books, mostly fashion, interrupted by a bench with a blue, soft, well-worn leather cushion. The bench is deep enough to curl up on sideways. Depending on which end of the bench you choose, the view of either bed is unimpeded
After dinner on Friday I went home to have the moving out conversation. I packed a few things, took a taxi to fm's and collapsed in the first bedroom. I spent a depressing weekend, lonely in my new bed, and masturbating a lot.
And then it was Monday, and fm said,
"watch me."
I stood there, paralyzed but obedient, for the duration of a blow job that began with fm kneading the man's thighs while she nibbled up and down his prick. I watched her pink tongue circle the tip first one way, then the other. Then she took him into her mouth contracting her lips as she sucked her way down.
I thought I saw her lashes lift up in my direction as she shifted her position so the space between her parted legs could slide over his knee. She rubbed his nipples, stroked his stomach, wrapped her fingers around the base of his cock. Each time she moved down she took all of him into her mouth. Now and then she pushed her hair back so I could see.
When the man's hips started to jerk upwards fm curled over him to cover him completely. Her hands disappeared between his legs. His moans snapped me out of my trance. I ran out of the flat the way mice run when you switch on the light.
I collected myself over a glass of wine at the pub down the road; shaken, giddy and extremely wet. I had finished the bottle by the time fm texted,
"gone out."
