The Story of Lily and Laurel

"I've got a new one for ya Lilikins." The message popped up on Lily's screen to her great delight. She was at her favourite kind of temp job: the kind where they put you at the reception desk and let you play on the internet between calls. The computer even had an instant message program on it; all she had to do was log in, which she did as soon as she got in every morning. Her last contract was at a law firm, and not nearly as much fun as this laid back digital media collective, where everyone was under 30 and dressed the same way her artsy friends would if they had real jobs to provide clothing money.

But even whiling away hours with messaging and message boards and satire articles about the poor state of politics south of the border could get boring after a while, and Lily had only been there for 4 days of her 2 week contract. What the message from Laurel indicated was some good reading to take her from call to call today. Lily was tactful enough not to look at explicit pictures on her screen while on a job, but no one looked askance at a Word document, and for an imaginative female mind a good erotica story was just as titillating, if not more so, than visual porn. For that was what Laurel wrote: fiction exclusively in the realm of the sexually graphic.

At least, ostensibly fiction: Lily could always see shades and figments of people in their actual social circle in Laurel's stories. She assumed all their other friends did as well, that it was just natural for a writer to draw from her surroundings, and that they all tacitly accepted it as such. Besides, it wouldn't be diplomatic to mention any similarities to real life, what with the ever shifting couplings and volatile emotions in their social strata.

But somehow the danger of reading real life into the stories made reading the stories more exciting for Lily. There was one once with two female characters named Tulip and Daisy. The flower names could not be a coincidence, and Lily didn't mind Laurel imagining them in a lesbian situation; in fact, she quite enjoyed imagining it herself. She suspected their friends did as well, particularly the men.

The phone rang. Damn. It's funny how with minimal work to do you can still resent its intrusion. "Good afternoon, DigiCool Corp, how may I help you?" She willed her eyes to stay away from the screen until she had transferred the call. She wanted to give her illicit work time turn on her full attention.

The story was about a peeping tom, or rather a peeping tomasina. Lily was still waiting, without much hope, for the day Laurel would write a story from a male perspective. The female protagonist haunts dark alleys looking for strangers in windows… haunting dark alleys is a dangerous thing for a woman alone, and Lily felt a soft surge of adrenalin. A couple is found and there is a descriptive passage, hands kneading breasts, hair pulled back, the sheen of a surface of skin covered with sweat, and Lily felt the prickling of her own sweat breaking from its sheath of flesh.

A tattoo of heels; someone was walking by. She resisted the urge to minimize her screen. No one would pay attention to a document, no one could take the time to read it without her noticing. She must act cool, as hot as she felt. The unnamed protagonist continues her search for flashes of other people's intimacy, and succeeds only to find the couple she is watching are people she knows. She knows she shouldn't watch her friends fucking, that that is an invasion of privacy worse that what she has committed before, but she can't resist the allure. Her female friend's hair is long and that occidental shiny black that leaves a lovely trail of motion as she heaves herself up and down on the lap of her lover. Her lover is of a wiry build, tattooed on the chest and upper arms, hair once producted in place now tousled from carnal activity. The fictional spy is drawn closer, hides her face behind the outline of the blue drapes on the inside of the blue room where a blue scene is being enacted.

Lily looked up and away from the screen and tried to keep her face from betraying the turmoil of emotion and lust in her heart and loins. She smoothed her shiny black occidental hair behind her ear, and conjured up an image of her boyfriend, Marcus, of wiry build, tattooed and generally seen sporting a carefully producted faux hawk. Her bedroom was blue, in the back of her house, with a window to the alley behind where domestic refuse was picked up once a week. Laurel had been there before, of course. This could all be Laurel's imagination setting itself in Lily's life. But it could be more than that. She could see Laurel viewing peeping as some sort of creative imperative, fully justified by her art. She read on, but the characters were firmly in place as they people they obviously were.

Laurel watched as Marcus cupped Lily's buttocks in his hands, then squeezed brutally and pulled them down onto his hard thighs. His cock was different from how Laurel had previously imagined, noticeably curved to the left even in tumescence. Hard blood made the veins in it stand out, just as Marcus' forehead was veined with exertion. As Lily vigorously pumped up and down, her effort coupled with Marcus' to a power that seemed more than the sum of its parts, her breasts flew wildly and Laurel could almost feel air currents against her cheek created by their movement. She touched the window, and felt the cold mesh of screen. It was open, and with that realization came her recognition of noises that they made reaching her ears, organs that up until now had been filled with the sound of her own heart beating. Lily's breath was sharp, and vocalized in a high whine at the end of each exhale. Marcus grunted, off beat from the whine, but their bodies moved in tandem. Lily's fingers gripped sharp dents into Marcus' shoulders as she kept her balance while slamming onto his slightly sinister cock. Laurel removed her finger from the cold mesh and sought the warm flesh beneath her skirt. Her breath quickened, but she kept it quiet.

Marcus was shivering all over now, and Lily was losing the rhythm, her grip unsure on his quaking clavicle. Laurel moved her fingers against her clit faster, intent on finishing when they did, then slinking home, the noise of her exit inaudible to the couple distracted by after shocks and breath-catching. But it did not happen that way. As Lily came up, her thighs rising from her calves, about to come down home again, Marcus' hands rose up suddenly to grasp the hair at the base of her head and hold her there. "Didn't think you were gonna get off that easily, did you my little slut?" he grinned. A sound came from Lily that was not a word but expressed laughter, anticipation, and an overwhelming desire for orgasm. He pulled her up and off his member, then threw her on the bed with more force than his thin frame should be able to produce. He threw her face down. His erection was so strained outward it seemed to want to detach from his body, but he ignored it and buried his face between the ample cheeks of Lily's ass. Laurel had to shift position to see clearly which made her visible through the window but she had no worry that either of them would think to look or notice. Without her conscious thought, the movement also brought her middle finger up into herself, as her index, now moving slower, massaged her clitoris in circles. As she saw Marcus' tongue plunge repeatedly into Lily's sphincter, the walls of her pussy pulsed against her finger. She wiggled it forward and was rewarded with electricity flowing through her body, and moisture flowing down her leg. But she was not done yet, she was not done until they were done.

Marcus drew away from Lily's dripping asshole and she adjusted her, flinging her hair up and over her back in a beautiful motion. Her face was now presented to Laurel, flushed, her eyes half closed but the open half mercifully glazed and unseeing. She tensed, then relaxed, knowing what was about to come. Marcus' gently placed the tip of his cock against her anal opening, and still gentle but insistent worked it all the way into her. Laurel watched every centimetre disappear into her friend with attentive excitement. Her fingers were working furiously on herself, just as Marcus was now working furiously on Lily's holiest of holies, every plunge a mortal one were his cock a sword and Lily's ass the heart of an enemy.

The phone rang. "DigiCool Corp, How can I help you?" Lily's dream state was only half punctured as she put the caller through. Her thighs were pressing against each other in a quick tempo, and all the attached muscles were moving as well. She realized that she was sitting at her temp job desk masturbating without touching herself as she read a play by play description of a sex session that she had partaken in only the night before. She was furious. She was lascivious. She was wild with anger and lust. Laurel had not only spied on her, but had the gall to write about it. And to send it to her. And to turn her on unbearably with it. Why should it be so intoxicating to her, it being something she'd already had, already done? Because now she knew she had been watched. She had been masturbated to, and she needed to masturbate now more than she ever had, more than the first time when she was 14 and riddled with angst and self loathing and needed to either kill herself or come.

She could call her contact at the company to relieve her for a break and rub one out stealthily in the bathroom. But she couldn't do that. She had bad associations with bathrooms. So she slid one hand down to the hem of her skirt, and up again under it. No one could see under her desk. And she had to finish this story.

In porn there is always a money shot, always the moment of orgasm comes on a girls breasts, her ass, all over her face. This has its appeal, to be sure, but in life a man often wants to be surrounded by the honey dripping walls of his mistress as he transcends his lust for that brief instant. Internal walls drip honey, no matter which entrance they lead from. So as Laurel's other hand joined the first in her onanistic endeavours, Marcus bent his elbow around Lily's hips to hold her steady for an onslaught of thrusts that reached a frenzied peak of screams and groans and sweat flying and bodies shaking with exultation, and Laurel stiffened with joy as simultaneously as she had planned.

And all the time she had been reading the re-enactment of her life, Lily had been re-enacting Laurel's part: she was masturbating with dangerous abandon under her desk, stabbing into herself hard and fast, feeling the wet spot grow under her ass on the back of her skirt, battering her clitoris with her thumb until the sudden ring of the phone pushed her over the edge and she came.

She answered the phone on the third ring, her breath still not fully back, her sexual secretions smearing across the back of her handset from her well-used fingers. She transferred the call in a brainless daze.

"Well?" popped up an instant message from Laurel. "Do you like it?" What the hell is she doing, thought Lily. Is she out to get me, is everyone in the world out to hurt me? But she wasn't hurt, she realized. She was certainly done wrong by, she was appalled, but she didn't feel bad. She felt good. Very good. Apparently she liked being watched. Apparently she liked sneaky public self-abuse. Apparently those two things combined had just led to the best orgasm she had ever had alone. Perhaps Laurel was deviously trying to invite herself into the bedroom for next time. Perhaps next time Lily would invite her in. "Perhaps the hottest thing I've ever read," she messaged back.