Voyeur 35

I freely admit that I am something of a voyeur. Most men are hard wired to notice anything even slightly sexual, and I am no exception. Whenever I see an attractive girl, dressed alluringly, I cannot help but admire her and allow my mind to wander. I start to imagine what might be under her dress, her skirt, her blouse. Is she aware? Does she realise the effect she's having?

Harmless enough you may think, and I am probably one of millions of men who enjoy this, less than totally innocent, pleasure. What is it about a glimpse of underwear, as a puff of wind lifts a light summer dress, revealing a quick flash of knickers, or even a thong?

Usually less is revealed than on any beach, but there's something much more erotic about an unintentional flash of knickers than a full on view of even the skimpiest bikini. One is a display, the other an accidental revelation of something really quite intimate.

The variations are endless from industrial strength bras, to unfettered breasts. Totally un erotic pants, as in Bridget Jones' diary, through to virtually nothing, via my favourite garment, French knickers.

I think the reason French knickers are so high on my fetish list may be something to do with past experiences. As a young man I had a French girl friend, who habitually wore them. Long before she ever consented to full penetrative sex, she would allow me to slip my hand inside them and touch her slippery, secret, place; or foufune as she used to call it.

I rather liked the expression and use it to this day, usually shortened to fouf, I believe it is French for kitty. It's one of those words I feel comfortable using, in company, when pussy seems a bit gauche and cunt is just not acceptable.

On particularly hot encounters she would remove her lovely silk French knickers and wrap them around my rampant cock, then edge me towards orgasm.

Somehow she knew exactly when I was about to reach the point of no return and would stop her gentle stroking just in time, only to start again as soon as the crisis had passed. Several journeys to the edge of the sexual abyss would be followed by an accelerated charge to the finishing post and the inevitable explosive orgasm, which seemed to cause her considerable amusement.

There was something amazingly erotic about the sensation of having silk knickers rubbed up and down your cock, with the sole intention of making you cum, particularly while being allowed to play gently with her firm young breasts or her surprisingly slippery fouf.

I should know, I've shot my load into more pairs of silk French knickers than I care to remember. Actually that bit's not true, I really do care to remember, the sensations, and the memories, were totally marvellous, certainly if the force of the ejaculations was any indicator. After several edges, particularly when she hadn't got my cock completely covered, she would take me all the way, and I sometimes shot my load right up to the head board. That usually produced squeals of delight from her and a massive feeling of bliss to me.

Eventually she allowed full penetrative sex and got incredibly turned on if we did it while she was still wearing her knickers. There was something rather special about allowing my cock to find its own way up the leg of her knickers to the moist haven of her highly aroused fouf. The thought still turns me on even though we went our separate ways decades ago.

However, back to the present. The other day I was having a light lunch at one of my favourite beach bars, and watching the scantily clad girls go by in their lightweight summer clothes. The front row of tables on the promenade were in the bright sunshine and I relaxed allowing the cerebral cinema full rein.

There were the short shorts, with that crease of buttock cheek showing below each leg. What a great fashion trend! The tight white blouses revealing exactly the sort of bra the owner was wearing, and, if really lucky, a glimpse of areolae or stiff nipple erected by the fresh autumn breeze.

Then the day turned from good to perfect. A young lady (well they are all young to me these days) went by in the skimpiest, most diaphanous summer dress ever. The sun shone from behind her making it quite obvious that she wore only two items of clothing, the very short, almost transparent, dress and the most minuscule pair of panties.

She stopped a few yards in front of my table and turned around several times, as if undecided about something. These involuntary twirls revealed not only the briefness of her panties but also the fact that her full young breasts were bouncing freely under the thin material.

This short clip of 'voyeur's delight,' fabulous as it was, was about to get even better. Her indecision came to an end, and she headed to the table a short distance away from mine. She settled into a chair, with her back to the sun, and ordered a coffee.

She was now directly in my line of sight to the beach, and I had every excuse to size her up without being too obvious. Probably about mid to late thirties, long red hair to her shoulders, and a rather wicked smile, complete with dimples, which revealed itself while she chatted on her mobile phone.

I couldn't help but notice that the way she sat was, to say the least, immodest. I am sure her mother would not have approved! She sat, knees apart under the table, allowing the thin material of her dress to rise up sufficiently to reveal those skimpy panties.

With the layout of the bar, I was the only person able to see under her table, and thus the only person to benefit from the display. Since she was directly in my line of sight, every time I looked up I could take in a view of that wonderful divide between her firm young thighs, without being too obvious.

The old cerebral cinema kicked in and I sat enjoying a wonderful fantasy about what might be concealed by her panties. Clearly she had a well maintained pussy, that much was obvious from the skimpiness of her rather alluring underwear, if indeed such a tiny scrap of cloth qualifies as underwear.

Not a stray pubic hair in sight. Was she just tidy? Or if that scrap of cloth were not there, would I be looking at the parting lips of a fully waxed pussy? With her legs splayed like that the view would have been spectacular. Oh the joys of being a dirty old man!

At some stage I must have been ogling for a little too long, because she caught my eye before I had time to avert my gaze. I looked away far too quickly, thus almost admitting my guilt.

This was so embarrassing. Here I was, a man of advancing years, probably older than her father, caught red handed checking out her underwear. She in turn, brought her knees together in a much more modest pose. Oh shit!

She took a pen from her bag and wrote something on a card before looking straight at me, catching my eye, smiling and spreading her knees once again for just a couple of seconds before paying for her coffee.

Was she just humouring an old man; having a laugh? I didn't know, nor did I care, because she had at least taken my embarrassment away. She had deliberately showed me her panties and so I smiled back.

As she left she placed a card beside my coffee cup and set off down the promenade. I took the card with some trepidation and read it, half expecting some admonishment for my unseemly behaviour. It simply said.

'Tomorrow?'

I puzzled over this for some time, thinking of all the possible interpretations, and finally came to the conclusion that the only possible interpretation was, was I going to be here tomorrow?

Having reached that conclusion I was then faced with the conundrum of why? Was I in for a nasty shock from her burly boy friend? Or whatever? The more I thought about it, the less threatening it became, after all she smiled at me and brazenly parted her thighs.

You may well have come to the decision, as I did, that this was an invitation to be there the following day, possibly for a repeat performance so, you can bet, I was there.

I sat for a while sipping coffee, slightly annoyed that the table that would afford the best view was occupied. They eventually departed and she appeared, as if by magic.

I was slightly disappointed that the light summer dress had been replaced by a much heavier, but equally short, number. She sat demurely, knees together both to the same side. I tried not to stare. I so tried not to stare, but as I looked up towards the promenade she changed position and moved one knee to the opposite side, following it with the other.

She had had her knees splayed for only the briefest of moments. It was barely time to register the detail, but either she was wearing flesh coloured panties or, could this even be possible, no panties at all?

She caught my eye, smiled that beguiling smile, complete with dimples, and repeated the performance in the opposite direction. This time I was ready.

Oh my god, no panties! I've just been deliberately flashed by a girl whose not wearing any panties.

She toyed with me for some time. Occasionally shifting position without revealing anything and at others revealing more than I could have dreamed of. The perfect tease.

Before she finished her coffee, I could say, with some confidence, that not only was she not wearing panties, but that also she was a natural redhead, with a tantalising, neatly trimmed, triangle of hair pointing straight down between her thighs and, judging by the glint of gold, probably wearing some sort of genital jewellery.

As she paid for her coffee she followed the same procedure as yesterday, and I got another card. I am sure you can guess, by now, that I was back in position the following day.

As it happened the weather was foul and absolutely nothing happened, but the day after was bright and warm so I took up position rather fearing that my knickerless vision would not show up.

Our usual tables had been moved because of yesterday's inclement weather and the only space available, when I arrived, had been in two low armchairs.

I chose the one facing the ocean, for the obvious reason that the other only faced me, and in no other direction. If there was to be a show, I alone would benefit.

Much later than usual, and just as I was about to give up, she appeared. She made straight for the spare chair and ordered her coffee. Oh great delight! Was this about to be a tease, or even nothing at all? It didn't matter, it was the anticipation, the uncertainty, that made it exciting.

Obviously I hoped for more of the same, but this lady had already provided me with more animal eroticism than I had experienced in years. If it ended now it would still be one of my most memorable experiences.

She sat opposite me, with both knees together to one side, and her coffee arrived. Her dimples were much in evidence as she smiled and thanked the waiter We were close enough to notice each other but not to talk, besides there wasn't anything to talk about, we'd never even met.

She toyed with her coffee cup and changed sides with her legs, but her knees remained close enough together so that there wan't time for me to catch even a fleeting glimpse of her inner thigh.

That was all about to change. She emptied the sugar packet into her coffee and stirred it slowly. Then, looking straight at me, placed the spoon on her tongue, curved side down and licked it sensuously as she slid slightly lower in her chair, causing her dress to ride up.

Her free hand made it's way down to her lap. She parted her knees revealing herself fully to my gaze. A gold ring pierced each of her outer lips.

She placed her forefinger right at the top of her divide and started to make a slow circular motions.

From me peeking at her underwear to basically watching her pleasure herself, had only been a few days. We didn't know each other, we'd never even spoken, but it was a highly charged encounter.

She licked the spoon as if it were a cock and continued to slide her finger up and down between her piercings while cocking her head to one side and smiling directly at me.

A second finger joined the first and the motion became more and more sensual, dipping between the moist, pink, folds of her inner lips. She held my gaze throughout.

After quite a while the spoon suddenly fell from her lips and clattered on the table, causing others to look round, but of course, all they saw was someone drop a spoon. Only I knew why.

She screwed her eyes tightly shut and leaned forward on her moist fingers forcing them deeper into her sex. She stayed there totally motionless for a few moments before flopping back in her chair.

She withdrew her fingers slowly, and starring straight at me, she sucked them, one by one: erotism personified. Then she finished her coffee. Got up, paid, and left.

I had just watched her pleasure herself. I am pretty sure I had also just seen her cum, in a public place. She had led me here over several days, knowing exactly what she was doing, but why? Why me? What was it all about anyway? No matter because she was gone. It was over, but what a fantastic, bizarre experience.

When I recovered my composure, I asked for the bill, slightly sad that this was the end of the adventure, but elated at what I had experienced. Somehow I had been selected, teased slowly, by this highly sexual lady, and been privileged to be someone allowed to watch her cum.

The waiter brought my change. Then he passed me a card, which he said a departing customer had asked him to give to me.

More? It said, with a phone number.

As usual, all comments welcome. More?