Читать книгу: «Look at Me!»
Look At Me!
Felix Baron
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
More from Mischief
About Mischief
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
A week back, Constance had caught Jeff rubbing pumice over the pads of his fingertips. Their eyes had met. His had been mildly amused. Hers, she felt, must have been both bewildered and excited. She hadn’t been puzzled. She could guess why he was doing that. It was pretty obvious. He was smoothing the tips of his long artistic fingers to make them more sensitive to the texture of her skin. How was a good girl supposed to react to that? Intrigued? Complimented? Offended? What was appropriate? Life, and love, could be very confusing.
Now they were in bed together and she was reaping the full benefit of his smoothing. Jeff had a touch that was so delicate it felt like talcum powder was being sprinkled on her skin. Sometimes she couldn’t tell whether she was actually feeling it or just imagining that she felt it. It was tantalising – maddeningly so. She loved it so much that she couldn’t stand it.
He was tracing lazy curlicues around her navel. She tried to imagine the sensations his fingers would be feeling, but failed. Instead, she concentrated on what she was feeling.
The meandering circles became ellipses that dipped further with each slow circuit. Constance held her breath. He brushed the edge of what he called the peach fuzz that coated her mound. That tickled.
If only he’d move lower!
But Jeff was taking his time. He always took his goddamn time! Sometimes she wondered if he did that to punish her for the one thing she refused to do for him, but that couldn’t be. Jeff loved to please her. When he teased, it was just to make her pleasure more intense. She liked to make his pleasure more intense, too, except for doing that one thing. Apart from that, she denied him nothing. That thing was a biggie, so she had to make up for it the best she could.
The one thing that she wouldn’t do for him was also, Jeff said, irrational. Well, maybe it was. She couldn’t help that. It was due to her upbringing.
He was cupping her, taking command of her sex.
His palm covered her mound. His fingers were curved down, over her sex, resting on its delicate pulpy outer lips. She moved her thighs further apart to accommodate his exploration. His fingers palpitated, pressing in a steady one, two, three rhythm. Constance could feel herself moistening. One fingertip was on her sex’s left lip, one on her right, and the other, delicately, so, so delicately, rested on the wrinkled crease where the lips met. The outer two fingers spread, parting her a fraction. The middle one curled down into her soft wet heat.
Constance groped sideways, into the fly of the pants of the pyjamas she insisted he wore to bed. Her fingers wrapped his hardness, not as a caress, but just for something solid to hold onto.
She was wet inside. She was so wet that it felt as if his middle finger was dabbling in a puddle of her juices. Almost splashing. And it wormed higher, insinuating itself up behind her pubic bone. Jeff’d told her that there was a soft dimpled pad there that he loved to massage. She loved it too. When he did that … Oh yes! Just like that.
And now his other hand was working its fingers under his cupping palm, searching out her little button and finding it. Her lover’s hands worked together, both rotating fingertips, one on her special place that was so deep, the other caressing her other special place, the one that was nestled just between her lips, where they joined.
Constance couldn’t think. She barely remembered to breathe. The gyrating fingers were winding something inside her up, tighter and tighter and tighter. She reached the point where she could imagine no greater disaster than that those fingers should stop what they were doing before she got to where she was rushing …
‘Don’tstopdon’tstopdon’tstop!’ That was her, babbling, wasn’t it?
‘I won’t, I promise,’ Jeff whispered.
The glorious thing happened. Ecstasy rippled through her. Constance’s thighs drew up to her chest, spread wide. Her hips came up off the bed, paused, then slammed down. Spasms convulsed her.
After a crystalline moment of sheer bliss, she returned to her senses. She let her legs drop back to the sheet. Oh yes, she was holding onto Jeff’s cock, wasn’t she.
From a dark recess in Constance’s mind, her dead mother started to scold her for thinking such a word as ‘cock’. That was OK. It was when Mom reviled her for showing too much skin that she couldn’t stand it.
Dreamily, Constance turned to Jeff and told him, ‘That was wonderful. What can I do for you, darling?’
‘Turn over, Connie.’
Oh! She knew what that meant. He was the first and only man who’d ever done that to her. Her mom had never warned her against it, most likely because she’d never imagined such a thing. It was certainly never mentioned in the Book of Chaste Behaviour that her Mom’s puritanical sect considered second only to the Ten Commandments.
Whatever, her mom wouldn’t be scolding her and spoiling Jeff’s, and her, pleasure.
Constance rolled onto her tummy and tensed, waiting. He was above her, poised for a second, and then he lowered himself onto her like a warm and heavy blanket of love. His weight was mainly on his knees and elbows but even so, it was inexorable. She was deliciously helpless, even before his fingers wrapped her wrists and the insteps of his feet nestled into the arches of hers. If she could move an inch, it was only because he allowed her to.
The heat of his cock’s stem spread into her spine from her tailbone to the small of her back. Feeling the length of it thrilled her. Even though he’d taken her, used her, that way before, what she knew he was about to do had to be impossible. She was so small. He was, by comparison, huge. Where he was going to enter her, it was a tight little knot. His cock – its head in particular – was far too big. Dreadfully big.
When was he going to do it? What was he waiting for? She couldn’t ask for it, could she?
The hidden minx inside her told her that she could.
Constance moaned, ‘No, Jeff! Please, don’t. Don’t do that. I don’t know if I can stand it.’ The cheeks of her bum flexed but all they could feel was his scrotum. She tried to work herself higher up the bed but his restricting bulk made that impossible.
Jeff whispered, ‘You’ll take it, Connie. I am going to make you take it.’
‘You are going to force your way into me back there, with that great big thing?’
‘Yes, darling. I am.’
‘That’s so bad.’
‘And you love it, don’t you?’
‘Do I?’
‘Admit it. You want it.’
He was torturing her. He knew about her upbringing. He knew how strict her mother had been. He knew that she hated to own up to her own perverted desires. Hated to. Loved to, if forced to. It had to be forced from her or she wouldn’t – couldn’t – do it.
Would it be the same with the other thing, the one thing she refused to do for him? If he forced her, would she find that she liked it? No! Don’t think about that. Thinking that way was dangerous. It woke memories of her dead mother’s rules.
Constance hollowed her back, tilting her bottom up at him.
‘Good girl! That’s right, just like that!’ Without releasing her, Jeff slithered back and lower, drawing his shaft down along the crease between her cheeks. He prodded. It wasn’t the right place, too low. Last time, he’d steered himself with a hand.
As if he’d heard her thought, he told her, ‘Hands free, this time.’
Constance grunted.
Jeff writhed an inch each way and up and down, probing.
Yes!
The wet hardness of his knob was nestled right against her trembling pucker, kissing it. He pushed. Constance pushed back. If she concentrated on relaxing back there …
Oh. Oh. He was stretching her. He was forcing his way into the narrow constriction. Constance felt herself expand. It didn’t hurt, not much, but it was such a violation of her tender flesh.
And he was inside her.
Just the head. Her muscular ring gripped his cock just behind its dome. The moment, the brief second of maximum stretching followed almost instantly by a partial relaxation, had been exquisite. It was like some sort of revelation.
Perhaps he read her thoughts again because Constance felt his thigh muscles tense and then the reverse pressure as he drew back, almost dragging the sleeve of her rectum with him, and ‘popped’ out …
And rammed back in.
This time there was no pause. His thrust went on and on, opening her depths, forcing her back passage to adapt to the shape and girth of his shaft. Jeff’s pubes were grinding on her as if he was desperate to gain every last possible inch of penetration. And he was pumping. Each stroke felt easier than the one before and yet her excitement grew and grew.
His big hands took hold of her hips. Jeff knew not to pull her up to all fours – she didn’t allow that, just in case it dislodged the bedclothes – but he heaved her up off the bed just a few inches before slamming back down on her. She was totally impaled.
He half-rolled, so that her weight was on her left side. His right hand worked under her. Its fingers found her button again, but toyed with it for just a second before they squirmed past it, inside her. Jeff must be able to feel his own shaft pistoning into her. That was so obscene.
It was the obscenity of it that drove her over the edge into the chaos of her second glorious climax.
It must have been three or four in the morning when Constance woke up. It might have been the dim light from the small lamp on the bedside table on Jeff’s side. It might have been him folding the bedclothes down to her waist and fumbling with the buttons at her throat.
Damn!
Constance sat up sharply, clutching the neck of her nightgown. ‘No!’
‘Please, Connie? Surely …’
She slapped his face and turned over to bury her face into her pillow. The bed creaked as Jeff got up. He’d be headed into her living room to finish the night on her lumpy couch. Well, she wasn’t going to be guilted into doing something she didn’t want to do. Let him suffer!
Chapter Two
When Constance woke again, with the first light, Jeff still hadn’t come back to bed. Men! As if sulking solved anything. She decided that she’d take the moral high ground and simply pretend that nothing had happened. If he apologised, all to the good. If not, well, she’d just have to forgive him anyway. That was the way women were, forgiving and modest – sweet and modest – charitable and modest. Always modest. Modest. The damn word landed with a dull thud.
He wasn’t on the couch and it hadn’t been disturbed. There were no dishes in the sink. His shaving gear and toothbrush were missing from the bathroom. His spare suit wasn’t in the closet. There was a space on her bookshelves where his IT books had been.
Jeff had taken his things back to his own apartment.
She’d been dumped. Well, no. She’d dumped him, really. A slap across the face counts as that, right? He’d broken her rule. She’d slapped him. He’d left, taking his things. How did she feel about that? Crushed, for sure. Empty inside? Maybe. She’d thought he might have been the one. Angry? Yes, she was angry. How dare he! Look at all she’d done for him, the things she’d let him do to her. For him, she’d been a very bad girl. She’d enjoyed it all, but that was beside the point. When a girl does those forbidden things for a man she’s doing him a favour, no matter how good they feel. All she’d ever denied him was to let him look at her shameful nakedness. Could that be so important that it’d make him break up with her?
Couldn’t he have explained that?
Perhaps he’d tried, but not hard enough, obviously. The bastard!
What was it about the sight of a girl’s body, anyway? She’d let Jeff bugger her. Bugger, bugger, bugger. Bugger her. Fuck her up her bum. There! If he’d wanted a bad girl, she’d been the baddest, for him. He’d been ready to risk losing that, just for a chance to look at her naked? It made no sense at all.
Why were men so obsessed with looking at women’s bodies?
On a whim, very quickly, before the impulse fled, Connie sat down in front of her dressing table, slipped the top three buttons of her cotton nightdress and smoothed it down her right shoulder and breast – all the way, not just exposing its upper slope but baring it completely, nipple and all. By reflex, her eyes flinched away but she forced herself to actually look at her own smooth pink skin.
It wasn’t as if she’d never seen a breast before. When she’d first left the commune, it’d seemed that she couldn’t open a magazine or watch TV without them jumping out at her. Seeing and looking are two different things. Her mother had trained her to avert or close her eyes when they were exposed to immodest displays. It was hard. In the outside world, girls wore skimpy or transparent tops all the time, and not just in special places, like beaches, that could be avoided. They also displayed their legs in most unseemly ways. Her mother had allowed that exposed calves were acceptable. Not knees, though. Nor anything higher. Certainly not!
Well, there was her bare right breast, in the mirror, and she was looking at it.
In a way, it was a disappointment. Not because it wasn’t pretty. It was. Her skin was so pale a pink that it was almost translucent. She could just make out a delicate blue tracery below the surface. Her nipple was a crinkled berry, darker than its halo, but not by much. As for shape, she felt she could compete with the statues she’d seen when Jeff had dragged her to the museum to demonstrate that he was right and she was wrong.
How was it that she didn’t find the sight of her own flesh exciting?
Somehow, Connie had been sure that if she exposed herself that way, to herself, there’d be a forbidden thrill. There wasn’t. Not exactly. Maybe a twinge? How about if she imagined that it was someone else’s breast, Shirley’s, the office receptionist’s, for example?
Maybe she felt something. Just a pleasant little buzz?
Is that all there was to it? Why had Mother made such a fuss? Come to that, why had Jeff been so obsessed? It was his silliness that had broken them up. She’d like to … make him suffer! That’s what she’d like to do, and if she dared, she knew exactly how it was she could make him squirm.
For a moment, Constance considered touching her nipple but decided against it. She’d looked at it. That was a good start. Perhaps the first time she touched herself there, it’d be under the bedclothes. Little by little …
Towards what end?
Mother had liked to talk about the slippery slope. One little sin always leads to a slightly greater one, and so on, until you were damned to hellfire for eternity. Mom’d been right when it came to the physical acts. Connie had avoided being kissed until she was twenty but once she’d allowed a boy to put his tongue into her mouth, it’d been an exhilarating downhill ride, all the way down to sucking a man’s cock and finally to allowing Jeff to force his up her bum. After that, there’d been a bit of disappointment. By then, she’d committed all the sins she knew of, except the one of physical immodesty. What next? Well, now she knew. She’d exposed herself, to herself. Next, she’d expose herself to Jeff, just a little, just enough to drive him crazy. And to make him feel remorseful. Eventually, if he begged nicely, she might consider taking him back.
She didn’t dare, did she? Dare tempt Jeff? That way? Did she? It’d be the worst violation of her mom’s rules possible.
If she was going to do it, she’d have to do it straightaway, before her courage failed her. When she went in to work, in just under two hours, it’d have to be dressed as the new and slightly immodest Constance, not as whatever it was that she had been up to now. A frump? A prude?
Constance’s office ‘uniform’ was always a twin-set worn with a single strand of cultivated pearls, plus a straight skirt that went down to just below her knees. She had no alternative outfits, so she’d just have to see what she could do with what she had.
After forty minutes of experimentation, and feeling like a total hussy, Constance left her apartment with the waistband of her skirt rolled over twice, so that her hem just skimmed her knees, and wearing just the cardigan of her twin-set, with no bra under it and with the top button undone. She added a light topcoat. It wouldn’t do to get arrested on her commute.
On the bus, a man gave her his seat. Did the sluttish way she was dressed show on her face, somehow? When she got to the office, hung her coat and turned, reluctantly, to face the population of her working world, Shirley smiled a welcome at her. That was new.
For a while, Constance worked with her elbows tucked in tightly but she gradually got used to her breasts feeling loose and free and forgot about it until Larry, the mail delivery lad, brought her some files. His eyes widened and he blushed. Constance glanced down at herself. Damn! A second button had come undone. She was showing two inches of cleavage.
That was terrible. She wasn’t ready for such a blatant …
Or was she?
If she was so shocked at herself, how come her cheeks were glowing? How come she felt so warm down there?
Larry shuffled. Constance looked at him and quickly averted her eyes. The lad was wriggling to conceal an erection – that she had caused. He was only a boy – barely nineteen. At his age, he most likely had an erection most of the time. Even so, his reaction, she had to admit, gave her a certain sense of satisfaction.
As he turned away, Constance put her hand to her throat to do the extra button up again, but decided not to. Making men horny was kind of fun, she’d discovered. Sorry, Mom!
At coffee break, Shirley was pouring herself an espresso. The curvy redhead looked Constance up and down thoughtfully. ‘New boyfriend?’ she asked.
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘You’ve got a certain glow about you today, honey, like you’ve been fucked three ways from Sunday.’
Constance had forgotten the earthy way Shirley had of talking when away from her desk. It should have shocked her but somehow she found it refreshing. ‘I dumped Jeff,’ she confessed. ‘Perhaps that’s it.’
‘The cute IT guy? He any good?’
‘Any good?’
‘In bed.’
Constance felt her face burn. ‘I guess. Yes, to be honest, he’s pretty good.’
‘Mind if I do him?’
‘You mean …?’
‘Fuck him. He’s pretty cute, but if you’d have a problem …?’
‘No, no, no problem,’ Constance lied.
‘Thanks. Say, Connie, you doing anything at lunch?’
‘No, why?’
‘I’m going to shoe-shop. Want to come along?’
What was happening? In five years, no one in the office had ever approached her socially. She knew that some of the other women, the younger ones mostly, got together to go places. She’d overheard some of them talking about going clubbing and the like. Constance had never been included. Now, just because she was showing a little cleavage, she was sure, she was being invited. How powerful was that?
‘Sure, love to,’ she said without stammering.
‘One o’clock, then?’
‘One o’clock.’
Бесплатный фрагмент закончился.
