Eyes... Watching eyes... She could feel them tracking over her. Monitoring her every response. Noting every grimace, every movement, every lift of her hips as she squirmed beneath Ian’s steady thrusts. Closing her own eyes, she tried to concentrate on her pleasure, but felt it slip away without those watching eyes.
What’s wrong with me, she thought, as Ian began to kiss her neck in just the way he always did. It was pleasant, and sometimes it aroused her intensely, but suddenly she felt her involvement waver and fade. Any moment now, sex would become a chore, just something to be got through, and depressingly, she’d start to act and to fake.
No! It mustn’t happen! Winding her arms tighter around her lover, she tilted her pelvis, straining for more contact, more friction, more excitement. No! No! she thought, then saw the eyes again, the eyes that were narrowed now, observing acutely but without any sign of passion.
“Damn you!” she muttered, shaking her head.
“What’s the matter, love? Are you all right?”
Ian stilled, ever the careful and considerate one, and lifted his face to look down into hers. “Am I hurting you, Flor? Shall I stop?”
“No! No, don’t!” gasped Flora, not seeing him at all, “Go on, I want it! I want you!”
But it wasn’t really Ian that she wanted, even as he resumed his even, measured thrusts. It was the watcher she needed, the watcher in her mind. The one who was now smiling slightly with amusement.
Conscious of him, conscious particularly that he was a man, she brought her legs up and let Ian go in deeper. She heard her boyfriend groan as she rocked her hips and curved her back, but all she cared about was what the watcher thought.
The eyes in her mind were dark, and the face a mystery, although somehow, she could see the mocking smile. Watch then! Watch this! she thought defiantly, lifting her legs higher and swirling her body slowly, whilst reaching down to cradle Ian’s bottom. The eyes brightened, grew hotter somehow, and a new and somehow complimentary heat seemed to surge through Flora and settle in the niche of her vulva. She was turning on now, enjoying her body, feeling the familiar inner sparkling of an orgasm growing closer and closer.
Don’t go! she said to the eyes as they seemed to tease her, to hint that their interest was waning. Don’t go, you bastard! Don’t go now!
In her panic she thrashed harder against the bed, and heard Ian moan as her fingers brushed the cleft of his bottom. His body liked that, but his mind didn’t, and his pelvis jack-knifed crazily, fucking hard as if to punish her for a perverted indiscretion.
That’s better! the voice behind the watching eyes seemed to say. Show me more! Go further! Make it darker and dirtier and I’ll stay...
I would if I could, thought Flora in her last lucid moment, but she knew it wasn’t worth the effort in this case. Even so, she couldn’t govern her fantasies...
In her mind the watching eyes became those of many. She was spread on a bed, being fucked, not by Ian but by the first teasing watcher. She couldn’t see his face, but she could feel his body, bigger and stronger than any man she’d ever before been with. His penis was so thick and so long that her inner channel was constantly being stretched and pummelled. Every thrust, every slight plunge knocked perfectly on her clitoris, and two hands, two big, long-fingered hands were beneath her and caressing her bottom.
In her dreamworld, she matched this, and the other watchers murmured softly in approval. Stroking and probing, she sensed them come down from their vantage points and gather around the bed in a close, attentive circle. She couldn’t see their faces any more than she’d been able to see that of the first watcher, but again she was aware that they were smiling, talking and encouraging, their words aimed at both her and her partner.
“No! No! Agh! Oh God!” cried Ian as she dug her fingers into him, her nails breaking the skin of his bottom. In Flora’s mind a great cheer went up, a cry of enthusiasm and merriment, and in her body, low low down in cradle of her pelvis, the sparkling became a white flame. A ring of pulsation seemed to expand out of nowhere, and with a long groan, she surrendered to her climax.
The voice of the watcher said “well done”... * * * *
When Ian had gone, she returned to the bedroom, and one after another peered out of its two open windows.
Had there really been someone watching them? Had someone really observed what could quite possibly be their last time together?
Both windows were quite large for those of a cottage, and in the heat of the afternoon stood open. Even if no one had been watching, it was very possible that someone had heard them... The air was still, and Pennyroyal Cottage wasn’t all that far back from the road. And both she and Ian had cried out loudly at the height of their pleasure. Even now, lurid stories might be flying around the village. All Marwick Magna could be on fire with talk of the new woman from town who made love in broad daylight and with all the windows flung shamelessly wide open.
As she considered the idea, Flora liked it. It was just the sort of thing that she’d abandoned her old life for. She wanted to be dangerous now. She wanted to be thought of as a daring woman, a sexual woman. Not just an efficient employee and a very suitable prospective wife. She’d tried so hard to explain this to Ian, to everybody in fact, but all she’d met was blank faces and astonishment. In the end, she’d given up trying and just made her plans without consulting anybody. There had been a furore, but the memory of it was fading. She was here now, free and independent and living in the country. The rest of her life was hers to dispose of as she chose.
She was also free to be watched if she so wanted.
One window gave out onto her back garden, and then beyond it a long, broad fallow meadow that sloped uphill towards a distant stand of trees. Stepping back to the bed she lay down for a moment then looked out towards the field. They’d need a good pair of binoculars, of course, but anyone standing on the crest of the rise would be able to see a couple making love.
Turning her head from the side to look along her prone body, she narrowed her eyes and studied the view from the other window.
Again, it was just conceivably possible that she could have been watched from the cottage, or more accurately, the house next door. An upper window of Orchard House looked out towards her bedroom, but the angle was a bit steep for good observation, she guessed. However, if a Peeping Tom were inclined to climb a little, one of the trees the house was named for made a perfect alternative vantage point. It was sturdy and mature, and someone crouched in the fork its branches would have a grandstand view of her bed.
For one brilliantly illuminated moment, Flora imagined her watcher, in that tree, with his binoculars. She saw him braced, his face intent behind the glasses, his body taut, his crotch clearly swollen as he observed her writhing naked on the sheet. Without thinking her hand stole downwards.
So you like a show, do you? she asked the unknown and invisible spectator. She’d got dressed again to say goodbye to Ian in the garden, but her cotton skirt didn’t present much of a barrier, and the pants she wore beneath it were tiny. After a moment, she had her pubis and her thighs uncovered and available; her skirt at her waist and her panties at her knees.
Would the watcher like what he saw? she wondered, parting the soft auburn curls at her groin. Was she his type? Did he like leggy, creamy-skinned redheads? Or didn’t the rest matter when she was audaciously showing him her sex?
Wriggling, she used her free hand to push her pants down to her ankles, then pressing her feet together, she let her knees fall apart. She was spread now; her pussy on display for him, as wet as it had been before. With one finger, then two, she rummaged through her fleece, and exposed the swollen jewel of her clitoris.
There! she told him. Do you like that? Flexing her inner muscles she made her sex pout and jump like the exotic contortions of a strip club performer. The creation, then release, of tension in her vulva made her quiver, and her pleasure begin to mass and roll like thunder. As she tapped her clitoris, she gripped a nipple through her T-shirt, then cried out as a circuit formed inside her, and silvery sensation leapt from one node to the other. Her bottom lifted from the counterpane, and then beat down again as she thrashed against the mattress, her sharp cry piercing the peaceful afternoon.
A little while later, she sat up, acutely aware of her exposed state. She reached down, to pull up her pants, then froze at the creak of the bedroom door opening.
Portia Da Costa is a multi-published and award-winning British author of romance, erotic romance and romantic fiction. Her novels have been published in the US, the UK, and across the world, and translated into many languages including German, Spanish, Italian, Dutch, Norwegian and Japanese. Best known for her ten novels for the pioneering British publisher Black Lace, she has gained high praise and a strong reader following for her intense, sensual, character-driven fiction and the vivid emotional depth of her novels and stories. She enjoys writing books with contemporary, paranormal and occasionally futuristic settings, and has also written some historical-themed short fiction.
Portia has been writing for publication since 1990, and has had over twenty novels, for Black Lace and also for houses such as Scarlet, Heartline, X Libris, Headline Liaison, Ellora's Cave and Phaze. She has also had over 100 short stories published, and she has contributed to many different short story anthologies and women's magazines.
Portia lives in the heart of West Yorkshire, UK, with her husband and her cats. When she's not writing she enjoys reading, watching TV and movies, web design, blogging and online life in general. She was formerly a librarian and has also worked in local government.
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