Deliberate Display - five erotic voyeur and exhibitionist stories Read Online Free Page A

lying on my back with my skirt up and my knickers round about my ankles. I was about to protest that he mustn’t put his thing in me, but he bent down and began licking at my crack. Christ! I nearly screamed at the very pleasure of it.
    He went on doing this for a while until I thought I was going to explode. ‘Will you do it for me too, Dympna?’ he urged. ‘I’ve had a wash. I’m entirely clean.’ And he shoved his prick into my mouth before I could change my mind. I was so excited by then that I set my tongue to work automatically. It wasn’t planned; it wasn’t even a conscious action. It just seemed … the thing to do.
    It didn’t take long either. Within a minute my mouth filled with a salty cream and Brian’s body was shaking all over. ‘God, Dympna,’ he moaned. ‘I’ve never come off like that before.’
    That was my first time. Over the next few years, especially after Vanessa and myself had come to England and found digs, I had plenty of time to develop my skills. Although I didn’t attract such dishy men as Vanessa, once I’d gone down on a guy he’d stick with me until I had to shake him off. One of them explained it to me. ‘Dympna, you give better head than any woman I’ve ever fucked. It’s the blowjob of a lifetime. A blowjob no man would ever forget.’
    After a few weeks in London, Vanessa and myself went our separate ways. I knew I could never keep up with her. She was glamorous and sexy: stunning to look at when she dolled herself up. And she only screwed men with lots of readies who’d take her to places I could only dream of. I heard that when she strolled down the beach at Cannes or Juan Les Pins, men’s heads turned, eyes glazed and dozens of lustful studs fantasised about those stupendous boobs threatening to tumble out of her tiny halter top, her long legs that went up to velvet thighs, her rich auburn hair highlighting the curve of her neck. But above all it were those eyes – dark, brooding, inviting, teasing – that hypnotized every guy who came into contact with her.
    Next to her I would have faded into the background.
    Vanessa eventually married a man called Ed Marson, who’d made a packet in hedge funds and acquired a magnificent house in Amersham. It’s a massive Victorian barn of a place which Ed had gutted, then refurbished. They have an enormous lounge with a stone fireplace, a picture window overlooking the lawn and a huge, ornate mirror that covers most of the wall at the opposite end. A king-sized settee squatted facing the mirror.
    Ed was in partnership with a Phil something-or-other and, during the occasional meetings I had with Vanessa, she rabbited on about how she fancied this Phil fella rotten. Phil, she told me, was six-three, a good-looking guy, rugged, with dark brown hair.
    So that afternoon at a secluded corner table in the hotel restaurant, I sensed what she was about to tell me. Ultra- chic, as usual, she sauntered over and parked herself opposite me. Her eyes glittered and she spoke with repressed excitement. ‘Dympna,’ she began. ‘Remember what I was saying last time we met? About fancying Phil, Ed’s partner?’
    I nodded eagerly. I knew what was coming. Vanessa loved relating her sexual encounters in explicit detail and in the raunchiest language. Sometimes I suspected she even wrote out and rehearsed a titillating script before recounting her adventures. She left little to the imagination: even just hearing her exploits made my breasts and groin tingle. We are all voyeurs – except for a few exhibitionists.
    ‘Well …’ she went on. ‘Last Tuesday I decided to do something about Phil. So I called into the office.’
    She poured a cup of coffee from the pot a waiter had just brought and gulped some down. ‘Phil knew who I was, of course,’ she continued. ‘I pretended an interest in an investment he’d once suggested and invited him to come over to the house that evening to discuss it with Ed and myself. Even sitting facing him