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Beyond walls

Reinterpreting the role of the holiday siesta.
September 2011.

He was in my dreams again. Always the same muscular body, lightly glistening as he towered over my naked form. Appraising me? Wordlessly judging me? Wanting me? It was hard to tell. His poise and the self-congratulatory manner in which he tugged my bonds implied satisfaction, despite the breath catching in his throat when his fingers brushed my yearning flesh. I squirmed. The sharp tang of his cologne mixed with faint traces of heated exertion and the distinctive undercurrent of my own involuntary arousal only made me want him more.

His face was in shadow as usual, a strong light casting halos through his dark hair so I never managed to catch a glimpse of his features. I both hated and loved kneeling on my haunches for him. He always made me do things. Despicable things. Degrading acts solely for his own twisted amusement while I was tied up; a helpless pawn in his kinky fantasies. Yet I adored feeling the path that every drop of hot, liquid honey took as it spiralled its way to pool between my spread thighs. Loved being controlled, used and treated as a mere object. An expanse of soft skin and a selection of holes, available and willing to accept whatever he wished.

While my magical, red-soled Louboutin heels often brought out Little Miss Wicked, there was something intoxicating about being out of control; one word away from safety, yet choosing not to exercise that right. Sometimes I wanted nothing more than to be told what to do, what to wear, what to touch, and when. To be at his total mercy until he was well and truly finished with me and we were both a hot, sweaty mess of entwined body parts and beautiful, sticky come.

I longed to find out who he was, but no matter how I wriggled to see, his features were always just out of sight. It was maddening, but maybe that was the allure: the exquisite draw of a faceless stranger somehow knowing my innermost desires and fulfilling them. Desires I didn't even know I possessed until he unlocked the filthy hunger in me. Whether my mouth was stuffed with my own sodden panties or stretched full of his wonderful dick or he was ramming it mercilessly into my bottom as he spanked my reddening cheeks and hurled obscenities my way for surrendering so readily to his whims, I would come and come. An unending flood of wetness that had no discernible source as I cried for more and took it.

There was no doubt I was his property, never sated, writhing, begging to be abused. While under his spell I wanted to please him, desperately needing release, elated yet fearful of what he might make me do next as he tightened the rope, snarled commands and teased my twitching body to what I wrongly assumed was the brink of its capacity for pleasure. He would always push beyond, serving the sadistic streak in him and assuaging my unquenchable appetite for deplorable acts of raw sex that would leave me feeling dirty, yet alive.

Palm prints smarted. Fingers probed. Teeth grazed erect nipples. Fires roared from my core to the farthest reaches of my body, and all the while I panted uncontrollably, wanting nothing more than the episode to continue indefinitely.

He never spoke to me like a respectable human being should. Never sought my consent. Never asked my opinion of whether his actions pleased me, nor whether he should stop or continue. My lust-filled yowls, breathy gasps and desperate encouragement were answer enough. Truthfully, I probably couldn't have spoken intelligibly if I'd tried.

Normal girls didn't have such animalistic urges, of that I was sure. Normal girls wanted the freedom to make their own choices, to decide their own destiny, not be shackled and have some… some man exert his authority and dictate their immediate future without so much as a hint of compunction. I was clearly very broken. Unhinged. Thirty-odd years of common sense behind me and I was reduced to this quivering ruin, unable to change course. Or unwilling to do so.

The rope clenched my skin, making more of me available for whatever he desired, presenting me like a wanton, naked gift to his hungry gaze and stinging blows. I started to whimper as the humiliating heat tore through me and the bonds chafed, knowing my response signalled more of what we both craved. He leant in close, grabbed my hair, hot breath rasping in my ear as fingers snaked beneath me to puncture my drenched temple. I quaked, wide open, owned, on the cusp of a shattering orgasm, grinding against his hand, which made his sudden exit all the more heartless. I cried out in frustration, swishing my head madly. Then he cranked the rope tighter. Tighter.

I was jolted awake by my body's safety mechanism when the circulation was cut off. Moments later a battalion of spiky ants began to march through my arm and I rolled onto my back, instinctively wagging to bring the appendage back to life. How long had I been out? Half an hour? An hour? Certainly long enough that the sleep trolls had begun to carpet the inside of my mouth. And sap gently oozed from between my legs, drying in the air conditioning that was set a trifle too harsh.

In the groggy, post-erotic haze it took a few moments to register the unfamiliar surroundings until the décor jogged my memory. The orange light shades, brown curtains and tweed pelmet that resembled something from a 1970s caravan jarred with the terracotta tiled floor, mismatched furniture, whitewashed walls and inventive wiring of the Portuguese hotel.

Alongside me lay Adam, his shoulder rising and falling in unison with gentle snores reflecting off the opposite wall. I marvelled the tone of his skin, a shade darker than mine, glowing in the daylight that seeped around the hastily drawn curtains. His back curved gracefully from the light brown close-cropped hair at the base of his neck down to thin hips and a pert bottom. My Mr. Sexy. I wanted to reach across and stroke his naked form to remind myself that he was indeed real. The last three years or so since we'd found one another had flown by. Wonderful times. Crazy times. Two people in love times, with no sign of the magic waning.

I smiled and shivered, briefly considering sliding across to nuzzle against his warmth and take the edge off, but it would be sure to wake him. He seemed so peaceful. Besides, there were other ways to keep warm, continuing from where my intense reverie had been interrupted.

Shaking my arm until the blood reached its operating pressure and the tingling faded I stared up at the bright white ceiling, trying to recall the details of my very vivid wet dream. I attempted to focus on the shape of my captor's body and played back latent images in the vain hope of uncovering his identity. Despite the physical differences, was it some projection of Adam? Symbolic of the trust I placed in him and his success at emotionally and sexually freeing me? Or was it some, as yet unfulfilled, fantasy I would feel compelled to play out for real to take myself to the next level in my seemingly endless quest for carnal enlightenment? Maybe I really was broken.

I struggled to grasp anything concrete as disjointed scenes and images spun inside my head and exasperatingly slipped away. Faint cracks fractured my memory like those still visible on the ceiling where the management had painted over them a few times already. Slapdash, like the rest of the place.

We were only three days into the holiday and I already knew I'd only revisit The Algarve at gunpoint. There was nothing intrinsically wrong with the place, it was just soulless and full of loudmouth British who seemed to think a holiday should be as much like home as possible, with better weather. No doubt pandering to the influx of guaranteed tourism dollars, nearby towns had been largely sanitized with Irish bars and traditional British pubs offering bland food and karaoke as standard. It honestly made me embarrassed of my heritage. Year on year the world seemed more homogenised as the corporations and global supply chains slowly took over, robbing travel junkies like myself of embracing true local culture.

I took solace in the fact that the place wasn't my choice. Adam's parents, perhaps beginning to come to terms with their mortality, had bankrolled it for a family break, with Adam's sister and husband making up the remaining numbers. Since James and I were extensions of the family through marriage and engagement respectively, we were invited by default. Funny, my dad always warned me there was no such thing as a free lunch. It seemed this axiom applied to holidays too.

Adam and I were due to marry the following summer so, in the eyes of the family, were endorsed to share a bed; though I did kind of miss the thrill of sneaking around and having to bite my lip when we made love at their house. Whether by design or providence, the three allocated rooms were scattered throughout the hotel, which meant there wouldn't be any cold stares over breakfast if I happened to get carried away in the heat of the moment.

Stirring briefly, Adam rolled onto his front, his breathing soon returning to a steady rhythm. I lay there, watching. Fingers of early afternoon sun penetrated threadbare parts of the curtain and formed irregular patterns across his smooth bottom and the wall. I had the sudden urge to roll on top of him, pin his thighs to the bed and spank those glorious upturned little globes. Had he been awake or dozing I'd have done it, because taking control would make him delightfully hard and, when I was sure he was whipped into a frenzy I'd surrender, letting him take me. Just like the man in my dreams.

My breasts caught my eye, nipples standing to attention at their apex thanks to the cool ambience and sexual flotsam still drifting around my body. Where the slopes formed a gentle valley, I could see past my slight belly to the tip of the dark Mohawk I allowed to grow, before it thinned to make way for the smooth surface of my nether lips, which plunged between my creamy thighs.

Beyond my still shapely legs I regarded my feet with their uneven steps from toe to toe. Just another one of many imperfections that Adam didn't seem to notice. Maybe he found the various flaws added to my uniqueness? Whatever his attraction, I sparkled inside at the thought of the regular up-and-down glances of appreciation he gave me every day. The pilot light in the pit of my stomach flared as I recalled the way his pupils dilated whenever he watched me, like it was the first time he'd laid eyes on me.

I loved my man. Being loved back unconditionally was so liberating, so fulfilling, so unlike anything prior. We might only be curled up on the sofa in front of a movie and I felt the luckiest girl in the world. Even more so when we pushed the bounds of our relationship in ways that continued to surprise and excite me. God, that tongue of his. So talented, and so long! Fluttering and flicking against my jumping clitoris, or probing without limits inside me. He could probably map every ridge and contour of my willing orifices from memory.

There was simply no substitute for that wide-eyed look of adoration, when all I could see of him was the top half of his face as he savoured every drop. The mere thought of him giving me that level of joy and reacting as if the pleasure was all his, was enough to turn me on. My skin flushed despite the air conditioning and I felt a churning in my midriff as mental imagery manifested itself in a longing that would require more than just my mind to satisfy.

Shuddering once more I settled my gaze on Adam, slid a little closer across the queen size bed, drinking in his body and faint musk reminiscent of patchouli and lemongrass, lazily tracing my recently working arm down over my belly. The trail it left was like sexual gasoline, the fire spreading. Dammit, why was he asleep? A girl has needs! Once again I considered waking him, a variety of wicked scenarios flashing through my head. Part of me figured he wouldn't object to the interruption if it was to service my yearning body, but I stopped myself and let him rest. Perhaps as I explored, he would wake up naturally and help himself to a dose of the flowing juices he so adored.

I'd wanted him all morning, which may well have been what sparked the dream. Whether lazing around the pool in sweltering ninety-degree heat or dipping in and out of the water to cool off, I'd appraised his svelte frame, geeky demeanour and that oh so cute grin that made his hazel eyes sparkle, imagining the mischief we could enjoy if nobody else was around.

Exercising restraint in front of his parents was torture. While they were liberal about our sleeping arrangements out of wedlock, we always felt it best not to push our luck. Far easier said than done, especially since sunshine elevated my sexual appetite. The closest intimacy we'd managed had been when he first coaxed me to the edge of the outdoor pool. Despite the ambient temperature, the water still felt icy and I made excuses about getting used to it while I pussyfooted around taking a new step every few minutes... until the bastard lunged and yanked me in. The frosty water enveloped me and when I came up spluttering I swore I'd get him, front crawling in pursuit to the deep end. To be fair, as my body acclimatised it was an invigorating swim.

At the far side he turned to face me and I wrapped my arms around his neck while he clung to the concrete edge. We kissed deeply and I suddenly wanted what I felt rising between our bodies from the top of his swim shorts. Desperately wanted to pull my bikini to one side and position myself above his hardness, grind lower to feel it bang against my clit and then on the next stroke thrust up inside me, urgent and insistent, the sunbathing tourists inconsequential to our primal needs. Instead we held the embrace a little longer then parted and frolicked in the water, splashing and shrieking like teenagers until our teeth chattered and we had to return to the sunbeds.

It wasn't until after lunch we had a chance to play, taking refuge from the formidable early afternoon sun in the relative cool of the room for a siesta. We showered to wash off that grimy sunscreen feeling and fooled around a little, soaping one another from head to foot, taking our time over proceedings. There was no better excuse for a kiss and a grope after the restricted activities around the pool.

Reaching up on tiptoe to kiss him as the water cascaded off his shoulders, he smoothed my long black hair and continued to run his hands down my hourglass to gently cup my round bottom. Predictably, he hardened against me. Having that power over him with just the simplest of actions, to fire him up through little more than being me, was an immense turn on.

The kiss was slow and sensual, yet passionate. Our tongues swirled and danced, bodies slick from soap and water sliding against one another, the contact adding further intimacy. Again, feeling his magnificent cock pressed between us, part of me wanted to jump up onto it, wrap my legs around his torso and feel him split me, plumbing my depths as I clawed his back and the water pounded my shoulders. I had so many impure urges when I was with him that I often wondered if I needed counselling. Some impartial third party upon whom to vent, in an effort to bring my tempestuous libido under control.

It wasn't the only thought stream that ran through my head. Another, sluttier part of me wanted to drop to my knees in front of him like a porn star and take him in my mouth until he shot his sticky load down my throat. But I also somehow wanted the afternoon to last forever. Loved the tension of taking it slow, building our desires until we could no longer hold back and had to ride one another to orgasm. Whether that act would take place in the bedroom or out on the more public balcony overlooking the palm-bordered gardens would not be a conscious decision. We would twirl, roll and crash against anything that would take our weight, completely lost in one another.

As the hot water sprayed and rivulets poured down my cheeks, I broke the kiss and looked up at him, settling for simply reaching between us and stroking his hard-on a few times, feeling it bob and sway at my touch. The way the chamois skin slid effortlessly and organically over the steely muscle made me shudder. He grinned at me, allowing himself to be fondled, and I knew he knew what was really on my mind.

With promise of much more to come, we stepped from the steamy bathroom, towelled lightly and lay naked, spooned on the bed for a few minutes to allow the air conditioning to finish the job. Now he was asleep and I was horny. I sighed gently and walked my fingers over my abdomen, aware of the stirrings inside that brought fresh dampness with them.

Although not suitable to put down as a pastime on a CV alongside conventional activities such as swimming and gym, masturbating was one of my favourite things to do when alone. Knowing my body as intimately as one would expect, feasting on torrid thoughts and fantasies as I stroked, pinched, rolled and flicked the myriad erogenous zones on the surface of my skin, brought on the kind of orgasms that every girl deserves to experience. The intense kind, where nothing else exists in the universe for those precious moments during release. Where mind and body fuse as warmth rages in all directions like a forest fire and the repetitive pulses through knotted insides ensure that wetness is delivered to temper the flames.

As I began to touch myself, the familiar sensation of bubbling excitement caught in my throat. My hands roamed up my taut belly leaving the soft hairs to rise in their wake. I shivered and continued up past my ribs to meet the twin mounds of my chalky 36Cs, the beginnings of the tan on the rest of my body accentuating their whiteness. Ascending the slopes, I gently tweaked the rising pink caps atop the mocha ring of pigment and bit my lip as I breathed in. Pinching the sensitive nipples again, I rolled them softly between my fingertips, at first imagining it was Adam kissing and nibbling them, then the lips, tongue and stubble of my mysterious captor grazed my chest. As if connected via radio control, my pussy responded, the entrance opening a fraction in preparation for action.

Physiologically I knew my tunnel would lengthen, labia would engorge with blood and open, extra wetness would form, and my clitoris would harden. That was all fine -- necessary and wonderful -- but I found the emotional response far greater. If I were a sociologist I'd probably discover it was what separated the genders. Men, it seemed, responded more to the physical and visual stimuli. But when I was turned on, my whole being was a beacon of sexual arousal, pulsing, glowing, yearning for the magical touches and loaded glances that would drive me to each successive plateau of desire.

Roaming south, my fingertips traced my ribs once more, then onward to the edge of my pelvis and down onto my thighs where I gently parted my legs, feeling the stickiness that glued the lips of my smooth petals give way. I slid my hand toward my centre, hovering over my mons and feeling the warmth emanating from within. So ready.

I paused. Something stopped me, I wasn't sure what. I held my breath, trying to get a handle on the interruption, body aching to respond to my touch yet suddenly second fiddle to curiosity. Was my super-sensitive hearing playing tricks on me?

No, there it was again. My heart rate quickened several beats at the squeak of a bedspring from a nearby room. I had a decision to make: stay next to Adam with the surety of orgasm and possibility of waking him for a wild screw, or give in to my vice. Was it a weakness to crumble, or did it show strength of character to walk away from the inevitability of short-term self-gratification to pursue something I found incredibly exciting, and use that as a springboard to achieve a more intense explosion later?

The third squeak decided it. Rolling gently off the bed I padded across the cold tiles of the room to face the mottled wall adjoining our neighbour, staring at it, contemplating my one true vice. ‘Aural voyeurism' I called it: the act of listening in to other people's intimate moments. Whether pianissimo or forte, it turned me on intensely and I sought every opportunity to share others' sexual gratification, basking amid the symphony of love with my hand shoved indelicately between my legs as I chased after their orgasms with one or more of my own. Twisted maybe, but part of me nevertheless. If I denied such urges, would I be less of a woman? Less human? Or would the urges find some other way to surface? Like in dreams, maybe?

A sigh from behind the wall ended my philosophising and I paced to the en-suite to fetch a tumbler then found a suitable spot in the entrance hall, just out of sight of Adam. Should he wake, I wanted plausible deniability. It felt deceitful to keep this dark side of myself hidden from him and there were so many occasions when I felt I just needed to blurt it out into the open. He was going to become my husband, and spouses didn't keep secrets from one another, did they? Or did they? I was fairly sure he'd understand, but each time I plucked up courage to build it into the conversation, I bottled. Maybe I wasn't ready to fully admit the level to which it defined me. Or maybe deep down I was just a coward. I pursed my lips. One day.

The wall was a little rough, as if it had been rendered with some low-grade ballast and then directly painted. That was sure to make it more difficult to obtain a clean sound, but the fact I heard the squeaks and that sigh so clearly without the aid of the glass meant there was little chance of the wall being anything more than three or four inches thick.

Before committing, I paused with the rim of the glass grinding against the uneven surface. I knew who resided next door as we'd exchanged a nod when returning from breakfast. By all outward appearances she was the archetypal moody daughter on holiday with her sun-worshipping mum and gran, for some reason choosing a family vacation over staying at home with her boyfriend and unrestricted access to the drinks cabinet. Maybe the lack of father figure had something to do with it. At dinner I'd noticed just a faint untanned ring as the only evidence of her mother's prior status.

Like all regular young women in our image-conscious, media-soaked world, this particular screenager spent much of the time when not in the pool absorbed with her iPhone, presumably communicating with friends or plugged into music. Her attire was always chic at dinner and verging on skimpy poolside. I swear I caught Adam surreptitiously checking her out over his sunglasses a few times as she stepped shimmering from the pool in that clingy black two-piece separated by an impeccably toned stomach. And if her mother was anything to go by, the good looks would continue well into her forties.

Of course I was jealous of her youth and the natural, effortless beauty I didn't have a decade further down the line from her. I'm not naïve enough to think Adam doesn't window shop, and if I was blessed with her perfect body I'd damn well flaunt it too. Maybe envy or the prospect of discovering the formula for youthful exuberance was part of the reason I pressed my ear to the cool glass: I wanted to check out the competition and find out what made her tick. Well, that was my justification to give in to those dark urges of mine.

In the early stages of listening, it was always difficult to conjure an accurate mental map of what was going on. The physical layout of the room was usually easy to visualise because it would be roughly a mirror image of ours. But the nuances and detail of what she was doing and how she was arranged could only be ascertained through careful interpretation of the sonic reflections that bounced off the walls and were channelled to my ear.

The first thing I noticed as I tuned into the room was that she was trying to be discreet, and not entirely succeeding. There were a few periods of silence punctuated only by the odd whimper and reluctant bed springs as she rearranged her position. Based on the fact her infrequent soft sighs were clearly heard, I pictured her on her back, naked like I was, legs gently parted, knees slightly raised from the bed, heels digging into it as her fingers played through the wiry, charcoal strands of pubic hair that covered her mound. I could always refine the imagery later, but that was a good start.

In my mind's eye, each little sigh or gasp was the product of her digits finding the tiny button nestled in her inverted vee and giving it a stroke. She'd rub her fingers either side of the little pearl, pulling back the hood to expose its shiny surface, then let the cover retract as she guided her fingers deeper between her impossibly trim thighs, seeking the start of her wetness. Droplets of moisture would no doubt pepper her bush, glistening in the afternoon light.

My makeshift speaker dutifully amplified a sharp intake of breath, and a lump caught in my throat. Intuition led me to believe she'd slipped a finger inside her wet estuary to test the waters and liked what she found. Maybe she was fondling her breasts too, tweaking her nipples alternately with one hand while she explored herself with the other. I couldn't help but join in, my spare hand massaging the soft flesh of my chest. It responded accordingly, the cap hardening as I pinched it, shooting hoops of electricity into my body.

She exhaled a couple of times, clearly aroused. It reminded me of a segment from Sadeness on the first Enigma album. And then there was silence. Had I spent too long procrastinating and missed the build up? Had she come? It was difficult to tell. I strained to hear, repositioning the tumbler, slightly disappointed that the exhalations could signal the end. Then I heard a faint clicking noise, a repetitive tap tap tap; perhaps contact with her wetness. I waited, playing various scenarios in my head, trying to work out in which position she was oriented and what she was touching. My free hand continued to glide up and down my body, lighting up whatever it touched as my imagination took hold.

The tapping was drowned by a loud couple wandering past our rooms, animated voices and heels echoing in the sparsely decorated corridor. I waited out the interruption and, when the din eventually faded, tuned in again, finding just silence from my neighbour save for the occasional creak from the cheap bed.

Then there was a vibration noise. I gripped the tumbler in anticipation of perhaps some action from a toy she'd brought with her. I never went away without mine, maybe she was the same. But the vibration was short-lived, followed by a void before the tapping resumed. It took a little while to dawn on me that it was fingernails against the screen of her damn phone. I rolled my eyes. Youngsters and their inseparable technology!

Presuming she was done and merely exchanging pleasantries with one of her girlfriends back home, I prepared to give up to go and finish the job I started earlier in my own bed, when I froze. With my ear zeroed on the glass for optimum sound transmission, there could be no other explanation for what I had heard, but my brain wouldn't accept it. It simply refused.

A few agonising seconds passed as I tried to convince myself that it had been a figment of my overactive imagination. I held my breath as I listened, just in case it was a reflection of a noise I had made as I readied myself to return to bed. She tapped her phone's screen again a few times then the sheets rustled as she changed position, shortly followed by the familiar sound of fingers in a sticky pussy.

The walls really were paper thin and the clarity the glass afforded was tremendous. I loved being this close to the action. It was the next best thing to being in the room with her, watching her stoke her fires, legs akimbo, eyes closed, mouth apart as she became lost in self-discovery. I touched myself, reinvigorated, finding my entrance moist and inviting despite being some way from orgasm. The girl's phone vibrated again with an incoming text message. A few taps, then further nothingness as my thudding heartbeats consumed me. I could hardly breathe with the anticipation.

My insides somersaulted as the shutter sound from her phone's camera greeted my eager ear and brought a whole new slant to my invasion of the dirty minx's privacy. My ear burned and mind raced with possible scenes as she posed for the lens: hand cupping a pert breast, a close-up of an erect nipple, fingers in her mouth, or inside her slippery pussy. All captured, digitized and transmitted to her ecstatic boyfriend sitting at home, solid cock in hand, waiting impatiently for the next instalment. Maybe he was egging her on, or sexting what to do or photograph next, the technology bridging the distance until they could once again physically join in carnal heat. Perhaps he was taking selfies of his own arousal and sending them to her as she lay barely a few feet from my ear. The possibilities were endless and my body was as rigid as her boyfriend's weighty erection.

I imagined her spread-eagled on the crisp, starched sheets, knees raised, splaying her lips for the camera, tapping in "Look how wet you make me xoxo" and sending it. Although she was still quiet, the noise level was gradually increasing as she became bolder, which suited me perfectly. Little gasps and the repetitive clicking of sticky wetness that accompanied masturbation were all magnified and directly injected into my head thanks to the wonderful properties of the glass in my hand. Consequently, my body was on high alert, a million tiny messages swarming through me, flicking on pleasure receptors, each one responsible for passing the information to its neighbour until my entire body throbbed and I had to resume pinching, squeezing, stroking, and probing to appease it. I began to lose myself in my senses as my fingers danced.

Another text came through. Did this one contain an image of a hard, veined dick smeared with pre-come, designed to drive her wild with desire for her man back home? Perhaps he had his hand encased around the thick shaft, fat head swollen in readiness, desperately wishing to pierce her outer defences and glide into her silky confines. Or was it a photograph of his semen splotched onto his belly, unable to contain himself after he'd seen the pictures of her juicy insides? Whatever the content, the bed complained as she shifted position, preparing for the next shot.

Her breathing sounded further away so I surmised she'd moved onto all fours. Had I been blessed with x-ray vision I'd have been able to look straight at her upturned bottom. The camera obediently seized a similar vista, freezing the action and forming an imprint in my mind. In my version of events she was looking back at the lens with a sultry pout, strands of dark hair clinging to her cheek with perspiration as the phone in her outstretched arm recorded the view of her flawless behind and the wet treasure open below. There was a brief flurry of tapping as she typed something like "This is all yours when I get home xoxo," and hit Send.

A dull thud greeted my ear as the phone hit the bed. Clearly she needed both hands to masturbate and, judging by the ferocity of the shuffling and squishing, I gathered she was close to exploding, staring at the hastily discarded phone screen through half-closed eyes. The picture of her boyfriend's proud length would penetrate her mind as she imagined it endlessly pounding into her from behind. Feeling his hands on her upturned bottom, fingertips digging into her flesh, pulling her toward him as she was impaled time and again, panting his name.

The imagery it conjured was not unlike a scene from one of my dreams. With no knowledge of this man at the other end of the phone, I was lost in the power of his anonymity. What would it feel like to be this girl when she returned into his welcoming arms? To be whisked back to his place, thrown on the bed and fucked as if the week apart had been a year. To give herself fully to him. To feel his weight bearing down on her and be able to do nothing but revel in the fabulous sensation of relinquishing control. I almost cried out at the vision, catching my exhalation just in time as I slid two fingers between the folds of my wet pussy and up as far as I could reach, jamming my palm against my appreciative clitoris, crushing it rhythmically to mirror the action in my head.

With one ear and as much concentration as I could muster, I listened as her fingers circled her pleasure centre and drove inside her tumbling wetness, her breaths turning staccato. Mouth agape, I buried my hand between my legs then retrieved my fingers coated in nectar, slathering the juice I found there all over my bare lips on their way to seek my hard clit. I joined her, flicking and circling to delight my energised body, letting out a series of taut sighs of my own.

The noise from next door was subdued, which somehow made it more incredible. The pillow muted her gasps, but the wetness inside her slit was obvious as fingers rapidly entered and exited her distended lips. I was equally wet and closed my eyes to transport myself into her room for the final stages as she imagined the sensation of being ruled, breasts squashed against the bed, the breaths forcefully expelled from her body every time his pubic hair slammed against her buttocks while he filled her. The heat and motion of her fingers sawing back and forth simulated the manner in which her tunnel deformed to accommodate his girth as he pistoned her tender folds.

I knew how it felt. I loved how it felt. That tidal wave rising inside, senses merging, flashes of white-hot light firing from the deepest recesses of her brain, shooting out to engulf her body. The pressure mounting every second until there was nowhere for it to go but outward. The crest of the wave swelling, its white peak dwarfing every other emotion as it reared to its apex, broke and began to crash into her shoreline.

Her sighs intensified and the bed creaked, hand no doubt a blur, just before she let out a muffled cry and came. There was no mistaking it. I froze as the frantic movement next door ceased, her hard panting returning only after a long pause. Her mind would be filled with the steely shaft she could see on the phone's screen, imagining it wrapped snugly in her velvety pussy, clamped and released amid the well-oiled clockwork of orgasm, drawing his seed up and into her hungry womb. She would be flooding the bed and it was so exciting to witness both her crescendo and finale. I was spellbound, my body stiff except for my fingers working hard to bring about my own release.

A text arrived but she must have ignored it, or didn't hear it as her body was wracked with the rolling waves. I pictured her still upturned on the bed, a sheen of sweat clinging to her lithe frame, fingers buried deep inside as clear sap continued to drizzle out under the influence of gravity, coating her hand and forearm.

I was thundering closer to orgasm, approaching the point of no return, blood hammering between the glass and my ear as I started to give in to my body. But I'd missed the window for climaxing alongside her and that thought bubbled up to the forefront of my mind. It played on my conscience and began to filter into every blood cell, giving each one a reason to delay my release for just a little while longer, with the promise that the wait would be well worth it. Just a temporary lull in my high octane hormones to dip them below danger levels, with the aim of returning to bed and bringing myself off there next to Adam, close enough that he would be sure to wake and join in. I'd found over the years that a gradual, tiered build up to final release almost always had the edge over a race.

With steely resolve I opened my eyes and forced myself to slow. It wasn't easy. Every atom in my body had been given the green light and wanted nothing more than to fuse me into a sexual shell with nuclear potency. But I dropped it down a notch, steadily inching away from the brink.

When I heard her collapse into the bed and exhale then roll over, I relaxed a little more, maintaining a low level of finger movement between my legs, feeling myself drifting away from the rim of my personal volcano. I could hear sticky noises from my neighbour which was probably her either lazily feeling her spent pussy or stretching strings of come between her fingers. The camera shutter fired again, so either way I guessed the next message would be captioned "Look what you made me do. Want this on your face next time? xoxoxo".

I pictured that very scenario easily, as it was one for which I was intricately familiar. Sitting astride a man, suffocating him with dripping folds as he licked with furious abandon at the silky flow, both feeling and hearing the excitement between us soar. How I wished it were me.

How I wished it were me.

I smiled to myself, extricated my fingers and smelled them, then ran my tongue over one. Delicious and creamy. I was so excited, in that weird limbo between having control and losing it, knowing that the right thought, the sexiest glance or the perfect touch would once more send me careening toward the precipice. My neighbour's breathing was slowing. She was clearly spent so I broke away from the wall, stole to the bathroom and replaced the glass, then sashayed back into the bedroom, approaching the prone form of Adam.

He was now on his back, snoring softly, gloriously naked. I grinned. To hell with letting him sleep any longer, he had a job to do. As gently as possible, I clambered onto the bed and straddled his feet, shivering with excitement as I first let my soft folds barely graze him, then allowed his big toe to dip inside. Biting my lip I let the moment own me before slipping his glossy toe from my juicy ravine, crawling gingerly forward past his legs, past the currently limp object of my desires, and reaching his torso. Continuing, I grabbed the headboard and inched onward, raising myself as I neared his chin, eventually coming to rest above his face, knees either side of his ears. I could feel his even exhalations tickling my wet lips and just waited there, savouring the moment of power, wondering if my heady aroma would act like a pleasant version of smelling salts or if I'd have to smother him to get his attention.

Within thirty seconds his predilection for my taste made him stir. His eyes flickered open and after a moment of taking in the landscape, twinkled as he fully registered the situation. I hoped he wouldn't have any pointed questions about the reason for my arousal. To make certain, I took the initiative.

"Hi sleepy head," I cooed. "Been thinking about you lying there all naked. Fancy a snack?"

Maybe I bent the truth a little, but never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, his hands snaked up over my thighs and he gently pulled me onto his outstretched tongue.

That was the spot! My body jumped as soon as his lips met mine and I was transported to heaven. He probed my drooling entrance, drawing out the juices so they could be slathered over my bare pussy and used to delight my engorged clitoris. His tongue fluttered over my most sensitive jewel and I began to pant lightly, gripping the headboard. Flicking rapidly left and right, then lazily circling the spot, he lapped its edges before pressing the flat of his tongue against me. My breathing became more erratic. Of course he knew me well enough to back off and prolong the frustrating desire, slipping his tongue inside once more to savour the fruits of his labour before journeying north to the exposed peak of my womanhood.

He pulled away for a moment, his voice edgy and lips shiny:

"You're so wet today, B. And as delicious as ever."

Then he was back up against me and I rolled my eyes skyward.

Every time he ate me was a dizzying experience. It wasn't just the fact he was so good at it but that he could never have enough. He didn't need penetration to stimulate him: tasting me was reward aplenty and I loved knowing how it made him feel. I released the headboard, stretched upright and leaned back a little as his tongue thrashed my syrupy centre, enchanted by the rhythm he chose.

I raked my fingernails down over his hips and drew my hands together behind me, first making contact with his tight, shaved balls and then the thickness protruding in my direction. His shaft was pure steel already. I tickled its base with my nails, feeling it leap, then circled my fingers and gripped it with both hands, slowly drawing them up and down his length. He hummed in appreciation and I moaned as the vibrations were transferred to my wet lips and throbbing clit. I squeezed his tumescence, feeling it surge at my touch, the power within him obvious. I was briefly transported back to my dream depicting the stranger's toned form, leading down over granite abs to a full and powerful tool that he well and truly knew how to use. It was that power I craved, driving hard inside me. I knew Adam would have willingly carried on devouring me until I collapsed, and on any other day I'd have equally willingly taken every caress, but my body had spoken.

Sliding away from his grasp, I released myself from the lock he had, and heard him whimper "more".

Looking down at his lusty expression, lips glinting with my secretions, I mouthed, "I want this inside me," and sat fully upright, letting him slip from between my fingers. I shucked down his body a little way and lowered my breasts tantalisingly above his face, watching him lunge for them with his mouth, like upside down apple bobbing. I denied him some of the time and let him win when it suited me. The tongue lashes to each erect tip sent shivers through me, heating rapidly as the waves zipped down to my core.

Pinning him to the bed, I slid backwards, leaving a trail of glistening wetness on his belly and then felt his raging hardness at the small of my back, every inch mine. A surge of excitement flushed through me. Raising stickily from him I felt his pre-come paint my bottom all the way down the cleft until the circumcised head finally came to rest like a missile ready to launch at my soaked entrance.

"You want me?" I drawled, rocking a little so the head just dipped inside. Of course he did. "Want to feel how dripping wet I am for you? Want to slam inside me and listen to me come?"

I wanted to drive him utterly wild. His cock twitched at my opening, grappling to sink inside, yet being continually denied as I freeze-framed our thirst and fed off it. The restraint was murder, but each passing second amplified my desire, forming snapshots of his lust in my head that I could redevelop later. A twisted grin formed on my lips as the sound of the camera shutter bounced around my head.

"Do you want to photograph me while we fuck? Take filthy pictures of your slutty fiancée riding your fat cock? Watch me perform for the camera?" I took his astonished grin as a yes. "What if I took pictures of myself while you ate me? To show you how fucking heavenly it is to have your tongue inside me. How wet I get. How much I want to drown you when I come."

Oh, that did it. At his crazed expression I shivered and pressed back, the exhilarating sensation of being filled to the hilt with hot, hard cock making my eyes glaze over.

There was no first gear, no build up. We were straight into a deep, steady rhythm, our pubic bones colliding each time we ground into one another. I loved having my clit crushed against him, panting with every thrust as my tits swung in time in front of his face, just out of reach.

I sat up and took charge, beginning a forward-backward motion that caused him to hit deep. So deep. He was transfixed, watching my belly break-dancing while his recently released hands and fingers gravitated to roughly massage my chest. I groaned as he squeezed the flesh, pinching and rolling my hard nipples while I rode him. Every time he was propelled into me I sighed a little louder.

In the closing phase of mind-blowing sex as my body careened on autopilot toward the most amazing sensation on Earth, I sometimes preferred a gentle touch to tease me ever higher to each trembling storey. At other times, nothing but hot and heavy would do, when I wanted the rough stuff: teeth, nails, fingers, spanks. And I'm not beyond begging for it.

"Fuck me hard," I growled, rocking savagely and feeling his cock swell as it threatened to bump my cervix. "Leave a mark."

Obligingly, his hands released my chest and grabbed my rump, accelerating me forward and impaling me forcefully, knocking the breath from my body. He hammered inside, pulled one hand away and brought it back against my flesh.

CRACK.

The sound echoed loudly off the walls and I moaned in appreciation, heat spreading from the impact point all the way through my rear and swirling down my wet avenue. It surfaced and eddied around my swollen lips that were being split time and again by my fiancé's violent thrusts.

Before the current could abate, I breathlessly demanded, "Again."

CRACK!

"Ooooohhhhwww, yesssss. Spank me!" I ordered.

Although I was in no state of mind to analyse the situation, there was probably a part of me playing to an audience. Did I hope our neighbour was listening in? Was I thanking her for giving my imagination a workout? Letting her know that her degrading act had directly spawned ours? She couldn't fail to hear us. Was she on her knees, ear pressed to the wall like I had been, hand back between her legs, captivated by our raucous lovemaking? I looked down at Adam and caught his eyes, gritting my teeth.

"Harder."

He raised his hand, only too happy to oblige.

Fire engulfed my loins and I screamed. That one would definitely leave a handprint. I could feel my cheek flushing beneath his palm, and the wires inside me fizzed as my circuits arced. I flopped forward onto my elbows so my breasts smothered his face, still grinding my hips against his, hearing sloshing noises bouncing around the room.

"Suck them," I implored.

Adam knew better than to argue. His lips sought a sensitive nipple and pulled it into his mouth. I lifted slightly so he'd be forced to clamp down and was rewarded with his teeth grazing my nub.

I flung my head up, swishing my dark mane and hissed at him:

"Yesssss, bite them. Oh yeeeeaaahhh, like that, like that... just... like... that."

Again and again, mini firecrackers exploded from between his teeth, shooting pain laced with intense pleasure signals along the pathways to my brain. Combined with the heat radiating from my slapped bottom, I was an internal wreck. Thoughts were forming and evaporating faster than I could latch onto them. Time seemed disjointed. Colours washed away to black and white, and then back again. Flashes of Adam as the captor from my dreams, treating me like a whore, yanking my hair as he fucked my face while my eyes bulged, pleading for more. Being watched. Being heard. Being used.

The only constant through the mindstorm was the repetitive driving of wonderful hardness splitting me, rubbing every exquisite receptor along the length of my soaked channel, energising me, reminding me of why we were put on this planet, and how fantastic it was to be capable of knowing such pleasure.

Phantom images continued to zip like a flickerbook; the girl next door on her knees, panting with her fingers buried inside herself; the camera clicking, faithfully capturing the scene; then on her back, legs spread, fingers dancing over her clit, her mouth forming Ohs of delight. The next moment the photographer was Adam and the girl on the bed was me, trussed in rope, squirming. The camera clicked, my nakedness seized and deposited on the memory card as a sordid collection of ones and zeroes. Both close-up detail and full body poses, some suggestive, some downright lewd, flashed before me. Half-closed eyes. Reddened tits. Voluptuous bottom complete with handprints. Wet fingers in pink places. Teeth gnawing electrified nipples. The knots of my bonds forming imprints in my milky flesh. My open mouth, cherry lips wrapped around his cock, gagging on his girth. His tongue in my butt. His glistening rod on its exit from my distended insides. Pictures that would give my parents a heart attack and guarantee my place in heaven was given to someone else. Anyone else.

Beyond morality, I groaned as Adam's teeth continued to bite my nipples. Things were starting to spin uncontrollably. I was everywhere and nowhere, sighing, moaning and begging him to fuck me, imagining the girl next door listening to us, wishing she were in my place. Maybe she was recording us, the app on her phone faithfully storing the intensity of my moans for her to play back later, fingers all over her proud, aching clit as she relived our not-so-private moment. God that was such a turn-on, imagining the white cables snaking over her breasts to her ear buds as she jammed fingers up into her sopping centre, massaging her G-spot, her dam bursting in the dead of night simply through playing back our rampant soundtrack.

That thought overwhelmed my senses. I thrashed my hair about wildly and, like a horse bolting from the trap and galloping down the turf to the finish line, my body raced toward release. At the first fence, my inner steed launched into the air and I came, clamping my pussy around my man.

I felt weightless, the only indication I was still on this planet being the lungfuls of oxygen I gasped in as I was briefly condensed to a single point and then exploded in a spectrum of piercing bright colours. The eruption came in waves. Strong, powerful, and all-encompassing. I don't think I moved throughout the entirety of my orgasm, content to just feel myself rippling around Adam's length buried inside me.

Lights popped in my head like 1930s flash bulbs. I glowed. I felt whole. Climax was so sweet. It did things to my psyche that nothing else could touch. I was utterly grounded, connected like a ball of rubber bands with every one touching every other at once. The power to eclipse buildings, to reach through the wall to the girl next door and embrace her soul as a thank-you. Maybe that would come across in the recording I was convinced she'd taken.

I had no idea how long I stayed that way. Each contraction released a flood of hormones that enveloped me in deep-rooted warmth, radiating its signal to every erogenous zone and fibre of my being. I let it wash over me, allowing my body to have its moments to savour each phase of fulfilment, from the spiritual and emotional to the physical.

As the room began to take shape once more and I regained control of my limbs, I gently prised myself from Adam's grip and slid up off his still rock-hard member. As my lips closed slowly behind it and the emptiness felt suddenly unnatural I lowered myself to lie on him until my head met his chest. The syncopated rhythm our rapidly beating hearts created warmed my soul.

Trapped beneath my tummy I could feel his cock straining, denied release. I raised my head and smiled up at him. He asked for so very little compared to the demands I placed upon him. Rising cat-like and first stretching my spine, I held eye contact and then inched back the way I had approached until my mouth was level with his groin. I could smell the sweet and sour mix of our exertion strongly.

With a dirtiness that only practice can bring I reached for his shaft and raised it vertically in front of my face, extending my tongue to lick the pearly drops of pre-come and snake them back into my mouth, closing my eyes to sample our combined taste. Divine. Then I snapped open my eyes and pressed forward, sliding his twitching length inside my warm mouth, grazing the bulbous head ever so slightly with my teeth.

He exhaled noisily as I slid back up with a slight sucking to pop off the top, replacing my mouth with my curled hand. I jacked him up and down slowly at first, using primarily my eyes and fist to deliver my intentions, occasionally adding my tongue or mouth to the equation.

As I sped up it wasn't long before I had him right where I knew he wanted to be, teetering on the edge of erupting. His hips were jerking each time the skin rippled over the shaft inside my fingers and his eyes were starting to get that wild look about them. I could have prolonged the torture, playing him like he has played me so many times, but instead introduced my other finger, sliding it along the bed and pressing at the entrance to his arse, massaging just the tip in and out.

The reaction was fully anticipated and a split second later I lifted my head, sank my mouth onto his shaft and was rewarded with shot after shot of silvery come lacing my throat amid his groans of release. I swallowed over and over, milking his beautiful organ, feeling the ribbons slither across the back of my tongue before firing inside me. Despite being no stranger to the act, it felt somehow powerful and dirty to take him this way, cleaning his cock of my own juices and drinking his. My pussy walls twitched.

When I was sure he was spent I gently retracted my finger and glided my mouth off his gradually softening cock, licking my lips in the process and sitting up between his legs.

"Mmmmm, proteiny."

He smiled and shook his head. "Incredible."

I climbed over him and snuggled alongside, sharing the considerable warmth between us. Beneath his fingers that stroked my hair, my mind replayed tidbits of our lovemaking. It felt like I belonged in his arms. Connected. But nagging at the back of my mind were flashes of what I'd witnessed next door. They invaded my conscience and I opened my mouth to speak, then stopped. It still didn't quite seem right to admit why I'd been so revved up. The recurring dream. Being out of control. The neighbour and her camera. At this stage of our relationship I wondered what Adam truly thought of me: whether he was pleased with the transformation from the shy, bumbling woman he had met to the depraved siren he had since created. And whether anything would change if he found out how deep that depravity really ran.

As if he could read my thoughts, he spoke. "Did you mean what you said about the camera?"

"Would you like that?"

"I asked first."

I paused, blinked and slid my eyes up to his. "Yes."

He smiled again and returned to staring at the ceiling as I put my hand on his chest to feel his heart once more, bursting full of life. The sheer zest with which he approached each day was mesmerizing. I wanted to lay next to him forever, but knew it was selfish of us to do so.

"We should probably get back out there before anyone misses us."

After a little more hugging, we separated and sat up alongside one another. The air conditioning felt cold now I was away from him and I hopped off the bed to raise it a degree or two. On the way to the console I ran my fingers through a tangled combination of bed-hair and sex-hair, sighed and bent to adjust the temperature. Adam came up behind me and wrapped me in another warm, full body hug.

"How about we race? First one back to poolside gets to use the camera first later."

I weighed it up and nodded.

At that, he pinged away from me like we were both the same pole of a magnet and scurried to pull his shorts on. I turned and smiled at his antics, stooping to retrieve my discarded bikini and taking my sweet time over dragging it on.

Call me a dirty hussy, but it was one race I wanted to lose.

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Copyright © Copyright 2015 Belle Fleure. All Rights Reserved.

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