ALL EYES ON HER by M. Christian
THE CITY SAT around her. From where she was standing, nothing but the silver squares of windows seemed to be watching. But she knew better; she could feel them sitting behind their desks, in their living rooms, in the bedrooms, in their beds, watching her.
The gravel and tar paper of the roof was hot underfoot, but she enjoyed it. It was the totality of it, the completeness of the act, that made her nipples into hard knots, and stoked the fire of her cunt. Wearing slippers, shoes, or anything else would’ve made it incomplete, would’ve ruined the statement: standing naked on the rooftop, letting the city watch her.
At first Cindy didn’t think she could do it. It was a private thing, a crazy thing, something to lay back in a warm, soapy tub and think about – rubbing herself into a rolling orgasm. In the real world the roof was hot, the gravel hurt the bottoms of her feet, and a hard, chill wind cut over the concrete edge of the roof and blasted through her.
Despite the pains in her feet, the chill air, and the hot tar, she stood naked on the roof of her little five-story apartment building, a fire roaring in her cunt.
– there, that little square: formed out of an un-athletic dough, he watched her. His cock was small, and barely hard. He pulled it, tugged at it, the warm roll of his stomach brushing his hand as he masturbated. Slowly, he got harder and harder till all of his few inches was strong and hard in his hand. The fat man watched, smiling, happy and excited. When he came, he selflessly groaned, and got his window messy.
Cindy watched the city watching her. Looking at one silvery window in particular she lifted her right hand to her left breast and stroked the soft skin and pinched the hard nipple.
– they watched her. Taken with her brazenness, the attitude of this obvious species of urban nymph, who could say who started it? Maybe it was Mike who first dropped his shorts and started the kiss, his rock-hard cock fitting so perfectly, so nicely between them. But then it couldn’t been Steve who started it, who put his hand between them to feel his own straining erection. Was it Mike who dropped to his knees and started a grand suck? Or was it Steve? Who came first? Did Steve fill Mike’s mouth with bittersweet come? Or did Mike explode all over Steve’s face? Or did it really matter? The end certainly justified the means…
Cindy looked up at the sun. It bathed her, baked her; her skin vibrated with the heat of it, the fire it coated her with. Right still on left, she felt her breast, playing with the texture of it, the underlying muscle, the strong tip of her nipple. Sun on her, she moved left to right, massaging her breasts under the gaze of the warm sun.
– sitting on their bed, she watched the woman on the rooftop across the street. The sun was almost too bright, too hot, and for a moment she thought about what she had to do: shower, get dressed, go to work. But the woman, the daringness of her, the casualness of her, kept her glued to the window. She didn’t seem crazy, but that’s what she had to be. To stand up there in the sight of God and everyone else, and rub herself like that. It turned her on something fierce. It made her horny, that’s what it did. She savored the word as she pulled herself up from sitting to all fours. Her breasts pulled away from her body in this position – they strained against her body and rolled in her house dress. Without thinking, she put a hand down the front of her dress and cradled one of her breasts. The nipple was so hard, it ached, it was so hard. Cautiously, she squeezed and pulled gently at it. Fire raced through her. Her legs felt like they were going to collapse. The woman across the street, touching herself, it was like she was crazy, touching herself and thinking about her nipples and between her legs she could feel herself grow wet -
Her legs were tired, so Cindy lowered herself down till she squatted over the hot gravel roof. Her breasts were heavy and tight, her nipples ached to be touched and sucked. No thought. Not a one. Watching the city watching her, Cindy put a hot hand between her hot legs. Her thighs were wet, her cunt was a damp forest of blond curls. Her lips were wet and hot. She ran a single finger from her clit to her cunt to her ass, and shivered in delight.
– bent over the chair, her ass in the air, her arms down the chair back, her knees on the seat, she could feel Bob’s tongue playing with her cunt. He loved to eat her, and, God, he was good at it. She pushed herself back towards his face, trying to get his hard, strong, tongue deeper into her soaking cunt. Then he found her pucker asshole, and started to tongue around it. Christ! She felt like screaming. She needed cock now, right now in her soaking pussy, she needed to be filled, fucked, she wanted to come and come and come! Then Bob was at her clit, and the world seemed to boil down to the points of her nipples, the glow of her ass, the wetness of her cunt, her lover’s tongue, and the joy of her clit. She was so lost, so incredibly lost getting ready to come, that she almost forgot to look up, to look across the way to see what the chick on the roof was doing next -
Cindy’s cunt juice ran between her fingers. She was so wet. Her cunt was soaking, her clit was a hard bead between her legs, tucked between her lips. She’d worked out a system, and it was working real good: first she’d plunge her hands deep within herself, up and deep till she could swear THERE was her cervix, THERE her G-spot. Then she’d pull out, slow and hard, pushing aside her hot, soaking lips till her fingers glided past her clit. Then she’d work it, rubbing around and around the little bead of her clit. Then back – back to her cunt, the depths of her, her hot lips, her clit, over and over again.
Sometimes she’d use both hands, pushing all fingers into herself like some huge cock. Sometimes she’d use just one, saving the other, wet and smelling of her cunt, on the knots of her nipples, her aching breasts.
Then she came, fast and oh-so-hard, with the whole world watching.
KISMET by Michael Crawley
STUART MET HER in Toronto, which is ironic. He was from Vancouver, sometimes known as LaLaLand North. The rest of Canada knows that Vancouver is a haven for drop-outs, druggies and weirdos. Toronto, by contrast, is still often called “Toronto-the-Good”.
It was February, in a McDonald’s on Yonge Street, at three in the morning. They were both sitting at the counter. Stuart noticed her eyes first. They were big, the colour of hot chocolate, and sad beneath creamy lids. Her face was thin, feral. The hair that tumbled from beneath a plain navy beret was violently red. She cradled her styrofoam cup in both thin-fingered hands. When she bent her head to sip, enormous hoop earrings swung against her cheeks.
Despite the time and the place, Stuart didn’t think she was a professional. A pro wouldn’t have worn a thin shapeless turquoise topcoat. It concealed without protecting, which is the opposite to what a whore would choose. In any case, she was too old. She had to be about his own age, forty. Yonge Street whores range from prepubescent to old hands of twenty.
Stuart should have drunk up and left. There was a bed waiting at his hotel and it’d been a tiring night. Waiting hours for a mainframe to come up so you can keyboard your last seven entries is more fatiguing than pounding the keys all night.
He should have left, but he crooked a finger for another coffee instead. The woman looked so incredibly vulnerable. It’s hard to walk away from that. There are so many possibilities. A woman’s weakness can give a man the opportunity to be chivalrous. Or it can be exploited.