Belle de Jour
Belle de Jour: The Initmate Adventures of a London Call Girl.
Tuesday 4th February.
Client,setting the dresser mirror on the floor:
“I want to watch you watching yourself masturbate.”
This makes a change.
“What with?”
“Your hands first, then a vibe.”
“And then, you -?”
“No, I just want to watch.”
He provided a chair and I sat, wriggled out of my knickers and drew the skirt of my dress around my hips. There it all was, on display as I'd rarely seen. Yes, I usually do a spot-check after waxing and before going out, but this was different. Hand mirrors feature strongly in both work and sex at home, but this was just me, alone - inviolate Belle from a fly on the wall. Being a self-obsessed creature, I was possibly as fascinated as he.
I watched my lips grow fuller, redder, wetter - much darker than I imagined, almost purple - as I've seen the head of a penis do so many times. The aperture itself widened and gasped. I could hear its gentle smacks, like a mouth opening and closing, as my hand rubbed faster, and my hips moved less gently. The effect was of watching myself on television. I suppose it must have been for him as well - he paid far more attention to the reflection than to me in the chair.
I wondered why bother paying someone to masturbate when there was no interaction. Then I realized - he wanted to be the director. But as I approached the point of no return, I would slow down and readjust my position - ostensibly to give him a better look or varied position, but really to keep myself from coming. It was remarkably difficult to keep from setting off the hair-trigger for most of the hour.
He sat on a bed, then knelt on the ground, coming closer and closer to the mirror, occasionally making requests regarding the speed and action of the vibe or the location of my free hand - but he didn't touch.
When he came, it hit the glass, sliding thickly over my reflected image, onto the carpet.
Tuesday 4th February.
Client,setting the dresser mirror on the floor:
“I want to watch you watching yourself masturbate.”
This makes a change.
“What with?”
“Your hands first, then a vibe.”
“And then, you -?”
“No, I just want to watch.”
He provided a chair and I sat, wriggled out of my knickers and drew the skirt of my dress around my hips. There it all was, on display as I'd rarely seen. Yes, I usually do a spot-check after waxing and before going out, but this was different. Hand mirrors feature strongly in both work and sex at home, but this was just me, alone - inviolate Belle from a fly on the wall. Being a self-obsessed creature, I was possibly as fascinated as he.
I watched my lips grow fuller, redder, wetter - much darker than I imagined, almost purple - as I've seen the head of a penis do so many times. The aperture itself widened and gasped. I could hear its gentle smacks, like a mouth opening and closing, as my hand rubbed faster, and my hips moved less gently. The effect was of watching myself on television. I suppose it must have been for him as well - he paid far more attention to the reflection than to me in the chair.
I wondered why bother paying someone to masturbate when there was no interaction. Then I realized - he wanted to be the director. But as I approached the point of no return, I would slow down and readjust my position - ostensibly to give him a better look or varied position, but really to keep myself from coming. It was remarkably difficult to keep from setting off the hair-trigger for most of the hour.
He sat on a bed, then knelt on the ground, coming closer and closer to the mirror, occasionally making requests regarding the speed and action of the vibe or the location of my free hand - but he didn't touch.
When he came, it hit the glass, sliding thickly over my reflected image, onto the carpet.
1 年 前
