Aiming To Arouse

I knew the deal. Work hard, give yourself to the firm and you’ll soon be set for life. I do work hard, and I’m doing well from it.

But I still need some time to play.

That’s why I get pissed off when a client calls on a Friday afternoon with something that absolutely positively has to be done before the next morning. Something complex and difficult. Most of the time, of course, the urgency is imagined, but customer relations (and the prospect of a fat invoice) dictate that someone has to stay behind to do their bidding.

This particular night, that someone was me. Fuck. I had tickets, too, to the opera, which I love, and the prospect of a night of recreational sex to follow, which I love even more. Like I say. Fuck.

Jenny, my PA, had picked up my dress from the cleaners earlier that afternoon, and as I worked it taunted me from the hook on the back of my office door. Plush and scarlet, I’d hope to be in the mood to match it. I had been expecting sequential doses of Puccini and cock, and to say I was pissed off at missing both was an understatement. A pile of dense legal documentation was no real substitute, especially when it became clear that I wasn’t even going to make the second act, and hence also miss out on the après.

Ten o’clock, and time for some more caffeine. A shot from the completely over-the-top Italian contraption in the little “Executive Kitchen” down the corridor, and a chance to rest my eyes. I stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows that constitute one wall of my office, and surveyed the city below, illuminated building lighting up the night sky. Not the most beautiful city on earth, to be sure – in fact, the butt of a considerable number of jokes – but dynamic, bustling, industrious. Even at this time of night.

The next building to my office is a hotel. One of those trendy “boutique” hotels set up to cater for the needs of the urban professional. I am well acquainted with it myself, we often entertain clients in the bar, and the firm keeps an account in case an overworked executive needs a room in a hurry. That night, it increasingly looked as though I was going to avail myself of the facility, as I was feeling increasingly reluctant about taking even the short journey to my waterside apartment. Apart from anything else, it would feel miserable to be there alone, contrary to my earlier plans. Anyway, I was looking idly out towards the hotel, scanning the rooms, some lit, some dark, most with curtains drawn, when something caught my eye.

It was hard to make out. A man, it looked like, sitting in a chair, by the window, looking out. Curtains open, lights blazing. Nothing unusual, except … no, it couldn’t be.

I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing, or might be seeing. Then I remembered – in the small clutch bag hanging with my “fun-frock” I’d packed my opera glasses. I darted over to retrieve them, switching off my office lights at the same time in order to get a better view. I went back to the window, looked through the glasses, and having taken a moment to get my bearings within the now magnified image, rediscovered the window I’d found a few minutes earlier.

Now it was clear. The man was sitting, relaxed, in the hotel chair. Fully dressed. He looked to be in his late ‘30s, a faintly academic look about him – glasses, quite long hair, casual clothes.

Kneeling on the floor in front of him was a woman. She was naked from the waist up, and wearing a skirt, stockings and shoes below. Short blonde hair, which the man was gently stroking as her head bobbed slowly up and down over his lap. Thanks to the possibly careful way they’d positioned themselves, it wasn’t possible to see things in detail, but it was obvious what they were doing. What she was doing, rather.

In my heightened, expectant-but-frustrated state, my pussy responded immediately, signalling its need for attention by twitching and moistening. I was wearing a trouser suit, and in a daze the hand not holding the opera glasses undid the button at the waist and slid inside. Downwards. Searching for the centre of the itch now communicating itself to my brain.

I’ve always known about my voyeuristic tendencies, ever since I spotted the Head Girl at the school I attended living up to her title with one of the junior groundsmen in his shed one rainy afternoon when I should have been on the hockey pitch. Later, of course, I got him to show me what he’d shown her, and there had begun my love for taking a hot hard cock into my mouth, maybe hunching back the foreskin with my lips and drawing the flood out across my tongue. He taught me well, and I’d learnt more since.

So had the girl I was watching: it was clear that she knew exactly what she was doing, taking him to the brink and then backing off. I was doing the same to myself, my fingers twirling around my clit and then deliciously denying the final lunge forward into the abyss. For now, anyway.

The scene before me was tender, it was clear that there was a connection between the two participants, long gazes exchanged, sweet nothings uttered, and the loving use of hands. However, it was clear that something was building to a crescendo, and that this wasn’t a prelude to something else, but an end unto itself. And sure enough, the natural conclusion was reached, his hands gripping her head, his head thrown back in a silent scream. They both seemed to freeze for five, ten seconds, although I was imagining the turmoil that was taking place in the confines of her mouth.

Normally, this would have been enough to carry my over the edge. I was holding back, however, although I wasn’t quite sure why. And then, she did it. Pushing herself up onto her feet, she crouched over him and they shared a tender, long, open-mouthed kiss. The thought that they were sharing what she had drawn from him was enough, and my clit exploded, sending jabs of ecstasy upwards to my brain. The opera glasses fell from my hand as I used it to support myself against the window, struggling to hold myself up as I gushed into my knickers.

Minutes later, trying to recover my breath, I retrieved them, and looked again for the couple I had shared the moment with, albeit unknown to them. I fully expected to find the curtains drawn, but no. He was still sitting in the chair, with her curled up on his lap, her pert breasts nestling against his shirt. They were talking and he was pointing out of the window.

Straight at me.

She followed his finger, and suddenly broke into a huge smile.

They waved.

Feeling rather foolish, I waved back, lowering the glasses. A minute or so later, I plucked up the courage to look again. Sure enough, my new friends were still there. He was holding a sheet of paper up to the window, a piece of paper onto which had been written a number.

“327”

It looked as though I might well be spending the night in that hotel after all. But that’s another story …

A happy new year to all my readers. I’m sure it will be. CQ