The voyeur’s profiled subjects are both naked, both facing the wall off to his left. Her left leg is raised, her tiptoed foot resting upon one edge of the bed. Her exposed vulva – rendered bare and smooth especially for the occasion – pouts expectantly; a wanton orchid that no longer cares from where its nourishment comes. All that matters now is that it needs.
The voyeur’s desire has wrought this: propelled this woman to the point of betrayal, to where he ceases to have any say in what happens next. The atoms have been excited, their reaction made self-sustaining. The boulder has been tipped from the edge of the precipice. It teeters, about to surrender inexorably to gravity, careering onwards, downwards, accelerated by forces beyond anyone’s control.
The knowledge turns the tainted knife in his guts, makes his hard cock throb unrepentantly.
The other man – the performer in this affected tryst – steps forward, his own cock equally hard. It has risen without being touched by anyone. She is beautiful, desirable, available. The man’s excitement was palpable from the first moment he entered the room and saw her. Now he takes himself in his right hand, so that he does not impede the voyeur’s view. At the same time, he rests his left hand upon the woman’s raised leg, at the point where her buttock flows seamlessly into her outer thigh. The tips of his fingers indent her flesh slightly, an act of possession. The voyeur notices her shiver. He wonders what she is thinking. Was it a shiver of fear, or of delicious anticipation? Are the emotions coursing through her as binary and as indivisible as his?
Cupping the underside of his shaft, the performer guides himself upwards, pressing his swollen glans against her sex. His cock is unsheathed, and there is something about that which terrifies and thrills the voyeur. The performer smoothes the corniced head across her majora. The voyeur swallows, watching raptly as the stranger’s cockhead slips back and forth across the folds of her sex, as it glides effortlessly across her clitoris, between the minora, around the portal to her cunt.
Physically, the woman is astonishingly passive. Yet as the stranger’s flesh courses over hers, she sighs minutely, the tiniest exhalation of pleasure, and the voyeur feels the knife withdraw from his guts and plunge into his heart. At the same time, he cannot remember when his cock last felt this hard; his trousers are ridiculously distended, his shaft seemingly capable of punching through steel. His mouth is cotton dry, and the glass of bourbon is right beside him where he placed it earlier … but he doesn’t lift his hands from their resting place atop his thighs for fear that his trembling will betray him.
The performer draws himself into the opening of her vagina. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on a questioning glance towards the voyeur, in search of some final indication of assent. The performer is consumed by his own need; nothing will stand in the way of its fulfilment.
It is going to happen, the voyeur thinks, somewhat belatedly. It is like being on a roller coaster, about to plunge into that first thrilling abyss, and realising irrevocably that the point of no return is long since past.
And as though compelled by the voyeur’s realisation, the performer enters her. The trajectory of his flesh is as much upwards as it is forwards, and he rises up on his tiptoes to ensure the certainty of his admission. Mated, is all the voyeur can think. No going back. Whatever shape the future takes, nothing will ever be the same again. The muscle in his chest is a blur, the sensation of falling threatening to overwhelm his sense of balance, of reason.
The performer doesn’t enter her all the way, not at first. Half his thick shaft immersed in her most sacred flesh, he pauses; perhaps to savour the moment of union, perhaps to drive home to the voyeur that a stranger has taken her, that – for this moment – she belongs to him. At first, the only sounds the voyeur is aware of is his own ragged breathing, and the slick passage of hard flesh within wet. But as the performer begins to thrust in earnest, he releases a guttural half-groan, half-sigh, and for an instant, the hand that rests upon the side of her thigh tightens its hold upon her.
Her passivity persists, though; she doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound as she is entered, as she is fucked by a new man for the first time in more than a decade. She doesn’t turn her head to regard either her lover or her overseer. She looks straight ahead, her gaze and her thoughts focused in a place known only to her, her filled cunt bared salaciously, brazenly.
It is every bit as sickening, every bit as thrilling as the voyeur had anticipated.
Two or three times, the performer withdraws from her, holding himself in his right hand as he runs his cockhead across the outside of her sex, and then pressing himself back inside her. The man’s genitals are as denuded as the woman’s, so the voyeur sees everything: sees the thickness of his rival’s shaft stretching her, pulling on her inner lips, and thereby her clitoris, as he slips back and forth; sees the moistness of her arousal glistening along the length of the stranger’s prick. The voyeur watches, fascinated, as the performer fucks her for their mutual delectation. The voyeur is sitting ringside at a pornographic rendering of his own design, his own creation. It’s beyond anything he’s experienced before. He can hear the sounds of slick, mated flesh, inhale the musk of lust whenever he wants.
Wave of the future, Jack.
At first, the voyeur thinks the withdrawals are designed to tease, to stoke her passions, to elicit a more tangible response than just the slickness of her cunt. But then it occurs to him that the performer’s excitement is so great, the withdrawals are a necessity for him to preserve his control. The voyeur watches as his rival pulls back from her once more, squeezing his shaft hard between his thumb and first two fingers before he presses himself greedily back inside her.
This time, the woman reaches beneath her own raised leg, as though she means to lift it, to afford the stranger behind her even greater access to her secrets, to the core of her pleasure. The voyeur wants to be sick, to cry out in pain and frustration and exalted excitement, to push the stranger roughly aside and plunge his own hard flesh inside her. But he does none of these things. He simply sits in still silence, watching raptly, unable to look away even for a second. This is the price he must pay. This is the reward that he has craved and feared in equal measure for so long.
The performer is thrusting faster. His breathing is ragged, a series of semi-grunted exhalations, deeply masculine sighs that punctuate the quickening metronome of his cock.
Suddenly, he speaks.
“Oh, I’m going to come.” He breathes the words rather than speaks them. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck.” As he says them, he arches himself into her, thrusting harder, higher. The voyeur senses that she is pressing back to meet him, that she is urging him on with her body, even though the stranger’s cock is naked inside her, even though there is nothing shielding her womb from his seed.
Words tremble behind the voyeur’s pursed lips. He knows they are there, but he doesn’t know what they are. It is irrelevant: they are locked in, as impotent as the rest of his body. He can only watch in ecstatic horror as the stranger’s cock stops thrusting, as the underside of his shaft begins to pulse with each jet of come. The voyeur’s eyes are drawn to the spot where the performer’s climax is delineated by the rising and falling of the flesh between his balls and his anus. The voyeur understands only too well how good the man’s orgasm must feel; he envies it as strongly and as bitterly as he has ever envied anything in his life.
And still the woman remains passive, a flesh and blood marionette whose strings have been cut or frozen. Seemingly, she is content to be used, to be a vessel for the lust of two very different men, a lust expressed in two very different ways.
The performer’s cock is still pulsing, though the throbbing along his shaft is much less pronounced now. The voyeur guesses that he has saved himself for this night, perhaps masturbated half a dozen times to the brink of climax so as to increase the copiousness of his climax. Now he begins to thrust again, pressing himself inside her to the hilt. And though she remains physically impassive, finally she begins to moan; soft cries of pleasure as she feels her new lover throbbing within her, as his half-spent cock anoints her silken, secret flesh. “Mmmm,” she says softly. “Oh. Oh.” Each expression coincides with the performer thrusting himself back inside her; each is like a hammer blow to the voyeur’s sense of self, and yet each is like a taut wire dragging his cock higher, harder.
He watches transfixed as a silver thread of semen descends from between the lips of her cunt. Another follows it, falling prey to gravity’s inevitability. The performer stops thrusting, slowly withdraws from her flesh, and now it is a rivulet of come, a minor gush, that falls from her flesh, plummeting to the muted yellow of the carpet. A thinner string of come hangs from the tip of the performer’s semi-hard cock. He cups the woman’s arse comfortingly, tenderly, before he turns away from her. The voyeur childishly wishes that he could cut that hand off and ram the still-bleeding stump down the man’s throat.
The woman turns to face him for the first time since she undressed and gave herself to the stranger. The lips of her cunt gape wantonly, accusingly.
This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? To see another man’s cock inside me, pleasuring me, fucking me, when all I’d known for so long was your cock, your pleasure? To see me opened by him? To see his seed dripping from my flesh? To see it all, and know that I enjoyed it, relished it, revelled in it? To watch me willingly take him inside me, so that you could torture yourself with the fear that I liked it more, that I liked him more?
The performer has retired to the bathroom. He comes back already wearing his cotton shorts. He moves to the neat pile of clothes he’d left atop the room’s only chair. As he reaches for it, he looks up, first at her, then, almost as an afterthought, at the voyeur.
“I can stay longer, if you’d like me to.”
The woman turns to look at the stranger before the voyeur can respond in any way. He wonders what she will say, what she will do. As far as he is concerned, the man has served his purpose. But the voyeur is no longer in control. What does she want?
She smiles, a warm yet somewhat sad smile, and then she shakes her head.
The stranger nods, clearly disappointed. He dresses quickly without another word and moves to the door. “You have my number, if you…” He doesn’t expand further. Neither the voyeur nor the woman say anything. The performer steps through the door and pulls it firmly shut behind him.
The woman turns back to the voyeur. There are so many things she could say, so many things that she must want to hear in return. But the only words that come from her mouth are “Fuck me”, said in a tone that makes clear she will countenance no other course of action.
He doesn’t move for what seems like forever. He doesn’t want to look at her at all, least of all at her face. Yet time and again his eyes are drawn to her gaping cunt, still oozing the stranger’s come, and each time he looks at her, the after image of the stranger inside her, fucking her, pulsing inside her, explodes behind his eyes like a camera flash, like an x-ray. Each instance leaves him feeling naked and soiled. And yet each instance excites him powerfully, primitively, darkly.
Even now, he still doesn’t understand himself.
Finally, he stands; goes to her, kisses her intensely, passionately. He tears at the fastenings of his clothes, and she tears with him. When he’s naked, he roughly turns her round so that she’s facing the same wall as she did before. He lifts her foot onto the edge of the bed, then stands close behind her, cock jutting like a piston. He doesn’t run his glans across her slick labia to tease her or arouse her. He simply drives himself into her hot slickness, buries himself within her to the very hilt, thrusting through the residue of another man’s lust and eliciting the cry of pleasure that, for whatever reason, eluded his rival. Has her flesh ever felt so wet to him, so willing? He wants to laugh and to cry, to embrace her warmly and to coldly reject her, to reverse time and to commit the sights of this evening to indelible, irrevocable memory. The swirl of competing emotions is a hurricane inside his mind. He feels like an old man and a charged teenager, all because, for the first time since they first met fourteen years ago, his wife’s cunt bears the imprint of another man’s cock.
The thought only makes him thrust harder.