Chosen by Sexoteric
I watched them in the car park, embracing on the tailgate of her car. At least I believe it was her car because she had the keys and seemed to be organising the loading of the bags.
He was standing close behind her, admiring the curve of her bottom through their thin cotton combat covering.
When she turned around, he lifted her onto the tailgate and insinuated himself between her legs.
I could see the muscles in his buttocks clenching as he pushed himself closer and closer.
Her giggle rippled across the tarmac between us. It was what had drawn my attention to them in the first place. That and the fact that the place was virtually empty.
Everyone was in shock. England had been playing Portugal in the World Cup and had just been knocked out. In the air-conditioned sports centre, despite - or perhaps because of - the warmth of the evening, the spectators remained inside drowning their sorrows… except for these two.
I was kicking a football about on my own when I noticed them, heads close together as they talked and walked. She was laughing flirtatiously and he had a look of a cat that's about to get the cream. One arm wrapped around each other’s waist, the other holding a sports bag each. Their body language declaring to the world the intimacy of their connection.
Back at the car, he was kissing her as she sat on the lowered boot of her big off-roader, her knees straddling his thighs, his hands tousling her hair and his tongue exploring her mouth.
I went back to dribbling my ball but I was fascinated by them. The way they were now holding each other: the urgency of his embrace and the persuasive quality of his voice; the postponing nature of her body language, symptomatic of a half-hearted unwillingness to accede to his wishes.
He was clearly trying to induce her to do something of which she was very uncertain. And she was holding him off. For a while. It wasn't long before I watched them as he led her reluctantly across the hot grey surface and into the bushes, her eyes nervously scanning the vicinity, his determinedly focussed on the most protective greenery and accompanied by an almost triumphant grin.
As they entered the foliage, his arms went around her and their lips met. I was suddenly educated in the purpose of kissing as I watched her body language change completely. Beneath the power and the purpose of his lips, her posture visibly softened and relaxed as she submitted to his will.
My original supposition was correct: this was not just a quick up-against-a-tree fumble between two half-strangers. These two were clearly very familiar with each other and this was a fantasy that they had talked about fulfilling.
Naturally, I couldn't help myself. I followed them in... maintaining a discreet distance... a little further along the line of bushes and shrubs that separated the leisure centre car park from the gardens of the neighbouring row of suburban houses.
His hands were all over her, freeing her breasts from the restraint of the bra, I could see her nipples, pink and hardening against the generous white orbs. His fingers pinching and tweaking as her groin writhed against his.
One hand undoing the buttons of her combats and pushing its way into her pants, fumbling and wriggling against the material as it achieved its goal. The unwanted fabric fluttering down her slender thighs, to be followed by the scrap of thong. His wrist trapped between the tops of her legs as she moaned and shuddered against him.
As I stared open-mouthed, she turned carefully around, avoiding the nettles and offered herself. Using the fence at the back to support herself as she bent forward. Ignoring the leafy tendrils entwining themselves in her hair and the twigs scratching at her body. Her mouth a round O as he pushed into her. Their breathing increasing with the effort of giving and receiving. His fingers over her mouth to stifle any possibility of a scream.
When the lawnmower in the neighbouring garden suddenly fired into life, we all started. My vantage point was completely hidden from its operator by the ivy covering the fence but she was horribly exposed. Her fingers gripping the mesh beneath them, knuckles white with the pressure. Her eyes opened and she could see the man with the mower. He had only to turn his head and she would be caught. As I watched, her arms lengthened, subtly moving her body further into the shadows, but not totally. It was almost as if she didn't care. As if she wanted to be seen.
Her head moved suddenly, staring intently in my direction. Had she glimpsed the slight movement, heard the brief rustle of the leaves around my hiding place in response to the motor's noise?
In my mind, I started to believe that she knew that I was there. Was performing for me. Playing for my viewing pleasure. The hardness in my groin was too much. Touching through the fabric of my jeans was no longer enough and I unzipped and unleashed myself. The skin of my hand cool against the heat of the erect flesh.
I was reminded of my younger self, aroused by some picture in a magazine or a video online, wanking into the foam grip of my spare bike handle. Soft, blissful, mess-free friction.
But this was nothing like the porn movies Id watched on my computer. This was a real live peep show revealed to me through the shadows of the soft green leafy curtain. No doe-eyed, painted girl with not a hair out of place, squealing and 'ahhhing' for the benefit of the camera. This was a real woman being given the attention she craved... and allowing me to watch.
They could have been old enough to be my parents and I should have been revolted... disgusted even... but I couldn't help myself. Having been accorded the privilege of an audience, I was mesmerised. And she looked nothing like my own mother.
My fantasy said that she would want me to join in - two comes for the price of one so to speak - and with that permission, my hand started to move gently up and down the exposed length. Synching my timing to the rhythm of the man's thrusts.
Closing my eyes and imagining that the soft panting exhalations of her breath were in response to my attentions, that my palms were caressing her white flesh instead of my own red skin. My very own Mrs. Robinson.
I heard him groan as he emptied himself into her and I watched mine shoot onto the tangled stems, catching the skeins of a spiders web and leaving globules, thick and white, spattered against the filmy threads with the remnants dripping downwards.
Three sets of hurried breathing gradually returned to normal, before male clothes were regained and refastened. And then he carefully redressed her, smoothing her hair and stroking her cheek, just as I would like to have done, before leading her back into the bright sunlight and ambling nonchalantly back across the car park to her vehicle.
They kissed once more and drove away, leaving me elated... and regretful.
Tuesday, 15 April 2008