Espied Pt. 07

It was anything but some seedy club, merely the back entrance to an office block. There was no one at reception at that early hour and only Sal and her neighbour in the lift. It was one of those well mirrored lifts reflecting back images of herself -- and her neighbour -- mirrors facing each other and therefore reflecting multiple images back and forth so that whether Sal looked right or left she could see herself so naked standing holding the arm of a fully clothed man. The image held her. Her naked self, after naked self, after naked self, going on and on into the distance of the mirrors each holding onto a fully clothed man in a corduroy jacket. Sal -- Sals -- naked and exposed.

The ping of the lift as it reached a floor broke Sal from her reverie, to the worry that when the door opened there might be someone or some people there, perhaps a whole office full of people staring. There was nobody.

"This is where I work."

He took her into a fine office room with wooden furniture and a view over the town.

"Coffee?" Such a commonplace enquiry.

Sal sat on a chair in front of his desk as her neighbour busied himself with the coffee. She would have liked to have had the corduroy jacket back, she glanced at the window and wondered if people in the facing office block could see in -- could see her curls. Her breathing was slowing.

"Why am I here -- why have you brought me here?"

"Don't spill the coffee."

The saucer and cup were now in her hand, suspended over her curls. It would not do to spill.

"Did you not enjoy the walk, Sal? I know you did, I thought you would. Your wet sex betrays you. Mr. Soames..."

An audible gasp came from Sal. She heard and felt it. "What!"

"Oh, I know about your little exhibition at the photography club, I know you enjoyed exposing yourself. Mr Soames told me all. He saw your arousal. He knows what you like. He wants to photograph you, Sal, but more -- um -- intimately."

Awfully Sal felt a little jolt of excitement, felt her clitoris enlarging once again -- her little erection.

"But that is for another time, Sal. I shan't tell him I have told you, but you will know when you meet him next. You will know what he is thinking. How he wishes to see you displayed."

She knew she was biting her lip.

"But I don't see why you shouldn't practice."

"Practice?"

"A full display, Sal."

"For you?"

Her neighbour smiled. "For me... and somebody else."

Again, a little jolt of excitement. What had... what was happening to her? Her reactions so different from how she would have expected just weeks before.

"The owner of my firm is, well, not in the first flush of youth and confided in me the other day he no longer can get 'it' up. I have a bit of a wager with him. He is always in early. Come, finish your coffee and then show him everything."

"Why?"

"To get him up -- of course -- I know you'll like doing that. You like exposing your body to give men erections don't you. Didn't you think you were giving all the men at your club an erection? All those hard cocks standing hidden in trousers all because of you? Mr Soames confided in me he had quite a damp patch in his boxers. "

"Are you?"

"Yes Sal, do you want to see? Do you want to feel?"

She was sure her neighbour knew the answer.

"Come on Sal, show me yours. Show me your clit."

And she did just as she was told, opening her legs and showing him her smooth, swollen little button.

"Very good, Sal, come and show it to Mr. Grant."

She was allowed the corduroy jacket to walk along the corridor. A respectful knock at a door.

"This is Sal, Mr Grant."

He was old, a tall, wiry stick of a man with half-moon glasses and grey almost white hair neatly cut. Sal was struck by the prominence of his cheek bones giving him an air of authority not that that was lacking at all when he spoke. He was clearly used to command. No doubt ex-services and had probably run his company in very much the same way as he had his men.

"Oh, indeed?" He rose from his desk putting down his fountain pen. He frowned as his eyes dropped to the hem of Sal's jacket.

The meeting did not seem to have been arranged. Her neighbour spoke, "She is a friend I have brought for you to have a look at carrying on from our conversation the other day."

An eyebrow was raised.

"Might she lie on your desk, she has something -- quite a lot to show you. Sal, may I have my jacket back?"

It was not at all like being already half naked and seen in the shopping centre or disrobing in the kitchen and then coming out to the photography class. It was more like being on that beach and taking her things off as the old man there had watched her disrobing. But on the beach taking clothes off is expected, and it had been a naturist beach, after all: this was in an office block in the managing director or chairman's office with a thick pile carpet, not sand, underfoot. She was going to be showing herself to this complete stranger -- showing her body and her sex. Again, that throbbing in her clitoris, a feeling of wetness coming again. Sal undid the buttons to her jacket. The old man was looking at her breasts over his half-moon glasses, or the valley peeping through her lapels.

"Very nice, very nice indeed!"

She felt a tug and her neighbour was taking his jacket from her, sliding it off her shoulders and down her arms revealing her body entire. It was sudden exposure, sudden revelation to two clothed men.

"Ah, unshaven. That is best, don't you think? This really is most thoughtful of you." She was being discussed. There would be more.

"Come on, Sal, up on Mr Grant's desk."

It was like the mahogany table in the hall for the photographic club only this time she was being instructed to open her legs. It was just so not what she had done on the table.

"She is very wet." Mr Grant's interest had clearly been raised.

"Yes, indeed, isn't she! Prolonged arousal and frequent masturbation."

Mr. Grant's examination was intimate. He did not touch, merely asked if she might possibly move position. His voice so cultured, soft and refined. Sal felt even more exposed than she had on the mahogany table at her photography class. There she had been simply a nude model -- at least that was the presumption, not an object of prurient examination (though she had had her doubts about Mr. Soames confirmed) - here, though, there was no question about it. Mr. Grant's interest was sexual, his questions lewd and seeking lubricious replies.

"Wonderfully fragrant." Was he referring to her perfume? She had put very little on that morning.

Again, Sal's position was changed.

"What a lovely bottom you have, such a pretty arsehole. Has a man ever penetrated it -- to depth?"

She was on all fours on the desk, her knees well apart and her bottom high. She could feel her cheeks had opened wide and her anus so visible in the light now streaming through the window.

"No!"

"But surely, men would wish to..."

"She is a virgin, sir -- everywhere."

"But it is so perfect, so small and tight, such a pretty fawn colouration and so wrinkled. Might I just -- with a finger."

"No, sir, you may not!"

Such a strange boundary. Being exposed to men but not touched -- not touched by the men but she was soon encouraged to touch herself. Touch her wet sex, tickle her standing and so revealed clitoris, hold it for the men to see and then insert her fingers into herself and make sticky, sloshing sounds for their pleasure as she pulled them in and out.

"You half win your bet, you know. I am up as I am sure you are but whether... whether I can come is quite another matter."

"Go on try. Get it out sir!"

It was a conversation Sal was not part of. She saw Mr. Grant fumble at his fly and extract an erect penis and begin to wank it. It was much the oldest penis she had ever seen. She wondered what it had done in its time. The wanking was enthusiastic and no doubt pleasurable but not yet reaching a successful conclusion. Perhaps if she let him slide it into her that would help, but that would not be a good idea. She was just as her neighbour had said a virgin, a penis had not slid into her and she was unprotected. Sal imagined even the semen of an old man like Mr. Grant, perhaps octogenarian, was still fertile. She felt having her own fingers in herself was some sort of wise precaution, a contraception!

"I... it is not coming. Please, would you also... show me. It may assist. I have certainly not had a stand like this in years."

The request was not to her but her neighbour. Sal was certainly showing how girls masturbated. A very visual demonstration. A second erection was brought out into the open, a second erection which she already knew, looming over her and aimed at her body.

Sal was being used and knew it. A sex object, a masturbatory aid, a visual stimulation to men. And the fact of the masturbating penises above her added to her excitement. A just so inappropriate image came to her of all the men in her photography class gathered around her, penises exposed and erect, whilst they photographed her fingering herself with her fingers in her quim and at her nipples. All the men demonstrating their appreciation of her nakedness. On the table, spread out she would be on a level with the penises, whichever way she turned there they would be, hard and pointing. It was not quite like that with the desk -- there were only two of them.

"Show me!"

And her neighbour did as his superior requested. From his penis issued dollops of semen raining down upon her nipples. He was certainly showing! The older gentleman was clearly trying to emulate. It seemed a shame to Sal if he was unable to make it, given the efforts her neighbour had made on his behalf.

"Please Mr. Grant, come on my tummy

Perhaps it was that request, the naked woman requesting ejaculation, perhaps it was the sight of semen being expelled and then running down her breasts or, maybe, it was simply the culmination of a whole variety of things but there was indeed a gasp and a cry of triumph from Mr. Grant.

"Oh, yes, oh, yes -- I really am going to..." And he did. It was not spectacular: quite the opposite but, as his fingers moved his old, very wrinkled foreskin at speed, from his knob issued white liquid. Not a lot, but it dripped down upon Sal's stomach all the same. Her neighbour had won his wager.

Sal had not thought she could be more exposed: but she was wrong. Lewdly spread on a desk had certainly been an exposure but being ushered from Mr. Grant's office and back down the corridor naked and with semen so obviously running down her breasts and stomach -- semen, from its locations upon her body, clearly placed there by different men, was a quite different sort of exposure. An exposure that revealed to anyone just what had been done to her. That there was no one in the corridor was not something Sal could know until she was once more in the safety of her neighbour's room. She was invited to 'tidy herself' and then be taken home.

Sal had not been chauffeured before -- still less in a Jaguar. Mr. Grant had put his car at her disposal. She was conscious of eyes in the mirror of the car all the way back out of town. Mr. Grant's chauffeur observing her in just a corduroy jacket.

Sal had come out without a key -- or anything -- there was no point being dropped at the front of her house. The front door was barred to her and the front side gate locked. The Jaguar dropped her at the start of the green lane just up from the bus stop where she had caught the bus that morning. Sal again with her sandals and her camera -- and the corduroy jacket. She had walked that way before in that coat but with her neighbour. Now she walked it alone, all the time fearing someone, particularly someone she knew might appear. It was fear only. She walked in the sunshine alone.

Such a relief to open her garden door, step through it and close it behind her. A wall now between her and the outside world.

Sal sat in her armchair. On the side table pictures of her late parents, another of her grandparents and another of her brother in Australia. Sal was so not being the girl she had been brought up to be, not recently. What had triggered this arousal, this change, in her? The answer was clear: seeing her neighbour naked from her balcony through the wisteria. She was still a virgin but hardly a prim and proper one. Prim and proper virgins did not walk around naked, did not submit to men ejaculating over their naked bodies. Prim and proper virgins did not masturbate and come whilst men watched. She had done more than be exposed on the photography club's table: she had been aroused and her arousal had been so strong.

Once again, her fingers went to her sex, her so abused sex. Not abused by men but by her own fingers making her come again, and again, and again. She put one thigh over each arm of the chair and worked herself. In her mind the recollection of her neighbour and Mr Grant standing over her, looking at her, using what they saw for their own sexual gratification. She imagined Mr. Soames there too, and Paul and the black lad all with penises extended and pointing at her. Every man jack of them being exercised. Her legs so apart, her sex so exposed -- and vulnerable. Her virgin and fertile sex. The delicious thought of her neighbour laying a small white napkin, hot, wet and steaming like you get after meals in some restaurants, over her sex to protect it. The sudden touch of such wet heat from the towel to her standing clitoris a pleasure as above and all around it the semen began to spurt from all those penises onto her and onto the towel.

Prim, proper, quiet, shy Sal came again there in her armchair with thoughts of a most salacious nature. |It was all so unlike her: yet across the room on another armchair, casually discarded, was her neighbour's corduroy jacket, a very real and present reminder of her day's escapade. It would be there for several days; her neighbour had told her he would not be returning for a whole week. A business trip abroad took him away.

The question was, quite how should Sal return the jacket? On the face of it a simple matter, she needed merely to hand it over. Her indecision was not about whether to parcel it up, perhaps in brown paper and string, or to return it as it was. There was no need to wash it or have it dry cleaned, as it was as pristine as when she had first put it on. It did not even need pressing. It was more the question of whether to be wearing it or not and what to have underneath. Sal was rather minded to feel the excitement again, the fairly safe excitement, admittedly of just of going around via the back gate of her house and into her neighbour's garden otherwise naked and taking it off and returning it whilst he stood there. He might touch her, might explore her nakedness, tell her to stand still whilst he inspected her. It was something she thought about as the days passed. She even put the jacket on again over her naked body, even looked at some of her special photographs whilst wearing it.