Indecent...Desires
Read Indecent...Desires Online
Authors: Jane O'Reilly
Her wish is his command.
By day, receptionist Meredith is a divorced, thirty-something controlaholic, organising the stationery cupboard and wondering if any of the dull-as-ditchwater suited execs in her office might turn out to be The One.
By night, she watches from her darkened bedroom as a twenty-something Adonis pleasures himself at his window in the building across the road â following to the letter the instructions she has brazenly put through his letterbox.
But when her sexy exhibitionist comes to work in her office, Meredith's two worlds collide⦠It turns out that there are far more pleasurable uses for the stationery cupboard!
Also available by Jane O'Reilly
Indecentâ¦Exposure
Indecentâ¦Proposal
Indecent⦠Desires
Jane O'Reilly
JANE O'REILLY
started writing as an antidote to kids' TV when her youngest child was a baby. Her first novel was set in her old school and involved a ghost and lots of death. It's unpublished, which is probably for the best. Then she wrote a romance, and that, as they say, was that. She lives near London with her husband and two children. Sign up for her newsletter at
www.janeoreilly.com
, or find her on Twitter as @janeoreilly and Facebook at
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For Patrick
Contents
I don't remember when I first saw the man who lives in the flat opposite mine, primarily because I refused to allow myself to notice him. I mean, I
noticed
him. He's young and pretty, exactly the sort of man I have no right to have any interest in, being thirty-four and divorced and a regular wearer of Spanx. So I kept him in my peripheral vision, forcing myself not to notice when he left his flat, or when he occasionally walked along the street in front of me. But I remember the first time I saw him perform.
And by perform, I mean sit in front of his bedroom window and, you know, touch himself. It's become a regular thing now. Every evening, I sneak into my bedroom at 8.55 p.m. At 9 p.m. his bedroom light goes on and the performance begins. When he didn't appear last Saturday night it worried me so much that I almost called the police. The only thing that stopped me was wondering what I would say:
Sorry officer, but the young man who lives across the street seems to have disappeared. How long has he been missing? Only this evening. Yes, I know that's not very long, but he has a regular masturbation routine. You can set your watch by it.
But he's not absent tonight; in fact he's very much present, sat on a chair in front of his window. We're three floors up, so no one down on the street can see him. I don't know if anyone but me can see him. I have my lights turned off, so he can't see me, but I know that he knows I am watching.
I know because I have been slipping notes into his letterbox on a daily basis and he has been following my instructions to a tee. Sometimes I ask him to wear a T-shirt, sometimes his boxers. Sometimes I request fully clothed. Tonight however, he's naked, and I can see all those acres of tanned, beautiful skin. Lean and tight and gorgeous. He looks to be in his early twenties, which makes him ten years younger than me. A very horny ten years younger. A shudder runs through me as he strokes a hand over his erect penis and closes his eyes, as if he has been waiting all day to do this, as if he needs to do it.
The first time I saw him like this, I had just got back from work and had gone into my bedroom to get changed, and there he was. Standing near his window, chatting on the phone, jeans dropped to his knees as he played with his cock. I had never seen a man behave so carelessly, with such a total lack of inhibition. Certainly my ex-husband had never been so blatantly rude. And it was rude, even though he was doing exactly what he was entitled to do in the privacy of his bedroom.
So I watched as he stroked himself and laughed on the phone and came in quick, shuddering spurts, and then wiped himself and the floor with a towel. And there was a moment, a hot, shocking moment when he glanced in my direction and I thought he saw me.
I ducked to the floor, my head in my hands, and crouched there for what felt like forever, my heart racing, my breath coming in short, fast pants. Caught in the act, the dirty voyeur perving on her younger neighbour. What on earth did I think I was doing?
But when the shock died away and I remembered how to breathe, I couldn't deny that it was the most exciting sexual act I'd ever participated in, even though I hadn't really participated. And so I started waiting for him on a regular basis, night after night, hoping for a repeat performance. But it didn't happen. Until one day, in a moment of madness, I slipped an anonymous note through the letterbox of his building addressed to
the man on the top floor
and asked him to stand by the window at nine that evening and jerk himself off.
And he had.
If I thought I'd been excited the first time I'd seen him, it was nothing compared to that night. It was a bit ridiculous, really. I'm thirty-four. I have a pension plan and my own flat and until six months ago I had a husband. I wasn't some naive teenager who had never seen an erection before.
But if I'm honest, it wasn't just the sight of his cock that excited me, although I can't deny that Mother Nature has been kind to him in that department. It wasn't watching his body shake through his orgasm, though that definitely added something to proceedings.
It was the fact that he did as he was told.
So here I am, sitting on the edge of my bed, wearing the sensible black trousers and pressed white blouse that are an essential part of my job as a receptionist at an accountancy firm in town, waiting for him to start, waiting to see if today is the day that I crossed the line and asked for too much.
I think of him as mine, though he's not mine. He will never be mine. The fact that we've never met aside, he's too young. And because as my ex-husband told me right before he left, no sane man could possibly tolerate a control freak like me.
I grip the edge of the bed, my palms sweaty against the ironed cotton, and fight the urge to lean forwards, to get on my knees in front of the window so that I can get a better look at him. He's so young, so beautiful, with that flop of dark hair over his forehead and fat-free body. Every time I watch him, I tell myself it is the last. That I won't surrender to this again. And every night, I find myself twisting the sheets as I think up increasingly demanding scenarios for him to play out for me in front of the window. There seems to be no limit to my imagination.
Tonight I have him stripped bare, every inch of skin uncovered apart from the base of his prick, around which is coiled a purple silk tie. His face moves into a grimace as he takes his cock in a tight grip and fucks into his hand, twisting his wrist as he reaches the end of his shaft. I know exactly how this is going to play out. He's touching his balls now, tucking his fingers under them, exactly as my note told him to do.
Play with your cock until you're desperate to spill all that lovely, thick semen. Then pull the tie tight around your swollen prick, tight enough to hurt.
I hold my breath, waiting, waiting, my breasts swollen and hot inside my bra, a sharp ache between my thighs. But I never do anything about it, because that would be wrong. That would mean acknowledging how much this excites me, and I should not be excited by it. And I have this terrible fear that if I touch myself, if I surrender to the feelings this creates in me, I will jinx it somehow. That it will end, that I will be found out. I don't think I could handle the shame if that happened.
So I sit and I watch, and the shame threatens to swamp me but I can't look away. And on the opposite side of the street, the beautiful man who I like to watch stands up from his chair. He moves closer to the window, closer, until he can place one hand flat against the glass. His hand is still working, faster now, his balls jerking as he fucks himself with a tight fist. The end of his cock is dark and swollen, and I can see him bracing himself.
He's close,
I think to myself. His mouth moves, forming words I can't hear, but in my imagination they're dirty, and that turns me on even more.
He stares directly at my window as I hide in the darkness and watch him, my beautiful angel, as he takes that hand away from the window and pulls the tie tight, so tight that it makes me press a hand to my throat in shock. His face twists.
You went too far,
I think to myself.
Far too far.
I cannot breathe, cannot think, totally in his spell as he pauses, that tie knotted so tight round the base of his cock, keeping him hard. And then he angles his hips forwards, gives the end of his shaft a quick tug, and the whole world stands still as he stripes the window with streak after streak of thick, white come. He stands there, chest heaving, for what feels like forever as the evidence of his pleasure slides down the glass, his gaze fixed firmly on my window. Then his mouth curves into a smile, and he wipes a hand over his face, and those dimples that appear in his cheeks make me weak, and I know that I didn't go nearly far enough.
The scene is still playing out in my mind as I make my way into work the next morning. I like to arrive twenty minutes earlier than everyone else, so I can drink coffee and peruse the stationery cupboard and generally enjoy the space and the new carpet smell. I like to be prepared when the rest of the staff walk in. Being late is my worst nightmare.
But this morning I'm wired, unable to settle, and the coffee only makes me feel worse. I didn't sleep well and none of my usual remedies worked. All I could think about was the man on the other side of the road. I wondered what he thinks when he reads my little notes, who he thinks is sending them, why he follows them.
When I'd done with those thoughts, when I'd chased them round in circles for hours and got nowhere, I started to think about what I could do to push him further. What I could make him do next. I have so many ideas, so many shocking, filthy ideas. Just when I think I've reached my limit, my brain conjures up some new scenario. Take the one that I wrote on the note I slipped through his letterbox this morning, which told him to film tonight's session and upload it onto the internet.
The problem with all this is that it leaves me incredibly aroused, which isn't a good state to be in at work. I cannot think straight with this hot, furious urge, my whole body so tense that I feel like I might explode if anyone comes near me. I check the clock that hangs on the wall behind my desk. I've got twenty minutes before anyone else arrives. It's enough. I lock my handbag in my bottom drawer, and then I quietly slip away to the loo. The stalls are empty, the whole place filled with the lingering scent of lemon cleaner, and it's probably the most disgusting place in the world for what I am about to do, but I have to. I can't stand it any longer. I lock myself in a cubicle, take a deep breath. One last chance to talk myself down from this. But I can't, I can't.
Time is of the essence now. I've got to hurry. I've worked so hard to build up my reputation here, sensible Meredith, reliable Meredith, Meredith who can handle anything we throw at her. Meredith, who masturbates in the toilets because she's too desperate to wait and too uptight to do it at home. Maybe my ex-husband was right. Maybe there is something wrong with me.
There's definitely something wrong with me, I think, as I shove a hand deep into my bra and pinch my nipple tightly between finger and thumb. The relief I feel is palpable, though it fades into insignificance compared with what I feel when I push a hand into my underwear and stroke myself through the lace. I dig my feet into the floor and finger myself in earnest. My clit is swollen and when I slide my fingers into my slit, I find plenty of slippery wetness. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to take my time over this, to savour it, but my ex always said that I took too long. He also said that I wanted it too much, that it wasn't normal for a woman to want it that much, which is why I try so hard to resist.
