YOU would have thought that with total freedom from boring work, and all day to wander round town seeking ways to gratify my fetish, the sightings would have multiplied beyond the dreams of avarice. Not a bit of it!
Oops! Perhaps I’m going a bit fast here. Maybe you don’t know who the heck I am, or have never seen the excerpts from my memoirs that occasionally appear on these pages. And therefore, the paragraph above will appear to be little better than gibberish! Well OK…
My name is Damian Weekes, and (symbolically enough) shortly before my 21st birthday, I discovered that I possessed a certain power. Well, I say discovered… I had known I had it for more than a decade, but never quite had the courage to put in into practice. It wasn’t until I was suffused with anger, at what I considered somewhat cavalier treatment from my former employers, that I overcame my natural hesitation and decided to use it. Some of you will know that this resulted in not only the loss of my virginity, but also one of the best gratifications of my particular fetish that had ever come my way.
As to my fetish. Well, let’s say that despite the marvels of modern science, that had managed to put a PC in every den, a CD player in every car and a mobile phone on every hip pocket, they have yet to invent… how can I put this, and please do correct me if I’m wrong ladies… a pair of pantyhose, thigh-highs or stockings that can be guaranteed to stay in place for a full day's bending, stretching and walking! And it is this lamentable failure on the part of modern manufacturers that gives me my delight, my libido and my joy!
No doubt a psychoanalyst… if I had the money to afford one… would ponder long and loud over the origins of this perversion. Could it be, he would wonder, the attention that a series of wrinkles draws to the calves, knees or ankles? The sense of vulnerability that sagging hosiery imparts to the most confident of women? The latent race-memory of silk stockings from the eighteenth century? Or did I experience my first orgasm while watching a doting aunt, mother or nurse repair the damage that gravity had wrought to her cheap nylons?
But, (in most cases) you probably aren’t an analyst… and you’re reading this, for reasons best known to yourselves, in order to hear about what I did to gratify my fetish. For you are no doubt thinking (as I did, waking from my slumber the Monday after my last day ever as a retail assistant) that a man with a wrinkled-pantyhose fetish, the ability to hypnotises any women he wishes, and freedom to do as he chooses all day would spend the rest of his waking life in an orgy of twisted Lycra, baggy nylon and exposed control-top.
But again… not a bit of it, though it wasn’t for the want of trying.
It didn’t take long for the truth to sink home.
For you see, gentle reader, there is one obvious truth about my unusual taste. Unlike, say, a leather-freak, an admirer or large breasts or a BDSM aficionado, my fetish, by its very nature is one that relies upon something going wrong!
Let me put it more simply… you will, if you seek long and hard enough, find a lady (or gentleman) willing to put on a frogman’s outfit, bathe in a vat of baked beans or give you an enema. But no woman, (at least, I have yet to meet an exception) actually wants her pantyhose to creep down. In fact, from Elizabeth the First onwards (There’s documentary evidence for this, by the way) to the present day, women have fought long and hard to avoid such an aberration.
So even if a woman should be unfortunate enough to be experiencing this delightful manifestation of the laws of entropy and gravity, she will do all that she can to correct the situation. Even if she has fought a day-long battle with her hosiery, for me to get lucky relies upon me encountering her during that delightful temporal sweet spot between her hose having been pulled up the last time and enough downward creep having occurred for her to decide another adjustment cannot be delayed any longer.
The number of pairs of legs I must have looked at (and believe me, I looked at many) which, had I but seen them a half-hour before would have displayed bagging at the knees or ankles, and had I the means to follow them around would undoubtedly have revealed the same a further half-hour after I had encountered them made me weep. The following around was not an option of course… apart from the danger of the woman in question taking offence, there was no way of knowing which particular women was suffering the problem.
And it was while lying on my bed one evening, Red Hot Chile Peppers on the stereo and a box of the Colonel’s finest by my side, that I began to curse my power. Since the incident with Amanda, I had had no success at all, and it was worse, I felt, to have never had the power than to have it, but never have the chance to put it to any use.
“I’d gladly swap it,” I said, out loud, (Not that I’m giving to talking to myself as a rule, but frustration does funny things) for telekinesis. Or a magic gun that zaps elastic! Or X-Ray vision… the things that women must be doing behind the closed doors of a washroom or elevator, and which I, by my gender, was totally barred from observing, made me weep. If only my local town would take a leaf from “Ally McBeal”!
“Wish I had X-Ray vision” I sung along, to the sounds of “Californication”, a little muffled since I had my mouth around a drumstick of Hot’n’Spicy at the time. And this gave rise to a delightful fantasy of me, standing outside the door of a public bathroom, while inside, blissfully assuming that she was unobserved, Shania Twain was tugging at a saggy pair of nylons, pivoting to check herself in the full-length mirror set above the sinks, and cursing the invention of hosiery… and Shania was followed in quick succession by Jane Seymour, Deirdre Hall and (for whatever my other faults I am no racist) Vanessa Mae.
I was, of course, a bit slow in those days. The many obvious answers (and I can hear you mumbling them to yourselves under your breath right now) did not occur to me… not until I had drifted into a troubled and frustrated slumber, and the delightful power of the subconscious had taken hold. But sleep is a wonderful thing, and by the time I had woken up the next morning, a solution to my problem was the very first thought that sprung into my head. And by the time I had drunk a quick coffee and hopped the bus into town, the details were almost complete.
All it took was the final refinements, which I was able to hone over an apple slice and a second cup of creamy coffee, taken in a restaurant exactly opposite the establishment that was to be the scene of my operations.
There was an obvious answer, you see, to the difficulty of me, a man, being barred from the ladies bathrooms. And no, it was not disguising myself as a woman (if it were, these memoirs would be being published on a very different website… try Suzie’s Transformation forum, if you’re interested). Nor did it rely upon me drilling a glory-hole for myself. Too risky. This was far safer, and simpler.
If The mountain would not go to Mohammed… or, dispensing with metaphor, if I could not go where women went to adjust their nylons… then the women who needed to adjust their nylons would have to be induced to come to me. Or somewhere that I could go. Discretely hidden away, of course, so that I could see without being seen. And where I was perfectly within my right to be.
Eager to put my newly conceived plan into operation, I drained the last dregs of my coffee and made my way out of the restaurant, dodging cars as I scurried across the road outside.
*****
There must be few less attractive callings in life than that of a security guard. Hated by all, forced to remain at a desk all day, in an outfit with all the disadvantages of a uniform and none of the prestige, and, worst of all, having to act as an information board for those too stupid or lazy to refer to the less animate version riveted to the wall opposite your desk. But it was the last clause which, of course, made it possible for me to carry out this project.
His name, a tag pinned to the pocket of his shirt informed me, was Charlie. His manner, I soon learned, was sullen and arrogant (Not, I must say, a universal property of such… I have met many who are friendly and helpful,) and his intelligence, I was pleased to see, was average or above. For some reason, I have always found, stupid people are amazingly difficult to hypnotise. No such problems with Charlie.
I was, of course, forced to interrupt my routine twice as new entrants to the building passed by, for me to be caught in the act might be as disastrous as a woman caught adjusting her hose… but within ten minutes after enquiring the location of an office that I knew damn well to be on the seventh floor (at the same time casually removing my wristwatch), I had him under, and was able to test that he wasn’t, for some reason known only to himself, faking, by having him remove a fifty pound bill from his pocket and handing it over to me.
I returned it, by the way, for he had done me no harm. In fact he was about to be of considerable assistance.
It was a simple enough thing I asked him to do. Simply, in answer to the relevant enquiry, to inform the querent that the female washroom was out of order, and that, as compensation, the men’s was at their disposal. Had the situations been reversed, this would have caused some inconvenience, for as my male readers will know, one does not always want the bother of locking oneself into a cubicle to perform one’s duty. But, lack of sanitary-equipment dispensers apart, a woman is perfectly able to make use of a men’s washroom, with no ill effects.
He then, at my command, wrote out a notice to this effect in his own rather spidery handwriting, and pinned it to the door of the ladies washroom. And, as a final touch, he was instructed to forget he had ever seen me, for I planned to be closeted for a long time, and had no wish for him, with the best of intentions, to come looking for me thinking I had suffered a fatal blackout as the hours passed and I did not emerge!
Within fifteen minutes after entering the building, I had secreted myself away inside a cubicle carefully selected to give myself, by means of the crack between the door and the wall, the best view of the area outside. I chuckled to myself with delight… for here I was, a sleazy voyeur, yet practising my calling with total impunity… for I had every right to be in a men’s washroom, after all. With a broad smile, I settled down to await events.
*****
Two hours later I was ready to give up.
I had deliberately selected this particular establishment as one with a small (if I may use this expression) customer-base! A genuinely public establishment, while receiving as far greater volume of traffic, would be of little use to me, as at any given moment it would contain one or more members of my own gender - which would not encourage the female visitors to do what I wanted to watch them doing. I needed a washroom where the visitors would be widely spaced apart, ten minutes or more between them.
Well, in this respect I certainly got my wish. And more! Either the inhabitants of my city possessed particularly strong bladders, or the inhabitants of the building had set up a force shield, for in the two hours, I had not made a single sighting!
Man after man had come in, used the troughs, and departed. There had been, in the whole time, ten or so women, three of whom had been too ugly to bother with, and rest of which, while fixing their hair, touching up their make up and in one instance tugging down the jacket of her suit at the mirror (and so starved of excitement was I that I even allowed myself a little frisson of delight over this) had not so much as looked down at their legs. Most of them, I reasoned, if their errant nylons did need correcting, would take the opportunity to empty their bowels and/or bladders at the same time, and perform the necessary adjustment in the cubicle. What I needed was a woman who came in just to fix her hose!
I had got as far as undoing the bolt on the door to leave, when I heard the unmistakable tap tap of heels on the concrete floor. For some reason (though it would have been perfectly OK to do so) I did not wish to be seen, and quickly refastened the bolt and stayed put.
And I am glad I did!
For one thing, she was gorgeous in her own right! Slightly plump, perhaps, and not as tall as I would have liked, but with a soft, pink, almost English complexion that made her look unbearably sweet, and cascading red-gold hair that went well with her Pre-Raphaelite appearance. And she was well-dressed too, in a tight green suit with gold buttons and tan hose, high heeled shoes and carrying a handbag that matched the suit. A lovely touch.
Upon entering, she made no move to enter a cubicle, but went straight to the mirror where she began to primp, retouching her make up, fluffing out her hair, and flicking (I assume) mascara-residue from her lashes. It was what she did next that made me gasp.
After a quick look round (for this was, after all, a place where men might enter) she bent and began to pull up the hem of her skirt. My breathing stilled. By wriggling her large hips, and gathering the fabric of the garment, she managed to bunch it up to a level almost to her waist.
I strained my eyes. What on earth was she wearing? It looked as if she had tied some sort of sash around her waist, under her clothes.
Was she pretending to be pregnant, I wondered, in order to con a few months' maternity leave out of her employers? Was it a particularly feminine form of money-belt? A concealed weapon?
Whatever it was, it was black, and trimmed with lace, and sitting well above her buttocks, to reveal a pair of lacy, cream-coloured panties that were wrinkled and folded enticingly under her taut pantyhose. So well had my vision adapted to the muted lighting conditions within the washroom that I had no difficulty in seeing the dark seam of her hose curving between her buttocks, or the reading the writing on the sticking-up tag of her panties.
As I watched, she grabbed the black mass of nylon and began to wriggle it downwards, gyrating those beautiful hips from side to side, an annoyed expression (reflected, of course, in the mirror) on her face. She tugged and pivoted, lengthening and smoothing the material, which I could see now, of course, was a slip.
As she gradually pulled it back into line, her skirt dropped with it, resting on her hands, revealing less and less of the black slip as she went about her work. She was close to finishing, (and I was close to ejaculating in my pants) when there was the sound of more heel-tapping from the door, and my peach-cream Venus looked up almost guiltily as a tall blonde woman entered the washroom.
“You OK there Janet?” The newcomer asked, and “Janet” looked around, her face taking on an apologetic expression.
“It’s this damn slip!” She moaned, continuing to wiggle and shift. “The stupid thing’s been creeping up on me all morning! It’s driving me mad!”
“Yes,” agreed the newcomer. “Annoying, isn’t it, when they do that!”
“And it happened at the meeting too,” Janet continued, as she finished her exhibition and yanked down her skirt, smoothing it at the sides. “I’m sure Brian and Rick saw it all bunched up! It’s so embarrassing!”
“Isn’t there some sort of a spray you can get, to stop that happening?”
“I tried it. It doesn’t work!”
I could see that Janet's face was flushed. She was, no doubt, embarrassed at having to admit her predicament, even to another woman.
“Static cling has got to be the curse of womankind,” she wailed.
“That and slipping bra straps,” the other woman laughed, and Janet dutifully joined in.
I added a tape recorder to the camera that I wished I had thought to bring with me! “What about sagging pantyhose?” I almost shouted, but managed to refrain myself.
*****
After that delightful little incident, I had to give things another half hour at least! And it was as if Janet had broken my drought, for shortly after I saw a sight that delighted me amazingly.
It was another short woman, but even more soignee than Janet, in her black sweater and expensive-looking leather skirt, and dark hose that emphasised her shapely legs. She had black hair, cut short, and a small pert nose that did something to reduce the almost frightening efficiency of the rest of her appearance.
As with Janet, she made no attempt to enter a cubicle, but instead headed straight for the mirror and began to touch up her lipstick, pouting into the mirror, making the sort of faces that will be familiar to any man that has watched a woman put on make-up.
After an inordinately long time (for I was terrified that someone else would come in before the lady had had a chance to do anything “private”) she pivoted at the mirror, looking at the rear of her waist. As if coming to a sudden decision, she undid her zip and pulled the waistband of her skirt open.
I could see that her sweater must have become bunched around her middle, for she smoothed the excess material into her waistband, pushing it down with the flat of her hand, and looking up now and then at the door to ensure that no-one else entered the washroom. Finally, she refastened her zip and the rear clip of the skirt and lifted it up, diving up underneath it to grasp the hem of the now properly tucked in sweater and, with much gyrating of her hips, tugged it down until it was sitting tightly over her pert breasts.
Then, with her skirt still rucked around her waist, she bent and began to smooth her hose.
I drew breath, so loudly that I fear it must have been audible outside. This was what I had come to see.
The pantyhose were not, as far as I could make out, wrinkled, but I assumed she was a woman who regarded attention to fine detail as important, and she began to tug, pinching the material at her calves and tugging it upwards, following this action by smoothing along her legs with her hands, taking the material right up until it was almost at her crotch. Under the pantyhose, she wore a skimpy set of black thong panties, more lace than material. She gave a final hike of the pantyhose, flipped down her skirt, picked up her bag and left the washroom, heels tapping. I punched the air in delight.
Perhaps I should have left then, while I was ahead.
But within a quarter hour of the last visitant (the boredom punctuated only by three men who came in to piss together and conducted a long elaborate conversation about the chances of some football team or other) there came a woman even more amazing than the last.
She was a tall, thin redhead, her locks only being saved from being referred to as “carroty” by a slight trace of auburn that shone delightfully in the subdued lighting. She wore a tight black dress, that folded and shimmered as she walked, clinging amazingly to her skinny, yet well-shaped legs. The hem sat about half way down her thigh, and it was perhaps more suited to a party than a business environment, but you can be sure I wasn’t complaining! Though her breasts were tiny, they stood forward and proud, evidence of the fact that she was wearing a wunderbra. And.. delight of delights… her hose were sagging around her ankles!
As seemed to be a common practice among women (oh, I was learning so much today) her first move upon reaching the mirror was to flip her hair, pulling it back for her pale, freckled face, as if experimenting with ideas for her next look. Then, as I had also seen so often, she reached into her black leather handbag and pulled out a lipstick and other make-up paraphernalia, and made up her face. I watched, in an agony of suspense, hoping that she would decide to straighten something, preferably her hose. And hoping that no one would come in to discourage her.
After what seemed an eternity, she replaced the make up in her bag and began to lift her skirt. And again I gasped. For under the dress, what I had thought were pantyhose were in fact those rare and delightful things… stockings.
She was wearing a cream coloured garter-belt and red thong panties, and the fact that none of her underthings matched - the stockings, by the way, were jet-black - gave her an air of vulnerability, almost helplessness. Presumably her stockings must have been sagging, or maybe, like the earlier visitor, she just thought they were, because she went inside her panties and tugged her garter belt, as I sat in my hide and watched, with mounting excitement!
Then she unfastened her stockings. She undid all four garters and rolled down the stockings, and then tugged the now loose material upwards, frowning into the mirror as she did so. Being unfastened, of course, they were now twisted and wrinkled, giving the appearance of being a size too large.
“Bloody stockings!” she moaned, just audibly, as she tugged them upwards.
She smoothed them up each leg and gathered the welts in her hands to pull them higher before refastening the straps. She fastened the front straps, and then pivoted as she began to work on the rears, which were obviously a little more difficult, and I heard her grunt with effort as she fiddled with the clasps. Then she twisted her panties to check their placement, and began again to tug at the welts of the stockings. Presumably as well as wrinkling they were also slipping below her hem when she sat…
With her below the waist underpinnings now at last arranged to her satisfaction, she lifted the dress higher, and I gasped again. She had pulled it almost to her breasts before she reached her target. The hem of a lacy white camisole. Really, doesn't this woman have any idea of colour co-ordination, I wondered. And the camisole must have been of poor quality, if it had rucked up so far. The perils of a tight dress. She gathered the hem and began to unroll it, once again swivelling her body.
And then, with the poor girl in the most undignified of positions possible, with her dress up above her waist and a bunched mass of nylon in her hands, in walked a man.
“Ooops,” he said, but I, the watcher, wasn’t fooled. His pupils must have dilated to three times their normal size. I am sure that this wasn’t just the subdued lighting inside the washroom.
“Oh!” Replied the girl, letting go of her camisole and scrabbling for the bunched up roll of her dress.
“I’m sorry,” said the man. He was a short, slim guy of about, I would say, his mid thirties, with short brown hair and a confident, almost arrogant walk. He was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, and a pair of riding boots that must have cost as much as the rest of his outfit put together.
“I'm sorry. I didn’t realise - “ he continued, turning away, though I noticed that he took good care to keep the girl within view through the corner of his eye.
“No, please. It's m-my fault,” the girl replied, frantically battling the clingy material of her dress as she tried to cover her immodesty. “I should have realised… with the ladies out of action…”
“Hey, it happens,” he replied. “Having a few problems were you?”
Her face, which was already pink, turned crimson.
“I really am terribly sorry,” she moaned, as if she were somehow to blame for suffering the misfortune of clothing problems. “It’s this darn camisole… it just won’t stay in place. It’s terribly embarrassing…It’s been riding up on me all morning.”
“Mm. I can see it would be a problem,” the skinny guy replied. “I hope it didn’t… er, disarrange itself under embarrassing circumstances.”
“It did actually.”
It seemed that once having started to confess her humiliating predicament, she was unable to stop. It was as if she were unburdening her mind to the man, as a sort of therapy. She continued to pat at her dress as she talked, trying to continue her interrupted work of re-settling her troublesome undergarment without further compromise to her modesty.
“Even on the bus, when I reached up to grab the strap. I’m sure it shows through this dress!”
“Yes, it does rather.”
“Oh... I... Oh no. Is it that obvious?”
“I guess I shouldn’t have said that,” He said. “I've only embarrassed you more, now.”
“Oh, no, you were right to tell me. I just feel such a dork. I just can’t seem to stop it rucking up. And then there’s my stupid stockings…”
“Your stockings?”
“They just keep falling down. I hoist them up, and five minutes later I look and they're sagging again. Really, it’s driving me crazy!”
“Not having a good day, eh?”
“You can say that again.” The girl gave a shy, forced, laugh. “Stockings that fall down, panties that dig into you, camisoles that bunch up. I hate a bad underwear day.” She pivoted again, to check herself at the mirror.
“Look I hate to mention it,” the man laughed. “But it still seems to be tangled up… it is pretty visible under your dress, round the middle.”
She craned her neck, trying to assess the damage.
“Would you like me to keep watch at the door?” he continued. “I mean, sorry to bring this up but I’ve already seen just about everything, so it might be less embarrassing for you if I stay and act as a lookout than for another stranger to catch you in the act.”
“Oh no…. no, I couldn’t do that. I feel stupid enough already…”
“Hey, I don’t mind.”
I bet he didn’t!!!
While this conversation was taking place, I was the victim of what can only be described as conflicting emotions. Of course I was delighted, at having seen this attractive woman struggle with her clothing, and then, as a further bonus, seeing her humiliatingly caught in the act of adjusting things.
On the other hand, there was more than a trace of envy on my part as well.
Was it not I that was the expert in clothing disarrangements? It should have been me out there, discussing her lingerie problems with a hyper-embarrassed woman, not this newcomer! Had not I spent the best part of a morning, waiting for such a chance? Had I not done the groundwork, conceived the idea? Obviously this man, like me, was a connoisseur of female clothing emergencies. Under other circumstances I might even have liked him.
But all the same, it rankled. Especially as now, while I brooded, and she adjusted, and he lounged at the door, he was, slowly but surely, worming his way into her mind. It was as if she had become, in the pace of just a few moments' conversation, his slave.
He seemed, irrevocably, yet without conscious effort, to be swinging the conversation around to the fact that her lunch hour was soon due, and that yes, she was free for a drink at a little bar he knew just around the corner! I can say, at this distance, that I should have considered myself privileged to watch and listen to a Master at work. At the time, all that I could feel was seething rage.
“How does it look now? OK?”
He craned his head.
“There’s a big ridge across your midriff!” I wanted to shout. But I dare not. If only I could have changed places with the interloper, for just a few moments.
“There’s a big ridge across your midriff!” The man said. Curse him!
“Oh damn it!” She pouted again. “Honestly, sometimes I wish the ground would open up and swallow me!”
She continued to yank at the hidden camisole through her dress.
“By the time you’ve got that fixed, your stockings will be slipping down again,” he laughed.
“Oh, don’t tease me!” she admonished, but with a giggle… the sort of special laugh that girls reserve for their boyfriends. “As if I’m not embarrassed enough!”
“Look, I do have a bit of an idea,” he said… but… well… you might be offended.”
“Look, if it’ll get this damn outfit fixed.”
“Well, er, it appears that a lot of your problems are because you just can’t see round the back. How about it I undo your zip and smooth everything down… please don’t be offended at me asking, but…”
He allowed his voice to trail off.
I shivered in delight. The smarmy bastard had gone too far now. I almost felt sorry for him, at the inevitable slap in the face that was about to follow.
And yet, instead of scowlingly telling him to fuck off – she was actually simpering at him!
“Oh… would you?”
“Of course. My pleasure. And then we’ll be in time for a drink.”
“Oh, well… yes, that does sound a good idea. I think I deserve one…”
And then, as I watched, seething with envy, he undid her zip, and (taking more time than he needed about it too) pushed the camisole down along her buttocks. And without being asked, he knelt down and smoothed up her stockings, tugging at the material, taking care to get a good look up her skirt into the bargain.”
“I think they’d just crept down a tad,” he smiled. “They should be OK now.”
Tad? What sort of man uses the word “tad”???
“For about five minutes,” the girl replied, ruefully. “Come on, let’s find this bar and get a table, so I can get my legs undercover.”
“What a waste.”
“Oh… what a sweet thing to say… trying to salve my bruised ego, are you?”
I swear, there was even the faintest trace of a bow, as he stood back to allow her to exit the washroom first. And then, as soon as her back was to him, he turned and stared right at the cubicle where I was hiding.
Every instinct in me screamed to back away from the door, remove my eye from the door-crack. But instead of screaming, or shouting, or pointing out that there was a guy hiding, watching their every move, he simply winked. A conspiratorial wink, but as one from a Master to a very junior apprentice. And then, a faint smile playing across his lips, he followed her out of the washroom.
Perhaps I should have got out then. Cut my losses and gone home. I have since learned, in the game of fetish-satisfaction that when one is having a bad day, a bad day is all it can be. I would have been disappointed, angry, frustrated. But I still had the memory of Janet, and the lady in the leather skirt to keep me warm that night.
And besides this, there was another consideration. The man, who had done such a smooth job of picking up the girl. He knew I was there, and by his actions he knew also that I had been watching! Perhaps he had told Charlie… or even, my hypnotism had failed to work (I was fast losing any illusion that I might be an expert, having just watched a genuine Master of the art at work… he hadn’t even had to use a prop), and even now an army of burly security guards might be waiting outside.
After a while I dismissed the latter scenario. After all, the man could hardly tell Charlie, or anyone else, about me, for it would mean revealing to the girl of the chaotic underwear that he had known I was there the whole time. And even with his oily charm, it would have counted against him.
Besides which, the premise on which I had started this project still held good. When all was said and done, I was in a place where I had every right to be… a men’s washroom.
I decided to give things another half hour. My luck might change!
*****
During the half hour, “my” only visitors were two men, who came in, urinated and left, and a single middle aged woman who made no effort to straighten any article of clothing or even touch up her lipstick. And then, just as I was ready to finish with this whole disappointing enterprise, I heard more heel taps.
As I strained, I could hear something else as well. A second pair of feet. And two familiar voices.
The thin guy, and the girl whose clothing he had adjusted!
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” she was saying, with that characteristic giggle that I had come to hate. “What if someone comes in?”
The man was doing something out of my range of vision. I could hear the clinking of metal.
“No one can get in,” he laughed. “That lock’s gonna stay till we open it. There might be a few accidents, but…” He laughed. “We aren’t going to stay long, are we?”
She gave a long, wicked laugh at that. And then, watched by my fascinated but horrified eyes, held out her arms to him as he entered, and they embraced, pushing their bodies together, writhing in lust. Her tiny, firm breasts rubbed against his chest, and her thin legs seemed to be clambering up his, so eager was she to slake her needs.
There was a crash, as if of a cubicle door opening, immediately to my right, and then her giggles, and his words, became distorted, as if coming through a funnel, the effect being caused, of course, by them being in the cubicle.
There was some banging, and crashing, and more giggling.
‘”It’s no good.” She said. “It’s just too crowded… and… too dark. I want to look at you!”
“OK,” came his laughing agreement.
I should mention that although I am a voyeur, I am a very specific type of voyeur. To watch a lady adjust her attire, straighten what needs to be straightened, is my delight. But in my view, sex is most definitely not a spectator sport. Yet nonetheless, I could not tear my eyes from the door-crack, as he and she emerged, still locked in each others’ arms, and he pulled her over to the sinks.
“Oh,oh Mel!” she moaned.
“Corinne…”
He had lifted her dress (the camisole hem had disappeared, and already one of the garters had come adrift) and I was seeing those red panties yet again, as he yanked them down, and then, with little preliminary or fuss, entered her, grabbing her buttocks and lifting her up so that he was carrying her around, holding her in those arms which appeared so thin, yet must have been so strong. I could see the outline of firm muscles, as they flexed. And his thrusts looked hard enough.
He slammed into her, his back arched with the effort, a line of sweat already straining the back of his t-shirt. Corinne writhed, her hands making no effort to support herself on the sinks, trusting entirely to his strength as he thrust and pushed, and as she gyrated and bucked, now and then biting into his neck or shoulder, or slapping the sink-top with her hands.
“Oh… oh Mel… oh, I am soooo wet, for you.”
He quickened his rhythm, and moved slightly on the return stroke, as if he were shifting his angle of attack. With each thrust, she gave a little gasp, a high pitched, choking sound. And as he continued to drive into her, these cries, at first little more than whimpers, became louder and louder and louder.
He continued, awesome in his strength, kissing her neck and lips and face as he continued to gratify her body, and she responded in kind, kissing and licking and biting. There was little finesse… none of the weird positions, or incense, or strange noises advocated by the various Asian love manuals that I had eagerly devoured, during one of my brief “normal” periods, when I was trying to wean myself from my fetish. No strange devices, no handcuffs or chains, no peculiar incantations. Simply a skinny man, still clad in his jeans, t-shirt and boots, and a red-headed girl, her skinny legs wrapped around his waist as his arms were around her buttocks, and both of them thrusting, thrusting…
And yet, as I watched, my eyes boring into hers, I could see something that surprised me, and which made me hate the man even more. For I realised, this was no rape, no deal with a whore, not even simply a casual encounter.
What he had said to her, in the brief time that they had been away, I could have no idea. I had already seen that he was something of a charismatic, but as to the extent of his powers, I could make no guess.
Except that, despite the strength and force of his sex-making, there was a tenderness too. A determination to hold her steady, safely, in his arms, straining fit to burst though they must have been. A desperate need to put as much as his body against hers, as if the various layers of clothing that separated their skin could have been rendered powerless to prevent their total union, flesh to flesh… and, I saw, a wish for her to cum first, for even with my lack of experience, I could tell, he was holding off, letting her reach her peak, taking her to the heights. And in her eyes… and, even in the dim light, I know to this day I was not mistaken… was a look of love.
And he knew exactly when that summit was attained, too. For, at a given point, he suddenly lowered her to the sink and freed his left hand, and then held it over her mouth, so that although there was a desperate scream from her, her eyes widened until I could see the whites all round, and her whole body shook in a single convulsion, yet there was no noise, which would have given them away.
And as he held her, embracing her silent scream with his psyche, his body shook as well, and there was a relaxing of muscles, as he gave a single, harsh grunt. And then the two of them collapsed upon the floor, her in what appeared to me to be a faint, and him thrusting and turning his body to make sure that it was under hers, taking the full brunt of the impact, acting as a shock absorber, chivalrous as well as skilful.
And there was the faintest of noises as they fell, for he slapped his free hand onto the floor to break his fall, and then he was prone, with her atop him, he still inside her, her barely conscious, but still with her body shaken as she rode the wave of her orgasm.
Finally, as he pulled her head towards him, her hair now sweaty and tousled, to lay it upon his chest, he turned again to the closed door, and inclined his head, indicating that now was the time for me to make my escape.
I could, of course, have bluffed it out, simply stayed there, but I was in no mood to try my dominance against his. Carefully, quietly, I opened the cubicle door, and stepped past the prone bodies, too dispirited even to return his wink and smile, as I headed for the exit.
The door, as “Mel” had told Corinne, was impenetrable for the outside, but due to a twist of wire that could be reached only from the side where we were. I untwisted it, and opened the door carefully.
And then I was in the foyer, where Charlie still stood at his duty. It was as if I were awakening from a dream, or maybe a nightmare, a long fever-dream of frustration and perpetual imaginings. I walked past him, and into the open air, a cramped feeling in my limbs, a seething lust in my loins and the blackness of jealousy in my heart, as the bright sun hit me, seeming to mock me in my pathetic failure. And As I walked along the crowded street, dodging lunchtime crowds, it came to me that if I were to make use of my power, there was still much that I had to learn.
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