Tag Archives: voyeurism

Flash Fiction: Auction Sale of Clothes

Black and white photograph by Cartier-Bresson of a woman standing on a stage in a auction house modeling a dress in front of a full room

Auction Sale of Clothes by Cartier-Bresson (Berlin, 1951)

“Do you like it?”

“What? The model or the dress?”

“The dress…and the model, I suppose.”

The woman cocked her head. The dress was the sort of thing you’d wear to a cocktail party. The model was the sort of thing you’d bring home from a cocktail party.

“Yes,” she said, thoughtfully. “I do.”

“Which?”

“Both.”

The man raised a brow but failed to look surprised.

_______

Standing on a platform in a dead woman’s clothes wasn’t Laura’s idea of high fashion, but it was a paycheck and paychecks were good, especially when you liked to eat.

“Lot 398. Christien Dior. We’ll start the bidding at….”

Laura ignored the auctioneer. She didn’t want to know. It made wearing the dress depressing, like sampling a pastry she couldn’t afford. Laura hated not affording so she canted her hips and ignored the bidders too. These days the bidders were worth ignoring.

There were two types of people at auctions like this—collectors and ghouls. Ghouls, with their shabby collars and hard mouths, came to watch a rich person’s things get sold off. Collectors were different. Collectors went hunting for very specific things, but what made a thing special was anyone’s guess. Just the week before, someone paid $500 for a soap dish with an impeccable provenance…whatever that meant.

Laura pivoted and tried not to yawn. At first, the keen, avid eyes in the audience had turned her on so much that her thighs would be slick by the time she left the platform. Once or twice she’d even come (quietly, of course). It didn’t matter if she was modeling last year’s lingerie or someone’s ridiculous hat, being scrutinized felt good. But that had been ages ago. The novelty was gone. Now she barely noticed.

Laura unhooked the dress’s train, revealing an obscene amount of leg for 10am. Suddenly, the soft hairs on the back of her neck prickled and she looked up.

A couple was sitting in the middle of the room. They were young and golden and bright as if they’d gathered up all the stray light. Now that she’d seen them, she couldn’t look away.

Laura’s center of gravity dropped into her hips. She did a half-turn as the nerves in her belly coiled. She wanted the couple to notice. She wanted to make them bid. Laura moved to center stage, rolling her hips. She knew she looked like a woman begging to be kissed. Then the golden woman winked, and she almost fell off the stage.

The woman scanned Laura’s body, from her hem to her face, with the kind of cold interest she was used to in men. Every nerve in Laura’s body clustered between her legs. The woman smiled like a collector. She smiled like she knew. Laura squeezed her thighs tight, felt how plump and wet she was. She swore the woman knew.

Silver shoes peeked out from beneath her hem. The woman met Laura’s eyes and raised a brow. Without thinking, Laura raised the dress so the woman could see the shoes. Ankles, knees, halfway up her thighs…she would have kept going, right up to her waist, but the woman gave her a tiny nod, so Laura stopped. She didn’t lower the dress. The woman looked pleased. Still, they didn’t bid.

Laura squirmed, unwilling to drop the hem as the bids rose higher and came faster and the pressure built. She squeezed her thighs together as tight as she could. She could come like that. She had before. She would come and the woman would watch her. She would come and the woman would know.

But the woman shook her head.

Laura went still.

A Catalogue of Very Specific Things:

Silver dress. Silver shoes.  Twitching fingers, shifting hips. A trembling mouth that makes a quick but perfect O. The flush of a lip, a swollen lip, soft between hard teeth. Wide eyes. Young skin. Impulses waiting to spill….

The woman whispered to the man.

The gavel cracked.

“Sold, to the gentleman in the middle of the room.”

__

The woman sighed.

“Thank you, love.’

“Have you got your eye on anything else?”

“No,” she said. “Let’s collect.”

Flash Fiction: Looking Glass

Side view of a man and woman having sex in a window for Flash Fiction: Glass Houses by Malin James

Image via @A_man_within

They haven’t been dating for all that long. Two dates. Maybe three if coffee counts. Three dates…. Is that dating? It’s hard to tell. Who knows.

Two dates. Maybe three. Some kissing. No sex. But the kissing is good. Really, really good. Quick tongues. Swollen lips. Nails on his neck. Then he says goodnight like he’s closing a door. She stays cautious and light on her feet.

They have their third date (maybe fourth?) on the hottest night of the year. Dinner and drinks. Maybe dancing. They both like dancing. They talk about dancing a lot. It’s a handy metaphor.

Do you dance? Where? What do you like?

Oh, you know…depends on my mood.

She wishes they’d just have sex. Sex is her looking glass. It lets her see who a person is, (or rather who they are with her). It lets her see who she is with them. She wants that view more than she wants to get off. She wants to see if they fit. Normally, it doesn’t matter so much – sex has told her a lot and it’s not always good. But she wants to see with him.

They have dinner and drinks. They talk. A lot. But she can’t stop watching his mouth. Good conversation. Great wine. Killer food. Enjoy the evening for this. She addresses herself in the ladies room but she knows it won’t do any good.

He pays the check (he insists, which is lovely), but dancing is a no. Early morning, he says. Brunch, work-out, weekend routine…. Sure. She has one too. They head off down the street.

The night is brown and murky with a filthy, electrical buzz. The grid is overtaxed and the city’s power is low. No air conditioners. Sluggish fans. People tumble around the street—it’s too hot to be inside.

They’d parked their cars several blocks away in a tall, glass monolith. As they walk, their knuckles brush, comfortable and easy, but he doesn’t take her hand. That would maybe be too much. After awhile, she pulls her phone out of her bag so it has something less awkward to do.

The parking lot is deserted. He hits the button and they wait. The elevator takes ages and their easiness drains away. A thick, gray silence expands and takes its place. It’s not a sexy or promising silence. It’s dense and pre-emptively sad.

Cool sheets, breakfast, dancing, fucking…she imagines these things while the elevator drifts…slow, slow, slow…considering the universe at every floor. For one irrational moment, she wishes they’d never met.

The elevator arrives. It’s steel and glass and disturbingly hot inside. Like a greenhouse, she thinks, which would make them the plants. It’s a weirdly appealing thought. She swipes her hair off her forehead and hits the button for level six.

“I’m on six too,” he says.

She smiles. “That’s good.”

“That’s good” is not what she’d meant to say. She’d meant to say something clever but she’s tired and hot. Her grid is overtaxed too.

Flickering lights. The elevator stops. It jerks and she stumbles. He reaches out – reaches out but doesn’t touch her, as if he’d brace her with the Force.

“Power outage,” he says.

She feels heat coming off him. The nape of her neck is salty and wet, and her cunt is a swollen ache. He’s close. Too close…and not close enough. She’s stupidly wound up and now they’re stuck in a small, glass box.

“Fuck, me,” she mutters.

“Sorry, what,” he says.

She watches his fingers skim over the phone. Blunt tipped. Strong. Decisive.

Fuck it. She wants to see.

“I said, fuck me.”

He looks up. Her cultivated, quippy, clever voice has dropped into her chest. She sounds like a woman again. Not a placeholder or a diplomat. She sounds like the woman she is.

He puts his phone away.

“Hello,” he says.

His teeth catch her bottom lip.

“Hello.”

She leans in and bites him back.

A generator kicks in and the elevator fills with a dim, green glow, but it’s still dark down on the street. People wander around, checking their phones, waiting for the light.

“Someone could see,” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” she says. “I know.”

They lean back into the glass.  If anyone looked up they’d see him lifting her skirt. She smiles and tilts her hips.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

It’s a breath against her neck. She’s wearing nothing underneath. No knickers. No bra. Just the dress and her favorite heels. Maybe she’d hoped a bit….

Sweat drips between her breasts as he crushes her close. He’s stronger than she thought. Then his hand is on her warm, bare hip and his mouth is hard on hers. Her legs want to spread. She kisses him back and turns to face the street.

The glass is soft beneath her palms. She’s wet, so wet she can barely feel his fingers until they’re deep inside her cunt. Little sighs. Little moans. Her hips begin to thrust. She’s hoping, hoping someone will look up. Then he’s in her, fucking her and she’s fucking him back. Their eyes meet in the glass. Intense, happy…she likes the view. She had a feeling that she would.

Erotic Fiction: Bel, Cal & A Girl Named Claire

Black and white photograph of two women standing while a man sits and watches them for Bel and Cal by Malin James

Photograph by Marco Sanges

“Do we have a plan?”

“No. Let’s see what we draw.”

Bel and Cal saunter away from the bar, loosely holding hands. They are easy together, and comfortable. Very well matched.

Cal sees her first, the adorable girl with librarian specs and a pretty mouse face. They’ve seen her before and exchanged the odd smile, but he can’t remember her name. Still, he likes the look of her dark, deliberate frames. They punctuate her face.

Cal squeezes Bel’s hand. She squeezes his back and waves.

“You’re Claire, right? Good to see you!”

“Isobel? Yeah, you too!”

Claire. The girl’s name is Claire. Cal comes up behind Isobel, itching to slide his hand beneath her dress. He loves that Bel remembers names…. He also loves that her thighs are probably soaked. Cal pulls her close but avoids her hemline. Then he smiles at Claire.

“How are you, gorgeous? Here with anyone?”

Claire laughs and shakes her head.

“I’m on my own tonight.”

Bel leans back against his chest.

“Really? Well, then, let us buy you a drink.”

Bel and Claire drift to a quiet spot. Cal follows carrying drinks. Bel throws him a look over her shoulder. Cal’s pulse thumps. He knows what that look means.

“Get on your knees.”

Claire jumps and starts to kneel. Isobel stops her, gently.

“Not you. Cal.”

Claire straightens. Cal shakes his head and kneels. Isobel grins.

“Let’s get comfortable, Claire.”

Claire and Isobel sit on a low, velvet couch right in front of Cal.

“Take out your cock and get hard for us.”

Cal’s already hard, and he knows that Bel knows it. He makes a teasing little show of unzipping his fly. Then he spreads his legs wider and pulls his cock out.

“Oh, my god.”

He smirks even as Claire’s reaction makes him blush. Isobel smiles like a wicked fairy queen. She loves it when he blushes. He looks from one to the other. Then he licks his palm, and wraps his hand around his cock. Isobel watches and reaches for Claire.

“Keep going. Don’t stop. And babe? Don’t come.”

He meets Bel’s eyes, honestly annoyed, but she winks at him and he nods. Then she kisses Claire.

Cal loves watching her. He can see what she’s thinking in the angle of her head. He can tell by the way they’re kissing that Claire is milky sweet, like strawberries and cream…. Cal grips his cock with both hands. Isobel thinks of women in terms of desserts—custards, chocolates, soft, ripe fruit. Men bring out her carnivorous side—red meat, red wine, salty, rich. Bel devours men. She drinks women in delicate sips.

Bel fingers Claire deep and slow. Claire angles so she can do the same to Bel. They’re pretty like that, fair and dark, coiled like a shell. Cal knows how plump and wet Bel is. He knows exactly what Claire is feeling with her hand up Bel’s skirt. He wishes his hands were Claire’s hands. He wishes his hands were Bel’s.

When Bel looks at him, her eyes are bright and glazed. Cal thrusts into his fist. He imagines Isobel sucking Claire’s tits. He imagines Claire sucking his cock. He imagines limbs and mouths and sweaty skin. And he knows if he doesn’t stop, he’s going to come.

Isobel pushes Claire back onto the couch and yanks aside her dress. Their hands bump and their hips grind. Bel fills her mouth with Claire’s milky sweet tits, and sucks until the girl comes. Claire is shaking beneath her, gasping and mewling like a rabbit in a trap. Bel tips her head back and rides out Claire’s climax almost as much as her own.

Cal watches their movements slow like melting glass. Isobel opens her eyes.

“How close are you, love?”

“Really, really close.”

“Then stop. There’s a lot of evening left. Let’s see what we draw.”

 

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On Watchers & Watching

Black cat watching fish bowl. Source: Creative Commons / WikiCommons

Black Cat Watching Fish at the Bowl by Theophile Steinlen, (1898). Image courtesy Metropolitan Museum of Art.

A while ago, I wrote a post called On Prowess. As I did, I found myself having to rein in on a number of other tangents, most notably two – my love of dominant partners, (though I myself am dominant) and, far more central to this post, voyeurism, or watching people and how it relates to control and domination and curiosity and sexual interest.

Voyeurism operates differently for everyone, I suspect, but for me, it feeds into why I love to write. You see, I create these characters and then let them work on each other while I record and watch. It’s an immensely satisfying arrangement – one that I’ll admit I enjoy in real life as much as I do on the page.

But then I listened to a podcast that made me realize that my relationship to voyeurism and, conversely, exhibitionism, is a bit more complicated than I’d originally thought. On the (It Girl. Rag Doll) episode titled, “Flashers and Peeping Toms,” Molly Moore and Harper Eliot spent an hour examining exhibitionism and voyeurism from a variety of different angles. After listening to that conversation, I realized that, while I don’t consider myself to be an exhibitionist, I do like knowing that I’m being watched, but only under certain conditions. So what the hell does that mean?

Before I could even begin to try to figure that out, I had to take a closer look at what it is that I love about voyeurism. That wasn’t terribly difficult – I’m a people watcher in all aspects of my life, whether I’m waiting in line for coffee or telling a partner to strip for me. I love fleeting moments and human detail. I love watching an old gentleman put his hand on his obviously adored wife’s back as he guides her through a door just as much as I love watching my partner come…okay, maybe not quite as much. But you know what I mean. The point is that I love those fleeting moments; those moments take you beyond what a person is doing to how they feel about it, even when they aren’t consciously aware of it themselves. Those moments make an experience singular and distinct.

There’s a cause and effect element to voyeurism, as well. My presence has an effect on the people being watched, because my presence, (or the presence of any audience), creates a heightened circumstance for the observed. It turns up the volume on their experience, which, in turn, makes it all the more vibrant, dynamic and sexy to watch. I think it’s that element of cause and effect that ties into my own conditional enjoyment of being watched.

One of my oldest sexual fantasies was of my partner being hidden away, watching, while I fucked someone else. In the fantasy, I knew my partner was there, but he didn’t know that I was aware of his presence. What always, always got me off was the knowledge that watching me get off with someone else was driving my partner mad – that he was desperate to join us but couldn’t do so without giving himself away. It was the fact of his desire, (ie: my effect), that turned me on, rather than the fact of being watched.

Looking back on it now, that fantasy is packed with my psychology and my relationship to power, dominance and sex. In other words, my need to cause an effect. As with that fantasy, being watched has never turned me on in and of itself. It’s the fact that watching me is turning the watcher on that makes me smile like the cat that got the cream. It’s the feedback loop that I want – he, (or she), watches and desires, I know this and want more, and so forth….

Does this make me an exhibitionist as well as a voyeur? I’ve no idea. All I know is that the idea of being watched by strangers does nothing for me, just as watching strangers engage sexually is never as intimate or powerful as watching people that I know. Being watched is, for me, an incredibly contextual thing, dependent entirely on who is watching and why, and always on whether or not I want them to want me. I have to want, very specifically, their desire.

It might be tied to the fact that I’m not generally concerned about being “caught” having sex. Aside from feeling a bit smug and pleased with myself, being caught or watched by someone I don’t know doesn’t ruffle me…but if I were to get caught by someone I do know and find out that they liked it? Well, now that’s fucking hot.

So, what does all that mean? I’m honestly not sure. The bottom line is that I want to be desired and I want to have an impact. As Harper Eliot and Molly Moore pointed out, there is something incredibly powerful about being desired, and my enjoyment of being watched is, to some level, proof of how true that is for me. I’m not entirely sure how comfortable I am with that, but there it is.

In the end, it’s far cleaner to set characters in motion so I can watch and record what they do, just as it’s a much simpler pleasure to watch people I care about sink deep into a sexual experience… Life for me as a voyeur is a fairly peaceful, comfortable, black and white affair. If I claim the title of voyeur and ignore the rest, I don’t have to confront my own massively ambiguous relationship with being watched. And yet it’s still there, teetering on the edge of my sexuality. That’s not the most comfortable thing, but then, the ambiguous, shadowy parts of ourselves rarely are. I’m  just going to have to get used to the fact that I am, apparently, both the goldfish in the bowl and the cat that’s watching it.

A Question: On Women and Homoeroticism

two men kissingI originally posted this question on my other self’s blog, but I thought it would do to re-post it here given the nature of the subject… Thoughts and opinions are more than welcome. My only request is that you be respectful, partcularly as this has to do, explicitly, with something that turns people on. xx. M

This is really more of a question than a proper post, but I’ve had an idea for an article and I want to solicit some opinions before I write it.

A friend posted a video of two men kissing the other day and the response from women was, shall we say, heated… as in, every single woman who responded thought it was hot. Granted, there was some selection bias, but it was enough to get me thinking. So I did some shallow digging and uncovered a comparatively large cache of media, mostly written, though there’s plenty of visual too, (cheeky little gifs), that cater to women who love watching homoerotic situations and / or gay sex. The fact that M/M erotica and porn do very well with the female demographic, (and not just in the gay community), tells me there’s something there. What I’d love to do is figure out what that something might be.

From a personal angle, I can absolutely see the appeal of watching / reading about two men, (just as many men find the idea of two women to be a fine thing) but I’d like to go beyond “yeah, that’s hot” to figure out why. So, I’m soliciting opinions and thoughts on the subject.

A few guidelines first though:

1. If the thought of two men engaging in sexual contact isn’t your thing, that’s absolutely fine. I know that there are plenty of men and women who would prefer to take a pass. That said, please don’t blast the notion in your comments, because the reality is that there are many people who would take seconds on that dish. Please respect the fact that it’s a personal preference and do not treat the question as an attack on your own predilections.

2. As I mentioned above, I’m keeping the inquiry pretty restricted to women viewing / reading about two (or more) men. If, however, there’s an angle that involves the converse appeal for many men in watching two women, please feel free to mention it.

3. Be respectful. This question involves sex, homoeroticism and certain aspects of voyeurism. As such, some folks may find it uncomfortable. Again, that’s ok. Just be sensitive to the tastes of others. In short, see #1.

Thanks! I appreciate the time anyone takes to weigh in!