Voyeur Lilies

by The Provocateur 

If I could articulate you, if I could draw you – then I would be an artist, drawing my desire. My want. And maybe, I could even draw a picture of my need. For you.

If not you, then something close to it – like one experience. One night and one morning.

And so, picture me as the artist – trying to remember everything, absolutely everything:

The parts of you that were naked to me, I traced with my fingers. Your tattoo and its colors in the early morning light beckoned my lips. Unabashedly, I was indulgence. Unknowingly, I was obligation. Only hours old, my ache and my taste for you was already overwhelming.

When I pulled away from my kiss of your skin, the shape of my lips melted away on your warm body. With this sensation, your eyes opened. You looked at me sweetly. You looked at me as that kind of stranger that I no longer want to be, to you.

+

The night was wintry. I could see my breath in blossoms.

This was the first night I knew you.

We met over a table of candles – you and I and your girl friend…

And even when you were looking at me, I was looking at you. As a voyeur and a boy – assessing just how beautiful you are. And I did it all without giggling.

You pulled the breath from my chest…

Your eyes. Your lips.

My anticipation was my heart, beating. Making my hands tremble in little quivers. You did this: you turned me into anticipation and something holy erotic. Even as we were just ordering drinks. Laughing nervously. Learning about our backgrounds.

Your scent swarmed around our table and I was no longer drunk from the drinks.

In it all I wanted to tell you that I am just a boy that wants a girl. In all my glances toward you – this is all I wanted to say. This is all I wanted you to know.

Only later and I would discover that words were unnecessary.

All I needed was my eyes. My eyes would tell you enough.

+

When we were warm and filled with drink, you guided me to your apartment. You wanted me to photograph you and your girlfriend. Here, I was anticipation – buzzing, looking calm.

The idea of learning what was under your clothes was a sensation that is like a memory of your scent: robust and voluptuous. Bigger than me.

Once back in your apartment and you made drinks and lit candles. You made me feel welcome and then you ran the bath water. Your girlfriend and I talked as you moved about the apartment, making sure that your clothes were not falling down.

As if I couldn’t be tempted with something that was forthcoming.

As if you know all too well about temptation and anticipation.

Then you stepped into the white bathroom. You left the door open. Your pants were unzipped – your belt was flailing outward. You were adorable in your shyness and bravery.

I already had my camera out and was snapping away. I knew, even then, that I wanted to memorize every little thing about you.

You were guarding yourself with playful hands as the water flowed behind you.

You said, no – wait…

And then you revealed yourself to me.

Naked and in the bathroom light you were. And the blood coursed through me at paralyzing speed, smashing my breath. Still, I kept depressing the shutter on the camera.

Here, my want was musical – like all the curves and lines on your body. The words you spoke, I will never remember. But forevermore, I will know how overwhelming my hunger is for you.

When you stepped into the tub, you dipped your head – your breasts perfect and your body naked before me. And when you resurfaced, your mascara was smeared like a peacock’s eyelash.

+

I said that I wouldn’t overstep your boundaries. Probably, I was lying.

When it was still dark my chivalry said that I would not push anything. This despite the fact that I had my finger on the shutter of erotic anticipation all night long. When it was still dark, I was laying next to you and you shot your hand into mine. You squeezed it like you meant it.

And when the sun began to rise, I was naked in your bed. I was stealing quick rifles of touch from your arm. You would not let me drive home in the cold, drunk. Forevermore, I will thank you for this

As you slept, I was again the voyeur: taking small, sleepy glances at you.

And I was marveling.

But we were not alone. And this seemed to only heighten this anticipation of all my want and nearly – need. Your girlfriend was asleep next to you when we were drifting to and from our own sleep.

I asked you what your favorite flower was and you said that it was Stargazer Lilies.

I asked you if you knew what lilies meant…

I said that lilies have meaning like everything else. I said they mean, “I dare you to love me”.

Your eyes grinned at me and made me feel as though I had said it out loud, “I dare you to…

And as I fell back to sleep I gave you a big white bouquet.

+

Standing before you, with my camera in-hand – and you, slick with water and completely exposed to me made me feel as though I was naked too.

From where I stood I felt perfect in my safety. And I think you felt it too.

When you dried yourself off, you walked into the bedroom and bent over in front of me.

Click. Your slick ass and arched back burned into my eyes.

Your girlfriend was trying-on panties and tops, barely covering her tiny body. I snapped and shot her with my rifle eye – but always I kept one eye free and waiting on you.

You laid on the bed and lathered baby oil all over your body. I saw your hand slip down and into your panties to oil your clean-shaven cunt.

Click. Click.

+

You asked me in the morning, if I wanted to go out to the couch. I obliged your request and got up from your bed, naked and swollen. Throbbing.

And your eyes were on me. On my cock.

You looked up at me, sweetly.

In your sheer top you sat next to me on the couch, a blanket wrapped around your bottom half. You pawed your toes into my thigh as we sat opposing one another. The winter day outside was gray and I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.

We queried one another. We talked about the past. About broken hearts and darkened heads. Intermittently we would stop with recognition in the other’s words.

I am not so different from you. And you are relatively the same as me.

You read from a book and we looked at photographs together: You came close. You put your head into my chest and leaned back. I inhaled like a pillow that was able to hold everything you had to give.

+

As you danced and moved in your array of outfits: panties and high-heels and see-through tops:

I did not want you. I wanted the anticipation. The uncertainty.

The tease.

I want you for later. For tomorrow’s days.

And as you moved around me in eloquent pirouettes of fiery, wet sex – I snapped away. I captured your lines and your sex. Your hands and fingers curled down and under your wetness; as the pads of your fingers played with your nipples and hooked into your mouth – over your teeth and on your tongue in the exact desperate way that I wanted to lure you in…

Click. Click.

On this night and for several seconds at a time – I was invisible and only a voyeur. I was welcomed in my perversions. And while I was fully clothed – overdressed – I was also naked. Accepted.

Your entire body flirted with me.

When I left the next morning you wrapped your arms around me exactly in the way that I wrapped mine around you. For a long second, we did not let go. And you looked me intently in the eyes and, as I rounded the corner, you said, “I want to see you again, too.”

+

The next day, long after I was gone, you said that, last night, I told you that I would marry you.

I’m not certain, but your words were joking. Humorous. Giggling.

I, astonished, rifled through my memory. I recalled the idea, in my head – as perfect. But I was certain, as I said: I didn’t think I said that out loud.

You laughed. Probably giggled, from across the city, in an exclamation that said you were only joking. Kidding. You weren’t serious.

I closed my eyes and remembered that I did not speak these words out loud to you. Still, you heard them.

…with my hands outstretched, a bouquet of lilies are within my reach…

*******

Not very long ago, I was lucky enough to meet — via email and the telephone (no, he is not a phone sex client) — The Provocateur.  Apparently he'd been trying to reach me long before I discovered him.  I thank my lucky stars that he left a comment at my erotica blog, Blistered Lips.  Because then I got curious and tracked him down.

He tells me that I am talented.  I read his blog, with pieces such as the above, and I am humbled.  Every word he writes is slippery, wicked-wet perfection.  He's graciously permitted me the privilege of featuring his work here at Zen.  

I'm a very luck girl.  

xo, Angela 

The Hand:  Lyndee

As you should know by now, I’m not always perfect (shush–don’t tell the slaves). For example, I’m not the most tolerant person–at least in certain cases–and, ironically enough, intolerance is my major bitch. But I am good about celebrating my partners in crime, who are working it…in a good way. Luscious Lyndee happens to be one of those people. I mention her on occasion, and she stops by this blog quite often to leave a comment. I try to return the favor, only usually when I get over to her blog, she is yapping about sports, sports and more sports. Of which, despite being raised in the midst of a father, siblings, cousins uncles and even boyfriends who live for the game–any game, anywhere, anytime–I have neither comprehension nor interest. So it’s almost impossible for me to leave a comment of at least some import. Although she might be getting kinky with clown sex in the near future. You can bet I’ll have something to say then. Honk, honk. Last year, Lyndee expanded her enterprise to offer panty sluts and crossdressers a new place to hang out, The Pink Panty Cafe, which is an adorable little corner for all things sissified. Contrary to what you might thing, many PSOs have a special place in their hearts for sissy boys. I think it’s because they appeal to our maternal (or wicked stepmother) instincts. Well, now she’s gone and done it again–her dynasty grows as she presents a deliciously elegant new site, Earotica, where it looks like she will be offering some nice and some not so nice (x-rated? cross your dirty little fingers) essays and stories in her blog there. Maybe she’ll stop by and let us know. In the meantime, get over there and have yourself a peek-a-boo….and, of course, give her a call. Tell her Angela sent you and I expect a finder’s fee.

The Bush:   Burke

Sabrina in Stockings.

Do you know her? Have you talked with her? If not…why not? She writes (oh, man, does she write):

Smells Like Vanilla

I want. 

I’m pressing down against my office chair right now and bouncing up and down a little, just rocking back on my hips and thighs. It feels like all I am is warm, wet, and hungry and all of that is just melting out of my body through my throbbing pink cunt. Another hour like this and I’ll be in that state where I’m ready to bend over my desk, spread my legs apart, thrust my ass out like a bitch in heat and grind my aching clit against the edge of the desktop. I’ll growl, I’ll whimper, I’ll beg to get fucked. 

I have class in two hours. I have to go sit in a room filled with people, potential warm slippery bodies against mine, all night long. The work is boring and repetitive – exactly the kind of stuff that makes my mind wander to more interesting topics, like which of the objects in the room would be best to impale that pretty little blonde with … 

I can’t think when I’m like this. 

I wonder if any of them read this. I wonder if the guys and girls behind me will be able to smell how wet my panties are. 

They probably will. 

The thought humiliates me and makes me wetter at the same time. 

I’m tugging the crotch of my satin thong up between the lips of my pussy. It slides easily and I just know the slippery evidence will be visible on the black satin hours later. 

I have an old pair of pantyhose. Black. Matte, sheer-to-waist and ripe for ripping. I can’t decide if I want to put them on, feel how smooth the nylon is against my legs, run my short nails over the seam (pressing it right against my clit) and then rip out the crotch and fingerfuck myself through the hole, or if I want to wad up one of the legs and force it inch by inch balled up into my pussy. It would be lumpy, unless I twisted it just right. It would push out my walls at angles I couldn’t predict until the nylon was there, compressing just enough not to hurt me but rough-edged enough to feel very interesting indeed. 

Right now I’m not just wet but slick. The nylon wouldn’t absorb so much as get coated in my juices. Gods, I want to come. I’m riding the edge of my panties that got pushed up against the inner lips of my pussy, just enough to tease me but not give me enough of what I need to send me over. I lean back … the silky smooth satin shifts back and forth across my ass, right there, and it’s driving me crazy. I need more … Two fingers go to my lips, then three, and it’s your cock muffling my moans, my lips wrapped tight around my knuckles… tight around the base of your cock. My tongue flicks out to tease the head of your cock, running around the ridge, teasing that sensitive spot right and the underside, and I suck right there. My panties are starting to leak. I’m shaking, but not enough … not yet. 

My cunt actually hurts, I need to come so badly. I need to make this hard and fast. Hands off the keyboard now – I need something more inside me than just the edge of my panties. Two fingers go to my lips, circling, before pushing in and kicking back and forth, teasing right at the back… harder, then nothing, then more, more, more. 

I don’t think I screamed but I damn well made noise. 

It’s a blur, my panties are askew, my hair is mussed and I’m realizing I actually do need a job where it’s okay to go lie down for a minute and have five mini-orgasms one after the other until I can stop feeling like a hole that needs to be fucked and start feeling like a person again. I’m wondering if there’s someone out there this is enough for, instead of too much. I’m wondering why the hell my fingers always smell and taste like vanilla musk, afterward. I mean really … vanilla?

You can read the original story here.

Then call her.

xo, Angela