Here's Looking at You

This was his way of telling her that he accepted her offer to allow herself to be watched with hidden cameras.

It was too late to ask herself if she could do this because that was a useless question. She had made the offer. She had no choice but to prove her sincerity.

She stripped off her pajamas and walked to the bathroom to shower.

On days when she worked at home, she never wore makeup. But today was a day like no other day. After she dried and styled her hair, she made up her face. Smokey eyelids. Red, red lips. All the mascara that her lashes could hold. Blush so artful that she looked as healthy as a kitten.

She put a sensuous sway into her hips as she slunk back into the bedroom, crossing her ankles like a model on the catwalk.

Thong first, then garter belt. She put each foot on the vanity bench in turn, pulling and smoothing the stockings over her calves, knees, and thighs with long, graceful strokes of her palms, feeling her muscle and skin tense and flow beneath her hands. Only when the stocking was perfectly positioned did she snap it to the garter straps.

She felt like a pretty thing.

Finally, she fastened the bustier around her chest. She had to thrust her breasts out to overflow the cups when she reached behind to adjust and tighten the laces that criss-crossed up the back.

When she finished dressing, she felt more naked than when she had been fully nude. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror. The costume emphasized her bare shoulders, the patch of round belly between the bustier and the thong, the naked buttocks, and most of all, her smooth upper thighs above the stocking tops.

That bit of naked thigh invited, nay, begged a man to part them and slide his hips between them.

She had always been told that she was a pretty girl but this time the mirror confirmed that she was not only pretty, she was sexy.

She parted her legs to put her hands on the inner surface of those milky white thighs and slide her fingers up until she was cupping her sex where it was so inadequately covered by the black patch of thong.

It felt good. Unexpectedly good.

She hoped that there was a camera watching her. She rubbed herself through the satin and hoped that somewhere, Nate was getting as hard as oak heart and as frustrated as hell.

She closed her eyes, moaned like a pussycat in heat for a few moments, before going downstairs and to begin working for the day.

Her current contract asked for a series of nature illustrations that would add interest to a fashion layout for a local mall catalog.

She had never before drawn such sensuous curves. Leaves swelled like breasts. Flowers opened like lips. Birds stared like lustful satyrs. She felt inspired. She drew actual nymphs and satyrs frolicking among the foliage, almost completely hidden, only suggested by a hand here, a hairy hoof and bare foot there, and a glimpse of part of a face above.

She had thought that she was giving Nate a free hand when she released him from legal liability, but it was her own base, creative spirit that was liberated now. She didn't know if her client, the Woodland Mall, would approve of her sly hints of erotic content, but she left them all there. If the client didn't like it, she had plenty time to revise the illustrations before her deadline.

When it grew close to the time for Nate to return for supper, she went back to the bedroom and changed into the jeans and sweatshirt that she had originally intended to wear today. She would reserve her exotic spy-wear for his secret spyware and keep their married life mundane.

During supper and afterward, both she and Nate acted like nothing unusual had happened during the day. They cleaned up the dishes and watched a little television. Most nights, he went to bed an hour before her because he got up an hour earlier. Tonight, before he went to the bedroom, he asked her if she would come to bed soon.

She said that she would.

He made love to her with a passion that she had not experienced since their honeymoon.

She reciprocated in kind. The combination of his desperate eagerness for her body and her displaying herself sexually for hours produced a faster, more intense climax than she had ever had. She now knew why women talking about the earth moving. That night, she and Nate almost knocked it out of orbit.

As she drifted off to sleep, she mused that forfeiting her privacy might be worth it. Almost.

* * *

The next day, and for some days after that, she found her jeans and sweat shirts laid out on her vanity just as she had left them.

The Woodland Mall clients loved her reclusive nymphs and satyrs. So did their customers. She heard that people were spending hours trying to find every dryad, oread, and niaiad in the catalog. It became a kind of a vaguely erotic, adult Where's Waldo?.

The mall clients began discussing a longer-term contract, which included consulting on a new interior design.

She began researching the mythology of nymphs, both in ancient folklore and in modern consciousness. The motif was ripe with potential.

She kept Nate abreast of her schedule, making certain that he knew which days she had meetings with clients and which days she was working by herself at home. She was curious to see if he would try to dictate erotic clothing on days when she had meetings outside the house.

If he did, she would ignore him. She had worked too hard to build her business for too long. She would not allow her husband's sex fantasies to interfere with her professional life.

He must have sensed that because he never tried anything on days when she was working outside the home. Or maybe he had no interest in what she wore when she was out of sight of his hidden cameras.

* * *

On Wednesday, she got out of bed and found a red baby-doll negligee with red lace panties and fluffy red mules.

She had her marching orders.

To her mind, though this outfit was more revealing than the black bustier and stockings, it was no more erotic.

But she liked it.

When she looked at herself in the mirror, she could see her nipples through the sheer silk cups. They were erect.

The uninterrupted length of her naked legs made them look longer and more shapely than ever before.

When she turned she could see how the lace panties drew the eye around the swell of her ass, making her hips look round and inviting.

She didn't know where the cameras were hidden so she posed in several places around the room for a few minutes before going to the spare room that served as her studio.

Wearing the red baby-doll while she worked felt different than wearing the black bustier. The bustier had made her feel strong and confident, like she should be throwing on an evening dress and going out clubbing. The baby-doll made her feel young and vulnerable, like she should be crawling into bed with her man.

After lunch, she was seized with a wicked impulse.

In the bedroom, she removed her lace panties and baby-doll and tossed them onto the bed. Naked in the bathroom, she drew a sink of warm water. She fetched her razor and shaving cream from the shower stall, then sat on the edge of the counter and spread her legs.

She had no idea if there were cameras positioned in the bathroom or if they could see her when she was looking away from the sink but she hoped so. This would be a show worth recording.

She worked the white lather into her pubic patch with slow caresses, then drew the razor across the foamy skin again and again, working her way down from her bikini line to the top of her nether lips.

When her mons was as naked as a babe's, she leaned as far forward as she could, spread her legs as wide as possible, and shaved the tender skin from her topmost, innermost thigh over her outer lips, making certain that not a single hair remained. She used a warm washcloth to wipe away any remaining spots of shaving cream and then patted herself dry with her fluffiest hand towel.

Her cunt had never been so visible. She had nothing to hide it and did not intend to avail herself of the red lace panties again today.

She put the baby-doll back on, slipped her feet back into the mules and looked at herself in the mirror.

She looked perfect. Her breasts were full and her nipples dark pink inside the transparent cups of the negligee. Her naked sex peeped out of the bottom, slightly obscured by the narrow lace hem when she stood still and fully revealed when movement made the red lace flutter away from her body. The result was that the pink slit between her legs was never fully hidden and often fully revealed.

She returned to her studio and finished her work for the day before changing back into her jeans and sweatshirt to prepare dinner.

Once again, Nate returned home, ate dinner, and watched TV without saying a word about what he might have seen of her day's activities.

Even when she undressed in front of him to reveal her newly shaved pussy, he made no comment.

But, once again, he made love to her with more passion than she thought that he had at his command.

That uncharacteristic passion, more than anything else, confirmed that he was spying on her when she was alone during the day.

* * *

A full week passed without anything unusual happening.

She kept her crotch shaved but did not make an exhibition out of it. It quickly became part of her regular routine, the same as shaving her legs and armpits.

Then, on a Thursday morning, Jocelyn got out of bed to find that her jeans and sweatshirt had been replaced once more.

When she sorted out the scraps of hot pink cloth, she was holding a bikini. Regulation swimwear. Not a thong or microkini or any other exotic variant, not even the minimal excuse for a bikini popularized in Brazil, but an actual, functional piece of beachwear that fully covered all of the important parts of her anatomy, top and bottom.

Whatever floats Nate's boat, she thought and dutifully dressed in the bathing suit.

She looked good in the full-length mirror. The intense pink made her pale skin look as white and flawless as marble. Her eye was inexorably drawn to her full breasts and plump crotch.

She had no need of a bikini trim. With her pussy completely shaved, there was no chance of a stray hair marring her appearance.

Her work was going well. She had begun drawing cartoons for the murals that would decorate the Woodland Mall during the all-important Christmas retail season. They had given her a free hand. She eschewed the usual overt references to Christmas. Instead, she kept the pagan underpinnings of the winter solstice festival in the forefront of her mind. She imagined savage Bacchanalian revelries taking place almost out of sight, drawing an imperfect screen of foliage that gave tantalizing glimpses of wild orgies. Enough to stimulate the deep, primeval parts of the brain but never enough for the viewer to say consciously what he was seeing. Was this a branch or the shaft of a phallus? Was that the lower curve of a naked breast or part of a rocky outcropping? Was the thing over there a wild orchid or an inviting vulva?

She never told the clients what her illustrations represented. She merely presented a series of studies for the murals without commenting on them.

They raved about her sense of curve and shade and urged her to draw more.

She billed them liberally and threw herself into the task.

That was what she was doing at two o'clock when the doorbell rang.

Jocelyn jumped at the sound. What the hell? She was not expecting anyone but that meant nothing. Sometimes, people came to the door uninvited -- Jehovah's Witnesses, neighbors wanting a favor, people begging for charitable donations. Not many sales people. More often, parcel deliveries because she occasionally got artwork or samples of catalog products from clients.

She would have rushed to the bedroom and thrown on a sweat suit but reasoned that whoever was at the door would be gone by the time she got back.

She peeked out the window through the curtains.

Her heart started pounding.

A young man was standing on the stoop holding a large flower arrangement. The situation was clear. Nate had ordered flowers and expected her to answer the door in her bikini.

That was why he had given her clothing today that was decent. Barely.

What was going to happen when she opened the door? Was the deliveryman going to think that she was deliberately enticing him and try to take liberties? Invite himself in? Had Nate given the man special delivery instructions?

No.

She had limits.

She watched through the curtains, until the deliveryman stopped waiting, set the floral arrangement on the stoop and left. It took longer than she expected.

When the street was clear, she opened the door and brought the arrangement inside.

She had meant exactly what she had said in her original written agreement with Nate -- no more and no less. She shed the bikini, dressed in her favorite sweat suit, sat at her desk and wrote a letter to Nate:

I have never agreed to exhibit myself in person to any one but you. Do not put me in such a situation again or our existing agreement regarding photography and video recordings will be rendered null and void.

She signed the note, put it in an envelope addressed to Nate at his office and mailed it immediately.

When he came home, he made no comment about the flower arrangement that was sitting prominently on the dining room table nor about her failure to answer the door.

They made love that night, but it was nothing special.

He would have received her note in the next couple of days, but he made no comment about that, either.

* * *

Nothing happened for the next two weeks.

Jocelyn was amazed to find that she was becoming impatient waiting for Nate to do something. She found herself getting up and checking her clothing with eager anticipation, hoping that she would find something special. And being deeply disappointed when she found her jeans and sweatshirt waiting, exactly as she had laid them out, morning after morning.

After a full fourteen days, she had to admit to herself that she had found a certain perverse enjoyment in performing for the hidden cameras.

She was an independent woman. It was time to show some initiative.

She spent the morning working as usual. At lunchtime, she went grocery shopping.

As soon as she came home, she deposited her groceries on the kitchen table, then went to the bedroom with her special new purchase.

She stripped off all her clothing, including her underwear, and put on a red checked gingham bib apron and red high heels with open toes.

She returned to the kitchen and baked two apple pies. When she rolled out the dough, she bent far over the table, sticking her naked ass out and letting the bib fall away from her breasts. They swung freely back and forth as she rolled the pin across the raw crust with exceptional vigor, first one way and then the other.

Before she peeled the apples, she polished each one on the bib of her apron, pushing her breasts around, forcing them to peek out the top and sides. When she sliced the apples and put them into the crust, she kissed some of the slices, slowly and deeply, almost fellating them. For each pie, she took the last slice, raised her apron, spread her legs, rolled her pelvis as far upward as possible, and rubbed it the length of her slit, wetting it with her womanly juices. Then she pushed it all the way inside herself before taking it back out and laying it on top of the other pieces.

These pies were made with love like no other pie Nate would ever be served.

After the pies were baked and cooling, she prepared the main meal.

She untied the bib of the apron and let it fall forward, freeing her breasts from their grossly inadequate concealment. She spread a liberal coating of olive oil over them, salted and peppered herself, and pressed mashed garlic on them. She took the small rib roast that she had purchased and rubbed it over her chest, squeezing her breasts with the meat, coating every side of the roast with the spiced oil. To be certain that it was properly prepared, she poured more oil on each breast and rubbed the roast over them again.

Next, each of a dozen new carrots was peeled, trimmed, and used as a dildo before it was put in a pot to boil.

Each piece of potato was given similar treatment before being put into another pot to be boiled and mashed.

This was the first time that Jocelyn had done anything overtly sexual for the hidden cameras. Until now, she had been no more than a Victoria's Secret Angel. Now she was making herself a porn star. That was more than Nate could do to her. It was something that she had to do to herself.

She felt wicked.

Wicked felt good.

When everything was cooking, she went back to the bathroom to shower and dress in her jeans and tee shirt for dinner.

She neglected to wear a bra.

When Nate came home, he fell onto the meal with a ravenous appetite, taking generous second helpings of everything.

Then he took her to bed and gave her a wonderful reward for her efforts.

She fell asleep immediately afterward.

When she got up the next morning, the dishes were done, the kitchen was spotless, and Nate was gone to work.

* * *

She cooked again on Saturday, but, this time, did not marinate the vegetables with her bodily fluids. Nate and she were having dinner guests.

Kate and Frank were good friends, not their closest friends, but people that they had known and whose company they had enjoyed for some years.

Except for meetings with clients every few weeks, Jocelyn's work was solitary. Nate had daily meetings with clients, but no close colleagues. Both needed a social life to have enough meaningful human contact so they were careful to nurture their relationships with their friends.

When Jocelyn had invited Kate and her husband for dinner and Kate had mentioned that her cousin, Kelly was staying with them for a couple of weeks, she had naturally told Kate to bring Kelly along.

Kelly turned out to be a man, ten years older than the rest of them. He tried hard to be friendly. Maybe a little too hard to be a little too friendly, especially to Jocelyn.

Over the main course of salmon, asparagus with orange sauce, and rice soubise, he praised her cooking more than it deserved, spent more time looking at her than at the rest of the company combined, and too often let his eyes stray down to her chest and linger there for too long.

She was wearing a pink sweater, not so tight as to be worthy of comment, but fitted well enough that he could easily assess the size and shape of her breasts, which were held in a natural position by a properly fitted bra.

Kelly toasted the chef three times, which was two times too many. Somehow, he could not restrain himself from toasting her every time he refilled his glass with the Riesling that she had served to accompany the fish.

She told herself that he was nervous about being the stranger at the table and was overcompensating. But he didn't look nervous, he looked interested. Interested in her, even though her husband was sitting at the other end of the table, watching every move that he made and listening to every word that he said.

As he was starting on his fourth glass of wine, now the German gewürztraminer that Kate had brought as a hostess gift, he said, "Nate is a lucky man to be married to such a delicious cook."

He was looking at her as he raised his glass. She did not consider this to be a toast and did not raise her own but replied, "I'm sure that he appreciates his luck." She smiled at her husband and he smiled back.

There was something in Nate's smile that she found difficult to interpret. A touch of the Mona Lisa.

She looked back to Kelly. "You're not married?" There was no ring on his finger, but that was not definitive.