tagExhibitionist & VoyeurA Creative Challenge Ch. 26

A Creative Challenge Ch. 26


I was just starting my second beer when I saw Amy come out of the elevator and walk across the corridor towards the entrance to the restaurant.

She was wearing a black floor length hooded silk cape wrapped right around her, with the hood up far enough to hide most of her hair but not her face. The cape was full and loose and flowed gently behind her as she walked, and was the sort of garment that in the movies would be used to disguise a medieval princess on the run from the king's enemies. In the final scene, the princess throws off her cape to reveal her identity and her royal finery, and the assembled multitude sinks to their collective knees all around her and swears allegiance. I looked around me at the assembly gathered in the bar, but it was a very thin and not very loyal-looking multitude, even for a Thursday night.

Amy was grinning like the cat that got the proverbial cream. It occurred to me for a moment that she might have decided not to bother with any of the other clothes I had bought for her, and that underneath the cape she was wearing exactly what she had worn to the opening of my art show. Exactly nothing.

She saw me watching her from my bar stool, and smiled her recognition, but she stopped just inside the door and waited for someone to notice her and to receive her. When the head waiter scurried over to her she spoke briefly, he nodded and gestured towards the bar. She flicked her hood back and stepped forward, turning slightly so that he would move behind her to take her wrap. As she opened her coat he took hold of the lapels and she shrugged it off her shoulders into his hands, and walked slowly towards me with a wide smile, her eyes locked on mine.

She was not naked under the wrap, but what she was wearing was so breathtakingly revealing that the effect was even sexier than if she had been as nude as she was on opening night. From low on her hips down to the floor, she was completely covered by a cream silk satin bias-cut skirt that hugged her hips and upper thighs like a wet t-shirt, then billowed out to a full hem just above the carpet. As she walked the silk clung to the thigh of her forward leg, describing the subtle curves of it down to her knee, then hiding it again as the other leg came forward to push against the material. The fabric was opaque but it flowed and rippled like liquid mercury, and was so fine you could have counted goosebumps through it.

The head waiter was standing behind her holding her coat, his mouth gaping. He stared mesmerised by her rear as she walked away from him, making no attempt to hang up her wrap. I envied him, for I knew that he had a perfect view through the silk of the way the muscles in each of her buttocks were propelling her forward, then transferring that responsibility to its twin as her hips tilted and she shifted her weight to the other leg. She carried herself erect and straight-backed with her arms relaxed at her sides.

Fastened with one small button around her neck was a sheer antique lace coverlet. This unusual garment would have originally been worn over a strapless evening gown and it went round the outside of her shoulders and hung down all round her upper torso to a little below nipple height. It was intended to modestly cover, but without at all concealing, a lady's shoulders and her cleavage and upper chest area.

It should have been buttoned behind the neck with the opening at the back, but Amy had chosen to wear it the other way round so that the fabric fell from the fastening like two small theatrical curtains not quite wide enough to fully cover her breasts, so the two edges of the lace were not able to meet except where they were buttoned at the top. She was bare, save for a single diamond belly-button stud, from the hollow at the base of her throat down to the top of her skirt several inches below her bejewelled navel. The flimsy lace coverlet was like a bridal veil for Amy's breasts, draped from her neck and shoulders and held out and open by the points of her clearly visible pink nipples, from where it hung down like a short valence almost but not quite to the crease where the bottom curve of her breasts met her ribcage. Her hair was piled up on top of her head and held with a couple of elaborate clips, and she wore no jewellery apart from the diamond.

She looked like an Egyptian queen stepping out of some ancient temple wall carvings, regal and magnificent.

When she was about three steps away from me, I made as if to stand up to greet her, then I thumped my right clenched fist to my heart and sank to one knee in front of her feet, head bowed.

"Sam? You OK?" she said with concern. As her hand came down towards me, I quickly straightened up, took it in mine, and kissed the back of it.

"Your Majesty," I said. "At your service."

"You idiot!" she said, a little annoyed. "I thought you were having a heart attack."

"I know. Sorry. Foolish thing to do. I promised you someone would have a cardiac arrest when you walked in, but there's no-one else in here with enough blood in their veins to appreciate your terrible beauty like I do."

She knew how good she looked, and my little act was a confirmation that pleased her. She smiled and inclined her head towards me in acknowledgement, much like the Queen of England might nod towards her subjects as she cruises past them in her Rolls.

"Drink?" I turned my head to look for the barman, but he was already behind me, waiting.

"Hello, Amy," he said.

"Hello, Charles." She turned to me. "Charles was the barman at La Belle Provence when I first started there. How have you been, Charles?"

"Never as good as I am right now standing here looking at you. You look sensational, Amy."

For the first time since the head waiter took her coat, I looked around at the other people in the bar and the adjoining restaurant. The place was only about half full, but all eyes were on Amy, and I could sense she knew it, even without checking for herself.

"Thank you, Charles. You can thank my man, Sam, for what I'm wearing tonight. Sam, I'd like you to meet Charles, who looked after me in my very first job when I knew absolutely nothing."

There it was again. 'My man'. Two words, but how they sent a thrill down my spine. Charles leaned across the bar to shake my hand.

"I think every man in here tonight would want me to offer you a drink on the house," he said. "What'll it be?"

Amy was keen to eat, so we took our champagne cocktails to the table with us. All of the waiters in turn found an excuse to bring something to our table. Menus, iced water, bread rolls, wine list, champagne glasses, all arrived in quick succession.

"Where did you find these gorgeous clothes, Sam?" said Amy, paying no attention to the attention her tits were getting from the waiters. "Sometimes you astonish me."

"I went shopping with Greta," I confessed. "But it was my idea to find you something unique to wear tonight," I added hastily, in case Greta got all the credit.

"I thought I could see Greta's influence at work this evening. She has exquisite taste, and knows all the best places. She's a good friend to you, Sam."

"And she thinks you're a pretty special person, too."

I decided to extend my confession, and give Greta some more of the credit she deserved. "She gave me a potch in tochis for not treating you as well as I should lately."

"She gave you a ...what?"

"It's what Greta said. According to her, it means a 'kick up the ass'. And I deserved it. Tonight is to let you know how much you mean to me."

Amy leaned across the table towards me, and spoke quietly. "Thank you. But if you don't call Marcel or whatever his name is over here right now so that we can order a meal I swear I will ask him to bring my coat back and I will hide these tits away under it for the rest of the night."

"Garçon! Venez ici! Maintenant!"

The whole room momentarily stopped looking at Amy's state of near toplessness to see what I was shouting about, while she surrendered to a fit of silent giggles. When she walked in, Amy was gliding like an angel as if her feet were not actually touching the ground, so her breasts were not bouncing at all, not even slightly. But now laughing inwardly, her whole chest was pulsating, which made both her breasts jiggle sweetly, which in turn made her little curtains dance around on the points of her puffy nipples. I resolved to try to make her laugh as often as I could, not just tonight, but all the time.

What happened next was like something out of a Three Stooges movie. When I shouted for a waiter to come here right now, one of them was already on his way towards us carrying an ice bucket with our bottle of Bollinger chilling in it. A second waiter between us and the bar stopped clearing a recently vacated table and headed in our direction. The head waiter, whose name really was Marcel, as Amy had obviously already found out, was at the main entrance and he practically ran towards our table, trying to get there before either of the others. He almost made it, but because the second waiter didn't know that he was being followed he wasn't expecting to have to suddenly stop moving when his floor boss jumped in front of him. They collided, Marcel spun round to wave his underling away, at which point his elbow clipped the arriving ice bucket, knocking it out of its carrier's hands and onto the table, where it flung a liter or so of freezing water and about forty ice cubes onto Amy's chest and down into her lap.

With a gasping intake of breath, Amy quickly stood up, depositing the ice cubes and the remaining water onto the floor. I would not have thought it was possible for the skirt to cling to her any more closely than it had before, but now that it was wet it sucked itself into every curve and crevice of her body as if it had been magnetized to her, and when Amy stood up straight, the now translucent silk satin concealed no more of her pussy lips than a second layer of skin would have done.

The three waiters were now doing a passable imitation of a waxworks show, frozen in shock at what they had done, and even more gob-smacked by the exquisite result. For a moment, each of them, with Amy, was locked into a wide-eyed tableau that could have been a Norman Rockwell cover for a raunchier version of the Saturday Evening Post.

Amy's hands were at waist level about two feet out from her body, and her head and neck were bent forward so that she could see the effect the iced water had had on her clothes. As usual when she is the center of shocked attention, Amy took control of the situation. She dropped her hands to her side and spoke calmly to Marcel.

He jumped like a startled rabbit at her voice, but clearly didn't hear what she said, so she repeated herself.

"I said, do you have a laundry in the hotel?"

"Of course. Madam, we are so sorry, we..."

She held up her hand to silence his apologies.

"Then please call housekeeping and have them take care of these for me. They can send them up to the room later."

As she said this, she reached up to the side of the skirt with one hand and slid down the short zip, without holding on to it, letting the weight of the wet silk drag itself down her legs to the floor. With the other hand, she undid the single button at her throat , and pulled the wet coverlet from around her shoulders, holding it out between one finger and her thumb in front of Marcel.

"Now, would you please have someone fetch my wrap."

The entire restaurant held its breath, until Marcel sprang into action, clapping his hands at the other waiters to get them moving at his orders.

"You, fetch the lady's coat. You, more champagne."

As Amy stepped out of her skirt he picked up the sodden garment and together with the lace top draped it over his arm like a napkin, motioning for us to follow him to a clean table. Amy followed, but not quickly. I knew she was enjoying this, and she wanted to savour every moment as she casually wove her naked way past several other diners towards the more private booth that Marcel was already standing beside. Amy slid in behind the table onto the banquette and I sat beside her. Marcel looked anxiously towards the entrance, willing the waiter to hurry up with the coat. It was obvious from the time it was taking that the other waiter had no idea which coat belonged to Amy, so Marcel made 'humph' noises a couple of times, excused himself, and scurried off.

"Getting my clothes soaking wet in public is becoming a habit," said Amy . "Remember the Mile High Club?"

"Till my dying breath," I assured her. "I won't forget tonight in a hurry, either."

"Did you have to bribe them to drop that ice bucket?"

"What... no, of course I didn't. You just tend to have a discombobulating effect on people around you, that's all."

"I'm not sure I should even ask what that means."

"It means when you arrive somewhere half naked, people lose the power of rational thought, they get confused and befuddled and tongue-tied. Like Marcel here."

The head waiter was back at our table with Amy's black cape, holding it in front of him as if he was about to help her to put it on, but Amy was sitting down and making no sign that she was about to stand up and put him at his ease. He had no idea what to do next.

"This... here...if you like...madam...please..."

"See what I mean?" I said.

Amy was trying hard not to laugh at the poor man, as he attempted to say something coherent while he stared at her tits, but the longer she sat there, the more distressed he became. Eventually, she took pity on him.

"Thank you, you can leave it here," she said pointing to the seat beside her. "But... madam..."

He was pleading with his eyes for her to give him closure on this unfortunate incident, but she didn't feel that sorry for him, and pointed again to the seat where she wanted him to put the cloak.

"Thank you, Marcel, I'll take care of it. Now, can you please bring us two large medium-rare pepper steaks before I faint from lack of nourishment. I'm so hungry I could eat the crotch out of a low-flying duck."

Marcel looked as if someone had slapped him in the face, but he finally got the message, laid the coat down, nodded, and hurried away.

"You always look so elegant, even when you have no clothes on, that it's almost more shocking when you say something as vulgar as that," I said to her, impressed.

"I know. Fun, isn't it? I really was going to put the coat on, but now I'm not, so pass me that spare napkin, please Sam."

"You're not going to cover yourself with that, are you?"

"Of course not. I need something to sit on, I'm so horny I'm already leaking onto this posh upholstery."

Amy lifted her backside enough for me to slide a napkin under it. As she sat down again, I left my hand under her buttocks, with my middle finger bent upright. It sank into her pussy up to the second knuckle. She was right about how wet she was.

"Wow, this seat is a lot nicer to sit on than you would think to look at it," she said, as her eyes widened a little.

We sat in silence for a few minutes. Amy sat upright in the dual seat, her eyes closed, her hands in her lap. To an observer, she appeared to be meditating. Below table level, my finger and the muscles in the wall of her vagina were having a quiet conversation, consisting of reciprocal but tiny movements, squishy little wiggles on my part, small squeezings on hers.

More champagne arrived, and we wordlessly toasted each other with a clink of our flutes.

"I've been thinking for some time about how much fun it is to be outrageous, but also why, when I get naked in public like tonight, sometimes it makes me feel incredibly sexy, and sometimes it doesn't – well, it always does to some extent, but sometimes less so, if you know what I mean."

"And what's the answer?"

"I think it's best when it's not all my fault. When it's not just me saying "look at me, everyone". When it's not just me deciding to show off, but it just happens, you know?"

"Like on the plane, and you had to get back to your seat in that wet t-shirt?"

"Exactly, and like when those two policemen turned up and you let them in on Tracey and me naked. That was huge, for me. I didn't know that was going to happen, and I loved that."

"More than your opening night stunt in the gallery?"

"I think so, yes. You see, I was ready for that night. I was the one who planned it, and it happened, and it was great, but it would have been more of a thrill for me if I had just been there not having anything planned and you had said to me "take your clothes off, now"."

"Would you have done it?"

"Of course."

"So if ever I say to you "Showtime", you'll just take your clothes off?"


"Wherever? Whenever?"

She thought for a moment.


"I didn't think you would ever let yourself be so controlled by anyone, not even me," I said, somewhat surprised at her willingness to be so obedient.

"Don't get me wrong, Sam, I don't want to be your slave. I'm just talking about a flashing game that I would choose to play with you, to make what I like to do anyway just that little bit more exciting."

"More exciting than this?" I said, wiggling my finger a little.

"The most exciting thing that could happen right now would be two plates full of pepper steak," she replied, changing the subject. "But you tickling my cunt is running a close second," she admitted.

Eventually, Marcel gave up expecting Amy to cover herself. Few of the other diners could see into our booth, and a topless patron was certainly making a dull Thursday evening more exciting for all the table staff. Eventually they served our meals, which I discovered later were on the house as an apology for the dramas with the ice bucket. Eventually, Amy had eaten enough of her steak to stop complaining about how hungry she was, and eventually I had to take my finger out of her pussy, because I couldn't cut and eat my own steak with only one hand.

Reluctantly, Amy wrapped the cloak around her when it was time to leave the restaurant. As Marcel explained to me at the desk why there was no bill for me to sign, Amy said goodbye to Charles and walked over to the elevator. She pressed the 'down' button, and the car arrived when I was halfway across the lobby. As the doors opened, she was facing them, and suddenly I could see her looking at me in the mirrored rear wall of the elevator. I silently mouthed the word "Showtime", and almost instantly, I was looking at Amy's naked backside again, and behind it, a reflection of her smiling face. I picked up the black garment from where it had fallen, and followed her into the elevator car.

I could get to like this game, I thought.

[Author's note:

I started to write this series, just for fun, some time ago. I had the first 18 chapters complete before I started submitting any of it to this site. The first instalment was published at the beginning of January 2006, and as I submit this at the end of that month you have almost caught up with me on Chapter 26, so I have only written eight more in the last four weeks. It's been an interesting journey, but future postings will of necessity be less frequent. If you have been following my characters, please be patient with me, I have a day job to look after as well.

Beyond the first chapter, none of this story has been planned (which really shows when I look back on it). At first, I let my characters chart their own erratic course. Several times I have tried to put an end to their relationship, but each time they – nearly always Amy, but sometimes Sam - have not behaved as I expected and intended them to, taking their story onwards into new areas.

Has anyone any suggestions how best to finish this story of Sam and Amy? I have never written fiction before, and I would like to know that I was trying to steer them towards a destination that neither of them would object to, and from which they will not derail me. I can't guarantee that my characters will take anyone else's advice (why should they when they don't always take mine?), but I would be grateful for your ideas.

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