Exhibitionist's Apartment - Ch. 01-03

I have been working on the one for some time now and have divided the story into chapters. All participants are over eighteen years of age.

Chapter 1 -- The Apartment

I was starting my next to last year of high school (grade 12 here in Ontario) and was incredibly excited about it. I had just turned 19 on September 2 and had an two years of football eligibility left - I had missed the August 31 age limit cut off. I had had a great year last season on the gridiron and this season promised to be even better. I was a big kid -- the two inches I had grown this summer put me at 6'4" and my constant working out had filled out my 235 pound frame into a muscular one. Although shy, I was proud of my physique. And my new cock. Without a word of a lie, it was now well over 11" and it never ceased to amaze me just how long and thick it got when it set it's mind to it. Although still a virgin, I had fantasies about a blossoming sex life yet to come in my new apartment. The testosterone was definitely flowing.

My parents had allowed me to set up my own studio apartment in the basement as an 18th birthday gift and it was just finished last spring. A separate side door entrance allowed me to come and go pretty much as I pleased. As long as I checked in with them on a regular basis and ate supper with them upstairs periodically, they left me to my own devices. The best feature of the apartment was the expensive corner steam shower unit I had convinced them I needed. With a four foot radius, the curved sliding door gave me plenty of room for a partner to join me. Not what my parents had envisioned I'm sure, but one that I lived in hope of fulfilling.

As a studio apartment, it was really just one large room with only the toilet and sink behind a closed door. The king-sized bed shared the space with both the shower, kitchenette and the stairs descending from the side door landing. A table and chairs served for both eating and studying and a loveseat rounded out the furnishings. A chest of drawers and a dresser substituted for closets. I had also scored a heavy duty second hand massage table that I left set up under the stairs, easy enough to pull out when needed. I was a big guy but the apartment was roomy.

It was apparent early on that the living space offered no privacy for changing. This was, of course, only a problem when I had guests over, but I remained optimistic. A last minute addition had been a bi-fold, three panel screen on wheels that I had found at a second hand store. The three panels consisted of fully framed two-way mirrors that were reflective from the one side and transparent from the other. It was a sturdy setup and could be wheeled out of the corner into place easily and stood at just under five feet in height and six feet wide. It was meant to offer a modicum of modesty in an apartment with no walls.

With three panels and it's five foot height, it did a poor job of actually screening me when I needed to change. The panels could be angled to allow a two or three-sided reflection, but any background light made them transparent from the reverse side. I hadn't realized it when I purchased it, but the bright light above the dresser served the purpose admirably. With it on, I might as well have been disrobing in front of a pane of glass for anyone watching from the room.

I was developing into an exhibitionist before I knew what an exhibitionist was. In three years of school, I had grown from 5'9" and 145 lbs. to 6'4" and 235 (Canada hadn't gone metric yet). Everything seemed to be growing along with my physique : my football prowess, my self admiration, my burgeoning fantasy life and my cock. I was so proud of myself that I imagined that everyone else felt the same way too.

We lived close to the school so my parents got used to seeing my football teammates and our friends coming and going during the season. They reasonably set "visiting hours" from 8 AM to 9 PM during the season which was meant to ensure that I got to bed at a reasonable time. Our coach was adamant that we avoid having girlfriends during the season as they were a source of distraction and sapped our strength. Although we all grumbled about it, I was secretly relieved because I was really too shy to court. I was a virgin and was desperate to hide the fact.

Chapter 2 -- The Audience

I first realized that I had acquired an audience at the apartment the Saturday morning before school started. Labour Day weekend. There was a small sliding window above the sink in the apartment which was always open during warm weather. It was the only source of natural light in the kitchen and offered an unobstructed view of the entire apartment interior from our backyard.

As I was preparing for a shower that morning, I noticed a shadow cross the angled light pattern on the floor. I heard the faintest hint of whispering coming from that direction. I had the presence of mind to avoid looking up as it dawned on me immediately that someone was peeping on me. I had no idea who it might be, but I found it incredibly exciting that someone wanted to spy on me. Any modesty I might have felt melted away -- I wasn't going to miss this opportunity to expose myself, here in my apartment.

My cock was already stiffening -- within moments of realizing I was being watched it had sprung to life. I slowed everything down as I wanted to savour every minute. I turned to present a side-on profile as I opened the shower door and turned on the water, knowing that my growing erection would best be appreciated from this angle. I took my time testing the water temperature before stepping into the shower, stroking my cock to it's fully erect state as I did so. As I slid the glass door closed, I realized that the clear glass panels were steaming up and that the view from the window would be obscured.

With no idea of who it might be peeping, I fantasied that it was Marjorie -- the head cheerleader who was often the object of my masturbatory dreams. She was a knockout (a blonde bombshell) and had a "reputation". She was the acknowledged Alpha of the mean girls at school and had been flirting with me at a Spirit Rally the previous weekend. My shyness in public prevented me from taking things any further at that moment, but in the comfortable confines of my own apartment here and now, there were no lack of self confidence. Whoever it was that was peeping, they were hoping to see me naked and I was not going to disappoint - a surge of wanton abandon overtook me.

This was the first time that I had been aware of being spied on and it was an incredible turn on. I couldn't help but to soap up my right hand and have at it, beating my meat furiously, knowing that whoever was peeping was unlikely to have counted on catching me putting on a performance for them. I used a washcloth in my left hand to wipe down the glass panel closest to my audience as my right hand worked it's magic. I was used to a more leisurely pace to my masturbation, but my frenetic speed here resulting in a spattering of my cum all over the glass panel closest to the window within moments.

I had to catch myself to prevent from collapsing, winded by the intensity of my orgasm. Slowly recovering, I used the handheld nozzle to clean up my mess, my erection slow to diminish. As I exited the shower and towelled myself dry, I took a furtive glance at the window. Whoever it was, they were no longer there, so I was left to wonder who it might have been. Marjorie was just a wild presumption, wishful thinking on my part. Truth was, it could have been anybody. I also realized that by wiping down the glass panel while beating my meat, I had given away the fact that I knew someone was spying on me.

Some of the senior ladies at school had become quite taken with my physique, finding excuses to touch and caress my muscular arms or chest whenever they got the chance. Crowded hallways at school gave them the opportunity to pinch my butt and my newly acquired endowment was whispered about quite openly. Many of the newly minted adult women at school were bragging to each other that they had witnessed my 11" manhood personally, but none of it was true. I was a closet virgin and hadn't had an intimate girlfriend let alone a hand job.

I checked out the area around the window later that day and determined that my audience consisted of at least two because of the distinctly separate sets of footprints left behind. I had heard whispering. Over the next few weeks, whoever they were, they were coming to peep on me on a weekly basis. My parents were always out of the house early Saturday mornings, so there was no chance of them getting caught unless it was by me. I had no intention of catching them. I did, however, make sure that there was an unobstructed view from the window and that the shower glass panels were cleaned with "Fog Off", a commercial product that kept the glass from steaming up. I began to keep the apartment clean and clutter free (to my mother's amazement) to keep any distractions to a minimum for the best possible impression for my audience. I began to plan Saturday morning escapade for their viewing pleasure ahead of time.

I was discovering a new me. I had always been shy and retiring with girls my age and my growth spurt hadn't changed that. But my hard work in the weight room had chiselled my 6'4" frame into a muscular one and I often found myself admiring my physique in the mirror. I was amazed at my new endowment too and I caught myself playing with it on a regular basis. Eventually, I would develop a more adult outlook and self confidence, but at 19 I was immature. Here and now, knowing that I had an audience was not the intimidating experience I might have expected. In the privacy of my own space, quite the opposite was true -- I was bold and daring, completely comfortable with my exhibitionist self.

Chapter 3 -- The Massage Therapist

Early in the football season, I pulled a hamstring during practice. It wasn't particularly serious, but it did prevent me from finishing the workout. Coach was concerned enough to make arrangements for his 26 year-old niece Sarah to drop by the apartment that evening for some hands-on therapy. She was a Registered Massage Therapist and my parents had extended health benefits that would pay for two one-hour sessions per week, with a doctor's prescription. Coach used his contacts with the Toronto Argonauts (a professional football team in the CFL) to get that prescription. He told me that he expected me to follow her directions unquestioned.

Sarah called me later that afternoon to arrange our first session that evening. When I told her that I already had a massage table here and that it would be unnecessary for her to bring her own portable one, she sounded quite pleased and suggested that the savings in setup time could be added to our "table time". She would arrive fifteen minutes early to fill out the paperwork and asked that I be freshly showered for our session. When she determined that I had a space heater available, she asked me to make sure that I had turned it on beforehand to ensure the area was toasty warm.

Ten minutes before the appointed time, there was a forceful knock at the door. I had just stepped out of the shower and was just drying myself off. I wrapped a towel around my waist and climbed the stairs to meet her at the side door, a bit peeved that I wasn't really ready. However, I was immediately impressed by the sight that greeted me - she was an amazon! Close to six feet tall, she had a curvy, muscular physique that was accentuated by her business attire -- a tight-fitting, knee-length skirt and translucent blouse that did little to hide her overall muscularity. Despite the otherwise conservative attire, she was a vision to behold. She carried a large makeup kit that appeared heavy, but handled it with ease.

She was taken aback by my near naked appearance at the door to greet her if her quick intake of breath was any indication, but she quickly recovered. She had been forewarned that I had a muscular and chiselled physique, but it appeared that she was in awe as she looked me up and down with an appreciative appraisal. She apologized for her early arrival, explaining that she had been downtown for a job interview and hadn't left herself enough time to get home and change. She had her equipment with her, but no uniform. I invited her in, suggesting that I might find something appropriate for her to wear.

As we descended the stairs, she noticed and was pleased that the massage table was already set up, the space heater heating the immediate area. A wave of warmth rose to meet us as we descended - the space heater was doing an admirable job of removing any chill from the air. I noticed her reaction and asked if she wanted it turned down. Her response was an emphatic NO, commenting that the temperature was ideal. I had borrowed a fitted flannelette sheet from mom for the table and had several large clean towels available -- we were ready to go.

As we sat down and exchanged pleasantries, her demeanor was a bit gruff and off putting -- a no nonsense approach that made it clear that she was the one in charge and that we were there for a purpose and under her direction. We had some things to go over beforehand and she appeared very focused. She had me stand up and turn around directly in front of her while she appraised my pulled hamstring and other areas for her to concentrate on during our session. She used the opportunity to unashamedly feel and manipulate my muscular thigh, having me flex and contract at her direction, both front and back. As she assessed the extent of my injury, she asked questions about my prep before practice and asked me to demonstrate some of my stretches. I was immodestly draped and she was not shy - I was getting turned on by her close and indiscrete inspection and my cock was beginning to stir.

As we wrapped up the preliminaries and I sat back down, my now stiffening rod was growing, slowly tenting the towel. It was obvious that she was aware, but she carried on with our discussions, in no particular hurry it seemed. She went on that although she was looking forward to working with a brawny specimen like me, she told me that it was going to be hard work on her part and that there would be considerable discomfort for me as she would be doing some deep tissue work. She had brought some tools of the trade with her to make her job easier and her manipulations more effective. I was having a difficult time concentrating on what she was saying, my attention focused on the tantalizing glimpses of her magnificent cleavage that her loose fitting blouse offered.

I snapped out of my daydream when she asked if there was someplace to change. I took her over to the dresser and offered her a choice of sleeveless tank tops from the top drawer - she chose a thin white one of ribbed cotton. It was tight enough that she wasn't going to swim in it. I wheeled the mirrored screen into place to give her privacy (or so she thought) and retired to the sofa. As I sat down, the knot let go and I barely recovered in time, my growing manhood momentarily exposed. I had no doubt that Sarah had noticed, but she was gracious enough to carry on without reacting, anxious to get on with our session. I was directly in line with her, hoping that she would turn the light above the dresser on.

When she did so, the two-way mirrors on the screen did their magic. Reflective for her, transparent for me. She could see me too as her head was well above the top edge of the screen and she carried on with a detailed description on our first session together. It was apparent that she was unaware that I could see her perfectly as she immediately unbuttoned her skirt, stepping out of it gingerly as she then draped it over the dresser. Her blouse then followed, her melon-sized breasts defying gravity as her platform bra slipped off. Her matching panties revealed a trimmed pussy when they were discarded as well.

It was like a personal strip tease. When she removed her stockings and was now completely nude, she remained unaware that she was completely exposed to my gaze. She was carrying on with our discussion, but I was hard-pressed to maintain eye contact, her physique completely enthralling. She told me that she had brought an e.m.s. (electrical muscle stimulation) unit with her -- a relatively new technology that used padded electrodes attached to the skin to stimulate the large muscle groups such as thighs, torso and legs. She had just acquired the portable machine and was anxious to give it a go, before the actual hands-on, oily portion of the therapy could begin.

As she slipped the tank top on over her head and slipped her arms through the proper openings, she tugged the shirt into place, down over her hips. The hem was barely mid thigh. Finished with her prep, she tweaked her nipples (unaware that I could see her doing so) and turned out the light. Satisfied, she stepped out from behind the screen and went on that she wanted to start today's session with the e.m.s. on my hamstrings, before the use of any oil to ensure a proper electrical connection. She wasn't quite sure on the exact placement of the electrodes, so she casually informed me that we were going to forego the usual draping requirements of a professional massage.

It would have been a hindrance to using the e.m.s. and to the long, full body length strokes that she was planning to incorporate at the end of the session. She went on that although draping was always a requirement for her clients, her uncle (my coach) had arranged our introduction personally, so we would waive the draping for the sake of efficiency. She didn't ask, just let me know. There was an immediate sense of the conspirator on my part, like we were sharing in an implicit taboo. I understood that mum was the word. I was under her direction and I found it exhilarating to relinquish control to her.

All of this was a blur to me until she had me lie facedown on the table. I was having a tough time getting comfortable adjusting my stiffening cock into position when she promptly tugged on and removed the towel I had wrapped around my waist, baring my ass cheeks. She took a moment to roll the towel tightly into an improvised bolster, then indicated for me to prop myself up and off the table so that she could place the bolster under my midriff at my waist. It was immediately more comfortable, my crotch now elevated several inches above the surface of the table, my semi-erection comfortably dangling freely.

The e.m.s. controller had two leads, each with two electrode pads, enabling her to stimulate both hamstrings at the same time. With the muscle mass of each of my thighs, she would have to place them carefully -- one at the site of the injury and another at the corresponding spot on the other hamstring. She gently parted my thighs wider as she placed the grounding leads on their corresponding inner thighs. I was thrilled at just how exposed I was. She did a good job of placing the leads correctly on her first crack at it and she was pleased to see the my hamstrings twitching when she applied the current.

The e.m.s. pulses had another, more sensual effect as well. The rhythmic contractions of my inner thighs had an indirect but stimulating effect on my shaft, which was hanging out in the same neighborhood. By the time the 10 minutes were up and Sarah asked me to turn over for a similar treatment of the quads, I was fully erect, my glans waving at the ceiling. She let out a long, slow breath as she propped up the table so that I was now in a semi-prone position, able to watch her comfortably as she proceeded to reposition the electrodes. She carried on a light banter as she explained her purpose here, her hands trembling as she fumbled with the pads on my massive quads. It took three attempts on her part to position them correctly.