tagExhibitionist & VoyeurGood Man Pt. 03

Good Man Pt. 03

byOliviaLocke©

Morning comes and I wonder what became of the night. Erin's alarm clock reads 8:24 and I've slept like a rock. I pad to the ensuite, try to be quiet, wonder at the woman who's naked on the bed, whose sole goal is to keep me from orgasm. It's a strange way to keep a man.

I ponder that while I pee. But I am here, in her condo, in her bathroom, and I have no thoughts of ducking out because I'm willing—no, looking forward—to experience what she's going to do to me next. It's a marked departure from the women, girls, I've dated and bedded in the past. Mostly, I'd been itching to get away from them. This one knows what she wants and I'm dying to see what that is.

I shiver, wash my hands, the water warm but the thought that runs through me is cold. Do I want to see this, or her, through? Do I really want to see what she's capable of, what I will take, where this will end?

On my way back to her bed I stop mid-floor. She's still asleep. It's warm so the covers are down by her feet. She's indistinguishable from the myriad girls I've awakened to. Her body is still young. But it's her mind that differentiates her from any of the others. I crawl in and she rolls to me, gives me a quick kiss and goes to bathroom.

Watching her, I realize last night's play is still with me. I'm normally easy to arouse in the morning. But this is different, more insistent, obvious now that I'm awake. I can't begin to imagine a week of this. I'd be—. I don't know what I'd be.

Erin slips back into bed, snuggles into me. "Well?"

"I slept well."

"Darn, I was hoping you'd be too worked up to sleep." She slips a hand between us, holds me. "Nice."

"It's coming back to me," I say. Also coming back, something else other than getting hard because her fingers feel wonderful. "I don't know how to say this, or even if I should, but..." If I do, will she think it's contrary to her needs? "I keep thinking of how hard you came."

"Jealous?"

"In a way."

"Tell you what, getting you to come that hard will be my raison d'être. But, just so you know, what you saw is not me either, normally."

"Are you saying it's me?" I'm hoping.

"Obliquely."

"Directly, now."

"Don't worry, you'll see stars if it's the last thing I do. But it won't be this morning."

Yet, she's fondling me, arousing me. The whole conversation adds to her fingers' touch. I reach between her legs and she shifts to make it easier, legs open, hot.

"But," she says, "I had planned to let you come this morning."

Had? "But?"

"I've changed my mind. You want intensity, you'll get intensity. But it'll be my way, by my rules." She pushes me to my back, releases my cock. "Show me what a good man looks like."

"On my own?"

"What, you're embarrassed to play with yourself in front of me?"

I take myself in hand. I'll be on edge soon, dying to come but letting someone else dictate whether that cum actually spews. All I can do is take it, feel my balls go achy, watch my desire go through the roof, satisfaction denied.

She slips out of bed. "Keep yourself hard." I watch her go to her walk-in closet, disappear inside, return with a gown. "I have a spare ballet ticket. Can I pick you up at two?"

"A matinee?" I'm not with it, just frustrated, half in the now, half wanting my come, half anticipating what she can drive me to. I know, it doesn't add up. Neither does wanting to be denied.

"Yes, a matinee. And take-out on the way home. We'll see where the evening goes after that. Now keep that thing hard while I dress."

She tosses her clothes on the bed. A bra, panties, stay-ups, a black skirt, a green blouse, and puts them on while watching me. The more clothing she puts on, the more turned on I become. It's like I'm caught masturbating. But instead of admonishing me, the woman likes it. Obviously, it works for me too.

Dressed, she pushes my feet wide apart. "From now on, that's the way I want you when you play. None of this hiding-from-me stuff." She crosses her arms. "How close can you get?"

I'm already close. Dripping. But I push it a bit more, then quickly slow, stop, because I can feel the cum begin its journey. It takes a few long seconds before it decides which way to go. I'm going to have to monitor myself more closely. But man, did it feel good.

"Nice," she says. "Do it again."

Three times she commands that I get to the edge. Three times I get there and stop, cum an instant from release as she watches me suffer. The feeling between my legs defies description. I've never dripped this much pre-cum, for so long. Everything down below is tingling, tense, on a precipice I never knew existed. And my heart races. My mind, however, wonders how it's holding on to control.

She takes my hands away. "Fix us breakfast."

It's not fair to deny a man so close to coming. I get up, still hard, still needy, a dull ache radiating between my legs, getting ready to dress.

"No clothes," she says, grinning, then pushes me back on the bed. "My turn first."

I cook eggs, slice ham, make toast, coffee and pour orange juice. She sits at the table dressed for the day, served by a naked man. I fill my plate and join her.

"How was it?" I say.

"Exquisite," she says. "Don't let this get to your head, the little one, but I like when you—" She looks straight at me. "I've never told this to anyone, but, what you did to me works."

When her orgasm seemed imminent, I pushed my tongue, hard, against the tip of her clit. No mercy. I'd felt her try to shift away but held her in place. When she came it was—

"Don't listen to me if I tell you to stop," she says.

"My revenge."

"I see. I guess I deserve it." She eating again, lifts her head, turns to me. "When you're done, go home. I'll pick you up at one."

When I close my apartment door, a cold silence envelops me. It's not as welcoming as it normally. It's alien. Usually, when returning from some easy conquest, my place is a refuge, an oasis of peace and serenity. I can recharge and hunt again, the thrill of the next conquest heady, invigorating. With Erin, I'm conquering myself.

I sit and stare out of the window a good long time. I replay our entire time together. The bar—her bar. The waitress, white panties exposed, rounding nicely over her plump lips when she bent over. Erin's reaction to me watching her. Her need to deny me, to use me, my mouth, so she gets her orgasms. Three of them. And one more while I kept myself hard on the bed, her hand under her skirt, playing with herself through her panties, nearly buckling to the floor when orgasm hit. That had nearly sent me over. I liked it when she came, when she used me to turn herself on, when she slipped off her panties and straddled my face, her lips hot, wet, her order clear. "Stay on the edge but don't dare come."

She kissed me on the way out the door, a passionate, loving kiss. But sad too. As if she'd gambled and it hadn't paid off. "You will be there for ballet," she'd said, not quite a question, but one anyway.

"I will," I'd said, then kissed her to signal I meant it.

I still do.

My cell rings just before one. She's here, waiting in her car. I'm clean, showered. And shaved down below.

That order came about eleven, by text. Since I'm shaved, you should be too

I responded after a few long seconds with: I will

The result feels weird, as if my underwear doesn't quite fit, isn't mine, my cock and balls oddly vulnerable. I press G and head down, dressed in a near-black suit, ready for the ballet and whatever else this woman wants. Frankly, I haven't been so distracted by someone in a long, long time. If ever.

The elevator doors open and I quickly scan the driveway, wondering what expensive piece of chrome and metal this women drives. I see her, her new SUV—a Chevy Equinox, nothing special, nothing befitting her wealth—and wave.

She kisses me as soon as I enter. That underlying sadness surfaces again. She's glad I've come, glad to have me for another few hours, glad I haven't stood her up, but... When we drive off I look at her. In profile, she still looks my age. Her hair is wavy, a few strategic strands gliding diagonally across her face, the rest bouncing along as we go, resting on her shoulders. Her coat is more expensive than my suit, her evening dress sparkles green and blue and dollars in the sunlight.

"Stop that," she says.

I turn away. "I'm happy to be here," I say. "And I still want that walk in the sand."

There's a smile now, a real one, then it fades, her eyes blinking too much, and a hand up to wipe one eye, then the other.

"I'm sorry," I say.

She shakes her head. "No, I'm the one who should be." She reaches over for my hand, takes it, holds on for dear life. "I'm just a bit shell-shocked, that's all. I thought..."

There's no more.

At the entrance to the theatre, a valet takes her car and she takes me in past the queue of patrons to one of the ticket takers who smiles and slides aside to let us through.

"No ticket?" I say, then get it, diverting my attention to the carved steel plaque bolted prominently on the lobby wall. Her name is number two in the Builder's list—there are only four. "I see."

"And if you're wondering, you're not this week's boy-toy."

She's recovered enough to say this without emotion. "That's not what I was thinking."

"Oh?"

I face her, hold both her hands. "I know you like me more than... What I'm trying to say is—" I take a breath. "I mean, your ways are not putting me off. Rather, they're..."

"I'm a complicated woman, that way. I know what I want. It's finding my complement that's been the problem. One that's a good man in the traditional sense too." She glances away, then back. "Are you that person?"

"So far."

"So you will walk in the sand with me?"

"I suppose I will."

"Good." She looks down. "And?"

"Bare, as you requested."

"And?"

I shrug. "I hope you'll like it."

She smiles broadly. "Can't wait," she says as the lights flash.

The box we occupy—we're alone on it—is one of the two best ones. Figures. It has its own private entrance and a young girl in uniform who wants to know if we would like drinks. Erin orders for both of us and we sit. "Nice," I say. From here, we overlook the stage a bit, stage right. There are two matching boxes, stage left.

The program says this is a modern ballet, the choreographer a member of the company. This is his third ballet for the company, the previous two successful beyond expectations. He's a star in the ballet world.

I face Erin. "You realize I don't know the first thing about ballet. I don't know the language." Translation: I'll get lost, the story beyond my ability to decipher. I'm embarrassed to admit it.

"Don't worry. It's pretty girls and athletic men showing off. How bad can it be?"

"I thought you got off on this stuff."

"I do. But I also 'get off,' as you say, on many other things. You, for instance."

But in on sense, I don't get off, just want to. "Too bad reciprocity has taken a back seat."

"Feel hard done by?" she says, grinning.

"Just hard."

I watch for a reaction. None. Then it comes. "What's wrong with that?" she says.

"I don't know yet."

"Listen, I know what you want. And you'll get it when I'm good and ready."

Our private waitress returns, serious whiskeys in hand. I hold mine up to the light. "If these keep coming, there'll be nothing going on down there at all." I taste. "Nice."

She puts her hand directly on my cock. "Very nice."

The conductor strides in and the audience erupts. The orchestra fires up, tunes, and plays the prelude. Then the curtain rises and there's absolutely nothing on the stage.

"Now what?" I whisper.

She turns to me, pecks my cheek, says, "What would you rather see, a fancy set or sexy dancers?"

"You, naked on a bed." Preferably on her knees, ass up and inviting, so I can plunge into her hot cunt and get the release I need.

"Your wish is my command."

Easy to say. The reality is that it is her commands that carry sway. And right now, lights down, her hand shifting back and forth across my cock, emptying into her is getting more attractive by the second despite the whiskey.

The dancers are amazing. Their skill is mind-boggling. The principal dancers are in love, celebrate that love, and have a falling out just before the curtain falls for the intermission. I actually get it.

"I'd be too exhausted for the second half," I say. "I assume they'll reconnect and have to dance up a storm to tell the world."

"Is take-out okay for dinner?"

What? "Of course."

"Good." She digs into her purse, finds her cell, dials. "I'm going to the ladies. When the girl comes, order more booze."

The menu remains a mystery, lost to the walls of the ladies. The girl comes for the empty glasses and returns with seconds before Erin does.

"What happened to you?" I say when she does show.

"Sometimes negotiating is a bitch."

"Especially for someone who's adverse to it."

"Are you calling me difficult?"

"Dictatorial maybe," I say, "but not difficult."

"We'll see where that attitude gets you."

I make a smock-sour face. "So far, no matter what my attitude has been, I've gotten nowhere."

"And that's just where you'll stay."

Act II is more of the same, sort off, except the dancers are emotionally apart but in reality perform a complicated pas de deux that requires the utmost in coordinated skill. When they finally become one it's explosive and emotional. Love translates well in any language.

Erin wipes tears away. I'm not sure if it's sadness or happiness. I'm not going to ask. I hold her hand, say nothing, lead her out through the crowd and out. Her car is waiting, the valet holding the driver's door open. He hands her the keys which she immediately gives to me. I look at her, puzzled.

"What," she says, "you won't drive my car?"

"What happened in there?"

"I was happy for them, that's all."

"You're sticking to that?"

"You talk too much," she says, dismisses me, smiling at the same time, and sits in the passenger seat. "To my bar."

"Really? You don't eat there often enough?" The food's good but I'd rather get food from somewhere else.

"Just drive."

Something's up. So I drive wondering what it is. But I'm not rejected. Yet.

Parked, she says, "Listen, I'm glad you're in tune with me enough to know something's bothering me. If you weren't...well, we'd be done, wouldn't we?"

"I suppose."

"So I'm happy we're not."

"I reach over, kiss her cheek, say, "I like you."

"Like?"

"This is not a two hour ballet. I haven't even had an intermission. Give it time."

"I'm afraid you'll get impatient with me, with...with what we're doing."

"Sexually?"

She nods staring straight ahead. She's afraid of what she'll see if she looks at me. Afraid I'll show disappointment. Or indifference.

I reach over and take her hand. "Listen, I haven't had so much fun in a...ever."

"I'm not pushing too hard?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I don't know how I'll react to more. To longer. It's not what I'm used to." Inside, two things happen. I'm hardening. The thoughts of coming only when she wants me to is thrilling. And I'm feeling close to her, loving. I pull her hand over to me, to my lap, push her fingers against me. "But it's obvious what my cock thinks about it."

"What about that walk on the beach?"

"I want those too."

She pulls away, hands on her own lap, fingers intertwined around her phone. "I want to try something, if you don't mind."

If I don't mind? I lean over, my lips to her ear, whisper, "Don't ask me, or hint, just go ahead and do. I'll let you know it it doesn't work, promise."

"Free reign?"

"Yes."

"And when you decide you've had enough?"

"You're a bright girl," I say. "Find out where that place is and stay just shy of it."

She stares.

My heart is racing. I've never said anything like this to another person, let alone to someone who might act on it. Actually, to someone I want to act on it. "Just do it."

She messages. The recipient is someone called Mackenzie. The message says: We're here

"Who's Mackenzie?"

"Our out-of-uniform waitress."

"Oh."

She faces me. "I never thought you'd want this."

This is why she's shell-shocked. "Neither did I. But you were hoping."

"I was."

"What did you see in me that night that made you think I would?"

"I don't know. Maybe it was just something as simple as wanting to see your face after I denied you."

"You've seen that face—how do you like it?"

She reaches over to my lap, presses down, confirms I'm aroused. "About as much as you did."

The door to the bar opens, our waitress, Mackenzie, exits, takeout bags in hand. "Our food," I say.

Erin rolls down her window, takes the bags, says, "Busy?"

Mackenzie shrugs, the wind blowing her hair across her face. "The usual," she says, trying to manage the hair. She leaves us and the wind takes her kilt. A narrow strip of white climbs up her cheeks.

Erin faces me, disappointed.

"What happened?"

She shrugs. "I asked her to do something for us."

"And?"

"And she's refused."

Mackenzie opens the bar door, hesitates, lets the door closed and returns to us. She puts her arms along the window sill. "That's what you like, isn't it, to keep him hard?"

"Yes."

"Explain."

"I haven't let him come once, so he gets hard easy now. I'd like to make it worse."

Makenzie looks me over, still no expression, as if she's afraid to show any emotion, emotion that might betray something she holds dear. "And you think I can help with that?"

"Will you come with us, to serve?"

"To show off."

It's not a question.

"Don't tell me you wouldn't love a chance to drive him crazy?" says Erin.

"And drive you crazy too?"

Erin stops cold. The two women lock eyes, each daring the other to reveal more. I want to hear Erin's answer as much as Mackenzie does. I take her hand, squeeze. "I've never considered women," she says.

"There's a couple that comes every Thursday," says Mackenzie. "They make a thing of watching me. I—"

"Like it?" I say."

She stands straight. "More than I care to admit."

"Do you show off for them?"

"A bit."

"More than you did for us?"

"Sometimes."

"How?" says Erin.

"Sometimes I forget my underwear." She shrugs. "You know conforming to the dress code is not my thing."

"But getting them worked up is."

No answer.

"I'll pay you for the lost wages," says Erin. "More if you can get him worked up."

Mackenzie looks at me. "I'd like that."

"Get in," says Erin.

"I need my purse."

As she goes and the wind takes her kilt again. "Don't you have a balcony?" I say.

Erin faces me, all smiles. "A very private one."

"You don't suppose it's windy up there?"

Erin reaches over, feels my cock through my pants. I'm definitely not soft. "You know, no matter how turned on you get, there's no coming."

"But you will, watching me get frustrated."

"Isn't that the point?"

Mackenzie reappears, purse slung over her shoulder. I watch her kilt. Sadly, no gusts come to help out.

She slips in the back, fastens her seatbelt. "Okay." She looks at both of us in turn. "I'll do what you want. Just let me know what that is."

I try to concentrate on my driving, but that last statement distracts me. Who is 'you'? Me? Erin? Both?

Erin doesn't say a word all the way back. In the elevator, the three of us are silent. Mackenzie, carrying our food, is the third person in tonight's odd menage. I wonder what she'll feed us after what's in the bags is consumed.

Inside, Erin pours herself, and me, a very tall whiskey while Mackenzie fumbles around in the kitchen trying to find what she needs to serve us. We're both on the couch, the one that has that wonderful view of the city below, just past the narrow balcony I know Mackenzie will soon occupy.

The food comes, on a tray, deposited on the coffee table in front of us. She's careful with plates—one for me, one for Erin, making a point of remaining modest. Done, Erin points to the balcony. "Leave the door open," she says. "If we need something we'll let you know."

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