Lines of the See-Through Man Pt. 02

You'll want to at least skim Part 1 to have this make a lick of sense. However, if you don't, be warned that this story series combines elements of mind control (especially) and freeuse (somewhat). Although it doesn't seem like exactly either, it's closely related — alongside the questionable consent such may imply — so if you don't enjoy elements in that ballpark then I can't recommend this tale. All characters participating in sexual activity in these stories are 18+.

* * *

The most-convincing lies are the ones we tell ourselves.

I needed to make sure Marcia was all right. That was the only reason I was there, in her apartment. But although that justification may have sounded good in the abstract, it did not explain why I was kneeling in front of her relaxed and unwitting body, my hot breath mere inches from her crotch, each inhale I took sending the pungent tang of her panties into my nostrils. My transgression into her intimate space scuttled any "concerned citizen" untruth I told myself. But that moment — and the rest of what was to become a momentous evening — built on all that had come before.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

What had transpired the previous day was beyond the pale; to call it "unacceptable" is an insult to things that are merely unacceptable, like parking in a handicap space, farting in an elevator, or requesting "It Wasn't Me" from a wedding DJ.

Yes, the violation of Marcia Keller's body and spirit was the most erotic moment of my life, the explosive resolution to years of pent-up frustration and rage. Hearing her climactic shrieks echoing off the library walls — shaking the dust off ill-touched tomes — etched its spastic sound waves into my cranium like the gold record on the Voyager satellite, never to be forgotten. The two orgasms I had in rapid succession were an indescribable pleasure I could conjure from memory with near-total recall.

Admittedly, the photographic and videographic account of the incident helped, and were graphic indeed, honing and heightening the experience in my apartment that evening. My finger touched her flattened face time and again as I swiped to advance the prurient progression of JPGs. My movie wasn't quite as rewarding. Apparently, I am a really shitty cameraman, and trying to watch my efforts made me more motion sick than aroused, as if Cloverfield were an unsatisfying porno.

However, even having dropped my phone as I came in Marcia's panties, it still worked its magic to record the audio of our amour, and I rewound the moaning MOV over and over to hear her screams:

FUCKING FUCK I'M CUMMING SO HARD
nnnggghhh! Nnnghnghh!! NNNGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!
NNNNGGGGHH! NNNGGGH! Nnnngh. Nnnnngghh...

Rewind.

FUCKING FUCK I'M CUMMING SO HARD
nnnggghhh! Nnnghnghh!! NNNGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!
NNNNGGGGHH! NNNGGGH! Nnnngh. Nnnnngghh...

Rewind.

FUCKING FUCK I'M CUMMING SO HARD
nnnggghhh! Nnnghnghh!! NNNGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!
NNNNGGGGHH! NNNGGGH! Nnnngh. Nnnnngghh...

Rewind.

FUCKING FUCK I'M CUMMING SO HARD
nnnggghhh! Nnnghnghh!! NNNGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!
NNNNGGGGHH! NNNGGGH! Nnnngh. Nnnnngghh...

If the neighbors heard this endless loop of illicit smut played at near-maximum volume, they gave no indication.

The warnings of "20% battery remaining," "10% battery remaining," and — eventually — black-screen death convinced me to put down the phone and go to sleep.

Still, as indescribably pleasurable as my bibliographic ball-draining all was, I did feel guilt... and, even though I was turgidly tense and desperate for release as I relived the moment over and over and over that night, I could only bring myself to the edge (so to speak) but no further. I think I thought if I could refrain from giving in fully to self-pleasure, that would somehow make my assault "okay," as if I weren't really enjoying it.

Whatever the thought process was, it turned out — with the benefit of hindsight — to be a nontrivial mistake.

In any event, the moonlit night swallowed my conscious self deep into its damp velvety darkness like... well, yeah. (Again, those library memories were etched acid-scar deep.)

The reality of what I'd done the prior day came flooding to me with the morning sun, and I began feverishly thinking of what I could do to repent... how I could make it up to Marcia, or at least make sure that I hadn't caused any lasting damage to her mind, body, or reputation.

And so, the most logical thing to do was to see her again at the library and follow her home. Or so I told myself. There is no idea so bad that one cannot will oneself into thinking it's good.

Despite my best efforts, my cunning plan did not end in abject failure immediately, as it turns out Marcia did work the next day. As a reminder: I hadn't seen her in years before I near-literally tripped over her the previous day. I had no idea where she lived, nor any better plan how to get in contact with her than "go to the library at about the same time I was there yesterday and hope that she's at work again"... a scheme with all the contingency preparedness and think-through of Underpants Gnomes.

Fortunately, even stupid plans work sometimes, because I did see Marcia the next day at the library, working the shift where I encountered her previously. Standing in front of her at the services desk, I drank in every detail I could, like the fractal beauty of a Rodin sculpture. More precisely, a Rodin sculpture wearing a Hadestown T-shirt and tight denim jeans — one that absentmindedly scrolled TikTok via iPhone resting on a library desk.

Of course, even as Marcia looked up periodically to ensure that no one needed her services, she didn't sense me as I stood 10 feet away, I was invisible. Five feet away. Unseeable. Two feet. The universe's secret. One. I was nobody.

Her hazel eyes didn't betray any trauma or suffering, no matter how close I approached to look at them — even positioned as I was, pupil to pupil, my lips an inch away from hers. The shallow breath came from her slightly parted red-daubed lips carried with it a scent of cinnamon caramel coffee.

I forced my own breathing to stop as I inspected her eyes, her lips, her soul for any hint of pain. And... did I detect it? Under her breath, a pulsing "hmhmhmhm hm-hm hm-hm hm-hm" — almost a whimpering sound?

I leaned closer, my heart sinking. I put my ear as near as I could to her mouth. If she was crying here, at the site of my unspeakable perversion, I could never forgi—

But, no. She wasn't whimpering or crying. She was... singing?

It was unmistakable, a subvocal private song of a woman who was trying to keep her mind occupied while at work. It was that song... Oh, I don't know it, but it's that one that was really popular a decade or so back by that one woman. " 'Cause a skater's gotta skate-skate-skate-skate-skate" — something like that. Not my taste, but really catchy.

I jerked my head back in surprise. And I saw it, almost as invisible as I was... the slight upturned curl of her crimson lips, a private half-smile. Marcia was always a pretty happy girl, but I don't recall ever seeing her this happy. She was certainly happier than she appeared yesterday, when she looked to me like she was trying to keep her heart and mind together while dealing with Richard.

Her private song continued, as she obviously got to the chorus: "I just gotta shake-shake-shake-shake-shake/shake it up, shake it up"... however it goes. She clearly knew the song, as her shoulders bobbed in its own private "shake," almost imperceptible to anyone who wasn't inches away from her. The slight sway of her inner happiness conveyed to her breasts, which lightly bobbed in perky counterpoint to her own music.

I gave a laugh-sob of joy as my mind raced at the implications. Yes, I was still invisible to her. She almost certainly didn't remember me... neither our months together in high-school senior year, nor our "reintroduction" yesterday. But had I — somehow — given her the joy of consummation of our adolescent courting, here at the counter? Had I bestowed upon her mind and body a release it desperately needed, such that she's still riding the same orgasmic high I am? Is there a part of her that remembers our encounter, that can live in the darkness even when I pull away?

I kept considering the implications, my mind still fuzzy with warring quadrants of love and lust and shame and rage.

Which is partly to explain what I did next — for all the best reasons, I told myself.

See, there was just one part left that I needed to check. By all outward appearances, she seemed fine. The mascara that had previously been smudged from spit and semen was immaculate. The formerly smeared scarlet lipstick that encircled my cock had been carefully reapplied. Her face was clean and pristine, with no trace of frantic fluids spewed on her by a madman.

But there was one place I had yet to check.

There are things we do that — even if they sound smart — we do them in a really stupid way.

To explain my logic and back up a bit... I often still act in the world as if I were visible, an irrational fear of the world finally seeing me at the exact moment I don't want it to. As a result, sometimes if I'm doing something I don't want people to know, I'll do it slowly and quietly. I'm pretty sure I've seen others do this when they're not observed, so I'm going to guess this is a fairly common occurrence. But I'm not exactly an expert on what's normal, so I could be wrong.

Anyway, the part of Marcia that was most-sullied by my ministrations was her panties. And the memory of that moment clings to my eyes (gray-white fluid in slimy pools seeping through silk) and fingers (the slick-sticky mess we made together) and ears (the squish squish squish of my unrelenting fingers joining with her clutching cunny) and thoughts (the perverse naughtiness of our public union exulted to the rafters).

It's stupid in hindsight, but I needed to check... down there.

And — putting it all together — for some reason I did my checking slowly.

Cautiously, knelt down in front of her. This wasn't terribly difficult, because she was positioned almost at a diagonal turn to the desk, not "at the counter" but facing slightly away... I suspect so she could continue to scroll through dancing videos on TikTok while keeping an eye on the area.

With slow, careful deliberation, I held my breath as I loosely hiked up her musical-merch T-shirt and unbuttoned her denim jeans. I could feel the heat from her stomach as I touched her for the first time not while awash in my own lusty passion. Mostly.

As the button finally yielded from its tight sewn hole, I cringe-waited for a reaction, complaint, admonishment, or scream. Nothing. Just the cute appearance of a textbook taut tummy framed by the perfect "V" of her unbuttoned pants.

I carefully lifted the brass tab of Marcia's zipper, tipping it up to give my fingers purchase, and then slowly lowering it... tooth...

by metal tooth...

by metal tooth...

by metal tooth...

by metal tooth...

by metal tooth...

by metal tooth...

by metal tooth...

by metal tooth...

by metal tooth...
by metal tooth...
by metal tooth...
by metal tooth...
by metal tooth...

...along its joined track.

vit
vit
vit
vit
vit
vit
vit
vit...

The faintest echo of the tiny brass tines unlatching echoed almost imperceptibly in the otherwise quiet library.

After agonizing minutes of my impersonating a ninja stripper, the noise stopped and Marcia's pelvis lay bare before me.

Bare, that is, except the panties.

They were red. Red, frilly, silky, and sexy.

Most importantly, they were very clearly not the same panties I had marked and marred and musked and manhandled.

I looked at the panties in front of me. The white of her skin formed a distinctive border above the waistline. Her dainty navel formed the dot of a lowercase "i," where the letter's stem was the darker demarcation of her pubic hair beneath the fabric. Together they formed a barely-visible strip that pointed downward to unimaginable treasure.

The whole experience was incredibly erotic in a near-innocent way: my unzipping fingers dancing along the length of her mesh-covered mons, her forbidden fleece yielding slightly to my touch as I gently danced to expose her to me.

Having confirmed that she had cleaned up and was not, in fact, still trapsing about in cum-encrusted underclothes 24 hours later, my curiosity should have been satisfied. I should have stopped, zipped her up, and let her live her life.

I did not.

One could argue that — my intentions being what they were — I did not cross a line by unbuttoning her pants. The same could not be said about the line I crossed next.

After getting lust-drunk off the sight of her wine-red panties for two eternities, I saw my hand extending outward, stop to consider its options, then turn to dive down in the exposed area of her jeans. I was in control, of course, but it still felt almost unreal watching myself snake my hand down the front of her panties, cupping her hidden kitty, curling my middle finger into the divot where just yesterday it had helped pound at her pudendal portal like a storm-soaked sailor at a lighthouse door.

And then she moaned.

"Hhmmmmmmmmmmmm..." came her long, throaty sigh, one that was clearly equal parts contentment and longing, a single syllable that conveyed, "Whatever you are doing in the universe, please... do not stop."

I stopped.

My reason for stopping was logical, as my seconds-earlier shock at hearing her moan had broken my pelvic preoccupation, and I looked at the world around me.

The world was looking back.

Specifically, there was a perfect view of an attractive sandy-blond clerk who just seemingly unzipped her pants with depraved deliberation and then moaned like a dog in heat, and the universe provided three witnesses to this spectacle:

• A short-but-petite nose-pierced female student — probably not much older than 18 — with short blond-and-pink-dyed hair whose agape jaw conveyed that the site had just unlocked a second (or perhaps third/fourth/fifth) sexual orientation she hadn't yet realized.

• A scraggle-bearded older graduate student who was peering over his glasses with an all-absorbing eye that conveyed, "What is the formatting guide to cite what I've just witnessed?"

• A smirk-faced guy maybe a year or two older than me, who must live with his phone in his hand, because he apparently used his fortune at seeing a celestial body to immediately start recording the action.

I saw them seeing Marcia.

Marcia saw herself.

Marcia saw them seeing her.

I saw Marcia seeing them seeing her.

Her eyes were wide with shame and humiliation as she looked down and gasped.

"Fuckity-fuckFUCKfuck," came my eloquent reply.

I'm often kind of dumb, but every so often I have a flash of brilliance. Or, at least, I do enough stupid things that every so often something seems smart.

I rationalized: They didn't witness me.They saw and heard her reaction to me.

I'm still invisible, and — as far as I determined yesterday — what I do is invisible, too.

Sometimes, the only way out is through.

I began cupping her panty-covered pussy harder. This elicited a sharp inhale from her, followed by an immediate "NO-NO-NO-no-no-no-no-no-no..." of three parts confusion to one part lust.

She looked down at herself, my hand rhythmically pushing and probing her panties and puff. Her breathing became shallower as her frantic eyes half-closed involuntarily.

I looked up. All three witnesses were still slack-jawed. It appeared the asshole with the camera had taken a half-step closer.

"C'mon, you assholes!" I shouted as I continued my masturbatory mission. "Look at what I'm doing!"

Push-push-push-push I rhythmically continued the ancient dance of five-digit delight, this time using the half-remembered tune I'd heard earlier: " 'Cause a waiter's gotta wait-wait-wait-wait-wait and a mater wants to mate-mate-mate-mate-mate..." my brain foolishly made up its own lyrics to fill in its ignorance.

Throughout this all, Marcia's moans deviated from denial and careened to compliance, increasing in tempo to my touch:

"...no-no-no-no-oh-oh-oh-ohhh-ohhhh-ohhhhohhhhOHHHH..."

It worked. I saw their eyes divert, as if a wave of indifference washed over them all in rapid succession, first the older guy (who rubbed his beard as if to say, "What was I doing?"), then Ms. I-Can't-Believe-I'm-Not-Bi (who looked up at the library-classification numbers on the shelves, as if to go to her original destination), and finally the clod with a camera... who stopped recording but still stood there, his face buried in his phone.

I sighed. Unfortunately, one thing I do know about my affliction is that I'm perfectly visible on indirect viewing methods... meaning that if he kept that recording, he'll "remember" it well enough later (or, at least, have perfectly identifiable footage of Marcia's and my fantastic flashing escapade).

My options were limited, but I had to act fast.

I jerked my hand out of Marcia's pants; we were both victims of my awkward alacrity, me scraping my fingers on the brass of her biting zipper, her whimper-moaning in disappointment as her undetectable toy stopped playing with her.

I leapt over to where aspiring director Quinton Assholetino had filmed his footage, and snatched the device out of his hand.

"What the-?!" came his startled reply.

Fluidly I flung the phone to the ground. It gave a half-hearted "chrnk" as some sort of glass no doubt broke, but it was otherwise pretty disappointing. The rules of the universe indicate that if you drop a phone wrong eight inches off a bed, it's destroyed forever; if you need to destroy a phone forever, it'll withstand a Krakatoan calamity.

In frustration, I picked up the phone again, then threw it hard like a fullback spiking a touchdown ball. With escalating adrenaline and rage, I trampled on the tiny telecommunication console: stomp stomp stomp stomp. I stood on one half, then bent it up the exposed end, using the leverage of my Reebok to put a 45° angle in it.

Finally, I picked up the cell phone corpse off the floor, its broken body awash in glass, and yeeted it as hard as I could across the library, where the sound of a far-away muffled "thud" preceded a second clatter and the sound of more glass.