The Better to See You With

"How did I even find myself here?"

The question bursts through my haze of arousal, but I quickly shove it aside. The "how" that got me into this restaurant's bathroom stall, leaned against the door with my soft white t-shirt up, my jeans pulled down, and my matching bra and panties askew, just enough to expose my hard nipples and dripping-wet pussy to the open air... it doesn't even matter. All that matters is that I don't stop working myself over. With one hand, I'm still furiously rubbing my clit; with the other, I'm relentlessly teasing one of those stiff pink peaks with my forefinger and thumb.

And my gaze remains focused forward on my reflection in a fortuitously placed mirror, to ensure that the video- and audio-enabled glasses I'm wearing are catching every exposed inch of flesh, every rapid, desperate motion with my hands, every furrow of my brow and panting breath that escapes my soft, parted lips -- because I can't bear the denied orgasm you told me I'd have to suffer through if I divert my gaze away from my vulnerable body and the ways I'm working it toward release.

The thing is, I couldn't answer my own question even if I could, somehow, focus through how desperately turned on I am. I was supposed to be enjoying a private lunch for one right now -- an indulgence in the sort of quiet that my life rarely allows for. Once I settled into the booth, I noticed the glasses -- an unassuming pair of plastic frames left on the table that resembled my own. Left behind by the previous customer, I figured. For whatever reason, I was possessed by the idea of trying them on, telling myself as I grabbed them that I just wanted to see how these slightly larger frames would look on my face.

Once I got them in place, I was given the shock of my life -- the sound of a slow, sultry, confident voice, with an accent I couldn't quite place, telling me that I may regret having done that. I looked around rapidly, before you added, "You won't see me. But I see you. And I like what I see."

Despite my confusion, I felt myself growing... somewhat aroused. The gentleness with which you spoke put me at ease; the mischief in your tone promised me fun, if I could just be open to it. "So, you're going to put on a little show for me," you explained. I sensed then that the sound was being transmitted through the glasses themselves. Tentatively, I whispered back, "What kind of a show do you want?"

The small laugh you gave in response sent tingles of anticipation shooting up and down my spine. I shivered slightly, reveling in the feeling. "An erotic show. Now, no more questions -- walk to the bathroom and wait for my instructions."

Surprising myself, I complied immediately. Once I arrived in the restaurant's clean, warmly lit and artfully decorated bathroom, I looked at myself in the wall-sized mirror that had been placed behind a row of gold sinks. "Take your hair down," I heard you say. "And keep looking at the mirror -- I want to see every move you make." You surely saw me sigh in a failed attempt to soothe my excited nerves as I pulled the tie out and let a cascade of hair fall around my shoulders and past my breasts. I smirked at my reflection -- I've looked worse.

"Lovely," you told me -- "even more so now," you added when I widely grinned at your praise. Then: "I want to see more." I whispered, somewhat nervously, "How much more?" Your response hung in the air for a moment: "Everything."

My pulse began to truly pound at the implication. "Go into a stall, close and lock the door behind you, then begin to expose yourself to me." I wondered how that would even be possible -- until I saw the gilded mirror hanging over the tank. I giggled momentarily at the somewhat odd design choice, before a completely different thought stopped me mid-laugh: "You've done this before."

"Quite a few times," you replied. "Women like you, who come in alone, tend to be rather hard-working types -- and I enjoy helping women like you unwind." You didn't have to sell me further... I found myself turned on by everything about this. The risk of being caught, the risk of showing myself so fully to a stranger... and if I'm totally honest with myself, the risk of growing so soaked by the extreme eroticism of the entire situation that my light, sweet wetness would be detectable to anyone I interacted with, until I got home. All of those ideas had me scrambling to comply with the last part of your mandate: to show my body to you.

Keeping my gaze, and as such your gaze, glued on my reflection in the mirror, I lifted my shirt so that it rested above my ample tits, making a little show of doing so. Once you could clearly see my cleavage pressing against the shimmering fabric of my satin bra, I heard you sigh a little. "More." I unzipped my jeans, and eased them over my hips before letting them fall to the ground. "More." I eased one bra cup to the side, so that I could reveal, then pinch, one of my nipples for you. You gasped a little at this. "More." I then exposed my other breast, so you could see the hardness of that nipple rivaling the one between my urgent fingers. "More." I reached down and nudged my panties to the side, revealing my well-trimmed, already slick pussy. For a moment, we both paused. The world paused. Then... "More."

I instinctively looked down as I reached to begin rubbing my clit, my full tits then blocking your view of my pussy somewhat -- this was unacceptable. "Look up right now," you almost spat at me, your urgency for the sight of me teasing myself drawing a tiny, sweet moan from me. "If you do that again, you won't cum for a week." My head spun as I amended my positioning. Once looking at my reflection again, my eyes became glued to my exposed sex, watching almost as if I were the spectator as my hand moved to my clit. I parted my thighs as much as my jeans permitted, and placed one careful, gentle rub against that pink little jewel.

I'm not sure either of us anticipated how this would affect me. I gasped, loudly, at the idea of having just touched my clit while a stranger watched me do so -- and then began rubbing myself at an almost frantic rate. My mouth fell open and the hand groping my breast picked up the pace considerably. "Fuck," I heard you whisper, your enjoyment of my flaring need only serving to urge me onward.

Through your audibly aroused breaths, I could also perceive a whisper of the sound of skin against skin. "Are you jerking yourself off while watching this?" I asked you, equal parts incredulous and, somehow, even more turned on. "How could I not?" At this, I moaned again, decidedly louder than I should have.

And now here I am -- hurtling toward a shuddering climax for the benefit of a person I've never even kissed or, I don't know, met. And it's the only thing I want. And I want it with every fiber of my being.

The idea of you seeing my total loss of control sparks the delectable tension that precedes my orgasms. "I'm going to cum," I tell you urgently. "Try again -- and be careful," you reply. Trying to rationalize what you could possibly mean by that -- while simultaneously observing that I'm so wet that I'm pretty sure I'm leaking down to my pants -- feels like an entirely impossible task. But if I don't sort it out, I can't cum. And that can't happen.

I pull myself together -- then quickly realize the error of my ways. What else would such a wonderfully dominant man want of the woman he has in this situation -- expect of her, even? "Can I cum? Please?" You groan in delight. "Yes. Please."

It's all the encouragement I need. Wanting both of us to see this moment, I glue my eyes forward once more and begin rubbing furiously. I barely even try to stifle my whimpers, which grow closer together and higher in pitch with every second that I get closer to finding my release. And then finally, it happens -- the pause in mid-air, followed by an absolute rush of near-overwhelming pleasure. I pant rapturously as I ride out this especially strong orgasm, barely able to handle how quickly and intensely my pussy tenses as clear, sweet, slick arousal flows from me, onto and all over my thighs.

You see all of it.

"Good girl," you smirk at me as I come down, and I hum happily in response. "Thank you," I whisper. As I begin to gather myself together, you add, "You may leave the glasses by the leftmost sink. And, if you ever feel inclined to return, I'd love to see you again." On my way out, I set a reminder to reserve the same table next week. Just in case you mean it...