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Look at Me!
Felix Baron
When one hang-up ruins her love-life, Connie tries to change and becomes addicted to showing herself off in the most immodest way she can, on webcams. A slippery slope into a world where lust rules and modesty is the only sin.Connie would do anything her lover wanted, provided it’s in the dark and under the covers. Even so, Jeff’s need to gaze upon his lover’s naked beauty breaks the relationship up. Is that the way it is, with men? Can the sight of a breast or a thigh be so important? If so, can she break her Mother’s indoctrination?Connie starts with shorter skirts and some cleavage but quickly progresses to deliberate ‘wardrobe malfunctions. To her amazement, she finds herself addicted to being looked at.
Look At Me!
Felix Baron
(http://bit.ly/KqDOG3)
Table of Contents
Title Page (#uda072de1-cbb3-57f6-bbec-c99614aa1f6f)
Chapter One (#ue7e3aa7e-f711-5650-b026-f4a9264a3aa3)
Chapter Two (#u626960bd-0da6-55b1-b325-0e3ce8f90481)
Chapter Three (#ub3d17c4f-3689-55d5-801e-c6d862b51098)
Chapter Four (#ubd170985-ee4c-58b6-89d0-f56dc423c7ec)
Chapter Five (#ueb53b6c2-de8c-5ad3-8538-495066bba5d8)
Chapter Six (#u38da57bb-9990-5a71-a626-722e7b71d98e)
Chapter Seven (#u92c8ce24-f778-59ee-a94a-435aefcf54bf)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-one (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-two (#litres_trial_promo)
More from Mischief (#litres_trial_promo)
About Mischief (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_d90ad6e5-3078-5695-9a8a-87cc5dce387c)
A week back, Constance had caught Jeff rubbing pumice over the pads of his fingertips. Their eyes had met. His had been mildly amused. Hers, she felt, must have been both bewildered and excited. She hadn’t been puzzled. She could guess why he was doing that. It was pretty obvious. He was smoothing the tips of his long artistic fingers to make them more sensitive to the texture of her skin. How was a good girl supposed to react to that? Intrigued? Complimented? Offended? What was appropriate? Life, and love, could be very confusing.
Now they were in bed together and she was reaping the full benefit of his smoothing. Jeff had a touch that was so delicate it felt like talcum powder was being sprinkled on her skin. Sometimes she couldn’t tell whether she was actually feeling it or just imagining that she felt it. It was tantalising – maddeningly so. She loved it so much that she couldn’t stand it.
He was tracing lazy curlicues around her navel. She tried to imagine the sensations his fingers would be feeling, but failed. Instead, she concentrated on what she was feeling.
The meandering circles became ellipses that dipped further with each slow circuit. Constance held her breath. He brushed the edge of what he called the peach fuzz that coated her mound. That tickled.
If only he’d move lower!
But Jeff was taking his time. He always took his goddamn time! Sometimes she wondered if he did that to punish her for the one thing she refused to do for him, but that couldn’t be. Jeff loved to please her. When he teased, it was just to make her pleasure more intense. She liked to make his pleasure more intense, too, except for doing that one thing. Apart from that, she denied him nothing. That thing was a biggie, so she had to make up for it the best she could.
The one thing that she wouldn’t do for him was also, Jeff said, irrational. Well, maybe it was. She couldn’t help that. It was due to her upbringing.
He was cupping her, taking command of her sex.
His palm covered her mound. His fingers were curved down, over her sex, resting on its delicate pulpy outer lips. She moved her thighs further apart to accommodate his exploration. His fingers palpitated, pressing in a steady one, two, three rhythm. Constance could feel herself moistening. One fingertip was on her sex’s left lip, one on her right, and the other, delicately, so, so delicately, rested on the wrinkled crease where the lips met. The outer two fingers spread, parting her a fraction. The middle one curled down into her soft wet heat.
Constance groped sideways, into the fly of the pants of the pyjamas she insisted he wore to bed. Her fingers wrapped his hardness, not as a caress, but just for something solid to hold onto.
She was wet inside. She was so wet that it felt as if his middle finger was dabbling in a puddle of her juices. Almost splashing. And it wormed higher, insinuating itself up behind her pubic bone. Jeff’d told her that there was a soft dimpled pad there that he loved to massage. She loved it too. When he did that … Oh yes! Just like that.
And now his other hand was working its fingers under his cupping palm, searching out her little button and finding it. Her lover’s hands worked together, both rotating fingertips, one on her special place that was so deep, the other caressing her other special place, the one that was nestled just between her lips, where they joined.
Constance couldn’t think. She barely remembered to breathe. The gyrating fingers were winding something inside her up, tighter and tighter and tighter. She reached the point where she could imagine no greater disaster than that those fingers should stop what they were doing before she got to where she was rushing …
‘Don’tstopdon’tstopdon’tstop!’ That was her, babbling, wasn’t it?
‘I won’t, I promise,’ Jeff whispered.
The glorious thing happened. Ecstasy rippled through her. Constance’s thighs drew up to her chest, spread wide. Her hips came up off the bed, paused, then slammed down. Spasms convulsed her.
After a crystalline moment of sheer bliss, she returned to her senses. She let her legs drop back to the sheet. Oh yes, she was holding onto Jeff’s cock, wasn’t she.
From a dark recess in Constance’s mind, her dead mother started to scold her for thinking such a word as ‘cock’. That was OK. It was when Mom reviled her for showing too much skin that she couldn’t stand it.
Dreamily, Constance turned to Jeff and told him, ‘That was wonderful. What can I do for you, darling?’
‘Turn over, Connie.’
Oh! She knew what that meant. He was the first and only man who’d ever done that to her. Her mom had never warned her against it, most likely because she’d never imagined such a thing. It was certainly never mentioned in the Book of Chaste Behaviour that her Mom’s puritanical sect considered second only to the Ten Commandments.
Whatever, her mom wouldn’t be scolding her and spoiling Jeff’s, and her, pleasure.
Constance rolled onto her tummy and tensed, waiting. He was above her, poised for a second, and then he lowered himself onto her like a warm and heavy blanket of love. His weight was mainly on his knees and elbows but even so, it was inexorable. She was deliciously helpless, even before his fingers wrapped her wrists and the insteps of his feet nestled into the arches of hers. If she could move an inch, it was only because he allowed her to.
The heat of his cock’s stem spread into her spine from her tailbone to the small of her back. Feeling the length of it thrilled her. Even though he’d taken her, used her, that way before, what she knew he was about to do had to be impossible. She was so small. He was, by comparison, huge. Where he was going to enter her, it was a tight little knot. His cock – its head in particular – was far too big. Dreadfully big.
When was he going to do it? What was he waiting for? She couldn’t ask for it, could she?
The hidden minx inside her told her that she could.
Constance moaned, ‘No, Jeff! Please, don’t. Don’t do that. I don’t know if I can stand it.’ The cheeks of her bum flexed but all they could feel was his scrotum. She tried to work herself higher up the bed but his restricting bulk made that impossible.
Jeff whispered, ‘You’ll take it, Connie. I am going to make you take it.’
‘You are going to force your way into me back there, with that great big thing?’
‘Yes, darling. I am.’
‘That’s so bad.’
‘And you love it, don’t you?’
‘Do I?’
‘Admit it. You want it.’
He was torturing her. He knew about her upbringing. He knew how strict her mother had been. He knew that she hated to own up to her own perverted desires. Hated to. Loved to, if forced to. It had to be forced from her or she wouldn’t – couldn’t – do it.
Would it be the same with the other thing, the one thing she refused to do for him? If he forced her, would she find that she liked it? No! Don’t think about that. Thinking that way was dangerous. It woke memories of her dead mother’s rules.
Constance hollowed her back, tilting her bottom up at him.
‘Good girl! That’s right, just like that!’ Without releasing her, Jeff slithered back and lower, drawing his shaft down along the crease between her cheeks. He prodded. It wasn’t the right place, too low. Last time, he’d steered himself with a hand.
As if he’d heard her thought, he told her, ‘Hands free, this time.’
Constance grunted.
Jeff writhed an inch each way and up and down, probing.
Yes!
The wet hardness of his knob was nestled right against her trembling pucker, kissing it. He pushed. Constance pushed back. If she concentrated on relaxing back there …
Oh. Oh. He was stretching her. He was forcing his way into the narrow constriction. Constance felt herself expand. It didn’t hurt, not much, but it was such a violation of her tender flesh.
And he was inside her.
Just the head. Her muscular ring gripped his cock just behind its dome. The moment, the brief second of maximum stretching followed almost instantly by a partial relaxation, had been exquisite. It was like some sort of revelation.
Perhaps he read her thoughts again because Constance felt his thigh muscles tense and then the reverse pressure as he drew back, almost dragging the sleeve of her rectum with him, and ‘popped’ out …
And rammed back in.
This time there was no pause. His thrust went on and on, opening her depths, forcing her back passage to adapt to the shape and girth of his shaft. Jeff’s pubes were grinding on her as if he was desperate to gain every last possible inch of penetration. And he was pumping. Each stroke felt easier than the one before and yet her excitement grew and grew.
His big hands took hold of her hips. Jeff knew not to pull her up to all fours – she didn’t allow that, just in case it dislodged the bedclothes – but he heaved her up off the bed just a few inches before slamming back down on her. She was totally impaled.
He half-rolled, so that her weight was on her left side. His right hand worked under her. Its fingers found her button again, but toyed with it for just a second before they squirmed past it, inside her. Jeff must be able to feel his own shaft pistoning into her. That was so obscene.
It was the obscenity of it that drove her over the edge into the chaos of her second glorious climax.
It must have been three or four in the morning when Constance woke up. It might have been the dim light from the small lamp on the bedside table on Jeff’s side. It might have been him folding the bedclothes down to her waist and fumbling with the buttons at her throat.
Damn!
Constance sat up sharply, clutching the neck of her nightgown. ‘No!’
‘Please, Connie? Surely …’
She slapped his face and turned over to bury her face into her pillow. The bed creaked as Jeff got up. He’d be headed into her living room to finish the night on her lumpy couch. Well, she wasn’t going to be guilted into doing something she didn’t want to do. Let him suffer!
Chapter Two (#ulink_2de76ffe-980a-5bb0-9b11-c425279307cf)
When Constance woke again, with the first light, Jeff still hadn’t come back to bed. Men! As if sulking solved anything. She decided that she’d take the moral high ground and simply pretend that nothing had happened. If he apologised, all to the good. If not, well, she’d just have to forgive him anyway. That was the way women were, forgiving and modest – sweet and modest – charitable and modest. Always modest. Modest. The damn word landed with a dull thud.
He wasn’t on the couch and it hadn’t been disturbed. There were no dishes in the sink. His shaving gear and toothbrush were missing from the bathroom. His spare suit wasn’t in the closet. There was a space on her bookshelves where his IT books had been.
Jeff had taken his things back to his own apartment.
She’d been dumped. Well, no. She’d dumped him, really. A slap across the face counts as that, right? He’d broken her rule. She’d slapped him. He’d left, taking his things. How did she feel about that? Crushed, for sure. Empty inside? Maybe. She’d thought he might have been the one. Angry? Yes, she was angry. How dare he! Look at all she’d done for him, the things she’d let him do to her. For him, she’d been a very bad girl. She’d enjoyed it all, but that was beside the point. When a girl does those forbidden things for a man she’s doing him a favour, no matter how good they feel. All she’d ever denied him was to let him look at her shameful nakedness. Could that be so important that it’d make him break up with her?
Couldn’t he have explained that?
Perhaps he’d tried, but not hard enough, obviously. The bastard!
What was it about the sight of a girl’s body, anyway? She’d let Jeff bugger her. Bugger, bugger, bugger. Bugger her. Fuck her up her bum. There! If he’d wanted a bad girl, she’d been the baddest, for him. He’d been ready to risk losing that, just for a chance to look at her naked? It made no sense at all.
Why were men so obsessed with looking at women’s bodies?
