Читать книгу The Pact: A Mischief Erotica Collection - Justine Elyot - Страница 6

The shop I own used to be a pet shop. That doesn’t mean I’m forever finding fossilised budgies in dark crannies or having tropical snakes rearing out of cupboards and whipping up my skirt. It does, however, mean that the shop didn’t need a large display at the front. Instead it had a small window display and counter area, then a step up through a doorway into a larger square space with a high ceiling. Which suited me just fine, no alterations needed. I sell mirrors and lights and that is all. Don’t come here if you want a rare pufferfish, because those days are gone. Only come to me if you want a ceiling light or a mirror to hang upon your wall. As you can imagine, I don’t get loads of people in. A few a day to keep me going. I like to think it allows me to deliver a more discerning, more personal service. I don’t imagine the stick insects were exactly bombing out of the door either.

He left me one day without a word. Not even a note. Two years of what I thought was pretty deep entanglement suddenly proved ridiculously easy to slip free of. To this day I have no idea if he’d found someone else, if there was some hidden stress he couldn’t share, or if I was just simply too much of a face-ache to spend another second with. It knocked me, for sure. The shock still reverberates through my life even if I’m not always fully conscious of it. The unanswered whys have eroded my foundations and keep me guessing. I’m not old enough for him to have got himself a much younger model. I think I’m reasonably easy to live with and fun to be around. I don’t suppose you ever have a true sense of your aesthetic appeal but I haven’t to date cracked any of my stock simply by looking at it.

Something in me made him run, though. If I’d known what, perhaps I could have reacted. Instead I have to make do with silent bouts of introspection, of staring at myself to try and spot the fatal flaw so I can eradicate it before trying to gather the courage to start again with someone new. I study that time with him from all angles but still I cannot see the cracks, so how will I spot such things again? Since in all ways I’d had the stuffing removed from me, I decided the best thing was to immerse myself in something to keep my mind elsewhere. My ever-thoughtful grandma passed her collection of antique mirrors on to me and charged me with doing something useful with them, and thus my new venture was born.

I will never be a millionaire from it but my shop does make me proud. I have a knack for bringing in nice items and displaying them well. Hanging at varying heights from the ceiling in the main room are all manner of lights, from antique through to modern, all casting their sparkling glow about the walls, which I always ensure are covered with mirrors of every kind. I try to angle my stock here and there, both to throw the light around and to give illusions of extra space and shaping to the square room. Create the right mood and the customer feels comfortable and will want to stay and explore more. I give them a soft glow any Hollywood lighting director would be proud of. I don’t need anyone running from their own starkly lit reflection.

In the middle of the floor, to fill the emptiness, is a fabulous and very large modern-style chaise. From the raised end it stretches out to accommodate even the lankiest specimen lying down. It is flat-seated and has no back, so customers can sit either side and peruse my wares in comfort, rather than have to stand around looking at themselves. Most don’t mind the sight of their own face whilst alone but can suddenly become quite shy once I come along to offer assistance. Self-consciousness can take over and that can mean potential buyers fleeing, which is something I don’t need.

I have shrewdly angled mirrors near my counter so I can keep an eye on browsers in the main room without having to go up through and disturb them – I couldn’t do that if I was selling gerbils. I can create complex views all around the place, bouncing reflection off reflection. I can have my back to you yet still be looking at two or three different aspects of you. Plenty of times I’ve suddenly spun round thinking there was someone there, only to be met by my own reflection in some corner. It’s something you have to get used to. It’s comforting in a way to not feel alone when actually you are, but it is disconcerting too, like you are constantly being spied upon, from all around.

As it is, it’s mostly me doing the spying, filling the time when unaccountably not one single person in this whole town feels the irresistible pull to buy a plate of silvered glass with their face in the middle of it. I angle my mirror display in the front window so I can see people approaching from either direction. I can do a lot of people-watching this way, whilst apparently not looking at them at all. This fellow, for instance. He’s always enough to stop me doing what I’m doing and sneak a good peek. I don’t see him too often so the welcome sight provokes just a little internal flutter. He has a pleasant face, a handsome face, and he always dresses smartly. And yes, if nothing else occupies my mind, idle moments are spent imagining other details.

It is almost impossible for anyone to walk past a mirror without looking into it. It’s just instinct. You catch a sight, you look. Of course, if you then see me inside looking back you may quickly avert your gaze, staring straight ahead as if you weren’t just gawping at yourself. Or you may feign sudden interest in another mirror, as if there was no vainness at all behind your desire to check out my window display.

He’s no different. As usual he’ll turn his head my way, eyeing the low mirrors along the front, noting the reflection of his always smart shoes below the neatly tapered trousers. Then he will look up and see me there, apparently coincidentally distracted from my work at that very moment, so that our eyes meet as if by accident. Then he will give me a little smile and a nod to confirm that familiarity has given us some kind of connection, albeit through a plate-glass window. It used to be just a nod but recently a smile has been added, giving me another little flutter and a burst of warmth that can last a while after he looks away again and proceeds to wherever it is he goes.

So here he comes. I’ve got my technique down these days; I’m a true expert now. Keep the head bowed but the eyes up so you can watch his approach. It’s all about timing. There’s his sideways glance, down at the mirrors. Hold for just a second. Now look up to meet his gaze. And there it is, along with the burst of warmth inside. Hold those kind, brown eyes. Melt just a little. Allow yourself fleeting notions of romance. See the little smile break instinctively across his lips – nice kissable lips, if you want to really to embellish the moment. Give a shy nod back and allow a slight smile to flicker whilst wishing your cheeks didn’t colour so much and make you look like some blushing virgin from a Jane Austen novel. Then watch him walk away, being sure to grab a sneaky back view as he goes out of sight.

Except that this time he doesn’t go. He passes the door and is heading away when he suddenly stops, his eyes down on a particular mirror in the far corner of the window. He is studying it. It’s a modern design so I think it might be genuine interest – it’s the kind I’d expect someone like him to be drawn to. Not that I know him at all, of course – outside my head, that is. He really is studying it. He’s looking at one behind it too – another modern design. And now he is coming back, eyes still on the mirrors rather than me, but my heart has started to race a little and he is coming in for sure, opening the door to the accompaniment of a burst of traffic noise. I actually feel my legs going weak.

He smiles my way, since we do kind of know each other in that eye-each-other-up way. It’s the same smile you’d get from someone who’d been checking you out from across the room at a party.

‘Do you mind if I look around?’ he asks.

Of course I don’t – despite the weak knees. His voice is pretty much as I’d imagined it. Polite without being posh.

‘Please do. There’s plenty more through there.’

My voice doesn’t sound too shaky, thank heavens. He smiles his gratitude and goes up to the main room. All my carefully placed spy mirrors can now come into their own and I can stay where I am and compose myself – it is, after all, simply a guy on his own in my shop. It’s not the first time. Just because he smiles as he passes doesn’t mean he’s not here on serious business. He’s giving the mirrors some pretty genuine-looking attention, or so it seems. He can’t see that I can see him. Or so I think. Actually, I can’t be sure he hasn’t found an angle of his own and is perfectly aware I’ve been covertly checking him out. That kind of forces me into action, whether my legs are ready for it or not. I go up the step and into the room and ask him if there is anything I can help him with. The kind, brown eyes fix on me.

‘I keep meaning to come in here,’ he says. ‘I don’t know why it’s taken me so long. It’s embarrassing how bare the walls in my flat are. I was always going away, often abroad, so I never really saw it as my home. So now I’m spending more time there I ought to do something about that.’

His tone is mellow but he has self-assurance. Plenty of people clam up when I approach and make it plain they don’t want to talk. He is immediately open and even shares something of himself. Any salesman needs to find a common level with a potential customer but he’s kindly giving it to me on a plate. I’ll let you into a secret: there’s not much to talk about regarding mirrors. Some of my antique ones have a story but with the rest it’s essentially a case of do you like it or not? Yet he’s telling me about the plain colour of his walls, about how there is no particular style to his flat so nothing would really be out of place, giving me every chance to point out the ones I think are particularly nice or well-crafted.

I like how he looks into my eyes as I talk. But he doesn’t stare. From time to time he looks back at whichever frame we are discussing, so that he doesn’t appear to be there just on some mission to woo me. He might indeed be here with serious intentions to purchase. He seems as warm as I pictured him in my head. He’s intelligent too – you can tell by how he speaks and what he says. His eyes are bright as well as kindly. I really like that. They kind of sparkle when his smile broadens after one of our quips. I think what I like most is how at ease I am in his presence. It’s flirting without any actual flirting taking place.

But then he says, ‘Does this one always come with that face in it?’ He’s pointing at the one straight ahead of him and I’m two mirrors down. ‘The one you are looking at has got a much nicer one in it.’

It causes a bit of a blood rush. It’s the first time I’ve been on the end of flattery for quite a while. I try to make it a nonchalant smile but my cheeks have no doubt given me away.

‘Face not included, I’m afraid,’ I eventually say. ‘You’ll have to insert your own.’

‘Pity,’ he says with a smile and a shrug. It’s a chance for him to pop in a cheeky follow-up like ‘Your face would look great in my flat’, or even go for broke with something like ‘Your face would look great pressed to my pillow’. I’m a little relieved when neither come. I don’t actually know how I’d react to some serious chatting-up. As disarming as he is, I’ve been such a closed book in terms of relationships and romance that I’m not even sure when I’ll be ready to open it again. It’s a dusty old book now and placed on a shelf so high I’d need a set of steps to reach it. Anyway, it’s no matter because a killer line doesn’t come. Instead he tells me he thinks he’s found his favourite mirror.

It’s a nice one; he has taste. I stand beside him but refrain from looking into the glass and catching his eye. Just moving to his side brings a myriad reflections all around, like a crowd is milling about the room. I reach up to flick over the price ticket so he can see the damage. I am close enough to catch his scent. It’s as welcoming as everything else about him.

‘You are single,’ he says, his eyes on my hand. Well, that’s whipped the rug from beneath my feet. It is said as a statement rather than a question and it is a statement I cannot deny. Rings on certain fingers are one way we silently tell a part of our story to strangers, however much of ourselves we would normally keep hidden. Having no rings seems to tell just as many tales. The implication is loud and clear: I am available. And his statement was not just a passing observation but a declaration of possibilities. I almost reply that I once thought I was close to wearing one. But what is that to him or to anyone? It never happened.

‘Yes’ is what I actually reply, stopping at that because there is nothing to add. I am indeed available, although I hadn’t thought of myself in such simple terms. Worse still, I am already seeking out a reflection of his fingers, checking for rings, instinctively if perhaps unconsciously showing my readiness to collude with him in whatever naughtiness he has in mind in pointing out my lack of husband or fiancé. I spot no glinting gold. I, of course, have a fabulous reason for being single but what is his excuse? Maybe it’s a warning sign I need to heed. Then again he did say he was always away, always travelling back and forth, which isn’t exactly ideal for forging or holding down relationships. Maybe the timing has simply never been right.

And now we are looking at each other’s reflection in the glass before us. I am tight-lipped and a little flushed of face. He has those sparkly eyes. I’ve not informed him of any boyfriend obstacles so I’ve effectively laid myself open. My breath is not coming as easily as it should.

‘This mirror,’ he says, looking ahead to see me. ‘I know the size is fine. I’d just like to visualise it in my flat first. Would you mind if I came back to have another look at it?’

Despite feeling I could be getting out of my depth here, I still feel a pang of disappointment that he is going to leave. It’s offset by the prospect of seeing him again.

‘No, of course not,’ I say, trying to sound businesslike rather than desperate.

‘Would you mind if I asked you a question in the meantime?’

My cheeks continue to give me away. I am an amateur at this flirting malarkey and he can see in my face I am there for the taking. I couldn’t stop his question even if I wanted to.

‘No, of course not,’ I find myself saying for the second time, seemingly intent on sounding like one of the parrots they used to sell here.

‘Well, there is one thing I find completely irresistible in a woman – apart, of course, from her having eyes just like yours.’

Another warm surge goes through me. I’m starting to tremble a little but I hold his gaze. I can’t just let this hang there. He knows I have to ask.

‘And what might that be?’ I say.

‘It will shock you for sure if I tell you.’

Still that sparkle in his eyes. Still that self-assurance. I’m crumbling. Speaking via the mirror, having the ability to see yourself too, makes you so much more self-conscious. It is what makes customers run as you approach, or what can make them rush into a purchase if you can keep them there. And that same self-consciousness is drawing words out of me I might have felt able to subdue if we were talking face-on.

‘I think you have to tell me now,’ I say.

‘Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘I’ll consider myself warned.’

‘Well, OK. What I find irresistible is when she shaves herself. You know, down there. The question I wanted to ask is whether you have ever tried this?’

We can both see the shock go through me and the bloom deepen in my already pink cheeks. How I remain upright is anyone’s guess. I am so surprised I cannot tell you what I feel. In an instant he sent my belly flipping and my bloodstream fizzing. My knees sagged visibly. Most crucially, the biggest jolt of all came between my legs. The heat has flooded there. In my shock I turn to look at the real him and I jump again when I suddenly see how close we are. I stammer out a response but my mouth has no idea what my brain thinks it should say.

‘Wha–? I mean … you’re … I mean … what? No! I … no …’

Have I actually just answered his question? How has he made me do that?

‘You should,’ he says calmly, still with that slight smile and those eyes bright with amusement. ‘And if it doesn’t make you feel sexier than ever before then I will buy every mirror in this place. I’ll make you a deal, in fact: you do it and I promise I will come back tomorrow.’

We are about a foot apart, looking straight at each other, and he’s said this. My pulse has never rushed so fast.

‘Oh, right, sure, yeah.’ I say. I’m trying to sound sarcastic and look unabashed but my cheeks are aflame, my heart is pounding and the adrenalin is coursing through me, jellifying my legs. ‘And I suppose I’m just meant to hoick up my skirt and show you as you pass?’

‘No, no. You place that mirror in the window, this time tomorrow. If I see it I will know, and I will come in.’

That is the deal then, and I just stand aghast, cheeks still burning, bloodstream still fizzing. I have half a thought to ask him, ‘Then what?’ but I already know then what. His smile broadens once more, his eyes give another cheeky twinkle and then he is off with a little nod. If he was a Victorian no doubt he’d have tipped his hat like a gentleman. Except that a real gentleman wouldn’t slay me with such personal, out-there questions and he definitely wouldn’t leave me in this state. I have to shut the shop immediately, of course. I am trembling and mind-shot and itching in places that haven’t itched that badly in years.

I’m not going to do it, obviously. I perch on the edge of the corner bath with my legs wide open. I have propped a little mirror against the tiled wall opposite so I can clearly inspect my most private place. I’ve been here a while. I made my shower so hot it will be a while longer before I need a towel around me. My skin is still steaming. I have never examined myself this intently. I can’t remember feeling this brazen before. I have even used my fingers to pull the lips apart to see her in all her lewd glory. Any excuse to touch myself there. I am holding off from doing more, despite her calling; some silly subconscious notion about saving myself.

I imagine he is seeing what I see now, in all that close detail. I imagine that I have shaved as he asked. The thought of laying yourself so bare to someone – especially one whose name you don’t even know. Of feeling that confident and unabashed. Is it ruder to imagine his fingers splaying me apart or my own? The breath and the tingle on my exposed, so delicate skin. The faintest tongue-touch, no barrier at all between him and my most sensitive nerve-endings. It might seem such a run-of-the-mill thing for some women, but to lay yourself so gratuitously naked – I cannot think of a more blatant come-on. Just to do it means you are gagging for it.

Which is exactly what his deal is about and why it is so transparent. When he spoke about coming back he wasn’t remotely talking about buying mirrors. He was talking about a hot, totally premeditated, naughty fuck with someone you barely knew. No words needed, just a sign. Simply to do now as he suggested could make you hussy enough to go through with the whole thing. And he will be wondering if I will. He might be imagining me doing it, the razor taking off the foam to reveal the smoothest, palest, most vulnerable skin anywhere on my body. Right now he might very well be picturing my shaved cunt, and, as vulgar a thought as that could be, it is also a genuine turn-on.

Despite the bet he made me, he knows he will never be forced to buy all my stock. He knows I would have to admit he was right. I mean, how could you not feel sexier than ever before when not only were you as smooth and naked and inviting down there as you had ever been, but you were also advertising the fact deliberately as a way to lure a man to you? I’ve been up for a bit of hanky-panky in my time but I’ve never yet put a sign in a shop window to let some passer-by know that my freshly shaved vag needs a damn good seeing-to!

I feel more open now than I can remember. I feel genuinely sexy for the first time in ages. I feel attractive, and dirty – in a good way. I am hot and wet and I know that right now someone is thinking about me showing off to them, about licking me, about being inside me. His deal is so surreally simple I can hardly think of one good reason not to take him up on it. But I won’t. Something in me will prevent it. The foam and the razor will only get used on my legs. I will clip myself short down there, as I have done countless times before, just to give me a stronger taste of the fantasy. But tomorrow that mirror he so liked will still hang where it hangs now, and when the time comes I will be in the main room so that as he passes I won’t have to look at him.

I almost never bathe in the morning, especially if I’ve showered the night before. Today was an exception. Now I find myself sitting naked on the edge of the bath once more, legs wide open, the mirror still in place where I left it last night. The closely clipped hairs are now covered in shaving foam. The razor is poised in my hand. I can take the fantasy one step further without taking it all the way. That’s what I told myself last night when I couldn’t sleep for thinking about him. I need to feel the cool tingle in my lips as the blades expose me. I need to open myself up again. I need to feel the prickling thrill of my underwear against my bare crotch to remind me what a hussy I can be. I need to have the pulse-quickening excitement of pretending that I might go through with the whole thing, since a more sensual, more erotic moment will surely never come my way again.

It’s another hot bath so I’m glad to be naked for a while. I’ve left the water in to rinse the foam. Your average gal might not have steam-free mirrors but I’m an expert in the field so I most certainly do. I can see everything in this close, clear detail. I am holding off, I know it. Maybe it’s to savour the moment or maybe it’s because it seems like a personality change and not something to rush. But then anticipation takes over, the razor glides to leave a strip completely smooth, and there is no going back.

It is erotic. He is on my mind, secretly watching. The urge to play is strong. It is something not to be rushed so it feels like a tease. It gets me tingling, not just from the contact but from the implications of doing it. And the poses required to do the job properly make me feel like a stripper. Wide open, splayed, thrust forward or stuck out backwards at my own reflection. Totally smooth – a new, much naughtier me. The feel of it is so sensual, both when patted dry and afterwards, when the soothing cream has been applied. It is partially innocent but mostly overtly sexual.

I feel much more self-aware but in a good way. I can become insecure, seeing reflections of myself all day, but today I like it. I feel more confident. As the hour approaches, the devil in me doesn’t run for cover. I take the mirror he liked from the wall and carry it through to give it pride of place in the front window. I still don’t know what doing this will bring but I am willing to find out. For all my nerves, for all the tangles in my belly, I am not going to chicken out and move the mirror back. The only concession I have to make is to put myself in the main room now the time is at hand. I couldn’t just be standing there at the counter as he came by.

I even have my back to the doorway, although any number of mirrors will let me witness anyone entering behind me. I look at my watch for the hundredth time this hour. I hear the door open and the growl of traffic noise grow and then cease. I am sure I hear the click of the door catch being turned to lock it. The trembling in my legs increases. Sounds tell of an approach and then he is there in reflection. I see him although my back is turned. He is in a plain shirt and those tapered trousers and smart shoes. His expression is serious today, telling me that he is here not for jokes or bets but to carry out what he did in my head last night. He will see my face in some reflection somewhere. He will see I want this deal of his.

His arms come around me and he presses his lips to the top of my head. He stays like that for maybe a minute, just to calm me and to get me used to the close contact. We can see into each other’s eyes in the mirror before us. No words are going to be needed here. He turns me gently and my arms go around him too. It’s the last sign of my acquiescence he need seek. We both know the deal from here on in. The first touch of skin on skin is electric and goes right through me. His kisses start a lot softer than I’d anticipated but the hunger quickly grows and he even takes my bottom lip between his teeth to bite upon it. The press between us is close, his arms keeping me tight. I can feel the swell of him at my belly. I love his scent. He feels like someone I’ve known for ages.

His shirt is unbuttoned and comes off as we stand. Mine too. It is not a ripping-off of clothes. It is fast but not frantic, giving me hope that this will not be over before it has barely started. He keeps his lips pressed to mine as he slips off his shoes. He doesn’t wait for me to take the initiative. He undoes his trousers himself and they slip down. Still he keeps our lips in contact as he bends to pull them clear and remove his socks. You wouldn’t think that last thing could be sexy but it so is, especially in these surroundings, where a quick fumble seems the most likely scenario. He wants to do it right.

As he pulls me in tight again I realise with a start that he is naked. I can feel his stiff pole unleashed against me. Unless his underwear dropped by magic he wasn’t wearing any. That means he came here sure that it would happen. Something about me made him think I would agree to his deal. He doesn’t seem at all fazed at standing here nude with me. I can see him, obviously. All around is his reflection for me to snatch glances of. It could be like being in the most sensual of art galleries except that I am able to seek out the very rudest, most revealing views of him. It is like watching others making love whilst doing it yourself. It is like being watched by others doing it too. It is like being part of an orgy.

My skirt is unzipped and slips down. The clasp at my back is undone and my breasts fall free. Instinctively I keep close at first but my inhibitions are melting rapidly. There is no hiding here anyway. Only my knickers remain. We both know they are still in place only for a grand unveiling soon to come. His hands are down there, squeezing flesh through thin fabric, pulling me in, searching lower for the tell-tale dampness that betrays my excitement. Then his hands are at my breasts. Our kissing is fevered and wet now, the urgency still growing.

His head bows and he feasts upon me. I gasp and my eyes open again. In reflection I can see his teeth baring to press and nip at each breast in turn. I can see his tongue-tip swirling and flicking at the little stiff teats, see his cheeks hollow as he sucks hard. It is somehow so much ruder seeing it in reflection – again, like you are witnessing it in others whilst having it done to you. It doubles the intensity. He drops to his knees before me, his hands on my hips. His face is level with my belly, his eyes down. I hear his long exhalation; a victory sigh that his prize is right there for him. I have soaked the fabric of my knickers and he will have my scent in his nostrils. One downward movement of his hands will see my final defences peeled away, revealing the soft mound I shaved purely on his say-so – a man whose name I do not yet know.

I can see the contours and shadows and muscles of his body. Each mirror tells me something new about him. I can see his long cock straining up for me, the pulse in it. My hands are gripping his hair, my breath heavy as I wait with no patience left. I am dying for him to see me. Then he does. I feel the sweep of lace at my thighs as my knickers come down. The hairs there stand on end. Another long exhalation, this time felt as well as heard, a small, cool gust on my hot puss. His eyes drink me in. I see the sparkle in them, the hunger and raw lust. I’ve never seen this much in a lover before, but then I’ve never made love surrounded by mirrors before.