Mine to Watch

Mine to Watch

He looks at me like he already knows what I sound like when I come.

The coffee is shit. Not that I expected much from the White Room Gallery, but you'd think the snobs who curated this show would have better taste in beans. Still, the cup is pleasantly warm between my hands as I begin to peruse the first exhibit.

Afternoon sun streams through the tall windows, making long rectangles of light along the white tile floor. There's a few people ambling about, their footsteps making soft clicks in the quiet space. A couple stands in front of a large sculpture made of branches and leaves. A pair of thinly framed glasses sits on the man's nose as he admires the piece. The piece is very clearly the form of a woman, her body's curves framed in foliage and bark. She's bent over, on her hands and knees, head turned to face behind her. It's a vulnerable and exposing position, as if she's waiting expectantly to see who--or what--is behind her. The details are impressive. The dip in her back, the lift of her ass. It's striking to see how a mess of branches and twigs could evoke such hunger, even desperation.

I hear a voice next to me, and it startles me so much that I spill my coffee. Some of the hot liquid spills onto my jeans and a nice splotch appears on my high-tops.

Shit, there goes my brand new Chucks.

"Whoops," says the man. I turn to face him, horrified with embarrassment.

He's wearing a loosely fitting band T-shirt, tucked in at the front. Black strands of hair hang from an unkept mop of a haircut. A lock of dark hair dances before his icy blue eyes. There's a day or two of stubble on his tanned face. My embarrassment grows.

Damn. He's fine as hell. And... I just made a fool of myself.

"Scared you there, didn't I?"

I sigh, and brush hair out of my eyes. I try to pull myself together.

"Yeah, you really came out of nowhere," I mutter. "But don't worry about it, I'll just pretend it's intentional." I wink. "It's interpretive. Fashion."

God, why am I like this?

I wave my hands in a mocking gesture. It's a lame joke, but he chuckles good-naturedly.

"Steven Torren," he says, and holds out his hand for me to shake.

I take it, and even though the coffee has been keeping my hands quite warm, I can't help but notice the heat and friction his rough hands create against mine. His palm is warm and rough, like he works with his hands more than he should.

The kind of hand that would leave marks if it wanted to. The thought comes with as much surprise as when he first frightened me.

"June. Nice to meet you." Steven Torren--that name is so familiar. Wait, oh shit. This is his art show. I saw his name on the marquee. Another wave of embarrassment rolls over me and I can feel my face getting hot. I feel my mouth getting dry and I take a sip of coffee and clear my throat.

"Sorry for scaring you," he says, and gingerly lets my hand go. "I don't really follow gallery-quiet rules well. I'm of the opinion that we shouldn't feel the need to censor ourselves with regard to art." I can smell his breath as he speaks. It's sweet, and his words lilt in the air with a humble tenor.

"No, it's totally fine," I assure him. "It was on me, you just... caught me off guard. I should have grabbed a lid, but I just wanted it to cool down a bit faster." I redirect the conversation as quickly as I can. "So, this is your installation? It's beautiful." I gesture to the twig-woman on her knees. There's a title--Form No. 7.

"Yeah, I like it," he says. Then he smirks. "But the real one's starting soon."

"The real one?" I ask, tilting my head.

Steven's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "June," he pauses. My name hangs on his lips like honey. "Maybe we can help each other."

It's vague enough to be annoying, but there's something in the way he says it that sticks--like a secret pulled taut behind his teeth. I take another sip of my coffee. Still warm, still awful.

"Oh?" I ask, eyebrows raised. "I'm not much of an artist. Photography in college was as far as I got."

He studies me for a second. Not a man looking at a woman--more like a sculptor deciding whether to take the chisel to a new block of marble.

"I think you're perfect. First, lets address your fashion." He waves his hands in the same pretentious mocking way I did earlier.

"Oh I see," I say. "Soiled jeans aren't good enough for you?"

"That's a different exhibition," he says, that grin widening almost imperceptibly. "Follow me."

I have no idea what he's thinking. Something in me protests, but my body begins to insist on entertaining whatever this man has in mind. I feel my face grow warm again, and that warmth travels down my body with a tingling hunger. I can feel the fabric of my clothes against my breasts, the nipples growing hard. I'm getting ahead of myself. There's very little to suggest that he is interested in me, in my body. And yet, his eyes look like they're ready to take me apart, piece by piece.

"Lead the way then," I lift my hand in a playful gesture--just to say "after you"--but to my surprise, he takes it. We slip past a velvet rope near the back of the gallery. No one stops us. I get the sense they wouldn't even if they noticed.

He leads me down a short hallway that curves out of sight. The lighting shifts--no more afternoon glow, just cold fluorescence humming quietly overhead. It feels... clinical. Like we've left the gallery and entered the back of a hospital.

"This way," he says, motioning toward a matte black door. It doesn't have a label, just a thin silver handle and a keypad. He beckons for me to approach. I step up to the keypad, confused.

"Obviously, I don't know the code."

Then he's right behind me. I can't see him, not even out of the corner of my eye. He's not touching me, but I can feel the heat coming from his body. I can smell him. I can't help but shiver knowing he's watching me.

Then his breath is on my neck as he whispers.

"Shhh, don't tell anyone," He says.

"Okay," I answer sheepishly. I am melting.

"Four."

Oh god, every word is like hands on my skin. I press the number 4.

"Three."

My breathing is heavier. I press 3.

"Six."

He drags out the 's' like a hiss in my ear. I almost forget to press 6. As he says the last number, I feel him press into me. The contact strikes a flame in my body, and I unintentionally press back into him. I can feel oh god--the hardness of him. It's hot and I can't help but rub my ass against it. He lets out a soft exhale.

"Four."

I press 4, fingers nearly shaking.

Click.

The door doesn't creak. Doesn't hesitate. It just opens--like it's been waiting for me.

This is probably where normal people would say "no thanks," but I'm far too curious now. The coffee is beginning to cool on my pants, and I'm all too aware of how wet they are.

How wet I'm becoming.

"After you," he says.

The room swallows me. White walls. White ceiling. White floor. No sound. No art.

Just a white chair, with a white decorative pillow. Just a single square platform in the center and four floor-to-ceiling mirrors, one on each wall. They reflect me from all angles--me and my poor posture and my stupid coffee cup.

Steven steps in behind me and the door eases shut, sealing us in a soundless box.

"This is the White Room, of the White Room. A little on the nose, I know. But this is all the more illustrative of the subject."

"It's very... subtle," I say, trying not to sound like I'm covering nerves with sarcasm. (I am.)

"It's not finished yet."

I take a step closer to the chair, trying not to look like I'm inspecting it--trying not to look like I'm thinking of sitting in it and asking who's watching.

Because I'm already wondering.

"Take off your shoes," he says.

Not a question. Not a suggestion.

A soft directive that's been waiting to be spoken.

I blink. "Excuse me?"

Steven's leaning against the far wall now, hands tucked into his pockets, expression unreadable.

"The floor's clean," he says. "I want you to feel it."

I look down at my shoes. Practical. Worn. Not exactly erotic.

But then I look at the mirrors.

There's a strange thrill in the idea that someone--maybe everyone--is watching. Or maybe no one. Which might be worse.

I lean down and untie my high-tops, setting the coffee on the floor. I fold my socks and tuck them into the shoes. He's watching me, all the while. I can make out a bulge in his pants. I feel hot. My nipples hard. There's a deep ache between my legs, and I can feel the wet fabric of my panties against the creases in my skin.

The floor is warm. Not artificially so. More like skin-temperature. Just enough to feel wrong.

"Better," he says.

He walks to the panel by the wall again and presses something. A warm light blooms above the chair--soft and golden and... expectant.

He looks at me.

"Whenever you're ready."

I hesitate.

Not because I'm afraid.

But because I don't want to disappoint him.

The mirrors wait. Four of them. A private audience that doesn't blink.

Steven says nothing.

June, what the fuck have you gotten yourself into? I'm tempted to break for the door, but another, deeper part of me, knows there's no going back now.

I... want this. Whatever it is.

My body agrees. I walk to the chair and sit.

The light hums to life above me, warm and golden like late afternoon sun. It softens the white of the room, but sharpens me. I can see myself from every angle now--chin tilted, jaw set, heartbeat visible in the hollow of my throat.

I look at Steven.

He meets my eyes like we've already started.

This should feel insane. But it doesn't. Not after the way he looked at me. Not after how I've felt lately--like my body is made of glass and no one's even bothering to look.

And now I 'm here. And someone's watching.

"Ready," I say, expectantly.

He crosses the room and stands behind the chair. He places a hand on the arm, and although our skin isn't touching, I can feel the hair standing up on mine, reaching to come into contact. I can smell his aftershave and hear him breathing. I can't help but imagine what's twitching behind his pants.

"Put your hands on your thighs," he says. Not a request.

I obey. Palms flat. Skin to denim. The air between us is heavy. Not unpleasant, but it feels like a breath held too long.

"You're following directions very well," he whispers. "Good." I shudder at the compliment.

"Take off your blouse."

Three seconds pass.

Then I reach for the buttons.

One by one, I undo them. Not slowly, not teasing--just precise. Intentional. Like I'm giving something back that was his to begin with.

I slide the blouse off my shoulders and let it fall behind me.

No sound. No praise.

He steps into view again--across the room now, facing me directly. He doesn't sit. Doesn't pace. Just watches. As if he's reading something in the lines of my collarbone.

The light above me sharpens slightly. My skin glows gold in the mirrors.

"Unhook your bra."

That one lands differently.

My fingers hesitate. My breath catches.

But my hands move.

The clasp clicks open and I let the straps fall. My breasts feel full, and there's a tingling sensation as the fabric tugs at my nipples for a moment. The bra pools in my lap, and I leave it there.

The air kisses my skin. So does his gaze.

I feel it travel--mirror to mirror--so thorough it makes my spine curve. My back arches seemingly with its own will.

Steven doesn't speak. Doesn't approach.

He just watches. As if that alone might undo me.

And maybe it will.

He finally breaks the silence with a single word.

"Stand."

I do, the chair sighing softly beneath me. The bra tumbles to the floor, forgotten. My feet press against the warm tile.

"Face the mirror in front of you."

I follow his instruction.

He steps between my body and the chair, again, standing behind me.

"Tell me to take off your pants."

At first I can't. The words want to come out, but I can't get my breathing under control. I press the words out with the first exhale I can manage.

"Take off my pants," I whisper. The words echo off the mirror and I can hear my voice shaking.

"Ask me again." He insists.

I breathe deeper.

"Take off my pants." This time there is more tone in my voice.

"Again."

"Take off my pants."

He still isn't satisfied.

"Beg me," he whispers.

"Please," my mouth issuing a moaning plea all it's own. "Take off my pants Steven."

"Better," he says. He reaches around my waist, still not making contact with my skin. But I want him to. Oh God I want him to touch me.

He delicately undoes the buttons of my jeans, and my hips attempt to hitch against his hands. It's almost infuriating how desperate I am to feel his hands between my legs. I lean forward slightly as his thumbs graze my hips and slide beneath the waistband. He pulls and I stifle as gasp as his fingers lightly travel down my thighs.

My jeans slide to the floor. He steps back a hair.

"Step out."

I do.

He folds them and sets them aside, a quiet ritual. I wait for him to return to his position behind me, but he doesn't.

I'm topless, in my panties, standing before mirrored wall. I can't tell if my mind is playing tricks, or if I see movement somewhere behind the mirror.

He doesn't give me time to think about it.

"Touch yourself for me, June."

Hearing my name from his lips makes me obey without hesitation. This is what he wants. This is what he--I need this.

My hand shifts down my stomach, traveling toward the spot between my legs that's aching for relief. My fingers trace down the fabric of my panties and find their mark.

Wetness. Heat. Need.

I begin to rub myself. My clit is already so stimulated that I can't help but exhale sharply. My body begins to move on it's own, and I'm helpless to stop it. The soft panties feel so good against my skin, and I rub soft circles around the swell that is begging for attention.

The sound I make is involuntary--a soft gasp, swallowed immediately by the White Room.

I spread my legs slightly, giving him a better view.

Giving the mirrors a better view.

My fingers slide deeper, slick with heat. The cotton clings to me, soaked through--there's no hiding it now, not from him, not from the mirrors.

Every move sends a ripple through my legs, a throb between my thighs. I press harder, fingers curling against the soaked fabric, and my hips grind forward before I can stop them. I feel obscene. Open. Filthy.

And it only makes it worse.

The pressure builds low--dense and wet and frantic. It pulses up through my belly, my chest. My nipples ache, tight and exposed in the cool air, brushing nothing but ghost heat. I imagine his mouth. His hands. The places he could put them. The places he won 't.

Not yet.

A sound escapes me--half gasp, half moan--and it startles me. My thighs tense. The room is too quiet, too watchful, and now I'm panting into the silence.

"Don't stop," Steven says.

I obey. My palm presses harder. My fingers slip beneath the elastic, skin to skin now, and                             I bite my lip as I find the spot that makes me twitch. It's soaked, swollen, hot.

I circle once. Twice. Then faster.

"Sit."

It feels abrupt. But I like where this is going. I sit back on the chair. My body momentarily protests as my hands leave my aching pussy.

"Ask me," comes Steven's voice.

I don't need him to clarify.

"Please, fucking take off my panties," my voice climbs without permission.

In a moment he is kneeling before me. Even with the mirrors present, I haven't felt exposed in this way yet.

He removes them slowly. Like pulling a petal from a flower.

When they're off, he folds them, and puts them to the side with the pants.

He takes my calf into his hands, and rests my left leg on the arm of the chair. He stands.

"Continue."

I rub again. It's such a relief to open my legs wide. I put two fingers into my mouth and taste myself. It's sweet. A primal, slick sweetness.

"Use both hands."

I respond instantly. My hand travels further down and I continue to rub my clit. Two fingers slide easily inside of me. I move them in and caress the inside of my body.

I moan. Imagining Steven on me. Inside of me. Making a mess of every inch of my body. The desperation is almost painful, and I can feel that I'm near boiling over.

"Let me come," I whisper, breathless. Both hands moving of their own occurred.

He doesn't answer.

I keep going anyway.

My hips are grinding now, fingers frantic and slick. I'm right on the edge, panting, open, ruined.

"Let me come," I whisper again.

Steven steps closer.

Still not touching.

But close enough that I feel the heat rolling off him in waves.

"You want to come?" he murmurs.

"Yes," I breathe. "Please."

He leans in--not touching--but his mouth brushes the air above my neck, close enough that my skin rises to meet it.

"Then come for me, June."

It breaks me.

My body jerks forward, thighs clenching, breath catching hard in my throat as the wave crashes. The pleasure hits deep--tight and low and sudden--and I cry out without shame. My fingers don't stop. They ride it out, wringing every last shudder from me until I'm slick, aching, shaking.

The room goes quiet again.

Except for my breathing. Harsh. Broken.

Steven watches.

And then--finally--he moves.

Steven steps forward and kneels between my legs.

Still, he doesn't touch me right away. His eyes roam--slowly, reverently--from my flushed chest to my trembling thighs, to the mess I've made of myself in the seat.

"You're doing such a good job," he says.

I want him to stop talking and start devouring.

But he doesn't rush. His hands come to rest on my knees, firm and grounding. Then, slowly, he leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh. Not near where I need him. Not yet.

Another kiss, higher this time. His lips trail heat like a fuse.

I open wider.

The first stroke of his tongue is maddening--soft, wet, patient. He licks through the mess I've made and groans low against my skin, as if I taste better than he imagined.

His hands slide up to grip my hips, holding me still as he begins to eat me in earnest. Long, indulgent strokes that send sparks up my spine. Then tighter, faster movements--his tongue flicking, curling, pressing into me until I'm grinding shamelessly against his mouth.

My head falls back. My fingers thread through his hair, desperate to keep him there.

He moans into me, the sound vibrating through my core. I cry out, twitching as he sucks on my clit--gently at first, then rougher, hungrier.

It's too much and not enough. My thighs start to shake. I'm going to come again.

But just before I tip over the edge--

He pulls away.

I whimper, dazed and soaking, aching for more. There could be a million reasons he's stopping, but there's one idea I'm hoping he has in mind.

I need him to fuck me. I need his hard cock inside of me.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks up at me, pupils blown.

"Stand up," he says. "Hands on the mirror."

I do not hesitate. My mind is empty as I approach the mirror. The mirror. I'm definitely being watched now. I can sense it. I can feel the sexual tension from beyond the mirror.

There are people watching. And I'm enjoying it.

There's something about me being used for entertainment, in the throws of passion, so vulnerable. So exposed.

It arouses me with such freshness that I moan without being touched. An animal sound of need and begging.

I place my hands on the mirror, leaving small smudges beneath my fingers.

All at once, he's touching me again.

He places a hand on my ass, and the other travels between my legs. His hand moves forward and back across my clit, spreading me, stroking me. He pulls my ass closer to him. My back arches welcomingly.

I want him to take whatever he wants. His desire is palpable. His breathing heavy. His pants are off, and I can imagine his cock inches away from me.

As he rubs my clit, slowly and insistently, I feel his other hand travel across my ass. I hear the wetness of his mouth as I come to understand he's wetting his fingers.

Then, there's a rough hand on my ass again, and I feel soft pressure against my asshole.

Oh god. It's almost enough to make me come again. His touch is so soft and I feel my pussy clench against his hand.

He moans in pleasure simply from the act of touching my body.

And then his hands pull away.

He knows I want it. I fucking need it. Please please... give me your--

He grips my hips hard enough to bruise and drags his cock through my folds--slow, heavy, deliberate. I'm soaked, still twitching from the orgasm he pulled out of me minutes ago, but now it's need all over again--raw and maddening. He's so hard, I can feel the head of his cock so clearly defined against my clit. It's enough to drive me mad. I don't care.

When the head presses against my entrance, I moan--loud, messy, desperate.

Steven doesn't thrust. He pushes in inch by inch, watching my reflection the whole time as I stretch around him, my mouth falling open, eyes fluttering.

"God, you're tight," he growls. "You're fucking dripping for it."

He sinks deeper, groaning low in his throat as he fills me. I feel everything--the stretch, the slide, the obscene way my body opens to take him.

It feels. So. Fucking. Good.

When he bottoms out, I choke on a gasp. He's so deep it's like he's underneath my ribs.

Then he starts to move.

He exhales deeply.

"Good. You're taking it so well."

Slow at first. Cruel.

Each drag out leaves me empty, needy--and then he slams back in, making the mirror rattle with the force. I cry out, pressing my palms flat to the glass for balance, back arched, breasts swaying with every thrust.

The sound of it is filthy--wet, rhythmic, obscene. The slap of skin. The breathless moans               I can't hold back.

He fucks me like he owns me.

His hand slides up my back, then tangles in my hair. He yanks my head back, forcing me to look at myself in the mirror--flushed, fucked-out, completely undone.

"This," he grits. "This is how I wanted to witness you."

I whimper, my voice catching in my throat.

"Say it," he demands. "Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," I gasp. "I want you to see all of it."

His hand slides lower, not to hold me, not to brace--but to spread me. A thumb drags across the wet heat between my thighs, lazy, taunting. "Open wider," he growls. "Let them see what's mine."

He moans and slams into me harder, faster. His hips pound against my ass, thick cock grinding into every spot that makes my knees go weak. I'm being held up by the glass, by his hands, by him.

And still--it's not enough.

His hand slips lower, down the curve of my back, between the cheeks of my ass. One thumb teases along the tight ring there, slick with his spit from earlier and the mess we've made.                                           He circles gently, not pushing in--just reminding me it's there. Claimed.

My entire body jerks.

"You like that?" he mutters.

"Yes--fuck, yes."

I like it so much I don't think I can take much more.

He keeps fucking me hard, his cock driving in deep, while his thumb toys at the edge of me.

It sends heat crawling up my spine.

"Touch yourself," he says again, voice darker now. "Let me feel you come while I've got you everywhere."

I reach down with one trembling hand, fingers slipping over my clit. I'm already close--again. But now the build is feral. Dirty. My body is overwhelmed--filled, teased, pulled tight in every direction.

He fucks me through it, thumb pressing harder, cock pounding deeper, and my reflection watching all of it unfold. I climb, and I can feel him twitching inside of me. He fills me even more, hits even deeper.

Suddenly, I'm on the precipice. I'm being watched. I'm being fucked.

He's--they're all going to watch me come.

And... oh fuck. I'm coming.

When I come, I scream.

It rips out of me like lightning. My thighs shake, muscles seizing around him. I clamp down on his cock, on his thumb, on everything. I'm shaking--blinded, feral, ruined.

Behind me, he groans deep, hips stuttering.

"Fuck--I'm gonna--"

He pulls out just in time and comes across my lower back, hot and thick, while I'm still trembling against the mirror. The first pulse lands between my cheeks, smearing across the spot he was just teasing. It drips warm down the curve of my ass.

I can't move. I can barely breathe.

I watch our bodies in the glass--ruined, slick, marked.

He leans in, kisses my shoulder, breath warm against my skin.

And then--quiet.

Just the two of us, panting.

He doesn't move for a while.

Just stays pressed against me, one hand still on my hip, the other trailing slowly up my spine. Our breathing evens out together, the heat between us finally starting to cool. The mirror's fogged over now, only fragments of our reflection left behind--flushed skin, tangled hair, the curve of a shoulder.

I don't speak. I don't want to break it.

He kisses the back of my neck once--softly this time--and lets his lips linger like he's memorizing the taste.

Then, finally:

"An excellent performance, June."

"Oh, I wasn't acting, I'm sure you--"

"Exactly."

I feel wild. Powerful. Seen.

He grabs a towel from a nearby chair and wipes me down--his touch suddenly gentle, reverent. He doesn't ask if I'm okay. He already knows.

I slip socks, panties, and pants on slowly, my body humming. Sticky. Sore. Satisfied.

He leans in, low against my ear.

"I've got another opening next month," he says. "Think you'll perform again?"

I turn to face him fully.

"I'm already rehearsing."