Caught Looking Read online

  Table of Contents

  Also by Alison Tyler

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgements

  EXPOSING THE EXHIBITIONIST

  CONFESSIONS OF A CONFIRMED VOYEUR

  CURTAIN CALL

  ROOM WITH A VIEW

  A FLASH OF GOLD

  ALL EYES ON HER

  WALLED LAKE GIRL

  TIGHT SPOTS

  REPLACEMENTS

  THE CHANGING ROOM

  MY FINEST HOUR

  THE STARS FELL DOWN

  COUPLES WELCOME

  BUSTED

  X-RAY SPECS

  FORCEFUL PERSONALITIES

  THE POET, DYING

  COMMAND PERFORMANCE

  THE KEY

  DOWN ON YOUR KNEES

  LATE BLOOMER

  SHARING THE PERFECT COCK

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITORS

  Copyright Page

  Also by Alison Tyler

  Best Bondage Erotica

  Best Bondage Erotica 2

  Exposed

  The Happy Birthday Book of Erotica

  Heat Wave: Sizzling Sex Stories

  Luscious: Stories of Anal Eroticism

  The Merry XXXmas Book of Erotica

  Red Hot Erotica

  Slave to Love

  Three-Way: Erotic Stories

  An exhibitionist is nothing without a voyeur.

  —S. SACHS

  The exhibitionist loves to flirt with shame.

  —MASON COOLEY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Rachel Kramer Bussel would like to thank Bess Abrahams, Allison Bojarski, Miriam Datskovsky, Ellen Friedrichs, Zak Nelson, Lori Perkins, Barbara Pizio, Devan Sagliani, Heidi Schmid, and Nichelle Stephens for all their support and encouragement. An extra special anonymous thanks to the person who inspired her story.

  Alison Tyler would like to thank SAM, who always watches.

  The authors would like to thank Felice Newman and Frédérique Delacoste for wholeheartedly supporting this project and all its sexy possibilities.

  EXPOSING THE EXHIBITIONIST

  Alison Tyler

  Watch me.

  Put me on display. That’s what I like. Doll me up and take me out. I’ll be your pony girl, with glossy leather boots riding all the way up to my slender thighs. I’ll be your naughty schoolgirl, in a kinky blue-and-green-plaid skirt and shiny high-heeled Mary Janes. I’ll be your siren in shimmering satin, or your vixen dressed down in my favorite pair of beat-up Levi’s. Truthfully, I don’t care what sort of clothes you put me in. I only want you to dress me up and take me out, so that people can watch.

  I’ve always been this way. Yes, I come across as shy at first, with my dark brown eyes cast down; my shoulder-length hair falling forward, hiding my face. I have a long-standing habit of biting my full lower lip when nervous or excited. But all of that’s an act. What I want most are eyes on me. What I crave is the excitement I feel when I know others are watching.

  And they are. They always are. They’ve been watching from the very start.

  There were eyes on me when Alexander backed me up against the wall behind the record store where he worked, sliding one hand along the lean line of my body, pulling my summery dress up to reveal my lavender lace-edged panties. People could see us when Jack and I had sex in the back row of the theater, my long leather jacket open, my short navy skirt hiked to my slim waist. And when Sam and I fucked in that club in Paris, we gave a thrill to every voyeur who strolled by.

  “Open your eyes,” Sam said. “They’re watching you.”

  And he was right. They were.

  My heart pounded as I made eye contact with the other patrons. As they gazed at us for their personal viewing pleasure, staring at the place where our bodies met, then looking up into my eyes and letting me know that they saw.

  I want to be seen. All the time. Everywhere. It goes deeper than that.

  I need you to stare at me, to see me. To watch the way my face changes, my expressions shift. To see the subtle strength that pulses in my eyes. To see the defiance there, the power that makes me who I am—the real person behind the shy exterior.

  Watch me.

  But when you stop, when you tear yourself away, I’ll still be there, my back arched, my lips parted. You’ll feel me gazing at you—and you’ll look back, and then I’ll be the one watching you. We can take turns, like the authors in this collection. The voyeurs and the exhibitionists, playing hide and seek with the sultry characters in their sexy tales. From Thomas S. Roche’s delicious “Curtain Call” to M. Christian’s intoxicating “All Eyes on Her,” there are other lads and lasses here like me who need to be seen. And from Saskia Walker’s naughty heroines in “Room with a View” to the voyeur in Tenille Brown’s “Replacements,” there are other lovers who delight in doing the seeing.

  I’m sure you’ll be won over with both—and I’ll know.

  Because, just like you, I’ll be watching.

  CONFESSIONS OF A CONFIRMED VOYEUR

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  I can’t lie—I like to watch. Looking at sexy people exulting in their sensuality, playing it up, flirting, flaunting it, gets me hot. Knowing they want to show off for me makes it all the better. I live in New York, the ultimate city for people watching, but only rarely do I actually get to engage in true voyeurism—watching other people have sex.

  Sometimes I attend sex parties, where a giant room might be filled with all sorts of couplings. But the action that gets me hottest isn’t the most over-the-top scene in the room, but one where I see two people so lost in each other that their bodies seem to give off waves of heat, a magnetism that’s enough to lure anyone into their web. Once, during a threesome with a private sex party’s host couple, I remember watching them kiss as the three of us were entangled and being both awed and jealous of the passion their lips shared, until they opened their circle to include me, letting me peek, and join in. I also like it when lovers show off just for me, and I have asked several I know to show me how they touch themselves when I’m not around. Watching as their fingers stroke and pump makes me feel like I’m being let into a secret world, given a special lens to view the utterly private.

  Like talking dirty, another sexual act I indulge in every chance I get, watching uses one of my senses to enhance another. Seeing a lover strip for me, watching him run his hands up and down his body; making her display her masturbation techniques, showing off the bite marks or reddened skin from a spanking; checking out her cleavage or his ass from across the room when they don’t know I’m looking—all of this gets me hot and makes my body purr. Time seems to stop as I soak in her curves, his tattoos, her strong back, his neck, her parted lips, his hard cock. Whatever position I’m in, I like to watch as our bodies melt against each other, and that visual is like a show-within-a-show for me, its impact spurring on my desire.

  The authors who’ve graced us with their naughty tales here also share the thrill of watching—and being watched. I’m not so much a spy as I am a blatant voyeur; I like the people I’m watching to know I’m looking, to feel my gaze as they bare their innermost selves to me. I like to watch people’s faces when they come, when every last shred of inhibition gets tossed out and they are naked, bare, caught in my glance. I like them to feel my eyes burning into them, warming them; to know I’m getting off by absorbing whatever it is they want to reveal. When they’re strutting their stuff just for me, giving me visual cues that tell me they know I’ve got my gaze pinned on them, I’m in heaven, squirreling away those images in my mind to replay later; responding to their every move, whether they’re flirting from across the room, masturbating on command, or making love to someone else before my eyes.

  Stan
Kent knows exactly what I’m talking about, and he shares his voyeuristic secrets in “My Finest Hour.” Once you read his story, I bet you’ll want to watch his protagonist’s lover, who knows just how to make sure you’ll stick around to see what she’ll do next. He puts us right at the heart of why looking is so alluring: “Notice how the word shower contains show. Show and shower—the two go together like a wet pussy and a stiff cock. Our glassed enclosure is her stage…my luxurious private and personal peep show that satisfies my fundamental sexual need to watch my lover engaged in what would be private and personal moments if it weren’t for the fact that I’m watching.” Watching someone in the throes of ecstasy, watching him surrender, fully and completely, to those stirring rumblings inside, is a powerful thrill. I consider it an honor, a gift, whether that means a breast flashed at me on the sly, or a private masturbation ritual that I’m let in on. I replay the memories of watching when I’m alone, a special erotic reel looping forever in my mind.

  Other stories here also delight in the voyeuristic nature of sex. Tara Alton’s “Walled Lake Girl” likes to check out her naughty neighbor as he fucks countless girls, until the tables get turned and she’s the one in his bedroom while someone else (possibly) peeks in.

  Despite our title, you don’t need to be caught looking—you can unabashedly enjoy every second of these personal peep shows that take you into a world where lovers light up their bedroom stages, creating dramas worthy of the big screen, whether it’s a slow reveal or an all-out erotic extravaganza. Join us—and look to your heart’s content. I know I will.

  CURTAIN CALL

  Thomas S. Roche

  We should get one thing straight from the outset: Drew wasn’t in the habit of taking her clothes off in front of strangers. Sure, she might have thought about it once or twice, but she never figured she’d actually do it. Especially not strangers who knew where she lived.

  She’d been a little uncomfortable when she’d first taken the apartment; it was weird for her, a country girl, to be living in the city with a picture window right across the alley from another apartment. The rental agent had explained that this apartment building had been built before the other one—that once the picture window had looked out over a beautiful view of the lake. But a few years ago, the high-rise had gone up across the alley, and now the view was of some other person’s living room. Not that it had inspired the landlord to lower the rent or anything—but Drew didn’t care; she was just glad to have an apartment after her long and frustrating search.

  Besides, the second she’d seen the picture window facing the apartment across the alley, her mind had turned to the idea of taking her clothes off in front of it, and the deal was closed. Not that she thought she’d actually do it, mind you. Drew wasn’t exactly a good girl; in fact she really wasn’t a good girl; in fact, she wasn’t anything even remotely like a good girl, but she drew the line at taking her clothes off in public. Her provocative clothing was nothing more than a matter of physical geography, albeit one she relished. She didn’t go out of her way to display her full hips, her large breasts, her thick, strong legs—they just sort of displayed themselves, and she liked it that way. Drew’s tasteful office attire was always a little dressier than was necessary, maybe even slightly tighter than was necessary, showing off the swell of her tits and the curves of her ass. It never crossed the line of propriety, mind you, not quite “slutty,” just, how would you say it, “body-comfortable”—that worked. She drew more approving looks than she would have thought possible when she was the quote-unquote “overweight” ugly duckling living in Wisketaw, Minnesota. Funny how that happened.

  Guys at the office were always asking her for dates, but after all, Drew had moved here to “find” herself, that obscure thing people were supposed to do when they turned twenty-five or maybe twenty-nine, or in Drew’s case twenty-seven, two years late or early, depending on your perspective.

  So Drew turned her admirers down for their dinners and movies and impossible-to-get seats at Miss Saigon—and stayed home, reveling in the pleasures of her new apartment. And the pleasures of that big picture window.

  Drew would stay home weekend nights, often having turned down a date or two from the technicians up on the fifth floor or the lawyers on seven—most of the bastards married—or once, even, the FedEx dude, who she’d been sure was gay. She just couldn’t stand the thought of going through another love affair when she finally had an apartment to herself, a place where she could stretch out on the expansive, luxurious floor—more luxurious than a couch would have been, even had she been able to afford one—and ease out of her office clothes, enjoying the sight of herself in the big mirror on the closet door, enjoying the sight of her sexy garter belt, stockings, tight panties, sometimes even no panties, the knowledge of that making her uncomfortably but deliciously wet all day long. She could put a porn movie in the VCR, one of those “women’s erotica” movies she’d discovered at the feminist porn shop recently. The porn was disgustingly PC compared to the sleaze her ex-boyfriends used to want to watch with her, but yet it was somehow unbelievably sexy precisely because it was aimed at her, like it represented the fact that everyone in the world knew she was masturbating right now—or something. She would put on one of the movies and stretch out on the floor with a bottle of red wine and her vibrator and maybe even a dildo or two, enjoying the feeling of being horribly, terribly, irrevocably bad—not because she was watching porn or masturbating with sex toys, but because she was drinking red wine on that immaculate white carpet, and her anxiety about losing part of her cleaning deposit was matched only by the decadent thrill she felt in thinking about dumping the whole bottle over her naked body and laughing about it, and because she was going to be alone in this apartment for a long, delicious time.

  Drew would keep the curtains closed on that window, thinking about who might be beyond it, thinking about what they were doing. Maybe the people who lived there had their curtains open and were doing nasty things in front of the window, wishing Drew would open her curtains so she could see them. The thought gave her a thrill. Drew was as much a closet voyeur as a closet exhibitionist. Once when she lived in Minnesota she’d heard her downstairs neighbors fucking. She’d fantasized about that for months, still fantasized about it sometimes when she was masturbating. When she’d found out, weeks later, that two women lived there, a handsome diesel dyke and a curvy femme, that only fueled Drew’s savoring of her illicit carnal knowledge. There’s something so delicious about things you’re not supposed to know, like what two lesbians sound like in the throes of lovemaking.

  Now, she would fantasize about the people on the other side of those curtains. She would think about them watching her as she looked at porn and stroked herself; as she spread her broad thighs; as she tugged her skimpy panties to one side and slipped the silicone dildo smoothly into her body; as she turned the vibrator on HIGH and pressed it to her clit; as she came, screaming, to the images on the TV screen and the knowledge of sexual beings right behind her curtains, wanting to watch her and being denied. More than once Drew left her window open behind those closed curtains, watching the red fabric ripple in the twenty-fifth-floor breeze, knowing that wind might carry her orgasmic screams to the people across the alley, or—and this never failed to get her off—the people in the alley many floors below.

  But Drew never actually opened the curtains—not even when she was just hanging out—to see who lived there. That might have spoiled the fantasy, she figured. Or would it?

  Drew discovered her very favorite video one night when she was just a little tipsy from a glass of wine and pleasantly satisfied by take-out Chateaubriand from Francesca’s Italian Restaurant—she’d just gotten a midmonth paycheck and wanted to treat herself. There wasn’t a bit of irony in her liking it, because Drew watched a lot of videos, having grown up in a place where “women’s erotica” meant Cosmopolitan articles on “How to Give Your Man Orgasms!” At this point, she’d seen practically every so-called “sex-positiv
e” video, both lesbian and straight, that the sex shop rented, and she was starting in on the commercial stuff out of sheer desperation. But somehow she’d missed The Hungry Gaze in her first whirlwind tour through the video section. It had been made by a tiny lesbian erotica company in Minneapolis. The company’s location was an interesting coincidence, to be sure, and one that would drive Drew to even more perverse fantasies of sexual exhibition. But given how many videos Drew had watched since moving to the city, there really wasn’t that much irony in her response.

  That is to say, in the fact that The Hungry Gaze was a thirty-minute short about a woman who showed off for her female neighbor in front of the picture window of her high-rise apartment building.

  Drew came three times, the remains of the Chateaubriand forgotten, the red wine serving only to hydrate her in gulps taken between her frenzied bursts of self-fucking and desperate rewinding of the tape, muttering, “Come on, come on,” while she stroked her wet pussy and listened to the annoying whine of the VCR. Then she started all over again.

  It didn’t bother her one bit that the woman on the tape was showing off for another woman, despite the fact that Drew thought of herself as exclusively straight. Hell, the woman across the alley in the video was more handsome than any of Drew’s boyfriends had been, and the woman showing off looked more like Drew than the blow-dried prom queens she usually saw in commercial porn and even a lot of the more artistic stuff. Her yummy broad ass and rounded hips were cinched lusciously into a corset, her luscious tits spilling out with their bright rings dancing for the camera as the woman ground her hips and spread her legs, exposing her shaved pussy as she slipped her fingers inside. The woman across the alley, a skinny dyke with a DA, lay naked except for a stained jockstrap, fondling her small tits and pulling the cotton garment away so she could rub her pussy as she watched. The tension between the two women, even across the illusory gap between buildings, was palpable and drove Drew into a new fury.