In The Game, or Of It

Though her breasts were below average in size, they stood forward and proud, evidence of the fact that she was wearing a wunderbra. And.. delight of delights... her hose were sagging around her knees!

As seemed to be a common practice among women (oh, I was learning so much today) her first move upon reaching the mirror was to flip her shingled hair, fluffing it as if to make it look slightly less formal, and tighten her ear-rings. Then, as I had also seen so often, she reached into her black leather handbag and pulled out a lipstick and other make-up paraphernalia, and made up her face. I watched, in an agony of suspense, hoping that she would decide to straighten something, preferably her hose. And hoping that no one would come in to discourage her.

After what seemed an eternity, she replaced the make up in her bag and began to lift her skirt. Again I was forced to suppress an audible gasp. The jet black hose I had thought were pantyhose were in fact those rare and delightful things, stockings, held up (though obviously not especially efficiently) by a cream coloured garter-belt, teamed with pale blue panties, of the old-fashioned "French cut," with short legs festooned with lace rather than the "bikini brief" a less sophisticated girl might have chosen.

Though her calves had been slim and shapely, her thighs tended towards the borders of mild plumpness. This slight imperfection, coupled with her mismatched underwear and sagging stockings gave her an air of vulnerability, almost helplessness, that did much to counter the otherwise sophisticated air she portrayed. I watched, spellbound as she undid all four garters and rolled down the stockings, and then the now loose material upwards, frowning into the mirror as she did so.

Being unfastened, of course, the stockings were now twisted and wrinkled, giving the appearance of being a size too large.

"Bloody things!" she moaned, in well-bred (though Antipodean rather than English) tones, as she smoothed them up each leg and gathered the welts in her hands to pull them higher before refastening the straps. She fastened the front straps, and then pivoted as she began to work on the rears, which were obviously a little more difficult, and I heard her grunt with effort as she fiddled with the clasps. Finally, she tugged the belt upwards, Presumably as well as wrinkling the stockings were also slipping below her hem when she sat...

Her next move was to pat and smooth at her elaborate panties, attempting to untangle the legs which seemed to be sticking to her skin, and smooth out the ridges and creases into which the material had formed through the course of the day.

With her below the waist underpinnings now at last arranged to her satisfaction, she lifted the dress higher, and I gasped again. She had pulled it almost to her breasts before she reached her target. The hem of a lacy white camisole. Really, doesn't this woman have any idea of colour co-ordination, I wondered. And the camisole must have been of poor quality, if it had rucked up so far. The perils of a tight dress. She gathered the hem and began to unroll it, once again swivelling her body.

And then, with the poor girl in the most undignified of positions possible, with her dress up above her waist and a bunched mass of nylon in her hands, in walked a man.

"Ooops," he said, but I, the watcher, wasn't fooled. His pupils must have dilated to three times their normal size. I am sure that this wasn't just the subdued lighting inside the washroom.

"Oh!" Replied the girl, letting go of her camisole and scrabbling for the bunched up roll of her dress.

"I'm sorry," said the man. He was a short, slim guy of about, I would say, his early twenties, with short brown hair and a confident, almost arrogant walk. He was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, and a pair of riding boots that must have cost as much as the rest of his outfit put together.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realise - " he continued, turning away, though I noticed that he took good care to keep the girl within view through the corner of his eye.

"No, please. It's m-my fault," the girl replied, frantically battling the clingy material of her dress as she tried to cover her immodesty. "I should have realised... with the lady's out of action..."

"Hey, it happens," he replied. "Having a few problems were you?"

Her face, which was already pink, turned crimson.

"I really am terribly sorry," she moaned, as if she were somehow to blame for suffering the misfortune of clothing problems. "It's this darn camisole... it just won't stay in place. It's terribly embarrassing...It's been riding up on me all morning."

"Mm. I can see it would be a problem," the skinny guy replied. "I hope it didn't... er, disarrange itself under embarrassing circumstances."

"It did actually."

It seemed that once having started to confess her humiliating predicament, she was unable to stop. It was as if she were unburdening her mind to the man, as a sort of therapy. She continued to pat at her dress as she talked, trying to continue her interrupted work of re-settling her troublesome undergarment without further compromise to her modesty.

"Even on the bus, when I reached up to grab the passenger-strap. I'm sure it shows through this dress!"

"Yes, it does rather."

"Oh... I... Oh no. Is it that obvious?"

"I guess I shouldn't have said that," He said. "I've only embarrassed you more, now."

"Oh, no, you were right to tell me. I just feel such a dork. I just can't seem to stop it rucking up. And then there's my stupid stockings..."

"Your stockings?"

"They just keep falling down. I hoist them up, and five minutes later I look and they're sagging again. Really, it's driving me crazy!"

"Not having a good day, eh?"

"You can say that again." The girl gave a shy, forced, laugh, and patted nervously at her shingled hair. "Stockings that fall down, panties that dig into you, camisoles that bunch up. I hate a bad underwear day." She pivoted again, to check herself at the mirror.

"Look I hate to mention it," the man laughed. "But it still seems to be tangled up... it is pretty visible under your dress, round the middle."

She craned her neck, trying to assess the damage.

"Would you like me to keep watch at the door?" he continued. "I mean, sorry to bring this up but I've already seen just about everything, so it might be less embarrassing for you if I stay and act as a lookout than for another stranger to catch you in the act."

"Oh no... no, I couldn't do that. I feel stupid enough already..."

"Hey, I don't mind."

I bet he didn't!!

While this conversation was taking place, I was the victim of what can only be described as conflicting emotions. Of course I was delighted, at having seen this attractive woman struggle with her clothing, and then, as a further bonus, seeing her humiliatingly caught in the act of adjusting things.

On the other hand, there was more than a trace of envy on my part as well.

Was it not I that was the expert in clothing disarrangements? It should have been me out there, discussing her lingerie problems with a hyper-embarrassed woman, not this newcomer! Had not I spent the best part of a morning, waiting for such a chance? Had I not done the groundwork, conceived the idea? Obviously this man, like me, was a connoisseur of female clothing emergencies.

Under other circumstances I might even have liked him.

But all the same, it rankled. Especially as now, while I brooded, and she adjusted, and he lounged at the door, he was, slowly but surely, worming his way into her mind. It was as if she had become, in the pace of just a few moments' conversation, his slave.

He seemed, irrevocably, yet without conscious effort, to be swinging the conversation around to the fact that her lunch hour was soon due, and that yes, she was free for a drink at a little bar he knew just around the corner! I can say, at this distance, that I should have considered myself privileged to watch and listen to a Master at work. At the time, all that I could feel was seething rage.

"How does it look now? OK?"

He craned his head.

"There's a big ridge across your midriff!" I wanted to shout. But I dare not. If only I could have changed places with the interloper, for just a few moments.

"There's a big ridge across your midriff!" The man said. Curse him!

"Oh damn it!" She pouted again, and continued to yank at the hidden camisole through her dress. "Honestly, sometimes I wish the ground would open up and swallow me!"

"By the time you've got that fixed, your stockings will be slipping down again," he laughed.

"Oh, don't tease me!" she admonished, but with a giggle... the sort of special laugh that girls reserve for their boyfriends. "As if I'm not embarrassed enough!"

"Look, I do have a bit of an idea," he said... but... well... you might be offended."

"Look, if it'll get this damn outfit fixed."

"Well, er, it appears that a lot of your problems are because you just can't see round the back. How about it I undo your zip and smooth everything down... please don't be offended at me asking, but..."

He allowed his voice to trail off.

I shivered in delight. The smarmy bastard had gone too far now. I almost felt sorry for him, at the inevitable slap in the face that was about to follow.

And yet, instead of scowlingly telling him to fuck off - she was actually simpering at him!

"Oh... would you?"

"Of course. My pleasure. And then we'll be in time for a drink."

"Oh, well... yes, that does sound a good idea. I think I deserve one after the day I've had..."

And then, as I watched, seething with envy, he undid her zip, and (taking more time than he needed about it too) pushed the camisole down along her buttocks. And without being asked, he knelt down and smoothed up her stockings, tugging at the material, taking care to get a good look up her skirt into the bargain."

"I think they'd just crept down a tad," he smiled. "They should be OK now."

Tad? What sort of man uses the word "tad"???

"For about five minutes," the girl replied, ruefully. "Come on, let's find this bar and get a table, so I can get my legs undercover."

"What a waste."

"Oh... what a sweet thing to say... trying to salve my bruised ego, are you?"

I swear, there was even the faintest trace of a bow, as he stood back to allow her to exit the washroom first. And then, as soon as her back was to him, he turned and stared right at the cubicle where I was hiding.

Every instinct in me screamed to back away from the door, remove my eye from the door-crack. But instead of screaming, or shouting, or pointing out that there was a guy hiding, watching their every move, he simply winked. A conspiratorial wink, but as one from a Master to a very junior apprentice. And then, a faint smile playing across his lips, he followed the blonde girl out of the washroom.

Perhaps I should have got out then. Cut my losses and gone home. I have since learned, in the game of fetish-satisfaction that when one is having a bad day, a bad day is all it can be. I would have been disappointed, angry, frustrated. But I still had the memory of Janet, and the lady in the leather skirt to keep me warm that night.

And besides this, there was another consideration. The man, who had done such a smooth job of picking up the girl. He knew I was there, and by his actions he knew also that I had been watching! Perhaps he had told Charlie... or even, my hypnotism had failed to work (I was fast losing any illusion that I might be an expert, having just watched a genuine Master of the art at work... he hadn't even had to use a prop), and even now an army of burly security guards might be waiting outside.

After a while I dismissed the latter scenario. After all, the man could hardly tell Charlie, or anyone else, about me, for it would mean revealing to the girl of the chaotic underwear that he had known I was there the whole time. And I doubted very much that even with his oily charm, he could have got away with such an admission!

Besides which, the premise on which I had started this project still held good. When all was said and done, I was in a place where I had every right to be... a men's washroom.

I decided to give things another half hour. My luck, I felt, might change!

*****

During the half hour, "my" only visitors were two men, who came in, urinated and left, and a single middle aged woman who made no effort to straighten any article of clothing or even touch up her lipstick. And then, just as I was ready to finish with this whole disappointing enterprise, I heard more heel taps.

As I strained, I could hear something else as well. A second pair of feet. And two familiar voices.

The thin guy, and the shingle-haired, peaches-and-cream blonde!

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" she was saying, with that characteristic giggle that I had come to hate. "What if someone comes in?"

The man was doing something out of my range of vision. I could hear the clinking of metal.

"No one can get in," he laughed. "That lock's gonna stay till we open it. There might be a few accidents, but..." He laughed. "We aren't going to stay long, are we?"

She gave a long, wicked laugh at that. And then, watched by my fascinated but horrified eyes, held out her arms to him as he entered, and they embraced, pushing their bodies together, writhing in lust. Her tiny, firm breasts rubbed against his chest, and her gorgeous legs seemed to be clambering up his, so eager was she to slake her needs.

There was a crash, as if of a cubicle door opening, immediately to my right, and then her giggles, and his words, became distorted, as if coming through a funnel, the effect being caused, of course, by them being in the cubicle.

There was some banging, and crashing, and more giggling.

'"It's no good." She said. "It's just too crowded... and... too dark. I want to look at you!"

"OK," came his laughing agreement.

I should mention that although I am a voyeur, I am a very specific type of voyeur. To watch a lady adjust her attire, straighten what needs to be straightened, is my delight. But in my view, sex is most definitely not a spectator sport. Yet nonetheless, I could not tear my eyes from the door-crack, as he and she emerged, still locked in each others' arms, and he pulled her over to the sinks.

"Oh,oh Mel!" she moaned.

"Jennifer..."

He had lifted her dress (the camisole hem had disappeared, and already one of the garters had come adrift) and I was seeing those pale blue panties yet again, as he yanked them down, and then, with little preliminary or fuss, entered her, grabbing her buttocks and lifting her up so that he was carrying her around, holding her in those arms which appeared so thin, yet must have been so strong. I could see the outline of firm muscles, as they flexed. And his thrusts looked hard enough.

He slammed into her, his back arched with the effort, a line of sweat already straining the back of his t-shirt. Jennifer (as was, evidently, her name) writhed, her hands making no effort to support herself on the sinks, trusting entirely to his strength as he thrust and pushed, and as she gyrated and bucked, now and then biting into his neck or shoulder, or slapping the sink-top with her hands.

"Oh... oh Mel... oh, I am soooo wet, for you."

He quickened his rhythm, and moved slightly on the return stroke, as if he were shifting his angle of attack. With each thrust, she gave a little gasp, a high pitched, choking sound. And as he continued to drive into her, these cries, at first little more than whimpers, became louder and louder and louder.

He continued, awesome in his strength, kissing her neck and lips and face as he continued to gratify her body, and she responded in kind, kissing and licking and biting.

There was little finesse... none of the weird positions, or incense, or strange noises advocated by the various Asian love manuals that I had eagerly devoured, during one of my brief "normal" periods, when I was trying to wean myself from my fetish. No strange devices, no handcuffs or chains, no peculiar incantations. Simply a skinny man, still clad in his jeans, t-shirt and boots, and a pale-skinned, blonde girl, her plump legs wrapped around his waist as his arms were around her buttocks, and both of them thrusting, thrusting...

And yet, as I watched, my eyes boring into hers, I could see something that surprised me, and which made me hate the man even more. For I realised, this was no rape, no deal with a whore, not even simply a casual encounter.

What he had said to her, in the brief time that they had been away, I could have no idea. I had already seen that he was something of a charismatic, but as to the extent of his powers, I could make no guess.

Except that, despite the strength and force of his sex-making, there was a tenderness too. A determination to hold her steady, safely, in his arms, straining fit to burst though they must have been. A desperate need to put as much as his body against hers, as if the various layers of clothing that separated their skin could have been rendered powerless to prevent their total union, flesh to flesh... and, I saw, a wish for her to take her own pleasure first, for even with my lack of experience, I could tell, he was holding off, letting her reach her peak, taking her to the heights. And in her eyes... and, even in the dim light, I know to this day I was not mistaken... was a look of love.

And he knew exactly when that summit was attained, too. For, at a given point, he suddenly lowered her to the sink and freed his left hand, and then held it over her mouth, so that although there was a desperate scream from her, her eyes widened until I could see the whites all round, and her whole body shook in a single convulsion, yet there was no noise, which would have given them away.

And as he held her, embracing her silent scream with his psyche, his body shook as well, and there was a relaxing of muscles, as he gave a single, harsh grunt.

The two of them collapsed upon the floor, her in what appeared to me to be a faint, and him thrusting and turning his body to make sure that it was under hers, taking the full brunt of the impact, acting as a shock absorber, chivalrous as well as skilful. There was the faintest of noises as they fell, for he slapped his free hand onto the floor to break his fall, and then he was prone, with her atop him, he still inside her, her barely conscious, but still with her body shaken as she rode the wave of her orgasm.

Finally, as he pulled her head towards him, her hair now sweaty and tousled, to lay it upon his chest, he turned again to the closed door, and inclined his head, indicating that now was the time for me to make my escape.

I could, of course, have bluffed it out, simply stayed there, but I was in no mood to try my dominance against his. Carefully, quietly, I opened the cubicle door, and stepped past the prone bodies, too dispirited even to return his wink and smile, as I headed for the exit.

The door, as "Mel" had told Jennifer, was impenetrable to those outside, but, as I now saw, he had arranged the wire in such a way that it could be opened easily enough from the inside. I untwisted it, and opened the door carefully.

And then I was in the foyer, where Charlie still stood at his duty. It was as if I were awakening from a dream, or maybe a nightmare, a long fever-dream of frustration and perpetual imaginings. I walked past him, and into the open air, a cramped feeling in my limbs, a seething lust in my loins and the blackness of jealousy in my heart, as the bright sun hit me, seeming to mock me in my pathetic failure.

I was, I now realised, a mere amateur.

And as I walked along the crowded street, dodging lunchtime crowds, it came to me that if I were to make use of my power, there was still much that I had to learn.