Voyeur: And Other Stories

By Malek Montag

Our hero wants love and desires the company of a woman. But the woman he desires most is his boss, Catherine. How can he approach her, get to know her, without, well, compromising himself?

Then he meets the enigmatic Clarissa Heston who leads him astray and challenges him to step out of his comfort zone and be bold. After a night of passion with the young woman, he finds her gone, and worse still as he tries to return her house-keys.

As the week progresses, he feels Clarissa's presence as he wonders; should he throw caution to the wind in the office?

These are a collection of erotic-romance short stories for adult entertainment dealing with loss and finding love against the odds. They are set in contemporary surroundings with a hint of paranormal activity. I hope you enjoy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9780244633707

Book preview

Voyeur: And Other Stories

Voyeur

and Other Stories

Malek Montag

Copyrights

All rights reserved

Copyright 2017 – Malek Montag

This e-book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without prior written permission from the copyright owner.

ISBN: 978-0-244-63370-7

Published by Lulu Independent Publishing

Cover design by Malek Montag

Image courtesy of the cool guys at pixlebay.com

This book is intended for adults only. Sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Lulu.com or the author's views and/or opinions.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all lovers in an age-gap relationship. May your love be happy and strong.

Voyeur

Monday’s Latte and Cherry Muffin

I sat in my usual haunt watching a beautiful woman dressed in a cherry-red suit at a table opposite. I’d followed her in to a café. Not in a predatory sense of a wolf stalking its prey followed-in. No, she just got to the door-handle before I did and held the door open for me so I could drift in behind her. From there I figuratively swam in the wake of her sweet scent to the back of a short queue followed by the song and Chris De Burgh crooning his hit in my head, about a desirable woman. And there she was, Lady-in-Red. She was tall, very tall in fact, and comely. Not a lean clothes-horse but a full-bodied woman. She had a sensual pink complexion and her face wrinkled and dimpled in shades of rose and indigo as thoughts creased her countenance. Hazel-grey eyes sparkled in the LED lights of the café and her strawberry blonde hair flowed over her shoulders. The dress-suit hugged her figure. Under a jacket that drifted open to display her taut tummy and gorgeously rounded breasts, she wore a cream-white blouse. The heels of her black shoes weren’t especial high yet in the queue she stood above me. Standing behind her, I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to love such a woman.

There was something about her that reminded me of my line manager, Catherine. She was a lot smaller than Lady-in-Red but equally beautiful and… and I suppose I shouldn’t be thinking that way about a colleague. Particularly, one who could have me fired.

While Lady-in-Red focused her attention on the sleek-black smart-phone in her hand, I studied her legs in finer detail over my folded copy of the Metro and noted their bountiful beauty. She shifted slightly on her seat and her knees pointed towards me with her thighs, and smooth valley running between them, facing in my direction. A sensual shadow lodged beneath her short hem offering me an enticing visage that fired my imagination as my latte cooled, and I wondered again what it would be like to love such a woman.

I could see her leaning over me, pressing her soft hands on my shoulders before pushing me into the soft embrace of cotton sheets. She would have me on the bed, having tied my wrists to the bed-posts. I imagined she would possess a four-poster, or a bed frame that would allow her to stretch my hands apart. In my mind, she would pull my trousers and boxer shouts down to my ankles. Maybe she would even lift my legs high in the air and give my fleshy bum a few hard slaps, spank me for being naughty and mentally undressing her in the café. Slowly, she would undress, taking her time on each garment. Her jacket would fall from her shoulders. Her fingers would pop each button of her blouse in turn before slipping the soft cotton from her smooth skin to expose the white lace bra holding her ample breasts. Having unzipped her skirt, she would let it drop to the floor around her stilettoed shoes – she would wear higher heels so she could stand over me. She would be my Mistress, and I would be her love-toy. As she stood before me in her lacy underwear, and I could see the dampness of her crotch as she enjoyed having me under her power, she would get my cock to stand to attention by rubbing me hard and caressing my helmet. Then she would straddle me, her knees digging into the mattress on either side as she sank her entire weight on my face. A mix of scents and sensations would fill my nostrils and mouth as I tasted all of her: the saline sweetness of her pussy and the bitterness of her arse. With my head pressed, she would rotate her hips, roll her pelvis and grind her pussy and puckered hole over my mouth. Her juices would dribble down my chin and my cheeks, and I would push my tongue in circles over her clit. I’d fight for breath and my rock-hard cock would throb against my belly. Lady-in-Red would moan with the pleasure flowing from her clit, and the delight of having me under her, at her mercy.

In my fantasy, Lady-in-Red would take me at her leisure. Bending slowly forward to my waist, she’d pick my cock up and grip it in her fist, squeezing the shaft until I screamed in agony, and drops of pre-cum dribbled from the slit. Her thick wet tongue would lick the sticky stuff from my tip while her slender fingers jerked my shaft. And I would fight for breath, fight to stem the urge to cum over her face.

Over my face, she’d rock her round buttocks, pressing my head further into the mattress, her gorgeous wet sex slipping over my lips and feverish tongue, my nose buried in the crack of her arse. When she desired it, her mouth would envelope my cock and I’d feel it throb against her tongue, and feel her teeth scrape my sensitive skin with the sensation of her spit running down my shaft and over my balls…

Or, she’d straddle me with those firm, luscious thighs trapping my waist. Her fist would lift my cock as her sweet wet hole hovered over the head. Then, slowly, she’d lower herself onto me, taking me into her pliant pussy, coating my shaft with her juices. The ends of her hair would tickle my chest, my cheeks, my mouth as her breasts, with their deep red-wine areolae and erect nipples, would press against my cheeks. Her inverted mounds would smother me, and I’d try and lick the sweet tender flesh. Then she’d grab a fistful of my hair and bury my face deep into her bosom’s valley. I’d be lost, ever so deliriously lost, as she smothered my face and rode my cock to orgasm and I’d feel my thick shaft throb and jerk again. This time it would be deep inside her pussy, and my hot sticky cum would pump up her.

Lady-in-Red stood up, her attention still fixed on the phone. I shifted in my seat, suddenly alert to change, and aware of the sticky wet patch in my pants. As she shouldered her handbag, she cast a long enquiring look in my direction. Then she left the café.

Had I been leering at her, and not watching? Had I been caught in the act of ogling? Had she felt my eyes upon her and sensed my lewd thoughts as my imagination peeled away her clothes to her naked body?

It always seemed to me that women felt my eyes upon them even though I gaze at them for only the briefest of moments. That the second my eye spied any part of their body, they knew immediately and looked back at me, catching me red-handed.

Those eyes followed Lady-in-Red as she left, while I considered my fantasy with her as dominatrix and me as submissive. I’m not a submissive by nature, but sometimes I think it would be great just to let go and be relieved of all responsibility. However, as she joined the stream to work, I doubted Lady-in-Red would be a dominatrix. Perhaps she would prefer being tied to a bed herself while some thick-necked beef-cake gave her a long, stout length in an orgasmic portion of hard, rough sex.

When the course of my thoughts had wound themselves back into the café, I found myself staring at a young woman sitting on a stool. That in itself wasn’t really the problem. It was the fact I was staring at the crotch of her panties, and she’d caught me doing it.

At the back of the café stood a raised platform just beyond the counter concealing the baristas. Along the edge of this raised area stood a breakfast bar kind of structure. Beyond that, tables and chairs stood randomly about where more customers sat.

At the breakfast bar, four people perched on stools and focused on various electronic devises. On one end, the one nearest the counter, was the young woman my eyes were subconsciously violating.

Coming back to reality, I found myself glaring at a fully packed mound in crimson-and-cream panties and I’d been staring for far too long. Her vivid green eyes bore down on mine and her deep-rouge coated lips pursing with ire. Exotic black hair hung in a ponytail down the back of a white jacket enclosing a cream blouse and a soft satin bra underneath pushed up her pert breasts. Below the table a shimmering short blue skirt remained open, while matching hold-up stockings hugged her legs and flowed into mirror-shine black shoes resting on her stool’s step. Her thighs stretched the short hem of her skirt as her knees drifted apart while she stared into a space occupied by the device in her left hand. As soon as she discovered my crime, she clamped her knees together as tight as a clam.

It must have been her subconscious wantonness that had attracted my subconscious leering Id. That inner thief went stealing images for later sex-dreams and fantasies. Alas, he got caught. I got caught spying on what a gentleman ought not to spy on.

The lady was not amused.

The time to avert my gaze had come and gone. Her guardian angel screamed in her ear about the liberties I was taking with her modesty. My guilt coloured my cheeks as our eyes locked horns, but I couldn’t avert my gaze. Somehow, and without choking myself to death, I managed to tip my latte down my throat, then head for the door. I didn’t run, or even walk briskly, but went under the shadow of false dignity that reeked of shame. I passed through the doors and joined the human river flowing by outside. As I turned, I glanced over my shoulder. Those green eyes had followed me all the way. As I watched her watching me, I saw in her no malice. And I would swear, those rouged lips even wore a saucy smile.

The human river reached up and pulled me along. Suited and booted fish raced to the net of successful economic endeavour and I swam with them. The weather changed that week from the oppressive heat of a late Indian summer to the foreboding closeness of an overcast sky. A storm was approaching and I could feel its charged particles around me, agitating and arousing something deep inside.

Usually, storms cleared the air, freshened things up a bit.

A man could always hope.

Monday morning’s cloud-defused light followed me in step with a man much younger than myself. He wore a white shirt open at the neck under a navy-blue jacket, the obligatory tie stowed in a pocket somewhere. I checked mine in the mirror of experience. The knot was square to