True Sex Stories: The Sheer Indecency Of What We Are Doing

A public sex adventure, told from two perspectives.

He:

Sometimes I wish that there were no consequences," she is saying, "sometimes I wish that each bright shining new moment could be enjoyed for what it is, without it leading to something else and something else and something else again. Sometimes I envy those old guys with Altzheimers who can't remember what happened yesterday and don't know what's happening tomorrow and just live each day as it comes. Listen, does this sound weird to you?"

I try to focus on what she is saying; it is hard to drag my mind back to the conversation. She is sprawled next to me on the couch with legs akimbo, showing a disturbing amount of flesh. One boot is stretched out on the coffee table, the other is hooked up on the couch beside me. Since her dress buttons up the front I can see a good way up her stockings; far enough for it to be quite clear that they are indeed stockings. For a moment I envy the guy opposite for his less impeded view, but then her warm thigh nudges mine as she rocks it back and forth and I quickly change my mind.

"Uh huh." is all I can manage.

She waves her hand airily, "Sometimes I wish that I could pick up some gorgeous guy without wondering if he's a psycho, or if he will still respect me in the morning, or if I'll ever see him again, or if he'll make a good father to my children if I ever get around to having any. Maybe it's just me; my insecurity, my worries, my anxieties. Maybe I always want to know too much."

It's early Saturday night on Karangahape Road. The Angle is sparsely populated with leftover people in everyday clothes; it's still too early for the night people to come out and play. She looks out of place, a hothouse flower in a country garden: part goth, part strumpet and part goddess. Everyone is stealing glances at her. She doesn't appear to notice.

"Maybe I should pick someone-someone I'm very attracted to-and just have a meaningless, anonymous affair. To try everything I've ever wanted to try, all those crazy dumb things you hear about and wonder what they could possibly be like."

"Someone like you." She reaches over and caresses the nape of my neck. My mouth is suddenly dry. I know that I should respond, but I don't know how. It doesn't seem to matter.

She:

Why do I choose him? Is it his long hands, which look like they can caress me with exquisite subtlety. Is it the hungry look in his deep-set eyes? Is it his obvious erection, which is rather flattering at least? Or is it something more subtle? Is he looking for what I'm looking for? Surely so-all men want that, don't they? A flaming succubus that comes only in the dark to bring unworldly pleasures and leave behind strange lingering dreams that spice their dutiful daytime lives.

As I toy with the short hair at the base of his skull, I feel surprisingly little anxiety. Is it just the alcohol taking away my fears? Normally at this stage I would be tense, wondering what side of myself I was showing, and whether it was the right one. But none of this matters now. It's like kayaking when you finally catch the current and suddenly you're pulled irresistibly along, and you flow with the river in such a natural way that it's almost as if you're a part of the river. My libido. His. Oh, to be swept away.

I wait for him to reply. I've rattled him, I can see; he's not used to this pace. He comes across as a "getting to know you" kind of guy, who's more likely to end up as your best friend than in your bed. But I sense darker currents underneath that easy smile. He's a searcher like me.

"I'm sure we can work something out." He reaches out and begins gently tracing patterns on my upper thigh. The feeling of his fingers on my naked skin is startlingly intimate. His boldness is exciting: what further surprises does he have in store for me?

"So what would you like to try first?"

He:

Do I sound confident enough? Enough for what? Enough to fool her? I don't think so. Enough to keep my self-respect? Maybe. I've played this kind of game before, although never at this level, and all I really need to be sure of is that even if I do lose, then I should at least lose graciously. We'll keep raising the stakes until one of us gives up, or until we really do have to do the dare. I just hope that she isn't bluffing.

Have I offended her by being too casual? I should have said that I was flattered, perhaps been a little embarrassed, certainly more appreciative. After all, how often have I got an invitation like this? Never, really.

"Well," she says thoughtfully, "I've always thought of myself as one of these people." She makes a sweeping gesture; I wonder how drunk she really is. "You know, the people that watch other people: watch them get together, watch them get intimate, watch them get a little naughty perhaps. Well, I want to be the one who is watched for a change; I want to do something worth watching."

She pauses, with a subtle smile on her lips and a coy look in her eye, obviously waiting for my reaction. I know what she wants, of course. She wants me to make the first move. In a way, it's a relief having it so clear. I don't know many times I have realised days, hours or even just moments too late exactly what it was that the woman who I was with was subtly hinting at. It was always via some subtle, unique little behaviour that didn't quite fit in with everything else. The trouble was that it was different for each woman, and by the time I had figured it out the moment had always passed. Sometimes we'd end up in bed anyway, if she had the patience, the confidence and the will to get me there (usually with my earnest cooperation of course) but it was never at that most perfect moment, that moment when the mood is just right. Like this moment seems to be.

I lean over to kiss her.

She:

He kisses me rather like how I like to wake up; soft and slow and warm and languorous. We kiss like we're going to spend all night kissing, which would be very, very nice, but only if we get to do some other things too. Things that I'm rapidly getting in the mood for. Things that I'm having a hard time not thinking about, not blurting out. Patience. Let's find out what kinds of things he is thinking about. In good time. After this kiss. And this. Ah.

I press my hands against his chest; his muscles feel firm and warm and alive. Good to grip. Good to squeeze. All of a sudden I have an urgent need to touch his body, his skin. I prise open a couple of buttons on his shirt and slip in my hand. Lovely. I drag my fingers across his skin, feeling his hair crinkling under my fingertips. It's rough and smooth at the same time, a fascinating texture. His nipple is already erect, so I run my finger around it and squeeze it gently.

We continue kissing. He has his hand behind my head, and is running his fingers through my hair, which is soothing and exciting all at the same time. He nibbles my lower lip, and plants little kisses all around my mouth and then gently strokes the tip of my tongue with his. I am beginning to get a little light-headed already from all this.

I pause for breath, "If you can kiss like this, then what else are you capable of?"

He just grins in response and starts kissing me again.

He:

I must be doing something right at least. I certainly got her message loud and clear. But how much further should I go? She's not the only one for whom this is a crazy new thing. What if she expects me to go further than I can handle? What if we offend someone? What if we get thrown out of here? It's exciting being on the edge, but I don't want this to turn nasty; that wouldn't be any fun at all.

As I kiss my way along her jawline and down her neck, I can't help but notice how smooth her skin is and how delicate it tastes. I inhale her scent as I rub my lips against her cheeks. I notice her earlobe peeping out from under her hair so I take it carefully between my teeth and nibble it just a little; she moans softly and moves a little closer.

From this angle her breasts look very tempting; I can see their upper halves almost completely. Her bra must be pushing them up past the loose neckline of her dress. I slide my hand down from behind her head and then across a shoulder so that I can wrap my fingers around the curve of one soft, warm breast. She moves her hand from my shirt down to my crotch and gives me a gentle squeeze; I am so hard that it almost hurts. Oh sweet Jesus.

I look across the table and I see two rough-looking young guys staring openly at us. This is getting a bit dodgy. Maybe I can suggest something safer but just as exciting; I don't want to spoil the evening, especially since it's already getting to be such a memorable one.

"Why don't we find a place where we can get a bit more, uh, relaxed?"

"Well, I'm actually feeling very relaxed here with you," she purrs into my ear, "why, what did you have in mind?"

"Do you know Myers Park, just across the road here? It'll be relatively quiet now, and it could be an interesting place to get a little more intimate, if that's what you'd like."

"It sounds perfect. Could you wait here a bit first, though? I just want to go to the toilet."

She is back before I can finish my drink, and as I get up she leans over and tucks something into my pocket: a small scrap of cloth. Her panties? Well, there's one way to tell. As we manoeuvre past the tables and chairs towards the door I put my hand down there to guide her. Under the thin cotton there is nothing but her soft, pliant flesh. I give it a small squeeze.

She:

Karangahape (K) Road is the alternative, seedy, swinging side of Auckland. It's the area of cafes and bars and dance clubs and sex shops. You see people that you wouldn't often see elsewhere in Auckland: punks, perverts and plain old weirdos. A man in a dress. A woman in a bikini. Lycra and leather and lace and lots of flesh. It's not a place I'd like to live or work but it sure is fun to visit.

We get plenty of attention as we walk briskly along, his arm wrapped securely around my waist. I've left my dress unbuttoned at the bottom, so that as I swing each leg forward it opens all the way up to the top. If you care to look, and plenty of people do care to look, then for a moment you can almost see the whole thigh. I don't know whether they can see that I'm not wearing panties, but it's fun speculating.

It's strange, but the looks that the men are giving me are much less obvious than the ones from the women. It's as if the men are embarrassed to be seen looking. I wonder why. After all, I've dressed up in the hope of being admired, and I feel flattered when I am. I still like it though, it makes it seem all the more illicit, just like a secret caress.

The main entrance to Myers Park is through an old little arcade of cafes and bookshops and places that sell retro clothing, but the gate is locked so we have to navigate a back alleyway crowded with parked cars to get there. It's dark and deserted, and a bit spooky after the bustle and glare of K Road. The park itself is a steep valley set between two rows of tower blocks. Some of them have quite a few windows lit, so they must contain apartments rather than offices.

As we walk out onto the grass, I look up at the shadowed buildings and the stars and feel a huge sense of openness and freedom. The distant roar of the city surrounds us, but here all is still and calm. The air is cool, but just warm enough to be comfortable.

I slip into his arms and whisper in his ear, "So just how intimate were you thinking of getting?"

He:

I love watching her walk. I love to see the play of her supple muscles. I love to catch the flash of creamy white thigh at the peak of her stride. I love the solid thrust of her black leather boots as she steps vigorously forward. I love observing the envious sidelong glances of the other guys, knowing that I am the one walking with her. Me. Eat your hearts out boys!

The park seems private, but is it private enough? Somehow I can't stop worrying about the possibility of it going bad, of perhaps someone stumbling on us and getting offended or abusive. I envy her; she doesn't seem to be concerned about anything at all. So why am I? Maybe it's an instinctive thing, maybe I automatically feel responsible so that she doesn't have to.

Her body presses gently against mine. I can feel her warmth, smell her scent, hear her soft breathing and see her eyes looking straight into mine. Her hands rest on my hips, and my hands rest on her shoulders. Her lips are slightly parted and they look so very kissable. We each move forwards gradually and our lips meet as if for the first time.

I slowly slide my hands down her back; under the thin cotton her skin is soft and yielding. The temptation to touch it directly is irresistible, so I move my hands between us and start undoing buttons. Pop, pop, pop. Her dress hangs loosely open, and I can see the vague outlines of her bra and suspenders framing the smooth curves of her body. I slip my hands in and gently grip the firm flesh of her torso. I trace the outlines of her spine, her ribs and her hipbones with my fingertips. Casually, I draw apart the fabric until it gapes wide open.

She:

I stand almost naked before his eyes, and before the eyes of the world. He plunders my body with his greedy fingers, and they can do the same with their hungry eyes. I can't actually see anyone, of course, but they could be out there, standing on a balcony or peering through a window, momentarily distracted by the sight of my body flaunted before them. How would they respond, I wonder: with desire, with envy, with amusement, with disgust, with admiration, or with what? They must respond somehow; they cannot remain unmoved, of that I am sure. This is an intoxicating thought for me: that it is my body which could have such an impact on them.

I am certainly having an impact on him. He kisses me with a desperate passion, devouring me with his lips and his teeth and his tongue. He runs his hands across my body as if hunting out every inch of skin, and he clutches me to him with a force that is almost frightening. But I respond in kind. I grasp at his hair, I thrust my hips at him and I kiss him back with equal urgency.

The only parts of me that are still covered up are my breasts, so it comes as no surprise to me when he reaches around my back to undo the catch of my bra. I shrug it off my shoulders and pull it down my arms under the dress until it falls to the ground. All I am left with are suspenders, stocking and boots: clothes that leave me more naked than if I were nude. I am dressed like a hooker soliciting business. I am dressed for sex, and only for sex, so let the games begin.

I unzip his jeans and reach inside to grasp him firmly.

He:

I adore her body: her sweet curves, her cool skin, her pliant flesh. I adore her as a woman: her sensuality, her passion, her casual insouciance. I want there to be no barriers or limits to our coming together. But I find it hard to be so bold. I cannot just ignore my concerns and say "what the hell." But perhaps that is a good thing. Perhaps it is good that one of us is still thinking about our safety. How else can we relax and enjoy the moment?

Things are starting to get a bit raunchy. She has her hand on my sex, and I have my hand on hers. She grips and squeezes my hardness. My fingers explore the hot and the wet of her. Her other hand is kneading my buttocks. Mine is holding her breast to my mouth, so that I can tease the nipple with my tongue, and then ever so gently work it between my teeth. She moans. I sigh.

I can see someone in a window seat of the cafe that overlooks the park. I don't think they can see us very well, but I'm starting to feel a little exposed out here on the grass. I lead her further away from the road to some steps running down alongside a building, whose old-fashioned sign proclaims it to be a beltmakers. There is a low concrete wall beside the steps where I can sit. She settles herself in my lap, guides me in, and then eases herself carefully down until I am deep within her. It's a little awkward, but it seems to work well enough.

She begins moving very slowly, in an almost stately fashion, like a ship setting sail for a distant shore. She is teasing me, but the sensations are so exquisite that I don't mind too much. I grip her firmly around the waist to try to urge her to move just a little faster. She resists playfully for a little while before giving in and allowing us to move with a steady, satisfying rhythm. Her moist innermost flesh produces an intense impression on me. She plunges deep and draws back slowly. She squeezes me firmly inside. She rocks and twists from side to side, and grinds her pelvis against mine. Until at last I reach the end with a gasping, shuddering series of spasms.

She:

I think that I am at least as excited by the sheer indecency of what we are doing, and particularly of where we are doing it, as by the actual physical sensations of our lovemaking. Only a few minutes ago we were casually chatting, and now here we are with the most intimate and private parts of our bodies exposed and in contact with each other. Here, where in the daytime old people sit and enjoy the sunshine, where office workers eat their hurried lunches and where children sometimes play.

Making love is never quite enough to bring me to a climax, so after he finishes I carry on and start touching myself. I stand and lean up against the wall, stooped-over with tension and need. He holds me from behind and his hands roam across my belly, my breasts and my thighs. It is not long before I feel an intense heat erupting from within me; I see a dozen shades of black behind my tightly squeezed eyelids and there is a hugely satisfying throbbing deep within my belly. For a moment I forget entirely who I am and become pure sensation. Then the moment passes, and I become gradually aware of the dark, and of the cold, and that it is time to go.

I hear a sharp noise and see a light flickering through the trees. There is a van on the road, with three or four people inside, easing its way past the parked cars. How long have they been there? I think I had better cover myself up now. It is easy for me to just pull together the sides of my dress, but he struggles a little to pack himself into his tight jeans again.

"That was rather good timing, wasn't it?" I ask lightly.

He:

As we walk back to the car she is buoyant. She teases, she flirts, she laughs gaily. I am subdued, but I don't quite know why. Apres, toujours les animaux sont triste and all that, I suppose. It was quite an experience, but now it is over all I can feel is the anticlimax. After this, what can possibly compare?

We are walking away from the livelier parts of K Road, past shuttered shops and along nearly empty pavements. Since she hasn't buttoned up her dress, it now hangs loosely around her, but only I know how just little she is wearing under it. I am occasionally teased by a glimpse of a narrow slice of her pale flesh as the dress shifts itself around.

Then she startles me by flashing some cars that are accelerating from the Ponsonby Road traffic lights just ahead: smiling broadly, she holds her dress wide open and jiggles her pelvis just a little. No-one hoots, but I catch more than one surprised stare.

"Have you ever thought," she asks me, "of what it would be like to walk down the street naked? Of what the reactions you would get from people would be? Of what they would say? I'd never do it, of course, but it is a thought that has often intrigued me."

In the car she peels back her dress and curls up naked in the darkness. She stares out of the window as we drive through empty suburbs. She is silent. And so am I.

Republished with permission from SapioSlut. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo by John B. Root.