Well, nearly always…
Two Ways
By Dante Davidson
Noel is watching me.
I can feel her eyes. I am naked and exposed. There is no place to hide. I know what I am supposed to do, but my hands might as well be tied behind my back. I am paralyzed, standing in front of the closet door, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I wish I didn’t have to. I don’t like to look at myself in this way. But she wants scrutiny, and I always try to give her what she wants.
Silently, I turn to the left. Then, I slowly work my way down my reflection, as if I’m looking at some other man—some hot guy I’ve just caught sight of in line at the movies. Except naked. I take in the tattoos on my arms, the muscles that ripple and flex when I move. I know she finds me attractive, but I don’t always see what she sees.
There’s a bottle of lube on the dresser table. I don’t want to go and get the K-Y, yet I do. There were explicit directions waiting for me when I came home from work. I won’t let her down. I grab up the bottle, pour a handful of gloss into my palm and then start to jack my cock. I’m semi-erect already, even though I tell myself that I’m not doing this for me. I’m doing this for her.
I stare into the mirror, and I work my hand up and down the length of my cock. Sometimes I feel like an object when I do this.
“You are an object,” she tells me. “An object of art. An object of lust.”
I’ve been manhandling the equipment for long enough to know how to give myself pleasure. But there is always something new about doing this for her. I’m the performer, and she’s the audience. I want to give her a good show.
The note said to strip down and jerk myself off in front of the mirror. I’ll admit I felt a deep shiver, a fierce thrill of anticipation, from reading her neatly printed handwriting, those straight up-and-down lines spelling out such dirty deeds. She leaves me notes often. Sometimes she likes to watch me take a shower. Sometimes she watches me sleep.
I pump my fist up and down on my cock. I tighten my fingers at the head. I’m good at this. She doesn’t have to tell me that.
What brings me closer to orgasm is the knowledge that she’s watching. She’s sitting on a chair on the other side of our two-way mirror. We had the mirror specially installed so that she could do precisely this: watch me. When one side of the mirror (within the closet) is dark, and the other side (the bedroom) is brightly lit, she can see me but I can’t see her. Sure, I know that she’s there. Still, I find the situation a bit disconcerting, to stare into my eyes and know that she’s staring back.
These mirrors are called one-way or two-way—like flammable and inflammable, and shelled and unshelled mean the same thing (look it up if you don’t believe me). I know which term I prefer. One way means that this is all about her pleasure. She gets off watching me masturbate. One way means I don’t count at all.
When she first told me she wanted to watch, I didn’t understand. I’d never met a girl like Noel before. She is forceful with her desires, shows no fear of her fetishes. She sat me down and said, “If we’re going to do this—if we’re going to be together—then there are some things about me that you should know.”
I thought she’d confess the usual types of secrets. Maybe she was deep in debt, or a former drug user, or perhaps she’d put herself through college by stripping or even turning tricks. I’d heard stories like those from all of my exes. This girl was different.
“I like to watch,” she said, and then she tilted my head up so that I was looking into her hazel eyes. “I mean,” she continued, “I need to watch.”
“Watch?” I repeated, dumbly, thinking TV or movies or sports…
“I’m a voyeur,” she said next, and I rolled the word around in my mind. I’d heard the term, but tossed out casually, not like this. She was serious. She was naming herself. “I need to watch my men in order to reach orgasm. Will you let me watch you? Will you let me watch you when you’re showering, when you’re dressing, when you’re playing with yourself?”
I said, “Yes,” automatically, before I even knew what I was agreeing to. I love her. That’s the truth. And her words were turning me on. That’s the bigger truth.
I know she’s in there right now, in the dark, touching her pussy. I imagine her leaning up against the cold glass so that she can be as close to me as a closet door will allow.
My hand pumps faster. I am growing more aroused by the second.
At first, I didn’t realize how serious she was about her fetish. I didn’t understand that sometimes when I was getting dressed in the morning she’d stand in the hall and peek through the crack in the door. But I became accustomed to her sly little ways, and I’ve grown good at putting on a proper performance. She has a fetish, but she makes me feel worth watching.
My fist works fiercely, a blur of flesh on flesh. I close my eyes and groan. I’m right there, on the cusp. I give her a warning, “I’m going to…” and then I come, hard, against the polished silver of the mirror. I hear her sigh in response, and that makes me smile.
She gets off and I get off.
In this case, there are two ways about it.
Manners
By Georgia E. Jones
The dream made sense in the way all dreams make sense, which is to say that everything that occurred seemed eminently plausible, while upon waking the conscious mind can make neither heads nor tails of events.
In Amanda’s dream she was walking across a meadow. Her feet were moving, yet there was no effort involved so it felt a bit floaty, yet entirely pleasant. It was warm and sunny, a dream meadow that clearly had never met an English spring, so sharp the crocuses had barely dared to put their heads above ground. Suddenly she was in a hot-air balloon, the basket lined with crystals and the balloon itself in stripes of purple and fuchsia, making it look like a balloon owned by Barbara Cartland, were she still alive and had she owned a hot-air balloon (in the dream it all made sense).
The balloon floated over the tops of the trees and Amanda was wondering how high it would go and whether or not she should be nervous when a handsome hot-air balloon pilot appeared at her side. “Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly, “I’ve done this before.”
She did not know him, but of course felt at once that she did. He stared at her with piercing, dark eyes. He looked rather how she imagined Heathcliff would look, but a great deal less mopey and tragic, and also more heavily muscled, though Heathcliff worked out of doors, so perhaps this was a facet of his personna that Bronte had simply failed to mention.
“My name is—” the pilot said. The steady streaming of the wind stole the words from his lips, but it did not matter. He put his hand on her arm, warmly suggestive.
Because Amanda was a person who spent much of her free time with Gaskell, Austen and the Brontes (minus Branwell), the words that sprang to mind were, “Sir, you mistake me!” A phrase quite unlike one any a modern woman (which she undeniably was, despite her choice of reading material) would employ. But his hand was large and warm, and the weight of it created a little frisson of excitement in the pit of her stomach and she thought she mightn’t say either of those things. After all, it was only his hand, and it was only resting, quite inoffensively, on her arm.
The balloon rose higher, seeming to require little attention from its pilot, who continued to study her intently. The treetops receded, becoming like the miniature trees she had seen at the train museum in the Vale of the White Horse, but she was no longer nervous. “May I kiss you?” the pilot asked. Amanda had never been asked for her