This story was inspired by LineMstr's "Window Scene."  (I sent a 
copy to LineMstr, who liked it and urged me to post it.)



                            SHOW TIME

                                by

                           C. Lakewood 
 


    Last year, when my wife and I spent a few days in Santa Monica, 
our 7th floor hotel room was more than a little inconvenient.  Its 
"breakfast nook" was superfluous, and the queen-sized bed took up 
most of the room's floor space.  There was a heater in the toilet 
seat that turned on when you sat on it.  (I found that difficult to 
get used to.)  With a certain amount of contortion, you could 
actually glimpse a sliver of ocean from the large, floor-to-ceiling 
main window.  (It slid open like a patio door, but there was 
nothing on the other side except a 3-inch deep "balcony.")  But all 
that was okay.  During the daytime, we had fun strolling along the 
bluffs, the beach, and out onto the famous pier.  At night, we had 
other things to occupy us.  

    Betty and I had dabbled in B&D for years, but it was always 
just the two of us.  And, while it hadn't gotten stale exactly, 
we had been looking for ways to freshen it up a bit.  We'd danced 
around the idea of some public display, and we both found the idea 
exciting, but every time we'd begin to plan something, she'd always 
get cold feet.  Betty is a high school teacher and nervous about 
her reputation -- afraid of getting caught, of falling victim to 
unforeseeable circumstances.  I have to admit that all of her 
arguments were perfectly valid.  Still, I dreamed of showing her 
off in public, displaying her all horny and helpless...and somehow 
doing it safely.

    This was the last night we'd be in town.  We'd been running 
around all day, even out to Long Beach to visit "Queen Mary," and 
now Betty was taking a protracted shower.  I dimmed the lights and 
opened the drapes.  I couldn't see the ocean now, and traffic 
didn't interest me.  But we were cheek-by-jowl with the next hotel 
in the string (well, within a couple of hundred feet, anyway), and 
my gaze swept across the neighboring, fake-Moorish facade.  I drew 
a deep breath; there, in a window right across from our room, was 
a man apparently looking in our direction...with binoculars!  
Perfect.

    At that moment, the hairdryer stopped.  I blinked the light to 
get the peeper's attention, and then wiggled five fingers at him.  
Hoping he'd gotten the message, I closed the drapes and considered 
the lighting and sight lines for a moment.  And then Betty came out 
of the bathroom, barefoot and wrapped in a damp towel, as if on cue. 

     She is in her late 30s, but looks younger, despite her 
prematurely greying light brown hair.  She's 5'4", maybe 130 
pounds, with a high forehead, thin expressive lips, youthful 
features, nice figure, and perfect skin.  

    "You look very tempting tonight, wench," I said.  "And I think 
you owe me some slave time."  

    "Well, you are the master, Master," she murmured.  We hadn't 
yet had a session during this trip (despite my bringing some 
equipment, as usual), and she clearly thought one was overdue.   

    I laid out my gear, all of it pretty innocuous: a couple of 
bath robe sashes, a pair of black domino masks (for playing 
dress-up?), a little canister that looked like pepper spray, a 
remote-controlled vibrating egg (baggage screeners are pretty 
blasé about such things, nowadays), a tube of ointment (mainly 
wintergreen and menthol), and a couple of latex gloves.

    The chairs in the breakfast nook were wobbly plastic resin, and 
the vanity/desk had only a bench, but fortunately there was a 
sturdy wooden arm-chair beside the bed, and I casually positioned 
it facing the big window.  It was a familiar start.  Betty sat down 
and put her hands under the arm-rests, and I used one sash to 
secure them behind the back of the chair.  Working with a deftness 
born of much practice, I bent her legs and draped them over the 
arm-rests, then tied one end of a long sash to her right ankle, 
passed the sash under the chair, and tied the other end to her left 
ankle.  She was now fastened fairly loosely, but quite securely, 
with her legs spread and her crotch canted and thrust in the 
direction of the window.  She could wriggle, but she certainly 
couldn't hide.  I caressed her a bit to begin with, just 
preliminary stuff, and then paused.

    "Now, get ready," I said. 

    "For what?" she asked, puzzled.  

    "Well, you know how we've talked about showing you off, but, 
well, I've got an idea of how we can do that in complete safety."

    "I-I don't....  How?"  She was already turned on, from being 
tied up and teased, and now the prospect of being seen was both 
frightening and exciting her. 

    "There's a hotel just next door.  Now, if anybody should look 
this way, maybe with a telescope or binoculars, say...."     

    "Ohmigod, ohmigod," she panted.  "But...."

    I held up the domino masks.  "We'll be masked and 
unrecognizable.  Nobody's likely to be able to figure out 
our room number from over there, and there won't be much 
opportunity for anybody to do much snooping, because this 
is our last night here.  So...."  

    She chewed her lip and nodded.  "I-I guess we really don't 
know that anybody is watching."

    I shrugged and put our half-masks on, turned lights up and 
the thermostat down, and took hold of the drapes' cord.

    "Okay?" I asked. 

    "I-I guess so."

    "Then, iiiiit's ssshow-time!" 

    I opened the drapes with a flourish, imagining a drum roll and 
rim shot...and cheers and wolf whistles. 

    Now she began to breathe heavily and, despite the AC, to sweat. 
Fear, embarrassment, and excitement flickered across her face in 
succession.  She stared at the hotel opposite, but our lights were 
bright, and Mr. Peeper's were now dim, and there was a curtain of 
night in between, so she saw nothing.  (I couldn't tell whether she 
was more relieved or disappointed.)

    I began the show slowly, brushing my fingers lightly over her 
exposed flesh.  She has always been very, very ticklish, and being 
tickled in bondage always drives her mad -- giggles and tears, 
squirming, pleading, gasping -- helpless, and increasingly aroused.

    She wriggled and writhed, trying in vain to escape my fingers.  
She pleaded with me to have mercy on her, and that didn't work 
either.  All the while, I noticed she was continually looking out 
the window, searching for the audience she both feared and hoped 
was out there.

    "Now it's time to begin the unveiling," I murmured.

    "Oh, gee, wait -- just wait a minute.  I don't know.  Nobody's 
ever seen me n-naked but you a-and my parents and...um...."

    "But slavegirls don't get a vote," I reminded her.

    I pulled the towel loose, and it slid down to her belly.  Her 
tits are handsome.  They're not centerfold caliber, but nice and 
plump (and all natural), with big, sensitive nipples.  I chuckled 
to see her pull her shoulders back a bit, as if to present her tits 
to an unseen and hypothetical audience.

    "Oooooh!"

    I played with her tits briefly, and she responded with 
gasps and moans.  Then my fingers tip-toed down along her 
rib-cage and began to tickle again.  Immediately, she was 
giggling uncontrollably, and her tits were necessarily 
jiggling and bouncing as she wriggled.

    But that was all a brief preliminary.   

    "Now, it's time to unveil the rest."       

    "Oh, please, I'll be bare naked.  If anybody should see...."

    "I think the time has come to let you in on the BIG secret -- 
'if' is inaccurate.  In the hotel next door, there's a man with 
binoculars, who's seen everything.  I noticed him earlier.  He's 
turned the lights in his room down, but if you look closely, you 
might still be able to spot him.  See?"  I pointed at Peeper's 
window.  I could just make out a vague silhouette, dimly back-lit.     

    She blushed a dark red.  "Are-are you actually going to show me 
off naked and l-let some guy see me -- see everything?"  Her voice 
was trembling from a combination of panic and lust.  

    "That, and more.  Those glasses of his looked powerful enough 
to zoom right in on your gaping cunt, so he can watch your clit 
throb as you cum for him, and cum, and cum.  Voila!"

    She gasped as I flicked the folds of the towel aside.  And she 
began to squirm harder, hips bouncing and thighs trembling, all of 
which resulted in a wonderfully lewd display.  She was really 
getting off on this.                          
 
    Her cunt wasn't actually "gaping" yet, but it was beginning 
to open, and I spread it the rest of the way, to exhibit her 
completely.  With my right hand, I played with her cunt and, 
with my left, her tits.                          

    Without having to be told, she was digging her heels into the 
sides of the chair for leverage, bucking her hips toward the 
window and her audience.   

    "Put on a good show for him.  He wants to see you in heat."

    Without any warning, I bent down and slipped the vibrating 
egg into her naturally well-lubricated cunt.  It snuggled right 
up against her G-spot. 

    "Oh, oh, god -- n-not the egg -- oh god oh god -- please 
d-don't!  Please!  That thing is-is...insatiable....  And the man 
-- he'll s-s-see me cum!"

    "Sure.  He deserves the best show you can put on."

    I pressed the remote.  

    "He does deserve to watch you cum, don't you think?"  I teased 
her by flicking the egg on and off.

    "Aaaaaaaaaa!  Oh, please, yes, I-I w-w-want to cum f-for HIM.  
Please...."

    I began rapidly strumming her clit.  She froze, rigid, and the 
first of a series of orgasms rippled through her.  I kept at it, 
playing the remote with one hand and her clit with the other.  And 
then she had another orgasm...and another...and another....  When 
she was near the end of her tether, I paused and gave her a 
moment's rest.  

    She heaved a massive sigh.  "Ooooooh, I've never felt so...."

    "Humiliated?"

    "Yessss!"

    "AND turned on."

    She nodded.  "That, too.  But, making me cum...in-in 
pub-lic...."

    "I'll bet that HE is REALLY enjoying the show you're putting 
on for him...and for who knows how many people are watching from 
other windows.  Now, ready for Act II?"

     "I guess so.  Yes.  I-I want HIM -- or THEM -- t-to see more.  
And just the f-fact that that's what I do want is-is scary...."     

    I didn't close the drapes, because I didn't want to make him 
think the show was entirely over, instead of just being the end of 
Act I.  To set up the second act, I released Betty from the chair, 
and switched the chair for the desk/vanity's bench.  Draping her 
over the bench, I tied her down on her knees, with her legs widely 
straddled and her butt toward the window.  She was nicely 
submissive during the transition.  

    Once she was secure, however, the protests began again. 

    "But -- he can see m-my, my a-asshole....  Oh, god, this is 
s-so, so...degrading!"

    I decided to give her something else to whine about.  I got the 
little spray canister and moved around behind her, making sure she 
saw what was in my hand.

    "Oh no, not that damn itching spray, please....  I'll be good, 
I-I promise I will."

    I sprayed a generous amount in and around her cunt and asshole, 
and the effect was immediate.  She began to moan and buck, humping 
the bench, twitching and quivering, madly shaking her butt.     

    Again, I flicked the egg's remote on and off, on and off, to 
add to her torment.  

     I've got about 10 minutes until that spray is absorbed enough 
that it's safe to touch you without protection.  Of course, you'll 
feel the itch for a couple of hours or more...unless I decide to 
be merciful and let you take another shower.  How does it feel?  
Tickle?"

    "M-my a-a-a-asshole...aaaaa...oh, god...my p-poor 
aaa-asshole...."

    "So, what do you think I should do for the next 10 minutes, 
dear?"

    "P-please, mas-aster, play with it, with m-my ass-hole.  
Please s-scra-atch the itch, pleeeez!"

    "In front of HIM?"

    "Oh, god, p-p-pleeeezz!"

     I shrugged, snapped on the latex gloves, and squeezed out a 
blob of ointment -- and anointed her clit. 

    "While I'm seeing to your asshole, we wouldn't want your cunt 
to start feeling lonely and jealous, now."

    "Aaah...aah...it's b-burn-ing," she hissed.

    I served out another dollop of ointment and turned my attention 
to her puckered butt-hole (though I did remember to work the remote 
from time to time).  My fingers, slick with burning grease, 
slithered into her elastic asshole, first one, then two fingers, 
corkscrewing in and out.

    She proceeded to bounce and jiggle and moan and whimper her way 
through another series of orgasms.  (She had been multi-orgasmic 
before, sometimes, when things were working perfectly, but this was 
way above and beyond.)  After a few minutes, though, she looked 
around at me, fatigue and distress written across her face.

    "Gotta peee...bad," she gasped.

    Quickly fetching the plastic pitcher that had earlier held iced 
tea, I got it into position just in time, as she let go with a 
gusher.  She pissed at least a pint.  After the last trickles, I 
extracted the egg and gave her another brief rest, while I 
leisurely stripped and put my clothes away neatly. 

    "And now for the finale," I announced, though I'm not sure she 
really heard me.  But when I hauled her and the bench around 180 
degrees, so that she was facing the window once again, she seemed 
to come back for a moment from whatever Never-Never Land she had 
drifted off to.       

    "You gonna f-fuck me now?  Fuck me like a b-bitch...while HE 
watches?"  She stared into the night, helpless.

    "Just exactly like a bitch...."

    I took her from the rear, doggie-style, and, as tired as she 
was, she began humping back.  My orgasm wasn't long delayed -- no 
big surprise -- but I was amazed that she had one last climax, as 
well.  (Apparently this scenario was a real winner.)  I pulled out, 
dragged the bench back around, and made a trip to the bathroom.  
Mr. Peeper had plenty of time to watch my cum oozing out of her 
cunt, hanging on the edge a bit, and then meandering down her 
thigh.  And she knew it.

    Finally, I closed the drapes, untied her, and held her close 
as she collapsed weakly into my arms.   

    "So, what do you think of public displays now?"

    She murmured softly, "When's our next trip going to be?"

    I wondered.  The next time would have to be different, even 
more outré....  Maybe an amateur strip contest...or Mardi Gras...or 
a nude beach during Spring Break....

    But I had a lot of time to consider that.  Right now, I was 
mainly thinking about getting back home to see the video tape that 
my protégé, Jeff (aka Mr. Peeper), had just made from across the 
way.