EYES
by Margery Pinchwife
mpinchwife@yahoo.com
(c)Margery Pinchwife, 2001
/~margery/
CHAPTER 1
It started a few years ago. We were at one of
these "business parties" - my husband's company had a
big party for people from all the different companies
it dealt with - so I knew very few people. After a
little while my husband got involved with one of his
clients about some business matter, so I drifted off
to find someone to talk to about something other than
business.
As I moved around the room, I noticed a man
seemed to be staring at me. He was not particularly
handsome (nor tall nor dark, for that matter), but he
had striking eyes - the irises must have been very
dark, so from across the room it looked like his eyes
were all pupils - just black disks in the middle of
his white eyeballs. This made his staring somehow
more penetrating.
I tried to ignore him and eventually joined a
small group talking about something I no longer
remember. A few moments later, the man joined the
group, still staring at me with, what I now could see,
were almost jet black eyes. He said very little and
eventually people drifted away, as these groups at a
noisy party do, leaving just him and me.
I tried to say something pleasant and he replied
"It's too noisy to talk here. There are quieter
places." With that, he turned his back and started
walking toward the stairway. There was something so
strong and confident about his voice and his manner
that made me feel it would be almost impolite not to
follow him.
We went up the stairs and through an open doorway
into what turned out to be a bedroom. There he
turned, apparently thoroughly confident that I had
followed him, and focused those eyes on mine. I don't
remember what we talked about then, probably
continuing whatever had been the subject of
conversation below. All I know is that I was
conscious mostly of his eyes, which continued to bore
into me.
At one point the conversation came to a stop, but
he continued to stare at me, almost overpowering me
with his look. I couldn't ignore it any more, so I
asked him why he kept staring at me and why he had
been staring at me, even from across the room. His
reply shocked me: "I'm trying to imagine what your
breasts look like underneath your dress."
This was not the sort of comment I was used to.
I should have passed it off with some witty comment,
or turned and left. I did neither. I just stood
there powerless, looking back into his eyes, and,
seemingly of their own volition, my hands moved up to
the buttons on the front of my dress. You can imagine
what might have happened next, but in fact, it went no
further. With exquisite dramatic timing, my husband
just then stuck his head in the room and said "Ah,
there you are, I've been looking for you."
Driving home, all I could think was that I'd been
saved by the bell. I thought then, and still believe,
that had not my husband come in I would have then and
there bared my breasts to this strange man, whose name
I didn't even know. I can't imagine why I would have
done it, I'm normally very shy about my body, but
there was something in those eyes, something in the
strength of his voice, in his apparently rightful
confidence, that I found compelling, that left me with
little choice. I don't know what it was. It both
frightened and excited me when I thought about it.
But I certainly couldn't tell my husband that some
strange man had that kind of power over me.
CHAPTER 2
I didn't see him again until the big spring
party.
The CEO of my husband's company has a large
house at the beach and every spring he throws a big
beach party for the families of the senior members of
the company plus a variety of others that he does
business with or just likes. It's not a catered
affair, everybody pitches in by bringing things,
helping setting up, cooking, cleaning up, etc. It's
usually a lot of fun, especially if the weather is
good.
It's been several months since the episode at
the party and I thought about it from time to time.
Although nothing actually happened, it was the closest
I had come to a sexual adventure since I was married
and the almost hypnotic effect that he had on me made
it a major erotic episode in my life. From time to
time, I'd find myself caressing my body and thinking
about him.
So when the invitation to the spring beach
party came, I wondered if he'd be there. Just the
possibility made me tingle. When we got there, I
looked around to see if he was there. There were a
lot of people already there, most standing around on
the beach because the water was still rather cold, a
few hardy souls swimming, but I didn't see him
anywhere. I didn't know whether to be disappointed or
relieved.
My husband and I made the rounds, saying hello
to old friends and acquaintances, being introduced to
people we didn't know and to families of those we did.
It was getting on toward noon and my husband had
promised to do some of the cooking, so I walked with
him over to where they had set up the grills. I
wasn't hungry yet, so I told him I'd wait until his
shift was over, in about an hour, and would eat with
him then. Leaving him there, I drifted off looking
for somebody I wanted to talk with.
It was then that I noticed him. He was about
15 yards away from me and there were people between
us, but there was no mistaking his commanding presence
and those eyes, which as at the party seemed focused
on me. I had a certain amount of ambivalence, whether
to turn away and pretend I didn't notice him or to
acknowledge him as someone I knew. But before I could
actually consider these alternatives, I found that I
was walking towards him as if he were someone I had
been looking for, which, whether I wished to admit it
or not, he was.
He didn't move or change his expression until
I was halfway to him. Then, he gestured with his chin
over his shoulder toward the house, turned, and walked
in the direction he had indicated, seemingly confident
that I would follow him.
And, indeed, that seemed to me to be the
natural thing to do. I didn't even consider any
alternatives. By the time I reached the house and
entered it through the kitchen, he was nowhere in
sight. I looked around and saw a sign with an arrow
pointing up stairs and the word "Bathrooms." That
seemed the obvious way to go. It certainly gave me a
good excuse to go upstairs.
At the top of the stairs, I saw him standing
in the doorway of one of the rooms. As soon as he saw
me, he turned and went in the room. I followed him.
Again, it was a bedroom. He was standing by
the door. As I walked past him, heading for the
window, I heard him close and lock the door. This
time we wouldn't be interrupted. I stood staring out
the window at the party on the beach. I could see my
husband at the grill and a line for hamburgers forming
near him.
In the room, he didn't say anything. I turned
and saw that he was standing in the middle of the
room, next to the bed, his eyes locked on mine. I
took a step or two toward him. Neither of us had said
a word.
Finally, he spoke. It was as if the
interruption at our previous encounter had only been
for a minute or two and he was picking up where we had
left off.
"We were speaking of your breasts."
His voice brought me back to that earlier time
and to the same emotional state I had been in then. I
was wearing a modest one-piece bathing suit and it
took just a moment to push the straps off my shoulders
and roll the suit down to my waist.
I stood there bare-breasted, looking into
those dark, dark eyes. They held my gaze for a long
moment and than slowly moved down to focus on my
breasts. My nipples hardened.
"Very good."
His eyes then moved lower until they reached
the base of my abdomen, where their downward passage
stopped.
I could feel their pull on my crotch as if it
were a command, one that I had no power to ignore. I
continued to roll my suit down...over my hips...past
my thighs...until it fell to my ankles. I stepped out
of it and stood there completely naked, only a few
feet from this man whose name I didn't even know.
He reached forward and with his fingertips
touched the inside of my thigh, gently pressing it
outward. I obeyed the pressure of his fingers and
spread my legs.
Then, he brought his hand up and ever so
lightly slid his fingertips along the edges of my
labia from back to front. It felt as gentle as a
feather. Waves of heat radiated outward from his
point of contact.
Then he stepped back.
"I'm going to get some of that meat your
husband has prepared."
He turned and left.
I don't know how long I stood there, alone and
on the brink of orgasm, breathing heavily. Eventually
I seemed to snap out of it. I found my bathing suit,
quickly pulled it on, raced downstairs, out of the
house, and down to the beach, where I ran into the
frigid water until it was deep enough to swim.
When I came shivering out of the water, he was
nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER 3
The next time I saw him was at a dinner
party.
My husband's company had hired a woman at the
senior management level for the first time and the CEO
had thought a nice dinner party would be a good way to
welcome her. He had invited all the managers in the
company and a number of people not in the company so
the dinner wouldn't result in just a lot of shop talk.
Because he didn't want the guest of honor to be the
only woman, he had strongly encouraged everyone to
bring his wife. What with a couple of divorces and
illnesses there still would be a shortage of women,
but at least she'd not be the only one.
The day of the party, around noon, my husband
called me from work. There was some sort of a
disaster in one of the branch offices and he'd have to
fly out there that evening to do damage control and
hold a lot of hands. He still wanted me to go to the
dinner because of the shortage of women. He could
drop me off on his way to the airport and he'd spoken
to the CEO who had agreed to make sure I was driven
home, so I wouldn't have to drive in the dark.
Well, I recognized my wifely duty and,
besides, I knew we'd have fantastic food and excellent
wines. That and the fact that I had bought a new
dress for the occasion made me agree to go. Of
course, I considered the idea that he might be there.
But I felt the intimacy of a dinner party (as opposed
to the two previous occasions) meant that we couldn't
go off by ourselves without drawing attention to us,
and I was pretty sure that in the presence of other
people I'd be able control myself no matter how
penetrating his eyes were.
I didn't see him at first. I was greeted by
the host, introduced to the guest of honor, and was
into a discussion with her of the local culture,
particularly for good music, before I felt his
presence. But then, there it was. The dark,
confident eyes staring at me from across the room. And
I knew I had been wrong.
I was hooked.
I was a fish that, having bitten on the hook,
was swimming around freely only until the line was
pulled taut and I was reeled in. I waited for the tug
on the line.
But he didn't reel me in. He just looked at
me from across the room while we had cocktails.
During dinner, as I tried to concentrate on what truly
was a wonderful meal and on the conversations with my
table mates, I'd occasionally glance toward the other
end of the table and there would be those eyes,
looking right into mine, reminding me that he still
had the hook in me. It was like that during coffee as
well. But he never made the slightest move or gesture
beyond that look.
Since people had to work the next day, the
party broke up reasonably early. I went to thank my
host and remind him of my need for a ride home. "Oh,
here's the man who kindly agreed to drive you," and I
suddenly felt the line pull. Of course, he was the
one who would drive me. He had known that all along
and had patiently waited for this moment before
beginning to reel me in.
I walked out the his car with him in a mild
daze of anticipation, not having any idea what was in
store for me. It wasn't until we had driven for a
while that I realized he had never asked me where I
lived. Where was he taking me? He could take me
anyplace he wanted. I felt a touch of fear. Was he
driving me home or was it only coincidence that at
every intersection he made the choice that took us
toward my home? It was only when he stopped in my
driveway that I was confident he was taking me home.
Relieved, I turned to thank him for the ride,
but he was already getting out of his side of the car.
I got out and fumbled in my purse for the key as he
accompanied me to the front door. When I finally
managed to get the key out, he took it from my
trembling hand, unlocked the door, and held it open
for me. He returned the key as I passed him into the
hallway. When I turned to thank him, he was closing
the door and throwing the lock. Then, as if he knew
my house, as if he had been there before, he
confidently walked past me toward our bedroom.
I put my purse down and followed him. When I
got to the bedroom, he was sitting in the reading
chair with his jacket off, thrown over an arm of the
chair.
He looked at me, holding my eyes with his,
and, without a word from him, I knew exactly what I
had to do. Very deliberately, I stepped out of my
heels and kicked them over towards my closet. I
unzipped my new dress, pulled it over my head, and
carefully hung it in the closet. My half slip I
folded and put on top of the dresser. I had to sit
down to take off my panty hose; I put them next to the
slip. I put my bra and panties on top of the slip.
Then I stood naked and exposed in front of him
again, with my nipples already erect, waiting.
His eyes studied me, roaming over my body, up
and down. It felt as if he was carressing me. He
hadn't said a word. Finally his eyes locked on mine
and with a gesture he indicated the bed. I lay on my
back on the bed, my legs slightly spread, and waited,
almost twitching with anticipation of whatever he
might do next.
He stood at my right side and began to run his
fingers over me. Down and up my thighs, then around
my neck, my shoulders and arms, then down my chest
between my breasts, around my navel, and back and
forth across my abdomen. All the time carefully
avoiding the principle erotic zones, and being all the
more erotic for it.
It felt so good, lying there at his mercy,
feeling the sensation of his fingertips on my skin.
But I wanted more, I wanted his fingers on those
places.
Eventually he turned his attention to my right
breast. His fingers circled it several times,
outlining it, before they began a slow, tight spiral
toward the hard nipple in the center of his circles.
He moved closer and closer to it, but never touching
it, until he was at the edge of the hard and bumpy
aureola. I tried to will him onto the nipple itself,
but he got no closer. I looked at him, begging like a
hungry puppy, but still he moved no closer, just round
and round.
Finally, he reach across me, took my left arm
and, holding it by the wrist, first pulled my fingers
across his palm, and then placed them on my nipple.
The need was so strong by then that I immediately
began to role the nipple between my thumb and
forefinger, giving myself some relief from the agony
of suspense that he had induced.
He watched for a while, then took my right arm
by the wrist, again pulled my fingers across his palm,
and this time place the tip of my fingers on my
clitoris.
I had never masturbated in front of someone
before, but the strength of his power over me combined
with the urges of my body were too much. My fingers
stroked and fondled and caressed as, now from the foot
of the bed, he focused his eyes on their activity.
Seeing him there between my legs while I was rubbing
so furiously brought me to a higher pitch of
excitement than I had ever reached by myself. I was
almost at my peak when he suddenly shifted his eyes
and fixed them on mine. He seemed to pull me into
their dark centers, and as I reached my climax, I felt
I was sinking into their black depths, giving my
orgasm to him, as I exploded. I lost sight of
everything during the aftershocks.
I was wrung out, motionless and exhausted. I
heard him open and then close the front door, get into
his car, and drive away. I lay there sobbing.
CHAPTER 4
Over the next several months, I saw him on
three occasions. At each of them he simply ignored
me. He didn't avoid me, rather he simply acted as if
I wasn't there. If he happened to glance in my
direction, his eyes looked through me. I was
invisible to him.
I couldn't understand it. I had revealed
myself to him in an incredibly intimate manner and now
I didn't exist for him anymore. The injustice of it
gnawed on me. Was I no longer of interest to him?
Had I done something wrong? What was the matter with
me that caused this sudden change in his behavior?
At the end of the third occasion, a cocktail
party, I had gathered my purse and gone to the
bathroom to redo my lipstick and straighten my hair
before my husband and I left for dinner. As I stepped
out of the bathroom, he was standing there in an
otherwise empty hallway. At first I thought that
finally he was going to acknowledge my existence, but
it immediately became apparent that he was only
waiting to get into the bathroom. I could stand it no
longer.
"Is it over then? You no longer want to see
me?"
"I'll see you when you're ready," he said in a
matter-of-fact tone.
"When I'm ready? What does that mean?" I was
incredulous.
He took a small piece of paper and a pen from
his pocket, wrote something, tucked the paper in my
purse, and finally grabbed my eyes with the depths of
his.
"You'll be ready when you call me at the
number and say the words on the paper."
He disappeared into the bathroom just as
several other people came looking for that facility.
I didn't want to read what he had written in front of
other people. In fact, I decided that I should be
alone and in a better frame of mind before I looked at
the paper. So I left it in my purse and went to
dinner with my husband.
It wasn't until the next morning, after my
husband left for work, that I finally got around to
looking at the paper. On it were written a phone
number and the words "Take me any way you want."
Without him there, without those eyes locked
on mine, I found those words unbelievable. Why the
arrogant bastard, I thought. After the way I had
responded to his looks and his mere gestures, to now
demand that I put myself completely at his disposal
seemed pushing his luck. Where did he get off acting
like this?
I threw the piece of paper in the trash....and
then immediately pulled it out. I can't say why I did
this. Was it because I was afraid my husband might
find it there? Or because I was afraid of the
finality of cutting off all contact with him? Or
because I wanted to call him and tell him what I
thought of it? Or, perhaps, just perhaps, because I
suddenly saw the image of those eyes in front of me?
All I know is that I stood there trembling,
with the rescued piece of paper in my hand, when the
phone rang.
It was my friend Cheryl asking me what I would
be wearing that day to the luncheon I had completely
forgot about. I looked at the time and realized I'd
just barely have time to get dressed if I wanted to
get there on time. So I got rid of Cheryl as quickly
as I politely could, stuffed the piece of paper in the
back of my drawer, and proceeded to get ready for the
luncheon.
At least several times every day over the next
couple of weeks I would think about the paper. The
words, "Take me any way you want," were burned into my
memory. I vacillated between thinking, on the one
hand, that I should simply destroy the paper and
forget the whole thing, and, on the other, that I
should call him up and tell him the I was no longer
interested in him; let him know. A couple of times I
briefly even considered calling him and reciting the
words he had written, but each time I immediately
dismissed that idea.
Eventually, I decided to call him up and end
it. All I needed was the nerve. I prepared my words
in advance. "I want to tell you that you can forget
about me. I'm no longer interested in you." I
recited these words over and over to myself so I
wouldn't forget them. They became my mantra. I found
myself repeating them as I reached for the phone, but
each time I found some reason why it wasn't the right
time to call or why I had to do something else first.
For some reason, I was afraid to make the call.
One bright, sunny morning I finally decided it
was the perfect time to call him. I had nothing
planned for the day. I felt full of confidence. I
had taken a leisurely shower and had not yet bothered
to get dressed. I was wearing my terrycloth bathrobe,
enjoying the feel of its texture against my skin, and
drinking my second cup of coffee when I decided that
this was the time to call. I repeated to myself the
words, "I want to tell you that you can forget about
me. I'm no longer interested in you," as I went to
the bedroom to get the piece of paper with his phone
number on it.
I panicked when I couldn't find it.
It wasn't in the drawer. What had I done with
it? Had my husband gone through my drawer and found
it? I frantically began emptying the drawer of all
the odds and ends that I had put in it over the years.
And then, thank God, I found it.
It was, more or less, right where I had put
it, but tucked under a small box. I held it in my
hand, sat down on the end of the bed, and breathed
deeply until I calmed down. I glanced at the words he
had written and then repeated my mantra, "I want to
tell you that you can forget about me. I'm no longer
interested in you."
I had lost a bit of my confidence but I was
again ready to make the call.
I placed the paper next to the bedside phone
so I could see it as I dialed, and dialed the number.
As the phone rang, I looked back at all the junk I had
pulled out of my drawer and decided that I needed to
clean it up as soon as the I finished the call.
The phone rang two times, three times, four
times. Maybe he's not there. Was I disappointed or
relieved? Perhaps both.
Two more rings. I was about to hang up when
he answered.
"Yes." Thoroughly disinterested, as if he
expected a telemarketer.
"This is Diane."
"Yes." The exact same intonation. No sign of
recognition or sense that he cared at all.
"I want to tell you...." I could suddenly see
those eyes in front of me.
"I want to tell you that you can..." Could
his eyes actually reach through the telephone wires
into my bedroom?
"Yes." No change in intonation.
"...you can..." The words caught in my
throat.
"...you can take me any way you want."
My God! What had I said? That isn't what I
meant to say! No, no, I wanted to take it back, to
unsay it.
"At exactly eleven this morning I'll be there.
The front door should be unlocked. You should be
waiting for me, kneeling naked on your bed, your knees
at the foot edge of the bed and spread," and he hung
up.
I looked at the digital clock by the bed. It
was 10:44. It took me a moment to figure out that I
had 16 minutes before he would be there.
I would lock the front door (which we normally
left open during the day), I thought. I started
toward it. But then he might make a scene. Pound on
the door. Try a window. The neighbors would hear.
No, no, that wouldn't do. I'd have to let him in,
face him, and tell him I made a mistake. If he got
upset, better he should do it inside, away from
curious neighbors.
But the time was slipping by. I saw the clock
shift to 10:46. I had to straighten things out. I
rushed to the drawer and stuffed all the junk back in
any old way, forcing the drawer shut. I caught sight
of my hair in the mirror - it was a mess, completely
out of control. I grabbed my hairbrush and furiously
brushed my hair, trying to bring some semblance of
order to it.
10:49.
This was crazy. I wasn't dressed yet. Why
was I doing these silly things? What should I wear?
Jeans and a sweatshirt to show him I didn't feel that
I had to dress up for him. No, a tight t-shirt and
short shorts to show him what he wasn't going to get.
No, no, a business suit so he'd think I was just about
to leave and didn't have much time for him. I didn't
know what I wanted to do. I only knew that time was
flying and I had to make up my mind.
Underwear. No matter what, I'd need
underwear. It was 10:53 and I still didn't have any
underwear on. Panties. I looked in my panty drawer
and remembered that I had put the last of my panties
in the laundry last night, but that I hadn't yet put
them in the dryer. They were undoubtedly still damp
in the washer. Did I need panties? Not with jeans
or a longer skirt. But I'd definitely need a bra.
10:56 and where's my damn bra? I had thrown it into
the closet somewhere.
But what was I going to wear? I looked
frantically for my gray suit. No, my jeans. No, my
blue suit. Oh, God, what time is it. 10:58. It was
hopeless. I stood there frozen in indecision. 10:59.
Oh, no!...
I heard the dining room chime begin to sound
the hour. A car drove up. A car door slammed.
Shit!
No longer thinking, I quickly took off my
robe, threw it in the closet, and, breathing heavily,
knelt on the edge of the bed as I heard the front door
open.
He stopped in the doorway of the bedroom. I
could feel his eyes examining me inch by inch. In the
mirror, I could see my body from the shoulders down,
my buttocks sticking up and pointing toward the
doorway, my breasts hanging loosely down from me - an
entirely obscene headless body. I visualized the dark
eyes probing my body, penetrating the openings offered
up to him.
He walked up beside me and ran his hands over
my flank, as if I were a cow. I felt thrillingly
degraded and the feeling of degradation sent a shiver
of excitement through me. My blood was pulsing and I
knew that the state of my nipples would let him know
how terribly erotic I found this.
With the palm of his hand he stroked my back,
my sides, my thighs. Innocent acts that somehow drove
me to a higher pitch of excitement. When he cupped
one buttock and passed his fingers within a hair's
breadth of my anus, I nearly went wild.
Then he held his hand out flat beneath my
breast and brought it up until my nipple just barely
touched his palm. He moved his hand in a circular
horizontal motion, pulling my nipple round with it, as
he ever so slightly increased the upward pressure.
Pulses of electricity radiated throughout my body,
upward from my nipple, and focused down to the
juncture of my legs. I was breathing harder now. I
could feel my heart pounding in my chest.
He might have brought me to a climax with just
the palm of his hand that way, I was that close, but
he stopped. I caught my breath. In the mirror I saw
him remove his pants, walk to the foot end of the bed,
and stand there between my projecting feet. His
erection protruded between his shirttails, aimed
directly at my rear. I felt fingers on my vaginal
lips, spreading my liquid around them, then sliding up
to and around my anus, getting everything wet with the
fluid that I was exuding. I could feel his fingers
moving back and forth, between my labia, around my
anus, with the lightest of pressure on both my
openings. I found myself pressing backward, trying to
increase the pressure, trying to capture his fingers.
One finger slipped between my labia, shallowly probing
into me. I caught my breath in anticipation.
Then suddenly, all at once, a thumb delved
into the depths of my vagina, a finger into my rectum,
and his other hand reached around my thigh and pressed
hard on my clitoris. He was rubbing his fingers and
hands together, back and forth, with me in between.
All my sensations were concentrated between his hands
and fingers, where he had captured me. Their motion
was rubbing at the very core of my universe. Oh, God!
Yes!
This was pure sex. There was no love involved,
no intimacy, no union of souls. I didn't even know
his name and I couldn't care less. It was primitive,
raw, animal sex at its most basic. I was conscious
only of my body and the sensations he was eliciting in
it.
His fingers and hand moved faster and faster.
Oh, God, he was pushing me closer and closer. I was
almost there, my breath became ragged, my pulse
quicker, my eyes lost their focus. And then it wasn't
his finger anymore in my vagina. It was his smooth,
thick, hard erection pumping into me, driving into me,
deeper and deeper. I was now completely gone. He had
driven me over the edge and I was coming wildly,
grunting like an animal, as he thrust his pelvis back
and forth, slamming his body against mine, all the
while his hand pressing against my clitoris in rhythm
with his thrusting. Tears ran down my distorted face.
I heard sounds coming out of my throat, shrieks, a
loud, piercing cry. Wave after wave shook my body,
wrenching it, distorting it, tearing it apart.
...And then I heard no more. I saw no more.
Nothing. Utter exhaustion. Lying there. Damp
between my legs. My face wet with tears. Breathing.
Just breathing.
It was a while before my eyes finally focused.
I saw him coming out of the bathroom, his pants back
on. He walked to the phone beside the bed, picked up
the little piece of paper with his phone number and
those words I had so fatefully recited, and put it in
his pocket.
"You won't be needing this any more. I'll
call you when it's time."
And he left.
THE END
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