He is on his back, and I am astride him, reverse cowgirl style. My jeans are pulled to my thighs, my tits pulled out of my bra, and I’ve undone my shoes and thrown them under the bed. The rubber sheets are cool beneath my skin as, head bowed, I lean forward and slowly lower myself onto his cock. When I arrive and he is as deep inside me as the position will allow I look up, at the people- men- who line the walls, standing, watching. I close my eyes, and focus on the feeling of him inside me.
But I’m distracted; I’m being watched and I know it. Watched by the man who took a crop to my tits earlier, smacking my clamp- sore nipples until I whined and then kissing me until whines turned to hums. Watched by a man wearing nothing but an eye mask, a cock- ring and an exuberantly rigid hard- on. To my right I am vaguely aware that a woman is being instructed how to please her partner with her mouth, and I wish I could be watched and watch similtaneously- observe her mouth on his balls, the motion of his hips and bend of his knees, the curl of her tongue.
But it’s not my time to watch- I’m being seen. I have gone unseen for a long time- for a long time there was nothing to see. For a long time I hid. For a long, long time.
He fucks me in front of that red- walled roomful of people his hips moving in a slow, casual roll for five, ten, twenty minutes. I’m not sure how long, because time has stopped meaning anything- it’s just a moment after a moment after a moment. We pause to change positions, adjust clothing, lie like spoons and kiss, inhale, twist our heads to laugh into each others’ mouths. There is an audience and even then still there is just us- the solidity of his arms around me, the smoothness of his scalp under my fingers, his cock so at home inside my arse.
Neither of us is likely to come- that’s not the point- and after a while we stop, and cuddle. I need a pee, and when I’ve cleaned up and dressed myself I skip upstairs to the loo. I stop and look in the mirror. My hair is fuckswept and frizzy, my skin sheened with highlighter and sweat, my scarlet lips smudged from kissing. My tits are red and bruised from crop and whip, my arse welted, my cunt sore and wet. I look at the mirror at myself in this state of miraculous disarray, remember what I’ve just done, and think- I can’t believe it did that. That was so hot. That was me. People saw me do it, saw me enjoy it, knew I wanted to do it.
I want all of this. I want everything he does to me. I want the pain and the disarray, I want to be exhibited. Sometimes when I am being beaten in public and the pain is amassing in my brain and across my flesh I want to Yellow out so I can step off the podium for a second and hide, but I never do. I might Yellow out because the pain is too much to compute for a second, because I need to recalibrate, inhale and exhale myself back a little, but I never give in to the impulse to make myself invisible. I crave the pain and the closeness, I crave the public proof that I am his- the bruises, ropemarks, hickeys and welts, all of them leaving evidence of his possession like fingerprints- but the thing I crave most is the being looked at, the being seen.
I am kneeling between his thighs. He is leaning back in his chair, his hands behind his head, looking as smug as you might expect a man to when an adorably enthusiastic, big titted little slut is drooling enthusiastically all over his cock in front of a room of watching strangers. He leans forward and strokes my cheek, gives my face a sharp fond slap, and says softly, wonderingly, ‘Look at you’.
Yes. Look at me. Look.