Watching from a distance turns this guy on

I like to watch

In fact, I don't really like to be touched, preferring to maintain a distance from the germs and secretions. Watching a dancer from across the room can drive me to a frenzy, but a close up encounter just isn't the same

Like most young men, porno movies were my introduction to women and sex. But unlike my buddies who couldn't wait to be taken in hand or mouth by their girlfriends, I vied for the furtive glance up a skirt or the discreet view down a blouse.

As a pre-adolescent, I would hide under the racks of women's clothing. I'd sneak into the dressing room and with a mirror placed just right, watch women try on clothes. I loved the closeness of it, the scent of it.

Unlike other men, who fondly remember that first fuck, I remember the first time I stood in the shadows and watched a woman undress by the dim light of her bedside lamp. I grew up in the in the city with views of other apartments on two sides. I was sixteen when I bought my first binoculars. Shortly thereafter, I saw a woman in an adjacent building apply lotion to her plump, white naked body. Another time, the same woman gave a man a hand-job on her sofa. Another evening, I witnessed the woman fucking a different man.

College offered new viewing opportunities. I peeked at girls through their partially-closed doors, caught them blowing their boyfriends in the lounge. I set up a telescope in my room, but instead of studying the solar system, I studied scantaly clad bottoms and bare breasts in the dorm across the way.

A local club afforded darker pursuits. I paid for lap dances, but required the dancer to remain at arm's length. I acquired a penlight that allowed for the study and comparison of the slightest physical variations in genitalia.

It wasn't until I attended law school in Chicago that I found my first woman who wanted to be watched as much as I wanted to watch. She was a fortyish professor of torts with a face lined from smoking. She wore skirts that revealed long, lean legs and a hard, round rump. The nipples on her pert breasts showed through her sweaters when she arrived fresh from the cold of a bracing Chicago morning.

Most of the time she lectured, striding back and forth before us, but during exams she sat behind her desk, monitoring her students' progress as we wrote furiously in our blue books. I positioned myself for an unobstructed view of the dark Vee between her knees. More than once she caught me staring. And once, I thought I detected a sly smile playing across her lips.

When I turned in my exam, she asked to see me in her office later in the day.

She sat in a wing chair on one side of a coffee table, while I reclined on a sofa opposite. Her legs were crossed, but I noticed she no longer wore stockings. She pulled the curtains tight and locked the door. She asked how I had enjoyed her class. When I replied just fine, she uncrossed her legs and opened them slightly, revealing thighs and a glimpse of the mystery between.

Then she asked if I enjoyed looking up her skirt.

I didn't have to say a word. The blush on my face and bulge in my chinos were answer enough.

She lifted her hips and pulled the skirt higher. She hooked one leg over a chair arm and showed me a tangle of wiry pubic hair. She wet a finger in her mouth and traced a line along her slit. She spread her pussy lips and flashed a glistening pink tunnel hidden in the folds.

A tiny wet spot at my crotch betrayed my increasing excitement.

It was all right, she assured me. Then she said I could touch myself while watched. She didn't care one way or another, so long as my eyes were on her.

I unbuckled and unzipped. I ached for release, but squeezed myself in an effort to delay the inevitable.

She lifted her sweater over her head and undid her bra. Her nipples were like raspberries. She pinched one, then the other, while chewing her lower lip. Her eyes locked on my hand and cock, then she stood and turned. She hiked her skirt up over her waist, thrust out her ass, and rotated it just inches from my face. She reached behind and lifted and separated her buttocks. I glimpsed the pucker and was nearly overwhelmed with the pungent scent of her sex.

She pushed a finger inside her cunt and moaned.

You like it, she asked.

Yes, I managed.

She turned to face me again. Seated in the chair, she used one hand to finger deep inside and the other to rub. The squishy sounds of her finger fucking mingled with her increasingly sharp, short breaths. Momentarily, she threw her head back and thrust out her breasts. Her hips cleared the chair. She wailed softly while shuddering and bucking. I stood and squirted a load onto a law journal on the table between us.

For the remainder of my time in school, we engaged in these encounters every other week. Sometimes, we shifted locations from her office to her apartment or a downtown hotel. Once we sat on opposite park benches in Lincoln Park, thirty yards apart. I eyed her though my binoculars while she sat pretending to read a book, the breeze off the lake lapping at her mini-skirt and lifting it enough to expose her pussy to any who might choose to look. Another time, we sat across the aisle from one another in a nearly, but not completely, deserted movie theater. I watched as she unbuttoned her blouse and stared at the screen, breasts exposed. We later pleasured ourselves, sitting side by side in the back row.

We never touched.

After law school, I began a career as a lawyer. I had many chances to engage in traditional relationships - I'm an attractive enough man - but I preferred to maintain what I referred to as "The Watch."

Over the years, I've had my share of prostitutes and escorts, women I paid to allow me to watch. I've enjoyed the company of several other exhibitionists, like my law school professor. I've also been with a few "normal" women who cared enough to indulge my fetish.

One memory stands out--an attractive young lawyer who joined on my team, shortly after I was named partner. One evening, she and I worked late preparing an important motion for a large corporate trial. The sexual tension between us had been increasing, had reached the point where it was palpable. Another man would have taken her in his arms and kissed her. Another man might have eaten her on the conference table. Instead, I coaxed her into allowing me to pleasure her with a long, thick vibrator.

Dressed only in a garter belt and heels, her black panties clinging to one ankle, she pushed aside papers and files and mounted my desk. In the near darkness-the room was illuminated only by the lights of other office buildings-I watched as she positioned herself on her hands and knees, her large, natural breasts rolling beneath her.

I began by teasing her nipples, the vibrator set to a low pulse. I slid it down her belly, then rubbed the head back and forth on her lasered slit. Her juices began to flow. I held the vibe in place, the tip on her clit. She squirmed and panted. I pushed the shaft into her passage. She arched her back to accommodate me. I situated the "rabbit ears" so that one was on each side of her clit, swollen the size of a little finger. I played her like a musical instrument, taking her to the brink, then backing off until her thighs gleamed with her wetness, until she begged me to make her come. When I finally delivered her, her orgasms crashed one after another like waves against the beach. She was so weak her legs and arms gave out and she collapsed face down on my desk, mewing like a cat.

She's married now, but I still see her from time to time. I probably will until we've run out of new vibes to try. --

The End