2 comments/ 21082 views/ 5 favorites NYC: In the Window By: MLabonte Every Christmas season, I make a trip to New York City. A shopping trip. I could do my shopping in Boston, or any number of other places, but there is something special about New York City at Christmas. That means something coming from me. I don't like New York City. I don't like its size. I don't like the people racing by on the sidewalks, unsmiling, humorless. I think of it as a particularly cold city. Unlike Boston. Unlike New Orleans. Unlike San Francisco. Those cities have personality. They are vibrant. People smile. Even in New England. You can feel the warmth. That said, there is no place for shopping at Christmas like New York City. So I go. Every year. And this year was no different. I've most often stayed in The Plaza or the Waldorf Towers. This year, they both were filled by the time I tried to get a reservation. I managed to book a corner room, on the 40th floor, of the Mandarin Oriental. I like being pampered, so the cost didn't scare me away. I had heard about the hotel's spa! I like 5-star hotels. And the hotel overlooks the Manhattan skyline. And Central Park. The location is perfect. I arrived later than I had anticipated on Friday. It was 6 p.m. by the time I checked in. It was dark, but the city was alive with lights from all the buildings surrounding me. People were working late. Or just getting home after the work day. Lights wrre going on and off everywhere. I was never more conscious of the city, the city high up in the sky, then I was when I entered my room. It was a large room, with a sitting area, a dining table, a king-sized bed. But I was struck most by the view. The windows were floor to ceiling. The curtains were pulled back. Most of the lights in the room were off, accentuating the life outside the room, high up over Manhattan. I could see offices. And I could see condominiums. And I could see apartments. And people. There were people moving around everywhere in the little cubicals across from me, above me, below me. I was fascinated. I felt like a voyeur, peering into their personal lives. Now I have never thought of myself as a voyeur. But I pondered that thought. If anything, I thought of myself as an exhibitionist. I certainly wasn't ashamed of my 32-year-old body. And I had never heard any objections from anyone, male or female. I was conscious of what I ate. I exercised regularly. I liked low-cut tops. Short skirts. I LIKED being looked at. The thought of a voyeuristic experience, peering into the private lives surrounding me, however, was turning me on. I was carefully scanning the windows. Looking for ... what? Something naughty? And then, almost by magic, it was there: A couple of floors down, out the side window of the room, a woman, maybe younger than me, undressing. In front of the window. With the lights on. Blouse. Off. Bra. Off. Skirt. On the floor. Pantyhose. Sliding down her hips. To her knees. Stepping out of them. Just wearing panties now. In her bedroom. I could see the bed, as she moved back toward it, still facing the windows. She sat down on the bed. Touched her breasts. Her nipples. I was mesmerized. She was pretty, if not beautiful. Her body was breathtaking. Nice hips. Large breasts. Long legs. Sexy ass! I kept staring. Turned on now. Watching. She leaned back on the bed. Her hands hooked the sides of her panties. She slide them down. She was close enough that I could see she was shaved. I felt it between my legs as her right hand moved down across her stomach. Lower. Between her legs. She drew her legs up, onto the bed, opening herself, still facing the window. I could see her fingers moving. I watched. I moved close to the window. Her fingers were moving faster. They seemed, though I could not be sure, to be dipping inside her, drawing out her juices. I couldn't take my eyes off her. And then she came. I knew she came because her entire body tightened, shook, relaxed, and then the aftershocks of her climax hit her. I could see her stiffen, relax, stiffen. The release had been a good one. I don't know how long it took. I don't know how long I watched. I do know my panties were soaked. I wanted to cum, too. But I needed a glass of wine. I decided to order dinner, and a bottle of wine, and have them sent to my room. I knew I wasn't going out shopping tonight. That could wait. Now, I wanted to think about what I had witnessed, how it had turned me on ... WHY it had turned me on. No, that was silly. I KNEW why it had turned me on. I was bi-sexual. I have been bi-sexual for a long time. I love the taste and touch and feel of another woman's body. I also had to admit, if reluctantly, I wanted to continue watching the windows beyond me. Would it happen again? Could it? Could she have NOT known she was masturbating in front of the open window, that the whole world could have been watching? I was still thinking about it when my dinner, and all important wine, arrived. But by then, I knew, or at least had decided, she knew exactly what she was doing, that the curtains were open, that anyone could be watching _ and THAT, most probably, was the point. The tables, for those important minutes, had changed: I was the voyeur. She was the exhibitionist. She wanted me, anyone, to watch her pleasure herself. And she obviously didn't care who it was. The thought turned me on. A lot. The dinner was excellent. The wine was better. I had turned on all of the lights. All of them. After I finished eating, I sat, in a chair I pulled next to the wall of glass looking out over the city, slowly scanning the windows around me. Deciding which ones were offices, which ones were homes. The office lights were still going out. The windows of the condos and apartments still were being illuminated as people continued to come home from work. I sipped wine. I stared. Then I noticed the same woman I had seen undress and masturbate standing in her bedroom. Looking out. At the city. She, too, was scanning the windows. She was wearing a robe now, but just looking. I watched her. It turned me on. Again. Or still. I am not sure. My hand was on my thigh, drifting upward. There was something about it. And, at that moment, our eyes met. I don't know if she knew I had been staring at her, or if it was happenstance, but suddenly we were looking at each other. I raised my wine glass to her in a salute. I stood up, looking down at her. I started to unbutton my blouse. Why? I have no idea. But don't really believe that. I know I have exhibitionist tendencies. I know I was very turned on. I know there was no one with me, no one who would pleasure me tonight _ unless I did it myself. What could be better than doing it for an audience? An appreciative one, I hoped, but one that couldn't touch, or taste, just watch. I gave it little further thought. Her eyes never moved off me. Nor mine off her. I pulled the blouse from my skirt, I shrugged it off my shoulders. Now, I was standing there in my skirt. My bra. I unzipped my skirt. I left it fall. I had on pantyhose. And my bra. She was still looking. Her eyes hadn't wavered. I unhooked my bra. I let it fall open. My breasts were exposed to her, my nipples already hard. I wondered, briefly, if she could see HOW hard they were. Suddenly, again, without breaking eye contact, she pulled the robe open. She wasn't wearing anything under it. Nothing. I started rolling my pantyhose down off my hips. Down my thighs. To my knees. My feet. Now, I, too, was naked. In front of the window. We continued to watch each other. Her robe fell to the floor. I brought my hand up under my breast, almost as if I was offering it to her. If she had been here, I would have brought it to her mouth. She sent a shiver through my loins as she did the same thing. Now, right this second, I wanted her. I wanted her naked in front of me. I wanted her lips on mine. I wanted her breasts in my hand. I wanted to suck her nipples. I wanted to squeeze the cheeks of her ass. I wanted my tongue on her stomach. My mouth enclosing her pussy. My tongue probing her depths. I wanted to taste her. Pleasure her. My right hand dropped to my pussy. Like a mirror reflection, she did the same. I was no longer in control of myself. I fell back into the chair. Planted my feet firmly on the glass. Saw immediately from the reflection, I was too low in the chair. I took the pillows off the bed. Piled them on the chair. Sat down on top of them, again planting my legs on the glass, facing my distant fellow voyeur/exhibitionist. I was wanton. Positively wanton. I squeezed and pulled both nipples. They were very hard. I moved both hands down, across my stomach, to my thighs. I was as open for her as I possibly could be. My fingers easily slipped deep into my pussy. She, too, was fingering across the way. We played. We watched each other. We continued playing. We were strangers, with absolutely no way to reach out to each other, yet we were engaging in the most intimate acts, not just for each other, but rather for anyone who happened to be watching. Anyone. I came first. Far too quickly, but I couldn't hold back. It started like a low rumble deep inside me, moving faster and faster, until I tensed, and everything let go. My body rocked and shook with pleasure. Wave and wave washed over me. I was still staring out the window. Still watching. As the tempo of her movements increased. I saw her tense. And I saw her climax wash over her. She drew her curtains. I did not. I left them open. I remained naked. With all of the lights on. Late into the night. I didn't care who saw me. I didn't care if everyone saw me. I masturbated twice more, in front of the windows, before exhaustion took me. I fell asleep with the lights on, the curtains open. In the morning, the first thing I saw was my distant friend. Naked. In her window. Looking up toward my room. Where I was naked. In front of my window. She turned away. And quickly returned. She was holding a large sign. I could barely read it. But I could read it. It said NOON. With an arrow. Pointing down. I nodded. In a very exaggerated manner. I mouthed, "NOON." I would be there. NYC: In the Window Ch. 02 I showered. I dressed carefully. I took my time. I had two and a half interminable hours until noon. It never occurred to me I might not like her. I already knew she had to be very much like me. Since I liked myself, I had little doubt I would like her. I wondered about her. A lot. Who she was. Where she was from. Where she went to school. What she did for a living. Was she married? Divorced? Bi-sexual? I assumed she was, given our mutual show, but I knew nothing about her. Absolutely nothing. I ordered another pot of coffee. I drank it. Finally, at 10 minutes before 12, I left the room. Made my way to the elevator. It was 5 minutes to noon as I made my way toward the front door. I didn't even know where the front of her building might be, but as I came through the doors, I realized I had no need for concern. I recognized her immediately. And she, me. She introduced herself first, in a delightful Parisian accent. She said her name was Larissa. I already was in a state of lust. Close up, she wasn't merely pretty. She was beautiful. Her body was exquisite. As was her taste in clothing. I suggested lunch. A glass of wine. Conversation. She took me by the arm, and I felt the power of her touch in the depths of my being, or, at least, in the depths beneath my panties. Her eyes sparkled. I knew mine were, too. I could feel it. She knew a little Italian restaurant. As she described it, "A little hole in the wall, with the most exquisite food ..." How could I resist? We were arm in arm moving down the street. I could see we were catching attention, even in New York City. I was certain we looked very, very good. And I already was turned on. Every touch, every bump, merely heightened the sensation. And I knew I wasn't alone. I could feel her heat. I could see it in her eyes, each time we looked at each other. It was so strange: We hardly knew each other, were trying to catch up on the highlights of our lives, but the electricity, the erotic tension, was palpable. We hardly knew each other, yet we already knew each other intimately. We talked of our lives, her of NYU, where she had attended school and discovered a passion for women, me of Wellesley, where I brought my already finely tuned taste for women. We both talked of our exhibitionism, its earliest roots, the pleasure we took in it. So similar it shocked both of us. Half way through lunch, I succumbed to an urge that swept over me like a tidal wave. It was impossible to resist its power. I leaned forward, looking into her eyes, and kissed her. On the lips. She moved her arm behind my head, pressing me closer to her lips. I felt her tongue wet my lips. Her tongue entered my mouth. My hand dropped to her thigh, intimately high. In an instant, we were both breathless. I have little doubt we could have had sex in the booth in the restaurant. Passionate sex. It was clear we would. But it also was clear we wanted to prolong the pleasure. We said as much, suggesting almost simultaneously that we do some shopping after lunch. And we did. Heading directly for Saks Fifth Avenue, at Larissa's suggestion. We looked at shoes, flashing each other as we tried them on, giggling like schoolgirls the whole time. We had our first taste of each other's nipples in the dressing room, as we ostensibly tried on blouses. We kissed. We touched. We nibbled under each other's bra. We kissed some more. Hands were everywhere. And we returned the blouses without ever trying on a single one of them. Now, it was too hot. We both needed release. Soon. But not in a changing room. I suggested the hotel. We grabbed a cab. We could see the cabbie watching us, as we kissed. We didn't care. I had a hand under her skirt, where I already could feel her wetness. Through her pantyhose. I was the same. Wet. On fire. I don't remember entering the hotel. I don't remember passing through the lobby. I don't remember the elevator ride. But I know that as soon as we reached the room, we were ripping each other's clothes off. Kissing. Ripping more clothes off. Kissing. We were naked by the time we trumbled onto the bed. Kissing. Entwined. Lips. Hands. Fingers. Legs. Everywhere. Exploring. Touching. Sucking. Kneading. Pinching. Pulling. Fingering. We couldn't wait. Patience was gone. Lust was in command. I don't think I have ever found myself in a 69-position with another woman so quickly. It just seemed so natural to be so hungrily seeking immediate satisfaction. This was no quiet exploration, no attempt to explore erogenous zones. This was explosive, uncontrollable sex. We both needed, were demanding, immediate satisfaction, the best possible climax in the shortest possible time. Guys act like they are the only ones ever in need of a "quick fuck." If only they knew. The fire, the fever was never more obvious than it was right now, as our mouths closed over each other's clit. Now, it was about release. Nothing more. Nothing less. Release. There would be time later to learn about each other's passions and sensitivities, desires and quirks. There definitely would be a "later". We came almost simultaneously, our oral skills bringing on an earthshaking climax that left us pushing away, shaking uncontrollably on opposite ends of the bed, before quickly uniting in a tight, tight embrace. Our lips locked. Our tongues explored each other's mouths, just as they had explored each other's pussy. We were momentarily sated _ but only momentarily. Just looking at each other, we knew there would be more, soon. We talked then. I ordered a bottle of wine. Two glasses. We talked still more. Our backgrounds were quite different, but we were not. We had come from different places, but now found ourselves in the same time and place. With similar interests. With identical passions. With powerful needs to explore the depths of our sexuality. We shared, in the next hours, the deepest and most revealing of our secrets, our fantasies, our need to live out as many of them as possible. We both were bi-sexual, and both agreed any men had to be much younger _ or much older, to be of any interest. I was 32. She was 31. Our passion for women was more indiscriminant. Neither of us knew why. When I made the confesssion that so often ended relationships in their infancy, I knew this was different. I told Larissa I was incapable of monogamy. Always would be. I just couldn't imagine being limited to one lover. I wanted to be free, so when a situation like last night, like today, presented itself, I was free to pursue it passionately, without guilt. She shocked me when she admitted she had never been able to maintain a relationship for much the same reason. We both agreed men, and women, somehow became more boring in an erotic and in a sexual sense the longer you knew them. Neither of us knew why, but we both believed it had to do with familiarity _ and, as everyone knows, familiarity breeds contempt. We laughed, but we understood relationships, those we had been in, those we knew about among our friends, tended to be stifling, over time, far less fulfilling than the variety we pursued. We were in love with the erotic. At times, often, we both agreed our sexuality overwhelmed us, but we had no desire to learn to control it. It brought us far too much pleasure. And would bring much more in the future. Now, we kissed. We hugged. We touched. We explored each other, in intimate detail. No rushing now. No uncontrollable passion. We knew we both were real. We knew we would not suddenly disappear. We knew this was a beginning, not an ending. So, slowly, we made love. Our lips. mouths, tongues were everywhere. We took turns. We took time. No rush. Just a slow, building passion ... I brought Larissa to the peak first. And watched her face as she crashed over the top. This time, I didn't stop. I immediately renewed my efforts, my mouth glued to her pussy. Almost immediately, I could feel yet another climax beginning to build. I slowed my pace. No rush. Not now. I gently nursed her back up the mountain, and again watched as the waves of pleasure shook her body. She repaid the favor. Twice. Slowly. As we showered, together, we planned dinner. And the rest of the evening. Over dinner, we talked of other lovers, mostly women, and the possibilities that loomed. I admitted threesomes or foursomes were a favorite of mine. She had never been involved in a foursome, just twice in twosomes, once with two men, once with a man and another woman. But she made it clear she was open to the possibility, in fact, that she welcomed it. We walked the streets holding hands. We kissed in the cab. We kissed in the restaurant. In New York City, no one cared. I fondled her ass as we walked. She smiled. Even as she glanced at the man behind us who nearly walked into a street light because he was staring at my hand instead of where he was going. By the time we had returned to the hotel, we were in love, the passionate kind of love, not the love of poets and romantics. It was an erotic love. It was a sexual love. For now, it was what we wanted, needed. And we already were making plans for a winter vacation in the islands. A vacation we planned to spend in very tiny bikinis _ or nude.