Remembering The Tease
Years ago at a hotel orgy I stared out the window and into the next building...
A few years ago, we went to a giant sex party in midtown at a fancy hotel. Our friends rented out two connected penthouses along with the entire floor below, where they turned each of the rooms into a different themed pleasure palace.
We arrived on the early side, and folks were dressed in leather, lace, suits, dresses, heels, stockings, silk, thongs, and latex. To name just a few.
But I remember that as we sat on the couch, waiting for things to pick up, someone noticed a couple in the building next door. Three of us sat peering out the hotel window where we were about to enjoy an epic fuck fest of a party as we watched a black-haired girl nearly undress.
We were glued to the window, staring at them both, hoping to see a flash of skin or maybe a kiss. But they teased us (unknowingly), and the world behind us vanished as we ached for a hint of something illicit.
Maybe I’ve always known that a tease goes a lot farther than a blatant show of flesh. I learned that long ago at the topless bar. I learned it from Playboy, and I learned it from late-night dirty movies, which left so much to the imagination that my brain wouldn’t let me sleep.
But that night I remembered it viscerally, and I felt it in my bones. As people began to undress, slap each other, suck each other, and generally fall into a chaotic bacchanal, we still sat glued to the window, hoping to see a bare breast of a girl we didn’t know.
And even later that night, when things devolved even further (the beds were full, the pillows strewn about, and even the dancers got naked), my partner and I found a corner chair by a window. I sat looking out at the room while she knelt on the floor and took me into her mouth. And as she sucked my cock, I found myself drawn to one of the couples on the bed.
A young man had a beautiful girl on her back dressed in a bra and tight pants. He lingered on her stomach, teasing the waist of her pants and the shoulder straps of her bra. But each time he came close to undressing her, she stopped him, and I couldn’t look away. Even as I felt two perfect lips around me, a firm hand gripping me, and a delectable tongue swirling around the head of my cock, all I wanted was to see that girl naked, and I ached for it with every ounce of my being.
By the time I came, it was to the thought of one more inch of skin, and I’ll never forget it.
When I sit down to write, I often forget that lesson. I want to dive into the full-throated sticky mess of sweaty bodies, wet cunts, and hard cocks. I want the details (the tears and the thrusts), and I don’t want to hold back.
But that tease lingers like an itch I know I should scratch, and if I slow down, maybe I can find it again. And perhaps I can write words that leave people aching for more rather than satiated.
And maybe, if I stare out the window long enough, I’ll see that black-haired girl finally undress after so many years of longing.
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