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NNTP-Posting-Date: Sun, 13 Mar 2011 09:02:58 -0500
From: Angelique Rich <angelique.rich@gmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Nymphomaniac - Chapter 4 (exhibitionism)
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Date: Mon, 14 Mar 2011 08:10:01 -0400
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I feel the damp fabric of my lace panties on my lips. I shiver, as I
leave the building where my last therapy session with Dr. Jenkins took
place. I wonder, what I told her this time. I never remember, but it
seems it was again something that happened sexually to me in the past.
For a moment I wonder, if, when I tell her these events, she also gets
aroused. But then I shake my head and continue to walk down the
street. She's my psychiatrist. She's a doctor. She is not like me.

I am Judy and as you probably know by now, I'm a nymphomaniac.

It is a warm day in Spring, maybe the first warm day this year and I'm
wearing a summer dress. It fits my body nicely, the skirt part of it
moving as I walk. I feel my firm breasts move lightly against the
tight fabric and for a moment I'm wondering why I'm not wearing a bra.
I always wear one when I visit Dr. Jenkins. I don't want to look like
a slut when I visit her. But the thought feels unimportant and I
continue my walk, the warm sun feeling nicely on the skin of my back.
The straps of the dress cross on my back and it shows almost half of
my back to the people walking behind me.

I decide to have a coffee in one of the coffee shops and I find one
who has already put he tables out into the sun. I exhale and I feel
how I start to relax as I wait for the coffee. The stain on my crotch
now feels cold and I get up and go to the ladies room to remove my
thong. The sun shines on my table as I come back and I slowly relax,
sitting there, having my coffee and watching the people walk by.

A middle aged man is taking pictures of the city on the other side of
the street. I watch him for a moment and wonder if he is a tourist,
but I somehow doubt, his gear looks too professional. I have finished
the coffee and wait for the waiter to pay when I look at him again. He
is now taking pictures of the coffee shop. He has swapped lenses, I
can see the long white lens on the camera as he aims at me and I
realize he is taking pictures of me. I try to ignore the thought he is
so attracted by me he thinks I'm worth having taken pictures of, but I
fail. I look at him, directly into the camera, and for some odd reason
I know he is taking a picture right then.

I wonder how I might look like in the pictures and the familiar
feeling rises. I feel my nipples harden and press against the thin
fabric of the dress. They are another reason why I usually wear a bra.
They are rather thick and tend to get pretty long when I am aroused, a
fact that is pretty hard to miss if I don't wear a well padded bra. I
don't have to look at them to know they are well visible now, bumps
against the colorful fabric of the dress.

I look at the man again and he gives me a thumb up as he continues to
shoot while I catch myself how I turn a bit to the side and arch my
back. He is now sitting on his heels and my eyes open wide as I
realize he is taking pictures of my high heeled legs. He has now put
the camera down and looks me straight into the eyes, smiling lightly.
And then I gasp as he looks at me, moving his knees open, smiling
again at me.

He can't be serious about this, can he? He can't want me to open my
legs and expose myself to his camera? I hear the soft chuckle of the
voice again, it seems to have gotten stronger again.

`You turn him on, Judy, Why not letting him have the little pleasure?
It's just an innocent game with a stranger, and you're safe here in
the open. It is not like he could rape you, could he?'

I watch him as my legs slowly open, just a few inches and I know the
dress is sinking between them and is protecting me. His smile grows
wider and he lifts the camera again. I wonder how strong the lens is.
What can he see? He won't be able to see anything else than my knees
and the dress, the way I'm sitting, but still I imagine him to see
more and the thought is - so wrong, so exciting. He looks at me again,
no longer smiling and again he signs me to open my legs.

`He likes it Judy. He likes you for this little game. And don't you
like it too? Why don't you give him a little bit more to remember? He
will be so proud and thankful if you do it.'

I feel the heat on my face, the heat of humiliation and embarrassment
as I reach for the button, opening them one by one until the neckline
is well down between my breast.The wind plays with the thin fabric,
exposing the soft flesh and I know that everybody who would stand next
to my seat could catch a glimpse of a swollen, aching nipple now and
then.

I pretend not to watch him, but I know he is still taking pictures. I
open another button and the wind is now playing a dangerous game with
my dress.

"Excuse me?"

I look up, startled, afraid somebody noticed the little game and
called for the owner.

"Your bill."

The waiter stands next to me, smiling friendly as he hands me the
paper. I blush deeply and fumble with my purse. I know he is staring
at my breasts, and I close my legs again, biting my lower lip as I
hand him some money. He smiles, his eyes never leaving the exposed
nipple as the wind has folded the thin fabric and leaves a breast
uncovered to anybody but his eyes. For a moment I think he will reach
out to it and give it a pinching touch, but he only smiles and leaves
again to serve the next customer.

The photographer has watched the scene and smiles at me, giving me
again a thumb up sign. I smile, a conspirational smile, that freezes
as he motions me to pull the dress up and I shake my head. He smiles
and tilts his head lightly, his mouth forming a silent `Please...'

And my hand pulls on the dress. I don't know what makes it do that, I
don't want it to do it. But his wish to see me somehow commands my
hand and I feel the fabric slide up my leg. He is lifting the camera
again, taking pictures as I expose my self to the lens, feeling a
strange thrill.

`It's only a camera. It won't talk, will it?'

And then I know I have exposed myself to him. I feel the cool air on
my wet skin and the thought of him taking pictures of my wet,
glistening lips makes my heart race. I feel my hand move the the dress
higher, my slender fingers holding it just above my sex and I feel the
familiar touch of my finger on my clit's hood.

He looks at me, lowering the camera briefly and I see the silent
command. "Do it"

I feel the touch of my finger. Warm. Light. Moving along the hood,
pressing on it to expose my little pearl. I shiver, a jolt making my
wall tighten in sympathy. A polished fingernail touches it, a
sensation that makes me almost squirm in the seat.

He has tilted the camera now, and I know he is framing all of me now.
Taking pictures of a woman touching her clit in public, hidden only by
the table she is now sitting closely by. He is taking pictures how the
finger moves between the lips and vanishes in the wet darkness. And
through the viewfinder of his camera, he watches the finger move,
glistening with her juices, faster, until he is joined by another one.

I hear the other voice, the good one, but it is so faint, I can't
understand it. I feel its desperation as my walls grab my fingers, I
feel it being crushed by the waves that are building. My eyes are
almost closed as I feel the sensations engulf my body and I bite my
lip to keep me from crying out as it hits me. I breath through my
nose, a trembling sound, as I try to control the spasms, my hips
jerking in little moves with each of the waves that seem to go on
forever. I hear the voices of people, I feel the shadow of the waiter,
standing near by and shielding me from people at the next table as I
cum and I feel my shoulders tremble as if I would be crying.

My orgasm ebbs and I wait for the outrage and scandal, my behavior
must have caused to start, but nothing happens. I sheepishly glance at
the waiter who turns his head and smiles at me.

"I wish we had more guests like you." he quietly says and then leaves.

I watch the photographer put the camera in his bag and then slowly
cross the street, approaching my table. I don't know what to say or
do, but before I can make up my mind, he is at my table, putting a
business card on it.

"Well done slut." he chuckles and I feel him slip his hand in my dress
and give my bare breast a firm squeeze before he leaves. After a while
I straighten my dress and close the buttons and walk home.

A few hours later I sit at my computer. My heart races as I type the
address from the card into the browser. And as the pictures load, I
hear the voice. The little girls voice, giggling and then commenting
every picture with words, little girls shouldn't know, as tears of
humiliation run down my cheeks as I watch my masturbating self being
exposed to the world.
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As always, feel free to tell me if you liked it. 
If you didn't please tell me as well :)

And - if the story gave you an erotic tickle - thank you :)

Those who liked it can find my other stories here:
http://cynfulangel.blogspot.com/
http://sinfulthought.tumblr.com/

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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