the exhibitionists tale............

Shortly after Ms C left the village - to tend to her dying mother in Berkshire - she began to send me photographs of her cunt. Though explicit they do not appear to have been taken purely for the pleasure. Some people might even find them uncomfortably genealogical - though I rather like that quality about them. Over time I’ve come to see that, on some level, they represent a sort of anatomically-themed diary; a frank, and honest, recording everyday events. In many ways (aside from the chosen medium) it is a very ordinary sort of diary. There is something admirable in Ms C’s determination to so accurately document all of the various states of her physical, and mental, arousal. In many ways they remind me of the collections of anatomical plates that you might see at a natural history exhibition. There is an almost scientific rigour to them. This impression is strongly reinforced by the small, hand-written, manila labels that Ms C has taken care to attach to each of her… exhibits.

Pic. 15 – Tuesday the 17th – 06:23. There is a light scent of lemon, perhaps, as I opened my legs. I am dry and not at all aroused… I am thinking of mother.

No matter how swollen, or creamily wet her cunt appears in the photograph, the labels have a consistently dry quality to them:

Pic. 23 – Sunday the 2nd – 13:17. Cloying scent of musk and sweat. Walls of cunt are still in spasm. Anus aches – inserted two fingers. I was thinking of you inside me. Still aroused.

Pic. 37 – Wednesday the 5th – 01:36. Smell like slut. Sheets are soaked. Glass plug still in anus, glass dildo fully withdrawn. Thinking of cock. Unsatisfied. Need to cum again.

Occasionally deviates from her normal pattern and includes a short erotic vignette. These are not so dry. Ms C, it seems, has been continuing to explore her more exhibitionist tendencies:

“As an experiment,” she wrote, recently. “I have taken to leaving copies of these same photographs between the pages of books in the non-fiction section of my mother’s local library: Computing, Gardening, and Military History have proven particularly… productive. Through trial and error I have discovered that there are certain shelves that men more frequently browse while waiting for their wives to pick out some suitably romantic novel for their bed-time reading. There are even some specific books that seem to draw idle men like magnets: An Idiots Guide To Digital Photography, for example.

When I have, selectively, placed my photographs I retire to a small wooden chair in the reading corner where I feign an interest in whatever magazine has been abandoned nearby. It excites me to watch the men as they browse. It’s like a rather perverse little game of ‘hunt the thimble’. Sometimes I squirm, visibly - in a little pool of my own juices - as I see watch their eyes and fingers brush along the colourful spines of the books. More than once I’ve caught myself actually prompting them under my breath: ‘hotter… colder… hotter again’. I actually tingle as I will them to pause and to tilt out one of ‘my’ books and take it to their hands, and open it up to unlock the treasure that I have buried within it.”

Pic. 41 – Tuesday the 4th – 04:07. Scent overwhelming. Cunt gaping, labia clamped and stretched. Legs trembling. Mouth dry. Still cumming. Oh God!

“Most days my photographs remain hidden – but even then the anticipation can be quite… exquisite. It is considerably worse when I find myself rudely exposed to the undeserving eye of some beery lout, or - more likely - one of the many limp, and wrinkled ancients who seem, some days, to shuffle in from the cold and stubbornly refuse to be shuffled back out again – despite the best efforts of the staff. I take no pleasure in seeing the likes of them fumbling at my cunt, and it’s almost unbearable to see the likes of them slip me into their deep and grimy pockets. I’m not judging them – don’t think that. Who am I to judge them? And I really don’t resent them the little comfort the library offers, or even grudge them any pleasure they can still get from tugging at their wrinkled pricks. It is only that I had hoped for so much more.”

Pic. 52 – Thursday the 7th – 10:33. Faint scent of soap. Outer labia pale and pressed shut. Feel nothing. Mother is calling for here medicine.

“Fortunately my experiment have provided one or two moments of… genuine interest.

There was one man in particular. At first he hovered so long beside those cunt-loaded books, and looked so disinterested, that I almost bit through my tongue as I waited for him to make a move. He was a tall man, and though not particularly handsome there was something… unkind about his eyes. and a coldness in his manner, that instantly set him apart from the sort of men who usually frequent the library. The thought of this man in particular, opening me up, exposing me in this almost silent place, was almost too delicious. It was all I could do to stop myself from rising out of my chair and crossing to him, so that I could take his hand and guide it (force it if I had to) onto the book of my choosing. But even as I fought that impulse, he reached up and tilted out the very book I had been thinking of. You cannot imagine the sensations that surged then between my hips, or the aching intensity at the tips of my breasts, as he slipped that book from the shelf and slowly eased it open.

And there I was, exposed, raw between those yellowed sheets, and there was nothing in his eyes then beyond lust. I watched him swell. And then there was no softness left in him, and his lips were almost cruel as they smiled down on me. Some men, when they have come across my pictures, almost instinctively snap the books closed again – some even stride away – almost as though they are escaping the scene of some crime, and don’t want to be mistaken for a suspect. Most at least try to hide what they have found from prying eyes, clutching the book close to them, keeping it half-closed as though unwilling to share me with anyone else.

This man, however, made no effort to protect my modesty – even from me. Perhaps he had had not seen me when he had entered that section of the library. Why would have he have seen me? I’m honest enough to know that I do not often make much of an impression on men. It takes a little time, I think, to see beyond my rather prim exterior. Sitting stiff-backed and ankles crossed in that upright little chair I imagine that I was all but invisible – especially to a man like that. If he had noticed me before, then he had certainly given no indication of it. But the way that he examined my cunt in that moment (which - like the book – was spread so wide it almost looked like it might split apart) I was somehow certain that he had seen me all along. When he looked up from the book it was straight at me and nowhere else. I swear to you that did not blush– though I believe that my cheeks were already flushed by then.

Because I chose not to, I did not meet his gaze, but concentrated instead on the bulge that had formed in the groin of his jeans. My legs were bare, I wore nothing underneath, and I wanted so much to hitch up the hem of my prim-skirt and to splay myself for him. I wanted him to see how much more I was in the flesh - than in that book I wanted him to see how much more raw, and swollen I was, and how proudly I glistened. As if sensing my impulse he lowered his eyes. When I did not expose myself to him (how could I in such a public place?) he lifted up the facsimile of my cunt to his face and he sniffed at it. His strong-thick fingers traced the strong-thick outline of his cock as stretched it strained across his narrow hips. And all the while he was drinking in the imagined scent of me.”

Ms C. wrote of how she had closed her eyes then, and how, in the darkness, she had allowed herself to imagine all of the things this powerful man might have done to her… if they had not been in such a public place. At the very least, she speculated, he would surely have pushed her up against the wall, and fingered her… at the very least. She even pondered the question of how many of those strong-thick fingers could she have taken up inside her? Two? Not more than three, she insisted, even as she was forced to conceded that she could not have stopped him from stretching her with a fourth – if that had been his intention.

“I was afraid,” she wrote. “I was afraid that he might, over-power me even there, and drag me into some back room… and I would be… helpless…”

“Then,” she wrote. “Then I was even more afraid that he wouldn’t….”

She said that she squeezed her eyes shut until little bulbs of light began to pop behind her lids. In that strange light she could almost taste him, almost feel the weight, and the heat, and even the pulse, of his cock on her tongue. She had the impression that he was the sort of man who would shave his balls because he was the sort of man who demanded to have them sucked. He was probably even the sort of man who would press a woman’s mouth between his arse cheeks, and make her lick his nasty, filthy arse-hole. Would he, she wondered, call her a whore as she licked at him? But it was his fingers that fascinated her most – how they would tear at her, bruise her, force her submit – and more than once – to his every… depravity. Even with his shaft plunging deep inside, and even as it filled her with his heat, it would those fingers that would transfix she would be thinking of, and what they might force her to next.

“I could hardly breath that darkness,” she wrote.

“Even the slightest movement, as I sat there and filled myself with him, sent little storms of electricity over the stiff surface of my nipples, and made me gasp. I had to fight just to be still. The lips of my cunt were so swollen by then they were pressing onto the little stem of my clit, and if I breathed – even that – I would have cum… spilled… gushed…! Imagine the force of that against the hard surface of a polished wooden seat? It would have had no-where to go. It would have spurted out from between my thighs, in one rushing pulse, and how could you hide a thing like that in a public library…? And then they would all have seen me for what I was – the whole town would have seen. There would be no more hiding between the anonymous pages of some book…”

From the way she wrote I gathered that, while she was genuinely mortified by this prospect, there was a very real part of her that longed for the liberation it would have brought her. While not quite a village, it was not a large town. Had she let herself go, then there was no doubt that by that evening even her mother – on her death bed – would known all about it. For that reason alone she kept as still as she could, and her eyes closed tight, and her breath held. All she feared then was that the stranger might cross to where she sat, and if she had felt the heat of him, or even the lightest tip of his fingers on her skin… then she would not, could not have contained herself – even for sake of her mother.

When some time had passed she opened her eyes again, and found that the stranger had gone.

Later, walking down the street with one borrowed book under her arm, she saw him once more. At least, she thought it might be the same man. The man in the street, though dressed the same, seemed a good deal smaller. He was holding a toddler by the hand, and had another hooked up over his shoulder, its cheek pressed against his. She thought that he looked softer, and more worn, and a lot less cruel than the man in the Library. This man, she thought, had rather delicate hands. His jeans were loose around his skinny legs, and there was no hint of hardness left in him then.

“I had intended,” she wrote. “To find some quiet alley, and discretely fuck myself with my own fingers… but seeing that little man in the street, took all the pleasure out of even that thought. I tried telling myself that it wasn’t him at all. But I know the truth of it.

No doubt he would have gone home with my picture in his pocket. He would not have mentioned this to his wife of course. Instead he probably waited until she was asleep before sneaking off the spare room for a quick and desperate tug of his half-hard cock. I wonder what he thought of as he came. Was it me? Was it the strange and prim little woman in the public library? Or was it something else? I do wonder how pretty my cunt might have looked as his cum spilled over it.”

Pic. 60 - Wednesday the 5th - 08:46. Smells of rain. Beginning to swell… again. Stream of wetness tickling down over my perineum, pooling around the knot of my anus. Slippery to the touch.

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