Narcissus Through the Window

Narcissus Through the Window

Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica

Summary

One afternoon, while rehearsing her striptease in the reflection of the kitchen window, Emily discovers she has an unwelcome spectator. Accustomed to paying audiences only, she vents her anger by hurling a convenient plant pot at the onlooker

Summary

One afternoon, while rehearsing her striptease in the reflection of the kitchen window, Emily discovers she has an unwelcome spectator. Accustomed to paying audiences only, she vents her anger by hurling a convenient plant pot at the onlooker

Content

Submitted: June 11, 2016

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: June 11, 2016

A A A

A A A


Narcissus Through the Window


Emily Gray was a dancer. Dance was her passion; the primary force which governed her life. At the age of five her mother enrolled her for ballet classes with the hope that she might attain grace and deportment. At eleven she won a scholarship to the top dance academy in the south-west of England. At the age of fourteen she gained second place for the Most Promising Student Award. From that moment on, Emily decided she was tired of classical dance – she dropped out of the Academy and, for the most part, spent her days in bed. Two years went past with little to show for all the promise and dedication aspired to by her mother. Then, as soon as Emily legally became an adult, she worked her passage on a cruise ship bound for South America. In Buenos Aires she learnt to speak Spanish and discovered the Tango: her passion for dance was restored. In New York she worked as a pole-dancer, a model and a waitress to pay for her classes at the Selva Nupen School of Dance. She completed the course at the age of twenty-one and returned to England with a honours diploma and a wealth of experience behind her.

By all accounts Emily was a fine looking woman; in fact, a beautiful girl who could catch the eye of many an admirer; her presence on stage was a delight, and her performances a joy to watch. Yet, despite these attributes, she constantly solicited adoration and praise; as soon as she stepped down from the platform she would demand affirmation of her performing skills from her colleagues, and when away from the stage she would seek reassurance of her powers of attraction from her friends.

In order to maintain this level of achievement, Emily's private life was devoted to her appearance. Not a day would pass by without numerous checks in the mirror, many rehearsals of her performing skills and a strict routine of physical exercise: nothing would let this commitment rest.

It was on her return to England, while staying at her friend's flat in Bristol, an event occurred; an episode which should have boosted her confidence, but instead, the event sent her into a rage. It happened one day when her friend was at work and Emily was left alone in the apartment.


 

That afternoon the sky had turned a dull shade of grey, a tone which permeated every room of the flat. Emily could draw the curtains and switch on the lights, but that would be to admit the glorious days of autumn were over and winter was approaching. Anyway, Sandra wouldn't be back for over an hour and the weather would probably clear by then. She looked at the clock – time to check her outfit.

From the wardrobe in the bedroom she pulled out the bag marked Costume hire: Property of Silvie's Review Theatre, Bristol. She studied the label and wondered when she's going to hear from that theatre company in Surrey – they're bound to want her. Once she's in there, she won't have to take on any more of these dead-end jobs. Too early yet though, Emily supposed. Auditions weren't due to finish until the end of the month. And, even then, she'd have to wait until rehearsals begin before they pay her.

She sighed, pulled at the zip and yanked the contents out of the bag – better check this lot. The photo shoot wasn't until the next day but the last thing Emily needed was an irate director complaining her outfit was incomplete.

Once everything was laid out on the bed, she stood back to take a look. The thigh boots; black, with laces up the side, didn't look right with the dress And, anyway, they were far too narrow at the ankle. One attempt was enough to convince her (she'd given them her shoe size – bloody idiots). She stuffed the boots back into the bag and searched for her shoes – the burgundy ones with heels she'd worn to dinner on Friday. She found them under the bed and placed them next to the dress – perfect!

Now for the underwear; a pair of lilac silk French-knickers – very pretty. However, her profile, which described her as petite, didn't take into account the size of her bottom (one of her most admirable features – so others say). Emily was reminded of her first job. She'd worn her panties on the journey and then got told off for delaying the photo-shoot because the elastic had left marks on her skin – better try them now. She slipped them on, brushing her fingers through the soft material – fine, no problem – may as well try on the rest.

She pulled the dress over her head and stepped into her shoes. Standing in front of the wardrobe mirror, she tied her hair up and stepped back. The dress was very short; almost up to her bottom, but that was fine as her thighs still had a tan from those two weeks in Ibiza – may as well give herself a final touch-up.

Leaning close to the mirror, she applied a deep pink gloss to her lips. She tried to make up her eyes but the overhead light was weak. “Why Sandra doesn't do something about the electrics in this place, God only knows.” Emily tossed the mascara into her bag and marched off to look for another mirror.

The lounge had an open plan kitchen with a window overlooking the apartments across the way. The weather had worsened and it was almost dark outside.

She flicked a wall switch and the room flooded with light giving a clear reflection of herself in the window. That's when she noticed the plants: a bonsai tree and three pots of yellow flowers. The tree was weird, looked like something from a toy box. Sandra had asked her to keep the flowers watered so she took a jug from the sill and topped up each pot. There was a label stuck to the side of one: Narcissus. Look more like daffodils to me, she thought – strange plants to grow indoors. Leaning across the sink, her face inches away from the glass, she put the finishing touches to her face.

Emily stepped back from the window. “Hmm, not bad. What do you make of that, Mother?”

Her mother, Prudence Gray, was a severe woman who constantly reminded Emily that she'd brought her into this world alone without help from anyone. No matter how many times Emily asked, her mum never wanted to talk about her father, even though it was obvious she still had feelings for him. In fact, she never looked at another man since. As a consequence, the frustration built up inside Prudence over the years and turned her into a tyrant; a crusader of morals, the outcome of which was unleashed onto her only child.

“Well Mother, that's all in the past. What do you make of this now?” Emily gave a twirl before the window, knowing full well Prudence would definitely not have approved.

“Ah, but I know someone who would,” Emily whispered.

It was whilst under the judicious care of her mother, at an impressionable age, she met the first man who had showed a genuine appreciation of her physical attributes. Within two weeks of their first meeting, Brian (a man old enough to be her grandfather) had taught her how to pose for the camera. And, no matter what his motives, gave her the confidence to set out into the world and escape the suffocating clutches of Prudence.

Although there had been many men since, she had never forgotten the meetings with Brian all those years ago; his expert advice, his words of encouragement, and most of all, the confirmation that Emily was a sexually attractive woman: an appraisal which contradicted the scalding words of her mother.

Emily studied her image in the kitchen window. Thinking back to Brian's suggestions, she rehearsed a sequence of postures, holding still as the imaginary camera clicked away for each pose. Using the table as her prop, she became more adventurous with each shot; her back to the camera, her feet slightly apart, leaning across the table, raising her bottom – just the way he taught her – she gave a provocative look over her shoulder. The hem at the back of her dress had ridden high, giving a tantalising glimpse of the lilac panties at the top of her legs.

With Brian's commands and the relentless clicks of his camera in her head, she turned to rest her bottom at the table edge. She imagined his breathing; short, heavy, lustful. She could see his face now; silver hair brushed roughly from his eyes, grey stubble about his cheeks. She tried to picture what he saw in her. Pulling the front of her dress as high as her shoulders, she studied her reflection with half closed eyes; cupped her breasts and teased the nipples between her excited fingers. Raising her bottom above the table, she eased the silk panties over her knees and down to her ankles. With her eyes fixed on the window, she spread her knees and opened the lips of her pussy. This was what the old man wanted to see, and this was what she liked to show him. She inhaled the scent. With one last look at her reflection, she arched her back and allowed a finger to slip along the glistening channel. From then on she was lost in her own pleasure.

Within minutes she had come. She eased her bottom down to the tabletop and, knickers hanging loose from one shoe (not part of her usual performance), let her legs dangle over the edge. Once she recovered, Emily raised herself to a sitting position and glanced across to the window. It had stopped raining outside. She wrinkled her nose at her reflection. It was then that her attention was drawn to a movement beyond the pane of glass – to the apartment across the way. A light had been switched on and a figure was standing at the window: a naked figure of a man waving to her! The man smiled as he turned to the side.

Emily's hands shot to her face. Standing out from below his waist he presented her with his erect penis. Bloody cheek! She leaped down from the table and ran to turn off the light. In the semi-darkness she pulled on her dress.

Under normal circumstances she would have welcomed such attention. As a photographic model she was expected to adopt suggestive postures, and as a pole-dancer her provocative moves were designed to arouse: it was her job and she loved it. Those were occasions when she would invite a response, and welcomed the effect she had on her audience; the gleaming eyes, the sweaty faces. However, today this was a private rehearsal – this man had not been invited to watch.

She took another look. The lower half of his window was open. Rather than give up his quest, the man had obviously assumed she'd turned off the light to give herself a better view of him. Supporting himself with one arm against the frame, the cheeky sod was in the full throes of masturbation. With his thighs pressed hard against the window ledge, he continued to wank with a fury until he climaxed, sending spurts of his cum down into the darkness below. The insolent man then gave her a wave and stepped back into his room.

Emily was furious. She flung open the window, picked up a flower pot and chucked it as hard as she could across the well. If only she hadn't been in such a rage, then she would have had a better shot. As it was, the pot landed a few inches short of his windowsill. She picked up another and was about to throw when a voice called up from the yard below, demanding to know what the hell was going on. Emily replaced the pot and stepped back from the window. Still fuming, she slumped onto the sofa where she remained for the next ten minutes.

Thinking it best not to mention the events of that afternoon she hoped Sandra wouldn't notice a missing plant. After all, how was she going to explain the thing landing across the other side of the yard? She returned to the bedroom and packed away her costume.


 

Copyright © James Sillwood 2014
 

 


© Copyright 2017 James Sillwood. All rights reserved.

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