Foreword: A flash fic based on a recent observation of one of the guests at my co-worker’s wedding at a swanky hotel. Only half of this story is true, at least from my perspective. I’ll let you guess which half. Also, it’s a lighthearted jab at my personal voyeurism kink. I wouldn’t go this far though 🙂
I wait in line, patiently. It’s been ten minutes already, probably because there’s just one person working behind this overpriced hotel bar with only one beer on the menu. Peroni. You know, I could see the Asahi Super Dry in the bucket right next to it, but the deadpan Eastern European bartender was adamant that there was only Peroni available. Well, whatever. He isn’t the one I want to gripe about here. No, it’s the man who pushed his way past me just now, with a lady who I know is not even his girlfriend hooked on his arm. The girlfriend was seen earlier. So, naturally, the presence of this new person piques my curiosity.
I’m no elitist, but…this wedding is already full of extremely well-spoken, specially educated beings, one of whom looks like Beethoven took a time machine and zapped himself into this completely unfamiliar future environment. Seriously you ought to see the hair on this one, frazzled and most certainly unconditioned. And his eyes, darting up and down, and side to side like he really doesn’t know which way to look. But rest assured I’m not going to continue badmouthing Mr. ‘Beethoven’ here. I don’t care about the confused noises he utters whilst trying to learn the moves to some Irish jig, though it is hilarious to witness.
No-one can usurp the annoyance this other man has brought upon me, in all of…two minutes, without even having spoken to him. Now, you might be asking yourself, how could I possibly judge someone I’ve never taken the time to meet or speak with? Does that seem unreasonable to you? Perhaps, but then again, observation is what I do best. And where better to partake in a little observing than at weddings where the only people I know are the small group I work with on a regular basis. Quite frankly, there simply isn’t time to befriend every single person in the room.
The main mission, after all, is to get everyone drunk as fuck and dance around like a loon. Our room is literally a five-minute walk from where the reception is taking place, and I intend to make the most of that.
I clutch my purse in my hand as the mystery man—who, from now on, I’m going to call the ‘Bar-stard’ —glides over to the bar, completely ignoring me and those who are standing nearby. We’re all just standing here politely waiting to get served. He flicks his head to one side, his mop of greasy hair following soon after. He chats nonsensical small talk in persuasive tones with the woman who is stood, somewhat adoringly, beside him. Her teeth glisten as he occasionally laughs at her vaguely whimsical comments, scoffing heartily yet pompously in short and stuttery intervals. This exchange already smacks of trying to win the woman over with flattery. He’s gone and ordered two double shots of whisky with ice, which the bartender places down before them. As he continues to yap away, he flips open his wallet and produces his credit card.
The bartender brings out two bottles of tonic water. They’re having whisky and tonic—is that even a combination that anybody has? Well, probably. But I thought this town was full of gin aficionados. First, the Bar-stard tries to fill the woman’s glass with the tonic in a very sensible way, whilst loosely holding his credit card between two fingers so the bartender can process the payment. After a few seconds, he must have become somewhat self-aware of how terribly uncool this tonic-pouring stance looks. So he adjusts this to an extremely cack-handed one in which he attempts to empty the remaining bottle into his own glass by gripping it from the opposite side and tipping the liquid in backwards. He even raises his pinky finger as he makes this movement.
Inside, I’m pissing myself laughing over how ridiculous this whole charade looks. Every few seconds, he’s flapping his credit card around in the air as if to say ‘don’t talk to me, just take my fucking money’. I bet you fancy yourself as some kind of Alpha male who has no regard for the people around him, don’t you? That message is coming straight through in the way he walks, talks and poses. I really couldn’t care less if you think I’m a hypocrite. This how I’m seeing it.
Go ahead. Prove me wrong.
Having offered a suitably dirty glance, the bartender takes the payment and moves onto the next customer, me. As I approach the bar, the Bar-stard and the woman brush past me. Oh, and I was so close to accidentally knocking their drinks all over the floor. But wait, that would have put me on the same level as him in an instant. I side-eye them casually. They have no idea what’s running through my mind right now. Still, what could she possibly see in him? Each to their own, but in an extremely shallow way, this one really baffles me. I get served my two glasses of red wine, and that’s when my innate curiosity starts to rise.
I wade through to the main reception room and set the glasses down on the table. “Here you go,” I say to the person I’ve brought with me to this event, Steve. He’s been sitting patiently at the table with a bunch of strangers he befriended throughout the day. I turn around again and start making my way back to the corridor.
“Hang on a minute,” he says. “Where are you going? You only just got back!”
“Look after the drinks. I’m just going back to the room for a freshen up.”
Hah. I’m not going back to the room. I’m fresh enough. There’s something potentially far more exciting going on here. More specifically, on the way back from the bar, I noticed the Bar-stard and the woman walking in the opposite direction to the reception room. The end of her silk scarf had trailed through the crack under the door that lead to the nearby assortment of guest rooms. It seems like they’ve given up on their friend’s celebration altogether, which can mean only one thing.
It’s time to do some investigating, baby.
I check my surroundings and proceed in their general direction, slipping through the doorway and sliding my body along the wall like some seriously conspicuous ninja. Despite all the clattering and jovial Irish music that’s flooding the reception, the area is surprisingly calm and quiet. I’m keenly aware that if any members of staff see me, this is going to seem very strange indeed.
But then again, that’s all just part of the thrill.
Then, I spot something from the corner of my eye—one of the hotel room keys has been dropped on the floor. I suppose someone must have lost it on their way out. I hunch up my cocktail dress and stoop down to get it. I check the back. There’s no room number written on it like there is on ours. I instinctively know what needs to be done. I tap the key onto the reader of every guest room in that corridor. The first three don’t unlock, but then I get to the fourth…
It’s a perfect fit. The green light flashes and there is a brief beep signalling that I’ve gained access. I push down on the handle, sticking my head around the door as I enter. I look at the home screen on my phone to check the time; it’s already gone eleven. The curtains are fully drawn, which means the room is cloaked in pitch black without so much as a trickle of light to be seen. I can feel my breathing getting heavier as I fumble to locate the light switch. I panic.
What if someone’s sleeping in here?
Even as this thought enters my mind, I can’t stop myself from moving forward. The potential consequences of my invasive actions don’t deter me. For me, the very act of voyeurism is a hobby, in exactly the same way sports or art is for others. This is no different. I enjoy watching people, and who knows what I might discover tonight.
I switch on the light. Jesus…this place is a total mess. Whoever is staying here has no sense of self-respect, clearly. Then again, they are most likely visiting Bath on holiday, so what’s to stop them letting their usual habits go out the window? I guess I can’t argue with that logic.
Right! I’m in, so I had better find somewhere to hide. I search the room for a good peeking spot. There’s a closet, facing the bed, with thin slats lining the doors. Excellent. It reminds me of that oh-so-classic scene from David Lynch’s classic movie Blue Velvet. But this is no accident. I purposefully want to be here, waiting for the mystery occupant(s) to return and possibly perform something magical for me. I fling the closet doors wide open and slip inside, covering myself with the suit bag hanging from the rail. Then, I set my phone onto silent—that’s the number one rule for not being discovered.
The wait is over almost as soon as it began. Around ten minutes later, the main door to the room clunks open and two people walk in, giggling and talking loudly. It’s obvious they’re pissed as hell, which should make for some hilarious sex. I can’t wait to watch—
No. Fucking. Way!
I’ve hit the jackpot. The couple staying here are none other than the Bar-stard and his female friend. But what I find most interesting about this scenario is that she isn’t the one I saw him with at the bar earlier. She’s somebody else entirely. In fact, I don’t even remember seeing her around the venue tonight, and there aren’t many people at this wedding reception. My coworker opted to have a relatively small affair and honestly, I’m surprised Steve and I were invited.
But I’m glad we accepted the offer. Now, more than ever.
My pulse is racing, as it usually does when I get into the voyeur zone. This is all too exciting. Now, I get to see just how much of an Alpha male this guy is. I bet he gets a real ego boost out of dominating this woman in the bedroom. I mean, she looks pretty independent and fiesty herself, but I’m calling it right now, he’s going to want to take charge of that tight body tonight, fuck her good and hard exactly the way he wants to. He’s a control freak who’s not going to be told he can’t have what he desires. His sexual personality is no secret, judging by the very self-assured way he sweeps his sweat-laden fringe across his forehead. The way he holds his credit card like he just knows he can afford to buy several rounds of the most expensive drinks behind the bar and still have plenty of dough left over for diamond-encrusted dildos. The way he laughs, pretending to be utterly captivated by the interests of his conversation partner.
Yes. This Bar-stard is going to score tonight, the suave motherfucker.
As he slips off his shoes and tosses them somewhere out of my field of vision, the woman unzips her dress and shimmies out of it, letting the silky material fall to the floor. Underneath, she’s wearing a matching set of red lace underwear, probably Victoria’s Secret. The Bar-stard fixes his gaze upon her semi-naked body and as he does, he fiddles with his belt, seeming eager to unbuckle it and get down to business. He finally manages to take it off, despite all the quivering and sweating—well, that’s what happens when you’re too pissed to know what the hell you’re doing. She pushes him onto the bed and whips his trousers along his legs and then off completely, throwing them onto the floor with some serious vigour.
I take my initial guess back. Perhaps she wants this more than he does. I check out his boxers. Nice and tight, just like his attitude. The way they hug his arse is especially charming, and I can’t say it isn’t getting me a bit wet. I do like a good pair of buttocks on a man. Steve has great buttocks. A small amount of drool drips from the corner of my mouth as my mind wanders to thoughts of slapping Steve’s peachy arse. Noice!
I’m quickly drawn back to the scene before me. The woman barks out a command. “Get on your fucking knees, you stupid boy!”
I nearly jump out of my skin, but contain myself knowing that if I move around in this closet too much I’ll give the game away, and that…that would be horrific to say the least. I mean, there’s already a good chance I’ll be here all night and Steve will wonder where I am when he realises I’m not in our room.
The Bar-stard switches positions on the bed, wiggling that arse around in the air so his partner, and I, can see it as clear as day. His face is buried deep into the fluffed-up pillow as she literally peels his dinner jacket off like a banana skin.
“Take off your tie,” she says, somewhat calmer this time. “It looks ugly on you anyway.”
The Bar-stard obliges and undoes the garment, passing it into her waiting hands. Now there’s only a white shirt and those boxers in the way of getting a full-on view. Even from this angle, I can see him tenting, already semi-hard at the prospect of whatever is about to go down in this hotel room. And I think he knows what’s going down. It sure as hell isn’t that erection.
My pulse beats in my chest, amid the anticipation of the unexpected. But I would never dream of changing this situation. After all, I live for the adrenaline rush.
The woman takes the tie at both ends and stuffs the middle section between his teeth. “There. That’s the proper way to wear a tie.” She takes off one of her stiletto heels and slaps him across the back of the head with it. “You got it wrong. What do you have to say for yourself?”
She tugs backwards on the tie and he lets out a stifled groan as it digs right into the sides of his mouth and leaves behind red friction marks.
“You what?” She asks, leaning down and putting an ear closer to his face. “I can’t hear you when you’ve got your mouth full, darling.” She reaches around to the front of his boxers, reaches in through the leg and strokes his hard, near-bursting cock.
The Bar-stard attempts to speak again, but his moans sound even more desperate and muffled than the first time. The woman strikes his right buttock hard and he jerks forward, whimpering like some lost puppy.
“Speak properly, boy,” she said. “Or you’re going to get some serious punishment tonight.”
Her warnings only seem to serve one purpose—to make the Bar-stard more determined. I bet he just thrives on those threats. He starts to take off his boxers, but she grabs his wrist and rams it firmly back onto the bed again. She’s certainly got the upper hand, in more ways than one. He grunts as she fondles his hanging balls delicately with the tips of her fingers, caressing every bulging inch gently as though they’re made of silk. And they are so nauseatingly smooth, like he’s shaved them with ultra sticky waxing strips intended for use on legs. Ouch. The very thought of it irks me. This is taking the whole back-sack-and-crack thing to a new level. I mean, what’s wrong with a little hair? Still, I can’t help but imagine it feels good for him when the air conditioning hits them.
This feather-light touch is short-lived, however, as she yanks his boxers off on his behalf, banishing them into the corner of the room. She slaps his arse again, leaving behind a red patchy blotch. He lurches forward once more, a jerk reaction if there ever was one. Surely he had anticipated that slap.
She unhooks her bra, allowing her ample breasts to slip out over the Bar-stard’s upper back. He lowers his head and moans as she lets all that plump softness press against him. Then, she pulls the tie out of his mouth, takes both of his wrists and fastens him to the bedpost.
She leans down to croon in his ear. “Now I’ve got you where I want you, show me that hole.”
She furrows her brows impatiently and raises her voice slightly. “Yes, what?”
“Yes…Mistress Clara.” The Bar-stard replies, a fresh meekness to his tone.
“Good.” Clara smiles. “You’re finally obeying me. Now, you can have your reward.”
“P-please do it.”
The Bar-stard raises his buttocks and Clara parts them.
“Tell me what you want.”
“Y-you know what we discussed before?” He turned to look over his shoulder. “Please put it all the way inside me.”
What’s this? Maybe that diamond encrusted dildo will be making an appearance after all. But no, it soon becomes clear that he’s looking for something so much simpler than that. Something that doesn’t require any technology at all.
“Fine,” says Clara. “But you know you’re going to have to owe me for this one.” She narrows her eyes at him. “I don’t usually do this for my slaves. Since it’s you, though I suppose I can make an exception.”
She arches her back and lowers her face. Then, she sticks out her tongue and traces the edges of his orifice with it, closing her eyes and taking in all the sensations that are inevitably overriding her taste buds.
I lean forwards, bringing my eyes forwards between the slats to get a closer peek at what’s going on. But before I can even focus properly, the closet door gives way and swings open. I lose my balance and fall onto the soft, lush carpet, flat onto my face. My dress folds over me so it’s all inside-out. Now, there’s nothing but my tights and knickers on display.
Great…I’ve been discovered.
I reluctantly look up at the bed, which from where I’m faceplanting seems more like some kind of overbearing monolith. The Bar-stard and Clara freeze in the middle of their rimming act. She is especially dumbfounded and he tries to peer over to see what the commotion was about, but he’s bound far too tightly to the post.
Flustered, I stand up, let out a deliberate cough and fluff my dress back into shape again. “Um…hello.”
“What were you doing hiding in there, girl?” says Clara.
“Nothing, I mean…I was just.” I take a deep breath. “Watching you both.”
A deafening silence fills the room.
I rush over to the door and twist the knob to get out. “I..I had better go. I need to do some Irish dancing…if you know what I mean.” I sprint out into the corridor.
What the fuck does that mean?
Even I don’t have a clue.