He Touches Me

 

H
E
T
OUCHES 
M
E

The Seen Trilogy: Part Two

CYNTHIA SAX

 

Contents

 

Dedication

For my dear wonderful hubby,

for supporting my wild and crazy dreams.

And also for Bad Barb,

for locking me in the writing closet

and encouraging me to share my stories with the world.

Every writer needs cheerleaders and I'm thrilled you're mine!

 

Chapter One

L
A
ST NIGHT
I
fell asleep in Gabriel Blaine's arms. After weeks of allowing my billionaire neighbor to watch me as I lounged in his backyard naked, I'd finally given him permission to touch my body. My hardworking businessman had been too exhausted to do more than hold me close.

This morning I wake up alone, the sumptuously soft robe Blaine has given me draped over my near-­naked body. The sun's rays break the building-­cluttered Beverly Hills horizon, coloring the sky pink. Birds chirp happily. Garden sprinklers whiz back and forth, back and forth. Sandalwood, musk, and the tang of cigar smoke, Blaine's distinctive scents, drift on the cool breeze, teasing my nostrils, stirring my passion.

I want him . . . badly. As I sit up, the robe falls from my shoulders, revealing the golden key hanging on the black ribbon around my neck and my delicate white bra, more gifts from my enigmatic neighbor. My nipples tighten, yearning for his touch.

“Blaine?” I look around his backyard, searching for him. The naturally shaped pool is empty, the waterfall cascading down red rock, spreading ripples over the surface. The windows in the two-­story mansion behind me are dark, the building's design classic and timeless.

Blaine doesn't answer.

I scan the small table beside my lounge chair, seeking clues to his whereabouts. A cigar butt is ground into the base of the ashtray, gray ashes sprinkle the terra-­cotta. A sleek black phone and a crisp white sheet of paper rest on the table's wooden surface.

I resist the temptation of the phone, having learned from my thief of a father not to touch objects that aren't mine, and I pick up the note, the heavy black handwriting distinctively Blaine's.

Had to go to the office.

Be a good girl, nymph. I'll be watching.

Blaine

He'll be watching. I glance at one of the many cameras positioned around the pool and I wiggle, swishing my ass against the seat cushion, excited by the thought of him watching me.

I carefully fold the note, remove the key from around my neck, tuck both into one of the robe's pockets, and stand, leaving the robe on the lounge chair. Wearing only my bra and panties, I stretch, undulating my body, the stone hard against my bare feet, the sun warming my shoulders, breasts, ass, the solar caress decadent, naughty.

I unhook my bra, allowing the flimsy piece of cotton to fall to the ground. I cup my small breasts, offering them to the sun gods, and I tease my nipples with my fingers, pinching, squeezing, driving my arousal skyward.

Is Blaine stroking himself as he watches me? Is his cock hard, his brilliant green eyes dark with passion?

I hook my thumbs in the white ribbons hugging my hips and bend over, sticking my ass in the air as I pull my panties down. The cotton is soaked with my pussy juices, my musk hanging in the morning air.

I fluff my neatly trimmed brown curls and saunter to the waterfall, swaying my hips, playing the seductress, a role I never thought I'd warrant. Blaine has shown me the beauty in my brown hair, brown eyes, and small breasts.

I step into the waterfall and gasp, the cold water puckering my nipples, exciting my already excited body. I rub my palms over my breasts, my flat stomach, the flare of my hips, warming my skin, escalating my passions.

Leaves rustle and I look over my shoulder. I don't see anyone, the hedge bordering the far fence thick and solid, home to chatty birds and frisky squirrels.

I imagine a man is watching me. He won't dare to touch me, I belong to Blaine. He'll only watch and touch himself, his jeans pulled down to his ankles, his cock in his hands.

I spread my legs wider and swivel my hips, allowing Blaine and my mysterious watcher to see my pink pussy lips. Do both of these men want to fill my virgin pussy hole with their big cocks? I strum my wet folds up and down, brushing my clit with my thumbs.

Only Blaine will have this honor. He'll lift me against the rock and lower me on his thick shaft. I slip an index finger into my pussy, skimming my fingertip along my inner walls.

He'll ram into me again and again, making my body his, claiming me completely. My legs tremble, my passion rising quickly, primed after a long night pressed against Blaine's body.

I add a finger, stretching my pussy open as Blaine someday will, and I pump deep, fast, driving my arousal relentlessly higher. Need coils around me tighter and tighter. Pussy juices gush down my hand and water streams over my back and breasts, every inch of me touched, caressed.

I quiver, I shake, fulfillment rushing toward me, as unstoppable as the rising sun. I drive my fingers deep and I tap my clit with my thumb. The contact breaks me. I bite my bottom lip, stifling my scream, arching my spine, my pussy clenching my fingers, squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing.

“Were you watching me, Blaine?” I murmur as the tremors subside. “That one was for you.” I hold out my fingers. The water washes my juices, my scent, off my skin.

I pump conditioner into my palms and apply it to the hair on my head and my private curls, the vanilla scent concealing my musk. Blaine leaves the conditioner for me, the formulation having the magical ability to tame my constant frizz.

I don't rinse off, leaving the conditioner in, and I return to the lounge chair, the sun drying my skin. Extracting the key from the robe's pocket, I return it to its rightful place, nestled between my breasts, the black ribbon soft and the gold key cool.

Refreshed and sexually sated, I shrug into the robe, slip my feet into my scuffed baby blue flip-­flops, gather my panties and bra, and pad across Blaine's lawn. Each step releases fragrances from the natural ground cover.

A honeybee moves industriously between lavender purple verbena, never pausing long at any blossom. He has work to do, an entire hive of bees depending upon him.

I unlock the gate separating Blaine's semiwild backyard from the Leighs' modern-­art-­strewn “entertainment venue.” This venue hasn't been used for a month as the plastic surgeon and his wife gallivant around Europe fixing noses and increasing bra sizes. I'm house-­sitting and, as a house-­sitter, even their swimming pool is off limits to me.

I wander toward the concrete and glass modern bungalow, enter through the sliding back door, leaving my flip-­flops outside, as shoes aren't allowed inside the house, and I head to the converted storage closet serving as my bedroom.

I place the note from Blaine in the carry-­on-­size suitcase containing all of my worldly possessions. Discarding the robe, I change into one of the pretty white panties he sent me, the matching bra, denim cutoff shorts, and a tank top.

I spend the morning sorting through the mail, separating the bills from the Leighs' personal letters and junk mail. My agreement with the doctor and his wife is I pay for utilities and maintenance in exchange for a free place to stay. I thought this would mean paying almost nothing.

My stomach twists with every envelope I open. I might have severely underestimated the utilities on a sprawling bungalow. I haven't run the air conditioner once, suffering through the hellishly hot weather. I reduce lighting to the bare minimum. I'm barred from using Dr. Leigh's enormous big screen TV and I don't have a computer.

The total is still insanely high.

I must have made a mistake. I add the figures up again. The number doesn't change, the amount owed equal to half of my monthly income. If I pay for the utilities with this Friday's paycheck, I won't be able to afford bus fare or food.

Boss man won't give me any extra shifts at Feed Your Hungry, the charity I work for. I haven't yet technically landed a meet and greet, Blaine's donation being the only reason I've kept my job this long.

I have to get a second job.

I grab my black faux leather tote, slip my feet into my matching flats, and head out the front door. It's Sunday, a day regular working-­class folks relax at home. In the Leighs' upper-­class neighborhood, the houses are deserted and the front yards are empty.

Am I the sole survivor of an apocalypse, destined to wander the streets of Beverly Hills forever searching for food and a second job? Will I see Blaine, a neighbor, or anyone ever again?

An elderly man saunters out of a backyard, pulling a long green garden hose, and I beam at him, thrilled to see another living person. He nods to me, the weathered skin around his eyes permanently crinkled. He's wearing a pale blue lawn maintenance uniform, the coveralls pulling tight over his stomach.

I slow my strolling to a crawl. Should I ask him if his employer is hiring? Or will any income I make from lawn maintenance be spent on sunscreen, protecting my pale skin from the harsh L.A. sun?

The man turns his back to me and waters the roses in front of the massive franken-­mansion. The flowers' fragrance mixes with the scent of freshly cut grass. I note the name on the back of his coveralls and continue walking to the shopping plaza, passing more immaculately maintained empty mansions.

Some of my rich neighbors have gathered at the coffee shop. The patio is packed with designer dressed twenty-­something patrons hyped up on overpriced java.

At one umbrella-­shaded table a sunglass-­wearing man loudly curses, his phone pressed to his right ear, a huge cup of whipped-­cream-­topped ice coffee clasped in his left hand. To his right a big breasted blonde twirls her gum with her finger as she stares blankly at her phone's screen. To his left a dark-­haired artsy type taps furiously on his computer keyboard. Empty coffee cups and crushed cigarette packages litter the tabletop.

I'm not here for the coffee or for the first world angst. I head to the counter, looking for the manager, the gatekeeper to this possible second job.

A long line of frowning customers curls around the counter. Coffee aficionados recite orders at hyper speed, speaking a lingo I, as a non-­coffee drinker, don't understand. The baristas, wearing beige aprons, bob their heads, strained smiles fixed on their youthful faces, and they rush around the machines, adding ingredients and filling cups.

“Does this look like soy?” a bearded man yells at the tired-­looking manager. He reaches into the cup with two hairy fingers and flicks the white foam at her pale face.

“I apologize, sir.” She wipes her cheeks with a beige paper napkin. “Nick, please replace this patron's coffee and give him a gift card for another visit.”

The bearded man smirks and toddles to the front of the line. He relays his lengthy coffee requirements, including the order in which the ingredients should be added, his tone pompous.

I gulp, intimidated by the customers, needing the money and flexibility this job will give me. I wave my hand and the manager's head turns. “Can I ask you a quick question?”

“A quick question.” She has dark circles under her brown eyes, and tendrils of coffee-­colored hair have escaped from her ponytail.

“Are you hiring?” I summon my best smile.

The manager reaches under the counter and pulls out a form. “Fill this out and we'll schedule you for training.” She hands the paper to me.

“I—­”

“Miss.” A woman interrupts my question, which would have been about the hours worked. Her voice is shrill, her perfectly straight nose wrinkled and her red lips curled. “I ordered ice made from mineral water. This tastes like tap.”

“Let me take care of that for you.” The manager rushes to help her. I wait. Another customer demands her attention. I wait some more.

Is she coming back? I don't know. I slip the application form into my tote, planning to fill it out later, and I drift to the community board to scan the postings, hoping to find a less stressful opportunity.

Someone has lost an angry-­looking purebred Persian cat called Mr. Snookems. The reward is greater than a week's pay at Feed Your Hungry.

A cleaning ser­vice will wash windows using environmentally friendly products. They don't hire illegals yet charge less than minimum wage.

For five dollars I can learn how to stuff envelopes for money. I can stuff envelopes and I do need money. I pull off a tab, the contact information neatly printed, a post office box number given as the address.

“Why couldn't we leave the bags in the car? You have me loaded up like a pack mule.”

I hear Michael Cooke's deep voice behind me and I stiffen.

The last time I saw my stunningly handsome coworker, I rejected his romantic advances. As we work together at Feed Your Hungry, I know I'll have to face him on Monday.

I don't want to face him today. I stare intently at a posting for at-­home bikini waxes, calling upon my power of invisibility, a power I've perfected over the years.

“Just carry them, son.” A woman sighs dramatically. This must be Michael's movie star mother. “I didn't bring you along for your good looks.” Other women laugh and a wave of perfume sweeps over me. Shopping bags brush against my bare calves.

I slide my gaze to the left. Michael leans over the barrier between the ordering and dining areas. His khaki pants pull across his shapely ass and his wide shoulders stress a navy blue hemp shirt. Birkenstocks are on his tanned feet. He plops a half dozen high-­end shopping bags on an empty tabletop

A trio of blond-­haired women fill the seats, chattering happily, cosmetics and plastic surgery supplementing their aging beauty. One woman's face is stretched unnaturally tight, giving her a catlike appearance. Another woman's forehead is eerily smooth, her range of emotions limited. The third woman smiles at Michael and I catch my breath, the family resemblance unmistakable.

Michael's drop dead gorgeous mother has his sky-­blue eyes, golden tan, and blond hair. She doesn't have his casual style. She's impeccably dressed in a simple white sheath dress, the impossible-­to-­keep-­clean designer garment accentuating her generous bosom.

I glance down at the faded tank top clinging to my small breasts and take a step toward the door. I should leave. The manager will never have time to talk to me, not with the crazy day she's having, and I don't want to meet Michael's mother looking the way I do, like someone unworthy of bussing the table she's sitting around.