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You’re in a musty hotel room with a person you barely know, unbuttoning your shirt in full view of an office building packed with people. Your excitement is evident in the pulse that throbs visibly high up on your elegant neck.

To think it had all started with a Rufus Wainwright song.

Our online flirtation had been going on for a few weeks. You, a New Yorker born and bred; I, a transplant to the Mid-Atlantic. Amid all the gossip about mutual acquaintances and revelations about past relationships, we discussed shared interests: ice fishing, oral sex, thin-crust pizza, cults, the Rufus Wainwright song “Rebel Prince.”

*Where is my master, the Rebel Prince? / They’re breaking everything trying to get to me
/ In this two-bed hotel / Just to me before this windowsill*

If you hadn’t confided that it was that song that sparked your burgeoning and as-yet largely unexplored interest in kink, we may have never made the reservation at the venerable Roosevelt Hotel. You may have never found yourself standing on the windowsill, your curves illuminated by the afternoon sunlight careening off the Midtown skyscrapers.

“Now the rest of it,” I say from my perch on one of the two queen beds. I’m doing my best to project the illusion of the cool and collected top, but the sight of you stripping in front of the window, looking back at me with mingled arousal and apprehension, makes it difficult for me to maintain my composure.

You fumble with the buttons of your jeans and push the denim down over your delicious curves along with your purple panties. We distribute a chuckle when you lose your balance while attempting to kick the bunched fabric off your feet. You grin and give an exaggerated eye roll as you steady yourself against the window and bend down to tug off what remains of your clothing.

*It’s these windows all around me / It’s these windows who are telling me /To rid my dirty mind of all of its preciousness*

Only a few dozen yards and a couple of panes of glass separate your nakedness from the gazes of office workers toiling away in the building across 46th Street. I tell you to turn around and face them, to let them see you. At my murmured instructions, you trail your fingernails down the generous slopes of your breasts. You pinch your nipples and wince at the sharp lancet of pain the action evokes. You caress your belly before sliding your hands to the juncture of your thighs. I instruct you to keep your eyes open so you will see if anyone has noticed what you’re doing.

*Ce sont ces fenêtres autour de moi / Ce sont ces fenêtres qui m’appellent*

The muffled sounds of traffic float up from the street half a dozen stories below us. Your fingers make slick noises as they work away between your legs. The smell of you is irresistible. As you touch yourself, facing the window, I observe a drop of sweat make a slow descent down the length of your spine. It’s all I can do not to lean forward and lick it away just as it trickles into the cleft of your ass; all I can do to keep myself from grabbing you by the hair, flinging you down onto the bed and burying my face in your pussy.

Instead, I draw a deep, calming breath and quietly retrieve a Hitachi wand from my overnight bag.

A glance at your face tells me that your earlier trepidation has melted away. As you tease your clit, your eyes are fixed on the building across the street.

Later, over pizza, you will tell me that in this moment you are past caring whether anyone sees you masturbating at the window. That you are surprised to realize that you actually want to be seen. You want dozens of pairs of eyes to look up from documents, and phones, and workstations, and catch you there at the window, completely naked, lips parted, knees bent, fingers buried in your pussy. You want all those strangers to see you and to want you. You want them to cross their legs and fidget uncomfortably in their meetings. You want to make their trousers bulge, their panties wet. You want them to have to sneak off to the bathroom to rub one out during the work day. You want them to be flushed and dry-mouthed and bright-eyed as they ride the subway home. You want them to text their partners and make plans to fuck that night. You want to infect them all with your lust. You want the whole city to see you and want to fuck itself.

*Marigold, marigold, marigold / I’m leaving the Roosevelt Hotel / Marigold, marigold, marigold /
I’m leaving the room we knew so well.*

I step toward you and bring the wand’s bulbous head up between your thighs. As soon as I turn it on, you shudder and groan loud enough to be heard in the hallway. I grab you by the back of the neck and order you to keep still. You place your palms on the window to steady yourself. Your right hand leaves a smear of your juices on the glass. I turn up the intensity by two notches. Your face contorts and you yell your pleasure. Your forehead marks the window with sweat.

I lean in close, rest my face against your back, and breathe in the fragrance of you.

“Most of the people down there are tourists,” I tell you in a whisper. “But you grew up here, so who knows — maybe one of them is a former classmate or teacher. Maybe one of your friends is walking by. They’re going to look up and see you writhing against the windowpane. Maybe the next time you spend time together they’ll have trouble looking you in the eye, because they’re suddenly aware of how much they want to fuck you.”

Your whole body is shaking. Your mouth opens and closes like that of a fish on dry land. I turn the wand to its highest setting and order you to tell me when you’re about to cum. You manage to gasp out an assent. The muscles of your thighs and ass are straining to keep you from collapsing. You pant, and flecks of spit hit the window.

“Everyone can see you,” I say, savoring your desperation. “They’re all staring at you. They all know just what sort of dirty, shameless, exhibitionist slut you are!”

You sob in denial and pleasure, and I move the head of the wand back and forth between your legs.

In a choked voice you tell me that you’re about to cum. I tell you to ask permission and you do, though with extreme difficulty. I tell you to beg me and you beg me.

“Please,” you whimper. “Please let me cum. I’m begging you, please, please let me cum.”

I switch off the vibrator.

“No,” I say, clearly and calmly. “No, I do not give you permission to cum.”

You wail in complaint and sink to the carpet. You cover your face in your hands. Streaks of you mar the surface of the window.

“We’ll save that for round two,” I call out cheerfully from the bathroom as I rinse off the wand. “In the meantime, I’m starving. Didn’t you tell me about a pizza place around here that you used to go to all the time?”

You glower at me in mingled amusement and annoyance.

“You will pay,” you say ominously, your voice shaky, as you retrieve your clothes from the floor. “Mark my words, you will pay.”

*Marigold, marigold, marigold.*

NSFW: yes

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