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EROTICA | VOYEUR | CUCKOLD | BDSM | SUBMISSION | PUNISHMENT | NEIGHBOR | RISKY WATCHING | HOTWIFE

I Watched My Neighbors' Intense Private Session — 8

They knew I had been hiding and watching them — now they wanted me in the room for their next session.

PART 7

I don’t— I stopped. Started again. I’ve never done anything like this before.

We know," said Brandon.

It was the look of someone who was wanting something that she couldn't have described at the time, Jessa added, "The way you watched us, the way your hands were gripping the chair arms, the way you forgot about the pitcher in your lap.

She got off of the bar stool and came toward me with the same smoothness I had seen through the window.

We're not asking you to do anything tonight, we're just asking if you want to see the room.

I had no wine in my glass.

I can't remember when I last drank it.

"Yes," I said.

"I want to see it."

The room was located in the basement.

I had been in their basement before, at least I had stood at the top of the stairs when we helped them move in.

It had been unfinished then—concrete floors, exposed joists, the musty smell of a space that had never been claimed.

Now the stairs led down to a door.

Solid wood.

A keypad lock.

I recorded the code Jessa punched in: 0-8-1-5, it sounded like a round being chambered when the lock opened.

After you," she said.

The stairs led down to a space which had been totally changed.

Dark bamboo covered the concrete floors, warm underfoot in the cool air.

The walls were a dark charcoal color and absorbed light rather than reflecting it.

The space was a combination of bedroom, theater, and church, with recessed fixtures softly lighting the area.

At the heart of the room was a large bed, king-sized, impossibly white, clad in linens that appeared to be high-quality enough to be changed after every use.

The bed was iron, black, and had what I knew from my internet searches at 3am in the morning were attachment points.

Restraint points.

Carabiners.

Cuffs with leather already attached.

There was a piece of furniture I had never seen before standing against one of the walls.

A bench, but not just any bench, I had never seen such a bench in my life.

It was black leather and curved at the ends, and had adjustable legs which could be raised or lowered.

It was surrounded by a dark wood wall behind it, with a St. Andrew's cross hanging on it, but empty.

On the opposite wall: a cabinet.

Glass-fronted.

I didn't have to come closer to see what was in there, but Jessa approached it anyway, her bare feet silent on the bamboo.

She opened the cabinet, as if it were a china cabinet, and said, "These are the toys.

Some are for sensation, floggers, paddles, you've seen the belt, some are for restraint, some are for other things.

She didn't elaborate on the other things.

She didn't need to.

The silicone pieces were smooth and curved and terrifying in their implication, and my eyes had already spotted them on the middle shelf.

Brandon had followed us down to the bottom of the stairs.

He stood by the stairs with his arms folded, looking at me looking at the room.

His presence was a constant reminder to me that I was here on sufferance, that it was theirs and I was being allowed to see it.

"Why me?"

The question was presented in its raw, unpolished form.

"You could have anyone.

You're both, I gestured at them, at the golden beauty of Jessa's limbs, the coiled strength of Brandon's frame.

You can have anybody!

We don't want anybody.

Jessa closed the cabinet and turned to face me.

We needed someone who knew what she was seeing, who didn't cringe when she saw the hard things, but who also didn't think that the hard things were abuse.

One whose face was saying everything she was seeing, because she didn't know how not to.

Could you see my face?

"From the ottoman? No.

But Brandon could."

She smiled, a small private smile, a devastating intimacy.

He sets himself at a right angle to the window, it's a part of the scene, he wants to see if anybody's looking, he's at risk of being seen, he doesn't know if there's anyone there or not, most nights there's not, but Thursday...

She trailed off, and the silence spoke.

"Thursday there was."

There you were on Thursday.

I heard a voice behind me, closer than I thought, it was Brandon.

I looked around and saw him a few feet away, still with his arms folded, his face expressionless.

We checked and the best view is the chair on the left, because the hostas block that view from the street, but not from the window.

My face was hot.

I told myself the wine, I told myself the wine.

Only the wine.

"This is a lot," I said.

I don't know what you are looking for.

We will not take anything from you.

Jessa approached the bed, running her fingers over the white duvet.

We're inviting you, there's a difference.

What is it you're inviting me to?

"Watching, to start."

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, relaxed and open, not like Thursday when she was tightly submitted.

If you want more than that, we'll talk about it, but tonight—tonight is just an introduction.

We do a scene, and you watch from inside the room, not through the window.

You get to see it up close.

You get to hear everything.

And afterwards we talk.

The word scene came to my stomach and spread warmth outwards.

I was not to stop them from doing this.

This was a strange sense of freedom, as if I was not responsible for what came after.

I was only the audience.

"What's the scene?"

Brandon's voice was quiet and controlled, coming from behind me.

She's been pushing boundaries, testing limits, bratting all week, tonight is about correction.

"Correction."

It didn't sound like it tasted like my own food.

“If you're being reductive, punishment.”

Jessa's smile widened, and for the first time I saw the brat in her, the mischief that lurked beneath the submission.

PART 9