Ben the voyeur

You order a mojito when the server appears. The glass arrives cold, packed with crushed ice, lime wedges, and mint, condensation already beading on the outside. You take the first sip and the sharp, sweet cold hits your tongue, then settles low in your stomach. Beth slides into the booth first, then Ben, then you, so the two of you end up on either side of him, the dark leather of the bench soft and slightly warm from other bodies. The alcove keeps the worst of the foot traffic at a distance; from here you can still see most of the room, the press of people near the bar, the occasional flash of light when the door opens. The table is small enough that your knees nearly touch beneath it. Three glasses sit on its surface beside a folded napkin. The single warm bulb overhead catches the gloss on your lips and, when you cross your legs, the fine texture of the red lace at the tops of your stockings.

Conversation starts easily enough. Ben asks how you know Beth, and you give the short version she already rehearsed with you—old friends, catching up. His voice is low, easy, and he laughs at something Beth says, the sound rumbling close enough that you feel it in the bench. Under the table his knee rests near yours; you can feel the heat of it even without contact. Beth’s thigh presses lightly against his other side, the short hem of her dress riding high. Every small shift of your weight makes the lace of the g-string brush between your cheeks and the nylon on your thighs whisper against itself. The low throb between your legs answers it, steady and insistent. A cooler draft slips in when the door opens again, lifting the split of your dress for a second and tightening the stockings against your skin. The music has dropped into something slower and heavier; the bodies near the bar seem to lean closer together with it.

Beth finishes her drink, sets the glass down, and turns toward you. One hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, thumb resting just under your jaw. She looks at you for a moment—checking, asking without words—then leans in and kisses you. Her mouth is warm, tasting faintly of the cocktail she just finished. The kiss starts soft, then deepens when you don’t pull away; her tongue slips against yours and her fingers tighten slightly in your hair. You can feel Ben’s attention shift fully onto the two of you. He doesn’t speak. One of his hands rests on the table, the other stays on his own thigh, but his breathing has changed. When Beth’s free hand drops to your bare knee and slides slowly upward, tracing the edge of the stocking, his gaze follows the movement. The lace top of the stocking catches under her fingertips. She keeps kissing you, unhurried, while the warm bulb above the table lights the gloss on both your mouths and the slow, deliberate path of her hand along your thigh. The throb between your legs sharpens. Outside the alcove the bar keeps moving, voices and bass and the occasional clink of glass, but inside the booth the space has narrowed to the heat of Beth’s mouth, the weight of Ben’s stare, and the soft, creased leather under your bare skin.

Ben leans back against the soft, creased leather of the booth, one arm draped along the top of the seat behind you. Without a word he unzips, works himself free, and wraps a loose fist around his cock. He strokes slowly, unhurried, eyes fixed on the two of you. The warm bulb above the table catches the wet sheen at the tip every time his hand slides up.

Beth’s mouth is still on yours. Her tongue moves against yours in the same unhurried rhythm, tasting of mint and lime. One of her hands stays in your hair; the other has slipped higher under the split of your dress, fingertips tracing the lace top of your stocking, then the bare strip of thigh above it. Every time she shifts, the sheer fabric of your dress brushes your nipples and the tiny red lace g-string pulls tighter between your cheeks. The sensation is constant, low, and impossible to ignore—the soft drag of nylon when your thighs press together, the cool air that finds the damp lace whenever you move, the way the suspender straps dig lightly into your hips.

Your mind keeps snagging on the same impossible fact. Yesterday you were a man. Yesterday this body didn’t exist. You remember the weight of a cock between your own legs, the way your hands used to move, the flat chest and the different way clothes sat. Now a stranger’s fist is working slowly over his dick a foot away from you while you sit in a sheer dress and red lace, kissing the woman who used to be your girlfriend. The contrast hits in sharp, dizzy flashes. You can feel the high, soft weight of your breasts shifting under the thin fabric every time Beth leans in. You can feel the g-string clinging, already damp again, the lace pattern pressing against skin that is still new. Your legs are crossed, the stockings whispering against each other, and every small movement sends a fresh pulse through the swollen lips of your pussy.

Beth makes a quiet sound into your mouth and her fingers slide higher, brushing the edge of the lace at your hip. Ben’s hand speeds up just a fraction. You hear the soft, wet sound of it under the music. Heat climbs your neck and settles under the terracotta blush. Part of you wants to pull back, to remember the panic of waking up in this body, the warning about not letting a man come inside you. Another part—the part that is currently throbbing and slick under the red lace—can’t stop noticing how intently he’s watching, how hard he is, how the dress and the stockings and the way Beth is touching you are doing this to him. The two thoughts grind against each other. You were a man yesterday. Tonight a man is stroking himself while you kiss your ex in lingerie he can see every time the dress shifts. The leather creaks under you. Beth’s thigh presses tighter against yours. Ben’s eyes stay locked on your mouth, on the hand under your dress, on the long stretch of nylon between the hem and the lace tops of the stockings. The throb between your legs answers every slow stroke of his fist.

The moment is broken as Ben groans and says “Beth, I need to bury my cock inside your friend. Let’s head to my place. You girls are so fucking hot! I can’t wait too long”