It’s the easiest thing in the world. I stand on the platform with my phone in my right hand, my arms hanging naturally at my sides. I rock slightly on the balls of my feet, back and forth, up and down. From time to time I sigh with annoyance and glance at the dot-matrix signs above our heads. Our train is late, of course. I am grateful for that. I pace anxiously back and forth, swapping my phone into my left hand as I pass you, and back again as I turn at the other end of the platform. I am careful to maintain the optimal distance from you. Roughly 5 feet should frame you perfectly in shot. The brightness on my phone screen is turned to its lowest setting. To those not in the know it would seem turned off.
To you I am just another commuter. You barely register my presence, but to me, oh my darling, to me you are the warm, bright, center of the universe. I pause behind you and purse my lips thoughtfully, brow furrowed as though struck by a sudden thought. I bend my legs a little and tilt my wrist so that the shot pans downward. It helps if I use points of reference. Mentally I am aiming for your right ankle to compensate for the height difference and angle. Your perfect, taut ass is captured in the centre of the frame. You are wearing skin-tight light-blue jeans. Seen from behind, the curve of your cheeks surges gorgeously outward from your narrow waist. I take a moment to admire the swell of your hips and buttocks. I take a step closer to you focusing my camera on the gap between your thighs, I want to touch you there. I want to kneel down, right here in public, and push my nose and mouth into the warm space between your legs. I bet you smell incredible. I am perfectly still, like the tense hush of small creatures, like the coiled energy of a sprinter on the blocks. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, and your muscled body ripples sinuously under the skin-tight denim.
I step to the left and turn. From this angle I can capture the pleasing rise and fall of your ass in profile. I regard you with an expert eye, appraising you until, suddenly, you turn your head toward me and my heart stops. You are looking directly at me, your lips slightly parted. You toss your head and run your fingers through your hair. For a moment I think you are going to challenge me, your timid lover, to ask why I’m filming you, but no: your eyes are focusing some distance behind me. I am invisible to you. My heart is pounding and my skin tingles with joy and fear. Your lipstick is a brilliant ruby red, your teeth pearly white in the sun. There is a mole beside your left eyebrow. Your hair hangs in thick golden ringlets, leonine, framing the pale skin of your face. Your t-shirt is tight across your small breasts, sadly hidden by your folded arms. Between your crossed forearms I glimpse the word “Angel” emblazoned across your chest.
Our train arrives and I glide silently behind you, oiling across the floor like a shadow. I capture a close up of tensed thigh and tight ass as you step onto the train and I shiver deliciously. It’s possible that none of this footage will be usable. Maybe it will be blurred, or under-exposed. Perhaps these three minutes of perfect concentration have earned me nothing but shaky pictures of my own jacket, or my shoes, or of the balding cuckold stood beside you.
It doesn’t matter. I am alive with the imminent experience of you. I step into the carriage after you and let my breath out slowly as you drift away to sit out of my reach. It is probable that nobody has ever paid you so much attention as I. For a few moments, perhaps three hundred seconds in total, you were everything to me. I have loved every inch of you. Every muscle and nerve of my body was strained to sift your signal from the background roar. The scent of your perfume will haunt me all day. No lover could ever absorb himself in you so forensically.
These moments, all the stolen images of my candid targets, are branded forever on my mind’s eye. Here is the young mother, perhaps 20 years old, pushing her child in a pram through Target. Her pink t-shirt is stretched across her milky breasts which are drawn clearly under the thin material. Her nipples stand out in the air-conditioned chill. I walk beside her. I pretend interest in baby formula, dishwasher tablets, shampoo. Truthfully I want nothing, I am here only for her. I watch her in the fruit aisle squeezing grapefruit, and the visual pun is too perfect. I can’t help but think of my mouth on her nipples, her eyes closed in ecstasy, head thrown back as I lick and suckle her. Her sweet milk would leak across my tongue as I lapped and nuzzled. In the final pictures she has the barest hint of a smile, as though she knows my inmost thoughts and secretly approves.
Here is the redhead with the purple summer dress that billowed and danced around her as she walked. I caught every detail of her as she walked through the department store and thrilled at the thought of her in the changing rooms. Her thighs were smooth and golden brown under her skirt. When she stepped onto the escalator, I followed and, leaning forward, angled my phone upward to film the sacred heart of her, the central mystery encased in a pair of white cotton briefs. Her secret hillside bulged sensuously against her underwear, lips softly parted as though opening for a kiss. When we parted ways I was trembling, every cell of my body awash with adrenaline. I watched her over and over in a public bathroom, the build up, the approach shots, and then the swooping motion as I dived underneath her skirts to fix on the thin strip of material encasing her plump folds. Her mons fills the screen for three perfect seconds, the image quivers with my fear and elation.
My hobby has made me hyper-aware of feminine beauty. I am surrounded by wonders. Your thigh length skirt excites me to the point of madness. I am captivated by the downy curve of your cheek as we pass on the subway. I am enchanted by the barest glimpse of your calf under your long dress as you lie on the grass in the park. You walk suddenly around a corner and the perfection of your cleavage glimpsed for barely half a second will reside in my mind’s eye for weeks to come. I want to find new ways to love you. I wish I had a foot fetish so that I could film your toes winking from your sandals as we wait in the queue at Burger King. I wish I were moved by the beauty of your earlobe, or the exotic fluting of your spine.
Looks are no object to me. The coldly professional eye of a municipal functionary skewers me over the desk as she takes my details and feeds them into her computer. She is frumpy and sexless, her mouth puckers unpleasantly as though on the verge of spitting insult, but under the desk my phone captures the shapely flexure of her thighs, and the single shoe dangling playfully from a stockinged foot. She must be 50, but to my camera she will be always beautiful and always young. When she uncrosses her legs I capture three frames of dark nothingness in the depths of her skirt, and this mysterious void is more erotic to me than any pornography.
Here comes a girl, enormous and unlovely, crammed into too-tight leggings. Her butt jiggles and bounces as she walks past me, and my camera goes snap-snap-snap, painting her as a crude outline of womanhood; exaggerating her curves and refashioning her as a fertility idol, all cameltoes, and heavy fistfuls of flesh. Here is a student, arms folded, looking wistfully into the distance; here a schoolgirl caught mid-hop; here a bikini’d mother chasing her children at the beach.
Perhaps you are ashamed of your acne scars, but I have captured the sly quarter moons of your butt-cheeks smiling furtively from the hem of your denim shorts. You fear that your thighs are too fat, but I have fallen headlong into the innocent depths of your chestnut-brown eyes and ached for the pale pink shimmer of your lip gloss. You have always wished for larger breasts, but I feasted on the perfection of your unbuttoned blouse, stood behind you as you read on a park bench: my digital eye recording the interplay of light and shadow as dappled sun splashed over your cleavage. I have adored you from afar, taken you for my own, and when I am done with you – when my too-brief conquest is complete – I shall dissipate, flowing away with the crowd, to love another and another and yet another.
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I’m Robin Goodfellow. I write stories for poor tortured souls with peculiar fantasies, and I post them to the Internet for the amusement of strangers.
If you’ve got a prompt, no matter how strange, or darkly disturbing, I’d like to hear from you.
Hit me up, yo, I do this for orange envelopes and karma.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/8k37x5/the_artist_voy_creep_str8