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A couple of sailors enjoy each other.

Above in my room I marvel at her audacity. I have the relative anonymity of darkness as my hands travel my body and my skin tingles, but this vixen is stripping in full view of anybody below. What nerve! I wonder what's going through her mind as she sways lower, pushing her bottom out towards her guest before standing back up again, placing her hands apart on the glass and looking over her shoulder.

I can feel myself beginning to moisten. Such an erotic thrill to be party to the act below. My mind wanders into the room and I imagine what he must be doing. Is he just sitting still, taking in the sexy show or is he telling her what to do? I assume he is well dressed judging from his shoes. But is he clean shaven? Stubbly? Rugged? Geeky? It's impossible to tell. Is he able to restrain himself as he watches the beauty unfold before him or has he freed his cock from his trousers, stroking his thick shaft, telling the woman what he intends to do to her? I hear his voice in my head:

"Touch yourself. Feel your heart beat faster. I'm going to run my tongue over your pussy; taste you, flick your clitoris, and make you come."

Beneath my roving hands, my skin is electric. Sparks jump to my fingers with every gentle caress, and each jolt of energy arcs from the surface straight to my centre. Wetness flows. There's nothing I want more than to be her. I wonder what her name is. Does it matter? I think so. What would a dark Italian beauty be called? Francesca, maybe? Yes, it suits her. His voice invades the inside of my head again:

"I love watching you, Francesca. Your body turns me on. When my face is wet with your come and I finish with my tongue on your clit I'm going to slip my cock inside you and listen to your panting, crying out for me as I fuck you."

The name sticks. She is my Francesca.

I watch her dance in the figure-hugging corset for the man; rubbing the curves of her body sensually all the way to her hips where her hands stop. She thumbs the waistband of her panties. No! Is she really going to remove them? Teasing him for a few moments, gyrating and thrusting her bottom in his direction, she then begins to glide the underwear down her lithe legs to her knees. My eyes widen and my hand flies to my own pussy, as if to cover it in sympathetic modesty. I can feel a damp spot in my panties and my mouth goes dry, willing her to continue. The blood pulses past my inner ear in complete synchrony with the thumping of my heart.

Inevitably, Francesca's red thong drops the remaining distance to the floor and she steps out of it. I can see the hair of her bush, neatly trimmed, the light spilling from the room catching the wisps. She performs a tantalisingly slow turn towards her watcher and bends forward, pressing her naked rear against the glass, evidently showing off her cleavage. Her firm derriere deforms slightly and appears whiter where the glass touches. She then straightens, presses her back against the glass and slithers down to a crouch, briefly spreading her legs for him before standing.

It's so delightful to behold her brashness. I can't resist any longer and plunge a hand beneath my panties, exploring the folds I find among the soft hair. My mouth opens as I slide a finger into myself and gasp quietly at how wet I am. My digit is coated with my horny nectar and I trail it up the valley of the forest to my pink hood. Touching home, I circle gently yet insistently, feeling the nub move beneath its cover, revelling in the sensations it triggers throughout my midsection. Impulses fire from there, lighting the rest of my body. The hair on my neck stands on end as my circles increase in intensity and my clit peeks further from its hiding place, eager to be fingered directly.

It appears I'm not the only one touching myself. Francesca is now openly rubbing her crotch for her guest. Her head tips back against the glass, legs akimbo as her arm jiggles with the strokes to her centre. In my head, he's telling me -- her -- what to do.

"Finger yourself, Francesca.

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