For the First Time, No One Could Stop Me

My name is Abril, I’m twenty years old, and for the first time in my life, I’m completely free.

To make sense of what I’m going to tell you, I need to give you a little context. I grew up in a town in Chiapas, in a house far too small for the number of people living inside it. Parents, brothers, sisters: there was always someone breathing on the other side of the wall. I never had a room of my own. I shared a bed, shared clothes, even shared silence. And that, though it may sound harmless, marks you in a way that’s hard to explain.

Because my entire adolescence was an exercise in restraint. I learned to want in a low voice, to hide what I felt, to search for the few corners where I could be alone with myself, even if only for five minutes. The bathroom with the shower running to drown out any noise, slipping two fingers into my cunt while biting down on a towel so I wouldn’t moan. The laundry room when everyone was asleep, rubbing my clit against the edge of the spin-cycle washer. A storage room at the back of the yard where I’d pull down my panties and lick my own fingers wet with my juices. Stolen places, always with my heart racing at the fear that someone might open the door. Someday I’ll tell you about those years in more detail. For now, it’s enough to say I built up an awful lot of arousal without ever releasing it.

Everything changed when I was accepted into a university in the capital. I applied to one far away, and I’m not going to lie: half the decision was to study for a good degree, and the other half was to finally live alone. I think I deserved it after putting up with so much for so long. I got myself a rented room in a quiet neighborhood, hundreds of kilometers from my family, and the first night I slept there, with the door closed and nobody on the other side, I cried a little. Not from sadness. From relief. And then I masturbated three times in a row, moaning as loudly as I wanted, yelling “more” at the empty ceiling, shoving my fingers all the way into my cunt while I pinched my nipples, and I came harder than I ever had in my life, with my legs spread wide and the sheets soaked beneath my ass.

Before I go on, I’ll describe myself, as is customary. I’m brown-skinned, I’m five-foot-four, slim, with small breasts and dark, sensitive nipples that get hard at the slightest touch. Nothing that stands out from far away. I don’t consider myself ugly, but I’m not one of those women who make heads turn when they walk into a room either. The only thing I really like about my body is my ass, round, firm, with a life of its own: I’ve lost count of the men who stop to stare at it when I pass by, and over the years I learned to enjoy that attention in silence, feeling my panties get damp just from knowing someone is imagining fucking me from behind.

This story is about my first real adventure in the new city, without supervision, without inherited guilt, without anyone to answer to.

***

I spent my first few weeks learning my way around. The subway, the buses, the streets that repeated themselves and then suddenly didn’t. I liked going out aimlessly on weekends, walking until I was tired and discovering plazas, markets, tiny cafés. It was a way of marking my territory. Every new corner was a small victory, proof that that place was mine and no one else’s.

One Saturday I ended up at a fair being held at a huge convention center. It turned out to be incredibly boring: repetitive stalls, packed crowds, way too hot. I left earlier than planned and decided to walk around the area so I wouldn’t waste the afternoon. A few blocks later I found a quiet garden next to a small museum, one of those places almost nobody visits. There were stone benches in the shade, a narrow path lined with trees, and a strange silence for such a noisy city.

I sat down on one of the benches to rest. And then, without warning, I started feeling that familiar itch between my legs, a wet pulse in my cunt that rose up through my belly. It didn’t come from any particular thought. It came on its own, the way it does when I’m relaxed and nobody’s watching me.

The path was empty. I looked left, right, toward the museum: not a soul. I was wearing a light skirt, perfect for the heat, and the idea formed before I could argue with myself. I slid one hand beneath the fabric, slowly, barely moving at all, keeping watch on the path while holding my breath. My fingers found my underwear already wet. It was a simple cotton panty, and it was soaked in a way that made me smile. I moved the fabric aside and touched my lips directly, swollen and slick, and let out a sigh when my fingertip sank in without any resistance. I brought the finger to my mouth and licked up my own juices, thick and salty, savoring how hot I was.

And there, sitting on a public bench in broad daylight, with my finger still glistening in my mouth, I thought of something I would never have dared do back in my old house.

I checked the path again. Nothing. I lifted my hips just enough, hooked my thumbs into the sides of the garment, and slid it down over my thighs, over my knees, until it fell onto my feet. I picked it up off the ground. It was warm, heavy with moisture, with a dark stain in the crotch, and it had a strong smell, my smell, of wet cunt, that hit me full force and made me even hotter. I squeezed it in my fist like it was a secret.

Feeling the cool air directly between my legs, out there where anyone could appear, was a jolt I hadn’t expected. My heart was pounding against my ribs. Beneath the skirt I could feel my bare cunt throbbing, feel a thin thread of slick running down the inside of my thigh. I thought of my years with the shower running, of the storage room at the back of the yard, and I almost laughed. Look how far you’ve come, Abril.

That was exactly when a young man turned the corner onto the path and started walking toward me. Tall, about his mid-twenties, with headphones hanging around his neck and a clingy T-shirt that showed off his chest. I had only a couple of seconds to decide. And instead of pulling my skirt down and pretending to be respectable, I did something I still can’t quite figure out the origin of: I stood up and walked toward him, my cunt soaked and my panties clenched in my fist.

He stopped when he saw me coming so deliberately. He looked at me with that expression people have when they don’t understand what’s happening but can sense that something is happening.

“Do you need something?” he asked.

I didn’t answer. I held out my closed hand, and when I opened it, I let the warm panty drop onto his palm. He looked down, took a second to process what he was holding, and when he understood, he lifted his head with a slow smile, incredulous, delighted. I saw him, without seeming to notice, bring the fabric close to his face and inhale. I saw a hard bulge suddenly press against his pants.

“Wait, is this…? They’re wet, fuck…” he managed to say, his voice rough. “Are you not wearing anything underneath?”

“Smell them properly,” I told him, surprised by my own voice, and I grabbed his wrist to bring my panty up to his nose. “That’s how wet you’ve got me.”

I let go of his hand and turned around. But I was already walking away quickly, without looking back, my face burning and a nervous laugh caught in my throat. I heard him say something else, something like “wait, hey, come here,” but the wind carried the words away. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the electric current running through my whole body, the mix of shame and power I had never felt so pure, and the fact that with every step my thighs slid against each other, smeared with my own slick.

***

The problem was that after that I couldn’t think about anything else. I walked with my thighs pressed tight together, feeling naked under my skirt, every step reminding me of what I had just done. I imagined the young man standing there on the path, my panty in his hand, pulling out his cock and jerking off while smelling the soaked fabric, coming all over the cotton stained with my juices. The image nearly buckled my knees. I was so turned on, so close to the edge, with my clit so swollen it rubbed against the skirt seam with every stride, that I doubted I could make it back to my room, which felt an eternity away by subway.

I quickened my pace, looking for any public restroom, any plaza, a café, anything. The blocks seemed endless. I could feel the slick running down almost to my knee. Finally I saw a restaurant with a large sign by the entrance announcing the price for the bathroom. I went in almost running. An employee was arranging napkins near the bar.

“Excuse me, I need to use the bathroom,” I said, and as I spoke I fumbled clumsily in my bag looking for coins to pay.

“Pay on the way out, no problem,” she told me kindly, pointing toward the back. “Over there, at the end.”

I thanked her almost under my breath and walked as fast as I could without making my urgency obvious. The bathroom was empty. I ducked into the last stall, the one in the corner, locked it, and let myself drop onto the toilet. I yanked my skirt up to my waist and spread my legs wide. My cunt was shiny, swollen, with the lips parted and a drop of slick hanging from my clit. I brought my right hand between my legs and with my left I pushed up my T-shirt and bra to grab one breast and pinch my nipple mercilessly.

I was so close that it only took seconds. With my middle finger I rubbed my clit in fast circles and with my index and ring fingers I shoved two fingers deep into my cunt, curling them forward to hit that spot that made stars burst behind my eyes. I fucked myself with my fingers with an anxiety that verged on desperation, feeling the walls of my cunt tightening around them, hearing the wet, obscene sound of my slick slapping around and filling the stall. I remembered the young man’s face, the weight of the garment in his palm, how he inhaled the fabric, the hard bulge that had shown through his pants, the sensation of the open air against my exposed skin. I imagined myself on my knees in front of him, taking out that cock I had seen harden, shoving it into my mouth to the throat, tasting him, letting him fuck me against a tree with my skirt hiked up.

The orgasm hit me hard and fast, a brutal contraction that bent me over on myself. I felt a gush of slick escape between my fingers and splatter onto the stall floor. I bit down on my lips to keep from shouting, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop a long, low, muffled moan as I kept rubbing and the spasms shook my hips. My breathing was left so heavy and out of control, so bitch-in-heat, that I was afraid it might be heard all the way in the kitchen.

I stayed still for a couple of minutes, my fingers still buried in my cunt, recovering, feeling my heartbeat slowly return to normal. Then I pulled my fingers out, slippery and trailing strings of slick, and licked them one by one, savoring myself like a reward. I cleaned up with toilet paper, fixed my clothes, took a deep breath. When I came out of the stall, a woman was washing her hands in front of the mirror. She looked at me through the reflection with a strange expression, her eyebrows slightly raised, her eyes dropping for a second to my bare legs beneath the short skirt. I’m sure she had heard me moan, and I’m also sure she smelled the heavy air of the stall when I came out. At another time in my life I would have died of shame. That afternoon I held her gaze for a second and then calmly fixed my hair, as if nothing had happened, my fingers still smelling like a freshly come cunt.

I splashed water on my face, straightened my skirt, and left. The employee who had let me in was nowhere to be seen, so I crossed the restaurant and walked out without paying. I hadn’t used the bathroom for what you’re supposed to pay for anyway. I’d only needed the place.

***

I know it sounds absurd, even childish. A friend I told years later put it to me exactly like that: “That’s teenage stuff, Abril.” And she’s right, maybe it is. But for me it wasn’t some silly game. It was a revelation. That afternoon, walking back to the subway with my legs still trembling, my cunt throbbing, and no panties under my skirt, I understood for the first time, really understood, that I was free. That I could do absolutely anything I wanted, without hiding, without asking permission, without an ear pressed to the wall.

I spent years holding myself back, wanting in a low voice, stealing minutes in borrowed corners, coming in silence with a towel clenched between my teeth. And then all of the city was my corner, and the whole world had no idea what I was capable of when nobody was looking. Or when someone was looking.

And was I ever going to make the most of that freedom.

I hope you liked this first confession. I have many more saved up, from those years of repression and from the ones that came after, about the cocks I tasted, the cunts I tasted too, the times I let myself get fucked in places I shouldn’t have. I promise I’ll keep telling them as I have time. Don’t hesitate to leave me your comments. I love knowing someone is reading me on the other side, with a hand inside their pants or between their legs.