I Touched Myself Alone in the Park at Midnight

It was one in the morning and August heat gave no quarter.

I woke with the sheet tangled between my legs and my mouth dry. The fan turned with no conviction from the corner of the room, stirring air that didn’t cool anything. I lay on my back for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling, aware that I wasn’t going to fall asleep again like this.

The problem wasn’t just the heat outside. It was that other heat: the one that settles just below the navel and doesn’t ask permission to spread. A heat pounding between my thighs, leaving my cunt swollen and wet before I’d even woken, soaking the sheet beneath my hips. I took a hand down there almost without thinking, and my fingers sank into a warm, thick dampness. I closed my eyes. I was so wet that a single brush of my fingertip over my clit tore a gasp from me. I pulled my hand away before I started something I didn’t want to start in bed.

I got up quietly. I fumbled for clothes in the dark, and the first thing I found was a short camisole, the kind I wear to sleep in summer: fine, almost transparent fabric, thin straps, the hem barely brushing mid-thigh. I pulled it over my head and didn’t look for anything else. The idea of adding underwear seemed ridiculous in that heat. Or that’s what I told myself. The truth was I liked feeling the air directly against my cunt, knowing there was absolutely nothing under that thin fabric, that my nipples were standing hard against the cotton and anyone who looked closely would notice everything.

I went out into the hallway. The cool floor under my feet was the first concrete sensation of the night: something real, something that pulled my body out of that sort of erotic half-sleep I’d been trapped in for two hours. I reached the front door and opened it.

Just a few minutes, I promised myself.

***

The park on the corner was empty at that hour, just as I expected.

The sodium lamps cast yellow pools over the gravel paths and left the rest in a discreet, almost kindly darkness. The trees didn’t move. Not a dog, not a drunk out too late, not the sound of a car in the distance. Only the chirring of crickets, which at night always sound much closer than anyone would like.

I walked slowly along the main path, feeling the warm gravel under my sandals. The camisole was so light I could barely feel I was wearing it. What I did feel was the air moving between my legs with every step. A subtle, constant brush my body understood only one way. With each stride my thighs parted just enough for a tongue of cool air to lick my soaked cunt, and with each stride they came together again and pinched the wetness between my folds. I could feel the flow sliding slowly down the inner face of my thigh. It didn’t bother me. I liked it.

I stopped at a bench half hidden between two bushes, away from the lamps. I sat down and leaned back against the wooden slats. I crossed my ankles and looked up at the sky through the branches. There were stars. Not many — the city glow was swallowing most of them — but there were some, and that seemed enough.

***

It was the wind that started it.

A brief gust, cooler than the still air, lifted my camisole up over my hips. I stayed still. I let it happen. I let the air touch me where the fabric no longer reached, and I felt that first direct contact, that precise chill between my thighs, and I drew in a deep breath.

The bench was in shadow. No one was there. And even so I felt exposed in a way I liked more than I expected. Sitting like that, with the camisole bunched over my belly, my cunt was completely bared, my lips swollen and shining with moisture under the faint yellow light. If someone passed along the path and turned their head, they’d see everything. And that thought, instead of frightening me, tightened another knot inside me.

I brought one hand to my thigh, slowly. Just to feel my own skin, to confirm I was there, that it was real. My fingers slid upward almost without intent and found what I already knew they would find: heat, wetness, the quick pulse of something that had been building for hours without any release. Two fingers slipped between my lips and parted them carefully. The air struck my hard, exposed clit directly, and I let out a sigh that sounded far too loud in the silence. I brushed the pad of my middle finger through the entire slit, bottom to top, and felt myself filling with juice, felt my thumb sliding over my clit without friction, slicked by my own desire.

I stopped. I didn’t want to rush.

I closed my eyes and listened to the park’s silence. The chirring of the crickets. The distant murmur of an avenue with cars. My own breathing, no longer as calm as it had been at first. I bit my lip, slowly withdrew my hand and brought it to my mouth. I sucked the fingers one by one, tasting myself, feeling my own salty, thick flavor on my tongue. Then I rested them on my knee, shining with saliva and with me.

Not yet.

***

Then I started to imagine.

I imagined I wasn’t alone. That someone had seen me arrive at the park, that he’d followed me from the entrance and stood still among the bushes, watching without moving. He had no face in my fantasy, no name. He only had that: the gaze. Fixed, intent, able to see everything from the shadows. And a hard cock straining against his pants, tight, swollen from watching me.

Is he looking at me right now? Has he taken it out? Is he jerking off while he watches me spread myself on the bench?

The thought made something in my chest tighten in a way that wasn’t fear. It was something else, closer to vertigo. A delicious tension rose from my knees to my throat and hardened my nipples until they hurt against the fabric.

I wondered how I would look from there. The camisole bunched up over my hips, my legs parted, my wet cunt gleaming in the half-dark, my head tipped back against the bench. A woman who hadn’t bothered getting dressed to go out into the street at one in the morning, because what she needed wasn’t something she was going to find between four walls. A hot slut who had gone out looking for it in the park.

I liked the image. I held onto it for a long while.

In my fantasy, that person stepped toward me from between the bushes. Then another step. His shoes made almost no sound on the gravel. I didn’t open my eyes. I let him come closer. I felt the heat of a body near mine before it touched me, that moment before contact that can be more intense than contact itself. I felt something else too: the smell of a man, the bulge of a cock already out of his pants, hard and wetting near my face.

A hand brushed my knee. Just that. A warm, patient hand with no hurry at all. It moved up the inner thigh, with rough fingertips, until it parted my lips and shoved two thick fingers in at once. I opened my legs wider. I felt those fingers fucking me slowly, felt them sinking to the knuckles and coming out soaked, felt the thumb pressing my clit with exactly the right amount of pressure. In my head, the other hand gripped my hair and pulled me toward that cock, and I opened my mouth without resisting, and my tongue came out on its own to lick the head before taking it all in.

I let out the breath I’d been holding. A low, rough moan slipped from me before I could choke it back.

***

I brought my fingers back to my thigh and this time I didn’t stop.

I touched myself first with an open palm, with that broad pressure that doesn’t solve anything but promises a great deal. I felt the wet mound of hair under my hand, the heat radiating from inside, the swollen lips pressing against my own palm. Then, slowly, with my fingers. I felt everything my body had been storing up for hours: the wetness soaking my fingers at the first touch, the heat pouring from within, the tension that asked for release and at the same time asked to wait, to wait a little longer.

I started to masturbate methodically. My middle finger going in and out of my cunt slowly, all the way in, feeling the walls squeeze and swallow me, feeling the wet, obscene sound of the finger fucking me fill the bench’s silence. My thumb above, drawing slow circles over my swollen clit, each turn tighter, more precise. I added a second finger. My cunt took them with a sound that made me clench my teeth. I curved them forward, hunting for that rough spot inside that always undoes me, and I found it, and a long, broken gasp burst out of me.

With my other hand I shoved my camisole up to my neck. I pinched one nipple, then the other. They were so hard they hurt. I rolled them between my thumb and forefinger, tugging until it stung, feeling how every pull connected with a direct throb between my legs.

In my head, the imaginary person was still there. Now he was looking straight at me, no attempt to hide it. I let him look.

I imagined his eyes traveling over what I couldn’t see of myself: the thin camisole fabric rumpled over my exposed tits, the hard nipples shining with saliva, the slow movement of my hand burying my fingers to the hilt, my face with my eyes closed and my mouth parted, a thread of spit running from the corner of my lips. I imagined his cock in his hand, his hand moving in time with mine, his breath coming short, his load on the verge of blowing. I imagined that at any moment he stepped closer and shoved it into my mouth, or into my cunt with a hard thrust, or came across my face without asking permission. That idea — of being the center of that kind of attention, that kind of desire, the idea of an unknown cock emptying itself over me on a park bench — pushed me closer to the edge.

I clenched my teeth and held back. I pulled my fingers from my cunt with a wet sound that made me tremble.

I needed to take this home with me. I couldn’t have explained why. Something in me wanted to cross the street with my body in that state, with that unresolved urgency, and feel the way back as one more way of stretching out what had begun.

I stood carefully. My knees didn’t give, though for a moment I feared they would. A strand of slick detached from my cunt and slid slowly down my thigh. I didn’t wipe it away.

***

The camisole fell back into place, covering just enough.

I walked toward the park exit in slow, unhurried steps, even though everything in me was begging to move another way. Every step reminded me I had nothing on underneath: the fabric rubbing the insides of my soaked thighs, the night air freely entering between my legs, my swollen clit throbbing with each stride, my body still doing what it had started without my permission. The wetness slid down slowly, inexorably, warm against my skin, and halfway down my thigh it cooled and raised gooseflesh all over me.

The street was empty. A streetlamp flickered when I passed beneath it. I crossed the road, found my keys in the pocket of my camisole — the only pocket — and reached the building entrance.

I climbed the stairs without turning on the landing light. Halfway up I stopped, braced one hand against the wall, and slipped two fingers between my legs, just for a second, just to confirm what I already knew: I was still dripping. I kept going up.

***

I didn’t turn on the apartment light either.

I leaned against the closed door and stood there for a moment, in the dark hallway, listening to the building’s silence at that hour. My heart was beating in my throat. My fingers were still warm from what had started in the park. My body was in that state where every touch is magnified ten times and the air itself becomes a caress.

I slid over to the sofa without turning anything on. I sat on the edge and stayed still for a few seconds, just breathing. The darkness was complete except for the strip of light slipping in under the blind from the street.

Then I leaned back and let my legs open on their own, one over each arm of the sofa, obscenely spread.

The camisole rode up without any effort from me. The cooler air in the living room reached my exposed cunt directly, and I let out a sound that wasn’t a moan yet, but was very close.

This time I didn’t stop.

I went back to where I’d left off in the park and kept going from there, without detours, with the fingers that already knew what they needed. I shoved three in at once. My cunt took them with a wet splash that sounded indecent in the living room’s silence. I pulled them out soaked, gleaming, and ran them over my swollen clit, tracing fast, tight circles, merciless. My other hand came down between my legs too: two fingers spread my lips wide open, exposing the clit to the fullest, while the other three kept rubbing, going in and out, fucking me harder and harder.

My mind was still on the bench, still with the imaginary person watching me from the shadows, but now I wasn’t waiting for anything. Now that person was no longer watching from far away: he was on top of me, between my legs, his hard cock pushing against my cunt, fucking me against the back of the sofa with his mouth at my ear saying filthy things. Slut. Hot little pig. Going out into the street like that. Look at you. Look how you’re dripping. Now I was the one watching and being watched at the same time. Now I was in the park and on the sofa and nowhere in particular, just inside that hot, urgent space that has no name but that you recognize the instant you reach it.

I fucked my own fingers with my hips, pushing my cunt up against my hand, seeking more depth, more friction. My clit pounded under my fingertips, swollen, slick, close. With my other hand I grabbed a breast and pinched the nipple hard, and that small, precise pain was the trigger.

I came fast. Faster than I would have wanted.

Everything I’d been putting off all night came loose in one long, taut minute, my back arched and my teeth clenched so I wouldn’t make a sound. The first spasm jerked my hips upward against my hand. The second squeezed my thighs against my head, trapping my fingers inside my cunt, which contracted around them over and over, sucking them, wringing them. A rough moan escaped me despite everything, muffled against my shoulder. The trembling started in my hips and spread upward, climbed my belly, reached my nipples, made my toes curl. I felt myself come in my hand, felt the hot flow slide between my fingers and run down my ass and stain the sofa. My own fingers held me through it to the end, until the contractions gradually eased and my breathing loosened with them.

***

I lay still on the sofa, the camisole bunched up to my navel and my eyes closed. My hand still between my legs, soaked, resting on the cunt that kept throbbing slowly, like a small heart.

Outside, the crickets kept chirring. The street kept existing. August heat was still the same August heat it had been an hour earlier.

But I felt entirely different.

I thought about the empty bench in the park, the yellow lamps, that person who had only existed in my head and yet had felt more real than many real things. I thought about what it had felt like to walk back with my body like that, lit up and unresolved, with my cunt dripping inside the camisole, knowing exactly what was waiting for me when I got home.

I pulled the camisole up over my shoulders and took it off. I let it fall to the floor. I stayed naked on the sofa, in the dark, with the fan humming in the next room, my legs still open and my eyes still closed.

It was hot. But now it was a different kind of heat.