I Touched Myself Halfway Through the Route and Nobody Knew

There are Sundays that are mine and no one else’s. My husband sleeps in late, the house falls into a hush that feels like another planet, and I slip out before the rest of the world wakes up. Sometimes I read in the kitchen with a coffee that goes cold without me caring. Sometimes I do a bit of yoga in the patio, with the grass still damp under my feet. And almost always I go for a walk on the outskirts of the village, along a route of a few kilometers I know by heart.

That morning in early autumn, I needed it more than ever. I was coming off a thick, heavy week, the kind that leaves your body asking for something without you quite knowing what. They had been strange days: reading that had kept me up at night, long conversations with someone I barely knew, a current of dirty excitement that had gotten under my skin and wouldn’t quite come out. More than one night I caught myself with a hand between my thighs thinking about things I shouldn’t, biting the pillow so I wouldn’t wake the man snoring beside me, coming in silence and then lying there with the hunger still intact, as if masturbating in bed no longer did enough for me.

I dressed in my usual clothes. Black leggings, a thin sweatshirt, the worn-out sneakers that already have the exact shape of my feet. Underneath, a pair of thin panties I knew I was going to ruin. I tied my hair up in a ponytail in front of the hallway mirror and stood there a second, looking at myself. I looked good for someone who had slept badly. I grabbed my phone, my earphones, and left, closing the door quietly so I wouldn’t wake anyone.

The air outside was cold and clean. Empty streets, shutters down, the occasional cat crossing as if it owned the village. I started walking at a brisk pace, still deciding what to put in my ears. A podcast that explains the world. Music so I wouldn’t think. The news, because I like to stay up to date.

I started with the news, as I almost always do. But after a few minutes the same topics from the whole week began circling in my head again, repeated to the point of boredom, and I noticed that instead of clearing my mind, they were making me tense. I turned the volume down, opened the app’s search bar, and almost without thinking, typed two words I don’t usually look up in the middle of the street.

Erotic stories.

I laughed to myself. A woman of a certain age, in her leggings and ponytail, nodding at early-morning runners while in her ears a deep voice told her a story that was anything but innocent. There was something about the contrast that I loved. Outside, just another neighbor out exercising on a Sunday. Inside, a filthy bitch with her cunt starting to get wet with every step.

The narrator had a measured, husky voice, the kind that seems to stroke the back of your neck. He was telling the story of a female employee who stayed late at an office and accepted certain jobs that weren’t in her contract. The girl in the story knelt under the boss’s desk, opened his fly, and pulled out his hard cock before he had even finished the call. And the narrator told it in detail: how she took it down her throat, how she swallowed around the head, how he grabbed her ponytail and set the rhythm while he kept talking about numbers on the phone as if nothing were happening.

But it wasn’t only the plot that caught me. It was the way he told it. At one point, almost out of nowhere, the narrator casually dropped that while recording it he was getting hard. He said it like that, shamelessly, like someone commenting on the weather: «I’m getting hard just telling you this, you can’t imagine how much.» And my breath caught for a second.

I pictured it. I pictured the man with the deep voice sitting in front of a microphone, one hand on the page and the other lost under the table, squeezing his cock through his trousers, pulling it out afterward, spitting into his palm so it would glide better up and down while he kept reading. I pictured the slow rhythm of his words matching another, more private rhythm, the dull tug of foreskin sliding up and down, the dark smear of precum shining on the tip. And I discovered that I was getting just as worked up as he was, maybe even more, kilometer after kilometer, with every sentence he spoke. I could feel my panties sticking to my cunt, soaking through, the wetness already sliding down the inside of my thigh every time I put my foot down.

***

By the time I’d covered half the route, my body was a problem. My legs were shaking, and not from exertion. I felt the fabric rubbing against me with every step, and each rub was a little jolt that made me clench my teeth. I could feel my pulse in places a woman shouldn’t feel her pulse while walking along a road. My clit was throbbing swollen against the seam of my leggings, my nipples had gotten so hard they were bothering me inside my sports bra, and every time I breathed in deeply the cold air seemed to go straight there, to my crotch, instead of to my lungs.

The landscape in that stretch didn’t help me calm down or hide what I was doing. It was the ugliest part of the whole route: a few industrial warehouses in the distance, a weird smell of metal and wet earth, vacant lots of dry grass on either side of the asphalt. Nobody walks there for pleasure. Which is exactly why, at those hours, there wasn’t a soul around.

There was a low concrete wall at the edge of the road, the kind that separates one plot from another without really separating anything at all. I sat on it under the excuse of catching my breath. Just a minute, I told myself. One minute and I’ll keep going. But I knew it was a lie the second I thought it. I knew perfectly well I was going to slip my hand into my panties and fuck myself right there, on that shitty wall, with the guy’s voice whispering dirty things in my ear.

The story kept sounding in my ears, though I had stopped hearing the words. Now I only heard the voice as background, as texture, and in my head things that had nothing to do with the office story started mixing together. The week’s readings came back. The conversations with that stranger came back, that complicity of typing things I would never say to his face, that absurd and delicious urge to be, for a little while, the boldest woman in the world. The previous night I had written him that I’d suck his cock until I made his knees shake, that I’d come just from feeling it in my mouth. And I had meant it.

My hands were cold from the morning chill. The rest of me was burning. I looked to both sides of the road. Nothing. Only the distant hum of a machine in one of the warehouses and the wind moving the dry grass. Then, before the sensible part of me could say anything, I slid my hand under the waistband of my leggings.

I ran my fingers over my panties first, just to check, and found the fabric soaked, literally dripping, so wet it gave under my fingertips as if there were nothing there. I pushed the elastic aside and took my fingers straight to my cunt. The first contact drew a sigh from me that I had to swallow. I was drenched. Far more than I expected, in a way that was almost shameful, thick and slick, with that sticky wetness that clings to your fingers when you’ve been horny for hours without realizing it. The cold of my fingers against that heat was a shock that made me arch my back over the wall and bite my tongue so I wouldn’t moan.

I slid my middle and index fingers all the way along my slit, top to bottom, coating them well. I gathered the fluid from the entrance and spread it over my clit, drawing slow circles, pressing only a little. It was so swollen I could feel it throbbing against my fingertip, a hard little button peeking out between the inner lips. With my other hand I lifted my sweatshirt a bit and slipped under my sports bra, finding a nipple. When I pinched it, another sigh escaped me, almost impossible to hold back.

***

I moved slowly at first. I had to keep up appearances. A woman sitting on a wall, catching her breath, with one hand in her pocket against the cold. That’s what anyone who passed would see. The idea of being there, rubbing my cunt in full view and nobody knowing it, turned me on just as much as my own fingers.

I closed my eyes for a moment and opened them again right away. I didn’t want to lose sight of the road. There was something about watching the horizon while I touched myself, knowing that at any moment a silhouette could appear in the distance, that multiplied every sensation. Fear and desire pulling in the same direction. If someone comes, I stop. If someone comes, I stop. And yet, part of me almost wanted someone to come. For some guy, any runner, to appear, come closer slowly, stop and stare at me without saying a word, pull out his cock right there in front of me and jerk off while watching me do it. For me to spread my legs wider, never stopping touching myself, and show him my open, shining cunt while he came in the dry grass without ever touching me.

That thought made me squeeze my clit harder. I found my rhythm. I stopped pretending I was resting. I slid two fingers all the way in and felt my cunt close around them, sucking them in, swallowing them with a wet sound that seemed scandalous even in the middle of the silence. I pulled them out dripping and brought them back up to my clit, rubbing it faster, two slick fingertips circling over the swollen nub. Down, up, in circles, back inside to get wet again and back to the clit. My ass was stuck to the cold concrete and I was pushing my hips against my own hand with less and less restraint.

The narrator kept going with his grave voice in the background, oblivious to what he was provoking miles away, and I used him, clung to that voice like a rope. I imagined the story being told to me, in a low voice, against my ear. I imagined the guy with the voice crouched between my legs, pulling my panties aside with his teeth and eating my cunt right there on the wall, licking me with the same patience he read with. I imagined hands that weren’t mine pulling my leggings down to my knees, leaving my ass bare against the concrete. I imagined a hard cock pushing into me from behind, driving all the way in with one brutal thrust, that savage stretch that fills you up and forces your mouth open without a sound coming out. I imagined the face that unknown man from my conversations would make if he knew that I, the polite married woman who wrote to him at night, was at that very moment with two fingers knuckle-deep inside my own cunt on the shoulder of a country road.

The pleasure rose in waves, each one higher than the last. I changed the angle, curled my fingers upward, and searched for that spot inside that swells when you can’t take it anymore. I found it. I started rubbing it with my fingers buried deep and my thumb on my clit, in a clumsy but effective rhythm, squeezing my breast with my other hand, twisting my nipple. I had to breathe through my nose, slow and deep, biting my lip so I wouldn’t let out the moan building in my throat. Silence was part of the game. Any sound could give me away. So everything turned inward: the pleasure, the air, the frantic pulse, all locked up inside my body while on the outside almost nothing moved.

A thin thread of slick escaped me and slid down my thigh, inside the leggings, hot and thick. I could feel everything contracting inside, my cunt starting to clamp down on my fingers in short spasms, warning me. I sped up. I no longer cared about anything. Let whoever wanted to appear, appear.

When I came, it was like letting go of something I’d been holding tight all week without realizing it. A long, deep contraction that forced me to curl forward and jam my free hand into the edge of the concrete. My cunt clenched around my two fingers in waves, squeezing them with an almost painful force, and I kept rubbing my clit while the echoes came, stretching it out, wringing every last spark from the orgasm. A tiny sound escaped me, almost a choked whimper, lost to the wind before it fully existed. My legs were really shaking now, no more disguise possible. I felt more fluid sliding down my wrist, soaking my palm, running all the way into the inside of my sweatshirt sleeve.

I stayed like that for a moment, folded over myself on that ugly wall beside an ugly road, with my fingers still inside, feeling my cunt continue to clamp down on them in softer and softer spasms, my heart racing and a smile that wouldn’t fit on my face. The smell of metal from the factories, the cold on my cheeks, the dry grass: never had such an unromantic place made me come so hard.

***

I pulled my hand out slowly. My fingers came out shining, coated in thick fluid that reached almost to my knuckles. I stared at them for a second, disbelieving, and without thinking too much I brought them to my mouth and sucked them one after the other, tasting myself. I tasted like me, salty and dense, with that metallic undertone that stays when you’ve been soaked for a long time. I swallowed my own taste like someone swallowing evidence. I reached into my pocket for the tissue I always carry and cleaned myself up as best I could, carefully, still feeling little aftershocks of the orgasm running through my cunt inside. I straightened my leggings, adjusted the ponytail that had loosened to one side, and forced my face back into the expression of a normal woman out for exercise on a Sunday.

Right then, in the distance, a runner appeared. He was trotting toward me, with his headphones and his steady pace, completely oblivious. I stood up with a ridiculous tremble in my knees and felt my panties, soaked and cold, sticking to my still-sensitive cunt. I managed to nod at him as he passed me, the way I had nodded at so many others that morning. He nodded back without slowing down. He suspected nothing. He had no reason to. He couldn’t know that the polite woman on the wall had a dripping cunt inside her leggings and that if she stretched one finger toward him it would stain his shirt.

And that was perhaps the detail I liked most of all. That seconds earlier I had been coming like a slut in that very same place, with two fingers all the way in, and to the world absolutely nothing had happened. My secret was safe, tucked under my sweatshirt, hidden behind a polite smile, dripping down my thigh while I returned greetings.

I resumed walking. The kilometers back felt light, almost floating, with my cunt still throbbing at every step, hypersensitive, sending me little jolts of residual pleasure every time the seam of my leggings brushed my swollen clit. The narrator’s voice had finished the story long ago and I had let it die without replacing it with anything. I walked in silence, hearing only my own steps and the wind, replaying what I had just done with a mix of disbelief and pride. Did I really just come against a wall beside the road?

I got home with my legs still weak and my panties turned into a sticky mess. My husband was still asleep, oblivious to everything, and the house kept that same otherworldly calm I had left it in. I undressed in the bathroom, took off the soaked panties, and hid them at the bottom of the laundry basket, turned on the tap, and stepped under the hot water with a long sigh. Steam fogged the mirror, the morning cold dissolved from my skin, and I laughed again, alone, under the stream. I slid my hand between my legs out of habit, to wash myself, and my cunt clenched again on pure reflex, still so sensitive it nearly made me double over.

It was my first time out there, in the open, fucking myself with my own fingers in a place where anyone could have seen me with my cunt open and dripping. I had imagined it a thousand times, reading others, touching myself alone in bed at night with the image in my head. I never thought I would dare.

As the water ran down my back, I was already thinking about next Sunday. About the usual route, the concrete wall, the deep voice in my earphones. About pulling my leggings down a little farther next time, maybe. About leaving my ass bare against the cold wall. About putting three fingers in instead of two. About coming without covering my mouth, just to see what happens. Will this be the last time? I smiled with my eyes closed, letting the water answer for me.

I knew perfectly well it wouldn’t.