The Day I Went Out Without Underwear Under My Uniform

The truth is that for a while now, I’ve been touching myself almost every day. They’re quick sessions, almost always snatched between one thing and another, with little care for where I am or what time it is. The mechanics are always the same: at some point in the day I decide it’s time, I wet my fingers well, take them straight between my legs, and with a couple of strokes from top to bottom, I’m already wet. Sometimes I play with the entrance for a while, other times I focus only on my clit. Some days I make it to the end and some days I don’t. The truth is that the only thing that matters to me is touching myself; the result is the least important part.

But that morning I woke up with another idea in my head. I felt like playing, like making things a little more complicated. I’d been masturbating on autopilot for too long, and that time I wanted to take it slow, stretch it out. I had a long day ahead of me: a double shift at work, training in the afternoon, and a couple of errands in the city center. So, while I was still half asleep under the sheets, I decided I’d go through the whole day without underwear. Let’s see how that went.

I put on my uniform and, while I finished getting ready, I could already feel a current running through me inside. The work pants are loose, so underneath everything stayed free and comfortable, but for some reason, with every step I took, I could feel myself tightening and getting a little wetter.

If I’m already like this at six in the morning, how am I going to make it through the day?

The morning at work was the usual: spells of frantic activity and spells of dead time. Those gaps were my favorites, because they let me sit down for a moment and lower the temperature a little. Lower it, not put it out. Beneath the boredom, the tingle was still there, latent, reminding me every so often what was under my pants.

Every time I got up to deal with something, the seam inside rubbing against my skin sent a shiver through me that I hid as best I could. I crossed my legs behind the counter a thousand times, squeezed my thighs together, looked for excuses to stay still. My coworkers talked about whatever next to me and I nodded without taking in a thing, my head somewhere else and my whole body focused on a single sensation.

When it was time to leave, I went to the locker room to change, because my second shift was waiting for me in another building. I took off my uniform and then I saw it: the fabric of the pants, right at the crotch, was clearly damp. I brought it close to my face, almost without thinking, and yes, you could smell it. It smelled like me, like desire. Another wave shot up my back and my nipples went hard, as if protesting the lack of attention.

I tried to ignore all of it. I grabbed my clean uniform, got dressed, and headed for the other building, where six more hours of the same delicious torture awaited me.

***

As expected, I spent the whole shift soaked. It had never been so hard to concentrate. It was as if my body wouldn’t let me think about anything else, as if my whole head had moved into one very specific spot between my legs. I didn’t understand why going without underwear had such an effect; in the morning it had seemed like nonsense, an innocent game, and now it was the only thing I could think about.

At one point, stretching up to pull a folder down from a high shelf, I accidentally brushed that area against the edge of the desk. Oh, my God. That tiny, almost accidental rub felt so good that I had no choice but to do it again. As soon as I made sure no one was coming, I moved right up against the corner of the desk and started to rub myself slowly.

Within a couple of motions I was on fire. I bit my tongue to swallow my sighs, because the last thing I wanted was for someone to catch me like that. And not because I was ashamed, but because I didn’t want to stop. A few minutes later I heard a coworker’s footsteps coming down the hall and I stopped dead. If I hadn’t, I would have finished right there, grinding myself against the edge of the desk with my uniform on and the office three meters away.

I sat back down, my pulse racing and my breathing shallow, pretending to review papers I wasn’t even looking at. My forehead was beaded with sweat and I prayed no one would ask if I was okay, because I wouldn’t have known how to answer without giving myself away.

After the longest six hours of my life, it was time to go train. I almost skipped it, I’ll admit it, but I was too lazy to deal with the guilt of missing it, so I went anyway. Deep down, part of me already sensed the gym was going to be anything but relaxing.

***

I’d brought a black top that showed off my breasts really well and matching short leggings. And, of course, I wore the leggings pulled well up between my cheeks to show them off, which meant they were also tucked well between my lips. If walking around with nothing on was already turning me on, doing it now with the constant friction of tight fabric was something else, another level of pleasure.

The good thing about the gym is that a lot of people huff and even grunt when they lift weights, so my own sounds, even if they were for something else, would go completely unnoticed. That idea, far from calming me down, made me worse.

I started with the warm-up and then went straight to the weights. With every exercise I could feel my belly tighten, my nipples harden, and my skin prickle from top to bottom. The current was no longer a passing wave; it was a permanent state. I was doing squats, with a fair bit of weight, when I saw it in the mirror’s reflection: a dark-skinned guy, tall, ridiculously hot, doing hip thrusts on the bench opposite me. If I hadn’t managed it at work, I knew at that very moment that I would in the gym.

With all the subtlety in the world, I managed to sync up our movements. When he went down, I went down; when he came up, I came up. That meant we were letting out air at the same time, moaning at the same time. He, I assume, from the effort. Me, for the exact opposite reason.

Every time I rose, the fabric of the leggings seemed to sink in a little more, my pelvis tightened even more—if that was even possible—and the sounds that had been timid at first ended up slipping out of me before I could stop them. One squat, one moan. Another squat, and inside me a yes I didn’t dare say out loud. Another one, and another.

By the tenth rep my legs were shaking, and not exactly from the weight. I could feel pleasure climbing up from my thighs to my navel. I put the bar back before I fell apart and leaned against the mirror, trying to catch my breath. I had just had one of the most intense orgasms in a long time, right in the middle of class, surrounded by people, without touching myself even once. And far from calming me down, I left there hotter than I had been all damn day.

***

I decided I’d played enough. I needed to get home and really give myself what I wanted. As soon as I crossed the door, I stripped naked in the entryway without even turning on the lights. I squeezed my breasts so hard they went red. I needed hands, lots of hands, hands all over my body, and I only had my own.

I kept kneading myself, tugging a little at my nipples, and walked toward the dining table ready to repeat what I’d done at the desk, but this time without an audience and without restraint. I leaned my torso over the wood, stood on tiptoe to raise my ass higher, and started running my fingers through my folds. I was so wet that my own fluids were enough to slide backward and lubricate the other opening.

I was so turned on that I wanted pleasure everywhere at once. So, without thinking too much about it, I pushed a finger into the back hole and let out a moan against the table. So good. I played like that for a good while, pushing it in and out, moving it slowly inside, while my other hand kept tending to the front.

Out front I was getting wetter and wetter and more impatient, so much to my regret that I stopped and went to the bedroom to get the realistic dildo I keep in the drawer. I pressed the suction cup to the floor, positioned myself over it, and lowered myself onto it. It slid in with the slightest resistance and, to be honest, it disappointed me a little: I was so open, so ready, that at first I barely felt it. I’m going to have to buy a bigger one, I thought through the haze.

I started moving. Riding it, first slowly and then frantically, desperately, going up and down at a rhythm I couldn’t control. I didn’t stop moaning, gasping, saying meaningless things out loud to an empty apartment. I sped up even more. I was only capable of that, of going up and down and gripping my thighs as if my life depended on it.

I couldn’t say how long I stayed like that, out of my mind, until at last I felt my whole body tense and start to tremble in a series of spasms that matched the rhythm. It was long, deep, the kind that leaves your ears ringing.

I kept moving, slower now, letting the orgasm finish doing its work. And even after that, completely sensitive, I went on for a while longer, almost out of inertia, not wanting to let go of the feeling. When I finally straightened up, my legs could barely support me.

I went straight to the shower. After a day like that, hell yes I needed it. And while the hot water ran down my back, I was already thinking that maybe, just maybe, tomorrow I’d go out again with nothing underneath.