The Day I Went to the Office Without Underwear

That Tuesday began in a way I could hardly describe without blushing. I won’t blush.

I woke before the alarm, with that warm, persistent sensation between my legs that only appears when the body has dreamed something the mind has already forgotten. I don’t remember exactly what I was dreaming. I only know that when I opened my eyes, the sheet was too hot and I felt an urgent need to touch myself right then and there, before doing anything else. The palm of my hand slid over my belly almost without my telling it to, searching for the pubic hair, searching for the wetness already waiting for me between the lips of my cunt.

I stopped.

I decided not to. That I was going to let it build all day. That I was going to see how far it got.

It’s a game I sometimes play with myself: postponing. Letting arousal build like water behind a dam. Knowing that by the end of the day I’m going to explode and enjoy the wait. Anticipation has its own pleasure, more diffuse and constant than climax itself. I get up, shower, eat breakfast, go out into the world, and all that time I carry a silent urgency with me that no one can see.

That Tuesday I decided to take it further than usual.

I got up, took a cold shower, and while I dried myself in front of the bathroom mirror, I started thinking about what to wear.

***

I was clear that I wasn’t going to wear underwear.

It’s not something I do every day. In fact, almost never. But that particular Tuesday, with that dampness clinging between my legs and that dull hum that wouldn’t let up, it seemed like the natural decision. As if my body had decided it before I did.

I opened the closet and looked for the pants that fit me the tightest: a pair of black ones in thick fabric, high-waisted, snug at the hips and slightly tight on the thigh. Not uncomfortable. Just there. The kind of garment that constantly reminds you you’re wearing it, that won’t let you forget it for a second.

I slid them up my legs with no panties underneath and fastened them. The fabric touched my skin directly, with nothing in between. I felt the contrast between the rough outside of the pants and that inner part of me that was still sensitive from dawn. The center seam of the pants settled right between the lips of my cunt, snug, precise, as if someone had designed it for exactly that. I breathed slowly.

On top I chose a dark blue satin blouse, unpatterned, with a V-neck that I could adjust by unbuttoning the top button. I put it on with a bra because that I did need for the office, to maintain appearances. So that no one could suspect that beneath that neat, professional façade, I was wearing absolutely nothing between my pants and my own heat.

I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked like a normal woman about to go to work. Planner in hand, coffee in a thermos, earbuds in my bag.

No one’s going to know, I thought.

And I left.

***

The walk to work takes about twenty minutes. I usually do it listening to music, on autopilot, thinking about what awaits me when I get there. That Tuesday I couldn’t think about anything else.

Every step set something off. The friction was minimal, almost imperceptible if you weren’t paying attention, but I was paying attention every second. I was completely aware. I could feel the movement of my legs against the fabric, the slight pressure when I quickened my pace, the weight of the pants settling over my pelvis with each stride. The seam rubbing my clit, a tiny but constant friction, like a tongue that never quite decides to lick all the way.

I crossed a traffic light waiting for it to change and in those thirty seconds of stillness I thought about what awaited me: eight hours of meetings, reports, calls, emails. All the usual things. And under all of that, this. Mine alone.

What a long day I have ahead of me, I thought. How nice.

***

At the office everything was as always.

My coworker Valentina greeted me from her desk with a wave and kept looking at her screen. The department head passed by in the hallway with a folder under his arm and nodded in my direction. The new guy in logistics, whose name I still hadn’t managed to remember, held the elevator door for me.

—Thanks —I said.

—You’re welcome.

And that was it. Normal conversation. Normal world. Me completely outside the norm, even if no one knew it.

I sat in my chair and turned on the computer. The ten o’clock meeting started in forty minutes. I had three reports to review first. I opened the first and started reading, but my attention kept drifting to one thing only: the pressure of the pants against me every time I moved in my seat, when I crossed or uncrossed my legs, when I leaned forward to get closer to the screen.

It was constant. Soft. Absolutely impossible to ignore.

After ten minutes I realized I was wetter than when I left the house. That wasn’t unusual in itself. What was unusual was noticing it so clearly, without the mediation of any fabric to absorb or erase it. I could feel the juices escaping from my cunt and soaking the inner seam of the pants, hot as they came out, warm when the fabric drew them back in. The body doing exactly what it would do any day, but this time with nothing to hide it.

Good, I thought. This is how it should always be.

***

The ten o’clock meeting lasted an hour and a half.

I sat in the folding chair by the window because all the others were taken when I arrived. I had my notebook on my knees and a pen in my hand. I nodded when necessary, took notes, asked questions at the right moments. No one would have said there was anything out of the ordinary about me.

But when the department head projected the quarterly data and the whole room turned toward the screen, I took advantage of that moment of collective indifference to squeeze my thighs together harder than usual. Just for a second. Just to feel the seam sink into me, to feel my clit throbbing against the fabric, to feel an electric jolt climb up my belly and force me to grip the pen tightly.

It was enough to make me hold my breath.

I wrote something in the notebook that had nothing to do with the quarterly budget.

***

At twelve-thirty I went to the kitchen to heat up the lunch I’d brought from home.

I was alone. The microwave ticked off the seconds with that slow, monotonous beep, and I was standing there leaning against the counter, watching the container turn and not really seeing anything. Thinking. Feeling the weight of my own accumulated state, that heat that hadn’t lessened at all since morning, if anything had only increased with each passing hour. I pressed my belly against the edge of the counter and rocked my pelvis just an inch, without moving the rest of my body. The seam of the pants slid deeper into me. I closed my eyes.

I wondered whether anything showed on my face. Whether there was any external sign I couldn’t control: a flush, a tension in my jaw or shoulders. I wondered whether Valentina, who had been sitting across from me for several years, might have sensed something.

I decided not. That it was impossible.

And yet the idea that maybe she had, that maybe someone in that office suspected that I was sitting there with my cunt soaked under the desk, that maybe the new logistics guy had looked at my ass when I passed by the elevator and noticed I had nothing under my pants, gave me a fresh wave of arousal that I had to hide by pressing my fists to the counter.

The microwave beeped. I took out the container and went back to my desk to eat.

***

The afternoon was harder than the morning.

Not in the sense that the tasks were more complicated. It was harder because the physical state I was in was no longer merely pleasurable; it was urgent. Six hours had passed since I got out of bed and what had been a diffuse sensation in the morning had sharpened, narrowed, become something very concrete that demanded attention. My clit pulsed with its own beat, separate from my heart’s, faster and more stubborn, and I could feel the wetness spreading along the inner faces of my thighs.

I went to the bathroom at three and at five. Not to touch myself. Just to breathe. To check in the mirror whether I still looked normal. To step away from the computer screen, the spreadsheets, the conversations unfolding completely unaware of what I was living through in parallel.

In the stall, with the lock engaged, I pulled my pants down to my knees and just stared. My thighs were shining. The pubic hair was sticky, wet, darkened. The inner seam of the pants had an oval stain of nearly dry discharge in the center and another fresh one on top. I ran one finger over the outer lips of my cunt, just one, barely a superficial caress, and had to bite the sleeve of my blouse so I wouldn’t moan.

I pulled my pants back up. Washed my hands. Came out.

In the bathroom mirror I looked at myself for a longer moment than usual. I still looked like a normal woman. Hair tied back, blue blouse, lipstick that was already barely visible. Bright eyes, maybe. Cheeks a little rosier than usual. Nothing anyone would comment on.

Hold on, I told myself. Almost there.

***

I left at a quarter past six with my bag over my shoulder and my earbuds in but no music playing. I just wanted to hear the street, the traffic noise, people’s footsteps. The outside world carrying on completely unaware of what I was wearing. Or rather, of what I wasn’t wearing.

The subway stop was three minutes away. The platform was crowded because it was rush hour and the previous train had been delayed. I slipped into the crowd without looking for a particular space, just letting the current carry me into the car when the doors opened.

The car was packed.

I grabbed the central pole with one hand and looked for a place where my feet would fit. I found one, though not with much room to spare. To my right was a man with a briefcase looking at his phone. To my left, two girls talking quietly to each other. In front of me, a young guy with a backpack looking away.

No one was paying the slightest attention to me.

I took out my phone with my free hand and pretended to check messages. What I was really doing was gauging the state of my body, which at that moment, standing in the crowded subway, slightly squeezed by the bodies around me, had reached a level that was nearly unbearable. The whole day accumulated in that one point, with no release yet.

Every time the train braked I shifted my weight forward onto one foot, and that tiny imbalance, that minimal change in pressure, was enough to make me consciously control my breathing. I did it in silence. No one knew a thing. No one knew that if at that moment any of those men had slipped a hand under my pants, they would have found an open cunt, swollen and dripping, ready to swallow two fingers to the knuckle with the slightest resistance.

I unbuttoned the top button of my blouse. Just that one. I did it without drama, as if I were hot, because I was, in fact, hot. The neckline opened a couple of centimeters. The satin brushed lightly over the top of my chest, and I felt my nipples stand hard against the cups of the bra, hard as little stones.

No one noticed.

Or maybe someone did.

That ambiguity, that impossibility of knowing for sure, gave me something more intense than anything I had felt all day. I was in public. Surrounded by strangers. Completely anonymous. And yet completely exposed, even if no one could really see it.

On the curve before the penultimate stop, the train tilted to the right and all the standing passengers pressed together slightly. I felt the briefcase man’s shoulder brush mine, and the backpack of the guy in front of me gently push against my side. It was a brief contact, completely involuntary, completely innocent.

My body responded as if it weren’t. I felt a tight spasm rise from my cunt to my navel, a warning of orgasm that I had to smother by biting the inside of my cheek. A drop escaped me and ran down the inside of my thigh, warm, and stopped halfway, absorbed by the pants.

I had to look toward the dark window of the tunnel so I wouldn’t make a sound. In the glass I could see my own blurred reflection: a woman standing in the subway, holding a pole, with her blouse slightly more open than when she boarded, with eyes too bright, with lips barely parted.

What a good time I’ve had today, I thought.

***

I got off at my stop, climbed the stairs, crossed the same two traffic lights as always, turned the corner as always. Every step was a precise torture, the seam sinking in and sinking in again, the clit on the verge of bursting out on its own without even asking permission.

The door to my building. The elevator. My apartment.

I went in, left my bag at the entrance, my keys on the hook. Took off my shoes. Walked barefoot to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed.

I still didn’t take anything off.

I stayed like that for a moment, seated in silence, with my pants on, feeling that familiar, urgent weight I’d carried with me all day. I had built it hour by hour, meeting by meeting, step by step, from dawn on. It was completely mine. No one had given it to me. I had cultivated it with patience, with deliberation, with the satisfaction of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing.

I lay down.

And I took my time.

I started over the pants. The open palm of my hand over my pubis, pressing, feeling the bulge of my own mound through the thick fabric. My fingers curled and with my middle fingertip I searched for my clit, even through the pants, and found it, swollen like a hard pea pushing back against my finger. I pressed in slow circles. My cunt answered with a long contraction that made me part my lips and let out the first moan of the day. A muffled moan, half contained, almost a relief.

I unbuttoned my pants slowly. The button gave with a tiny snap and the zipper slid down on its own from the pressure of my pelvis. I lifted my hips and pulled them down to my knees. The room’s air touched my soaked cunt and I felt a shiver rise up my spine. The sheet underneath was instantly stained with the wetness I’d been building since dawn.

I ran two fingers over the lips of my cunt, from bottom to top, gathering the thick, warm, elastic flow. I lifted them into the light and looked at them. A thread of discharge stretched between thumb and forefinger like a shining spiderweb. I brought them to my mouth. I tasted myself, an entire day of holding back, pants seam and trapped skin, and I sucked both fingers to the knuckle before lowering them back to my cunt.

With my left hand I spread my lips open. With my right I started stroking my clit directly, with nothing in between, and the contrast with the dampened caress of the whole day almost made me come at once. I had to pull my hand away and breathe. Three seconds. Four. Five. I couldn’t finish yet. Not after all that work.

I lowered my hand again, slower. Two fingers on my clit, tight circles counterclockwise, the shape I know works for me. The other hand came down too and I shoved my middle finger into my cunt all the way. I was so open, so wet, that it went in with no resistance at all, as if my cunt had been waiting all day for exactly that. I added my index finger. Two fingers together, bent upward, searching for that inner spot that swells and throbs.

I started fucking myself slowly. My fingers going in and out with a wet, obscene sound that filled the whole room. Every thrust tore a gasp from me. I arched on the bed, my pants still tangled around my knees, blouse half unbuttoned, bra pushed up above my breasts. Nipples exposed, hard, almost sore. I pinched one with the hand on my clit, without stopping the rubbing, and another electric bolt shot through me from top to bottom.

—Fuck, oh fuck —I said out loud, alone in the room—. Fuck, fuck.

I thought about the subway car. About the backpack brushing my side. I thought about the man with the briefcase, whether he’d seen my nipples outlined through the satin, whether he’d noticed that the woman pressed against him on the curve smelled of wet cunt under her pants. I thought about the new logistics guy, holding the elevator door for me, not suspecting that I was naked inside my clothes, soaked, ready.

My fingers picked up speed on their own. My cunt clenched around my knuckles, spasmed, let go again. I could feel the orgasm building from very deep inside, rising in layers, as if each hour of the day were collecting its own payment separately. The morning. The meeting. The kitchen. The bathroom stall. The subway. All of it demanding its cum.

I pushed in a third finger. It no longer fit comfortably and that slight excess, that extra pressure at the entrance, was what finally broke everything open. My clit burst under the fingers of my other hand and my cunt closed around the three fingers with a force that almost forced them out. I came shouting, with no control over anything, heels buried in the mattress, back arched, eyes squeezed shut. A hot stream shot out and soaked the sheet, my arm, my belly. I felt the contractions one after another, five, six, seven, long ones, each one a little less violent than the last but all of them together, not letting me breathe.

I didn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. When the first wave eased, I pulled my hand out of my cunt and brought my soaked fingers to my mouth, sucking them clean while my other hand kept working my clit, softer now, in broad circles, waiting for the second climax I knew would come if I kept at it a little longer. It came a minute later, smaller, deeper, a long tremor that ran through my belly and made me fold my knees to my chest, still with my pants tangled around my ankles.

After the third one I went still. My hand open over my cunt, throbbing, sensitive, covered in a thick, shining layer of discharge and saliva and sweat. Breathing slowly, becoming human again. The bedroom ceiling above me, white and anonymous.

I laughed to myself. A short laugh, tired, satisfied.

I finished taking off my pants with a kick. I let them fall to the floor in a soaked heap. I rolled onto my side, hugged the pillow, and stayed there for a moment like that, naked from the waist down, blouse wrinkled, bra still twisted, the sheet beneath me dark-stained and something I no longer cared about at all.

Tomorrow, I thought, half asleep, maybe tomorrow too.