The Night I Went to the Park with Nothing Under My Nightshirt

It was quarter past two in the morning when the heat dragged me from sleep. The room smelled of damp sheets and my own skin, and the fan turned uselessly, stirring warm air over my thighs. I sat up slowly, my breath pressed against the roof of my chest, feeling how the black nightshirt had ridden up to my waist while I slept.

I pulled it down without thinking. Thin cotton, sleeveless, reaching halfway down my thigh when I was standing. I had chosen it that night because it was the closest thing to wearing nothing. No panties, of course. I never wear any when it’s this hot. And as I pulled it down, I immediately felt the fabric sliding between my buttocks and sticking to my cunt, already soaked with a sweat that wasn’t only sweat.

I walked barefoot down the hall. I felt every step like an announcement: the fabric brushed my nipples at chest height, dug between the lips of my cunt with every stride, and the hem lifted a millimeter. I reached the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and drank water straight from the bottle. The cold ran down my throat and crossed with something else, another current already rising from lower down, from that point between my legs that had been throbbing since I opened my eyes.

I wasn’t going to be able to sleep. I knew it then. And it wasn’t sleep I was missing: it was a cock, a mouth, some fingers, something. Anything but my empty bed.

***

There’s a small park three blocks from my building. It’s one of those places nobody uses except dog owners in the morning and the occasional sleepless old man. At that hour it would be empty. Just a few minutes, I promised myself. Just breathe. Though I knew, I knew perfectly well, that air wasn’t what I needed. I needed to go out like that, half-naked, and give myself permission.

I put on some flat sneakers, grabbed my keys, and walked down the five flights because I couldn’t be bothered to wait for the elevator. The stairwell was a sauna. When I pushed open the entrance door and stepped into the street, the cool air struck my legs, rose beneath the nightshirt, licked my naked cunt, and tore a sigh from me so unexpected that I had to stop on the sidewalk for a second so I wouldn’t lose my balance. I felt a warm drop run down the inside of my thigh.

The street was dead. A yellow streetlamp flickered over the parked cars. I walked close to the façades, looking at the dark windows of the buildings. Nobody. Truly nobody. And yet every breeze that slipped beneath the nightshirt made me walk more slowly, lengthening my stride so I could feel it properly between my thighs, so it would caress my swollen lips. I began to feel the hem rising, millimeter by millimeter, and with every step I thought that it wouldn’t take much wind for anyone to see my entire ass, my wet, glistening cunt beneath the streetlamp.

I reached the park through the side entrance, the one without a streetlamp. The trees blocked the moonlight, and the ground crunched with dry leaves even though it wasn’t autumn. I found the bench I was looking for without thinking, the one at the back, hidden behind a boxwood hedge. It was the darkest corner and, at the same time, the closest to the main path. Anyone passing by might not see me. Or they might. And that uncertainty was killing me inside.

***

I sat down.

The metal was warm. The nightshirt bunched beneath me and, when I crossed my legs, I felt the hem ride all the way up my thigh. If someone had been standing three meters away, they would have seen my open, swollen, dripping cunt. The thought brought another sigh, deeper and rougher, and I squeezed my knees together as if I wanted to contain something that had already escaped. Between my thighs I felt a thick strand stretching from one lip to the other when I spread them apart again.

My back was against the bench. My head tipped back. I watched the treetops move very slowly against the mauve sky. I thought about how many times I had imagined scenes like this and never dared. I thought that I was a grown woman, with a job and routines and meetings in the morning, and there I was, with my bare ass on a public bench, barefoot inside my sneakers, with a scrap of fabric as my only protection from the world.

Quiet little slut, I told myself, and the words made me laugh and feel ashamed at the same time. Both things turned me on. Slut in heat, going out in the middle of the night because you can’t take it anymore, I insisted in my head, and I felt my cunt clench on its own, as if searching for something to put inside it.

I lowered one hand to my thigh. Just one. Barely two fingers, sliding inward, each centimeter hotter than the last. When I brushed my lips, I gave a little start. I was drenched. My fingers sank between the swollen flesh without meaning to, slid along the entire slit, and came out shining even in that darkness. The hem of the nightshirt already had a dark stain, one that would keep spreading if I stayed there another minute.

I didn’t touch myself completely. I didn’t want to yet. I wanted to stay on the edge, held there, with my legs half-crossed and my breathing growing shorter and shorter. With the tip of one finger, I caressed around my clitoris without touching it, drawing wide circles over my lips, without going inside anywhere. My skin trembled on its own. I brushed the entrance to my cunt with the tip of my middle finger and felt it open, hungry, barely sucking at my fingertip before I pulled it away. Every time the wind slipped through the hedge and brushed my neck, my whole body broke out in gooseflesh, even my nipples, which thrust beneath the cotton like two stones.

I lifted the nightshirt a little in front, just enough to slip my other hand through the neckline and grab one breast. I squeezed my nipple between two fingers, tugging and twisting it, and let the air burst from me. The heat shot straight down into my belly like a jolt.

***

And then I began to imagine.

I imagined someone appearing behind me. A body, faceless, nameless. Big hands resting on the back of the bench at shoulder height, trapping me there. Breathing close to my ear, too close to be polite. Don’t move, slut. I saw you leave your building like that. I know you’re not wearing anything underneath.

I imagined those hands sliding down my arms, slowly, taking their measure, as if they knew any sudden movement would frighten me. I imagined one of them slipping beneath the hem of the nightshirt and moving up my thigh without quite touching me, leaving a trail of electricity. I imagined it stopping just before, right where my fingers were now, and waiting. Playing with the waiting. Making me beg inside. Look at you, look how wet you are. Who did you dress up like this for? Anyone who happens to pass?

I begged him to continue, in my head. I begged without a voice, arching my back, offering him my cunt. The fantasy grew sharper. I felt knuckles brush the inside of my thigh, the other hand lifting my nightshirt until I was exposed on the bench, my feet still shod, my knees giving way on their own. I imagined two thick fingers spreading my lips, playing with the wetness, then thrusting all the way inside in one push. I imagined the sound, that obscene sloshing a cunt makes when it’s this wet, and let out a real moan there on the bench, my own fingers already sliding inside, imitating the ghost.

I imagined we weren’t alone, either. That someone else was on the other side of the hedge, watching, without interfering. That they were breathing quietly behind the leaves and jerking off while they watched me open myself for the other one. That they knew exactly what was happening on that bench: how I was being finger-fucked, how drool escaped from the corner of my mouth, how my nightshirt rode up, leaving my cunt and tits bare. The thought knocked the breath out of me. I brought my other hand to my breast, over the nightshirt, and squeezed until the cotton pressed its mark into my nipple. With the two fingers of the hand below, I began to move in short strokes, sliding in and out, feeling my own juices run down my wrist.

I imagined a hard cock pressing against my lips, forcing me to open my mouth without saying a word. I imagined sucking it there on the bench, my tongue broad and my eyes closed, while the one behind me kept fingering me. I imagined swallowing his cum amid moans, my chin shining, unable to wipe myself because they were holding my hands down.

***

I stayed like that for I don’t know how long. Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe forty. Three fingers were going in and out by then, moving slowly so I wouldn’t come right there, and my thumb went searching for my clitoris every so often just to leave me on the brink and pull away. My body felt heavy and, at the same time, weightless. When a branch cracked in the distance, I opened my eyes wide in fright, pulled my hand from my cunt with a wet smack, and realized I was alone—and that part of me regretted it. A small, hidden part I would never admit to anyone. A part that wanted someone to see me with their fingers buried to the hilt and not leave.

I stood up on trembling legs. The nightshirt had stuck to my back and ass. I felt the warm liquid run two fingers’ breadths down the inside of my left thigh when I took my first step, a warm, thick thread. I had to clench my jaw to keep from moaning right there on the sidewalk. Without thinking, I brought my fingers to my mouth and sucked my own taste, salty and dense, while I pulled the hem down with my other hand in a quick, almost clumsy gesture. I started walking home as if I were late for something.

I walked home like a sleepwalker. Every step was a caress that did nothing to calm me. The fabric brushing my nipples, the air slipping underneath, the insistent wetness between my thighs, my cunt open and throbbing from what I had done to it and from everything I hadn’t. Don’t rush home, I told myself. That isn’t what you want.

What I wanted was to go on like this, prolonging the edge, until I walked through my front door and let myself collapse without witnesses, and came so hard I forgot my name.

***

I didn’t turn on any lights. I closed the door slowly, slid the bolt shut, and leaned against the wall with my palms behind me. Darkness wrapped around me all at once. My breathing had become noisy, so noisy I thought I was going to wake someone who didn’t exist.

I hiked the nightshirt all the way up, bunching it beneath my breasts. The air in the entryway touched my skin, and my nipples tightened even more. I lowered one hand and, this time, I didn’t stop short. My fingers slid effortlessly, slipping between my lips, two of them entering to the knuckle, and a sound I hadn’t planned escaped my throat. A low, animal moan. Hoarse. Mine. I pulled them out dripping, rubbed them over my clitoris in quick circles, and pushed them back in. My thighs closed on their own around my wrist.

I walked like that, my nightshirt up, one hand between my legs and the other braced against the wall, all the way to the living room. I could feel myself leaving drops on the parquet. I didn’t want to make it to the bedroom. I wanted the floor. I wanted the cold wood beneath my knees and a little space around me so I wouldn’t have to hold back, so I could scream if I felt like it.

I knelt in the middle of the rug. I pulled the nightshirt over my head and tossed it aside. Now I was completely naked, my tits bare and my nipples pointing toward the ceiling. I spread my legs. I touched myself with two fingers first, drawing small circles around my already swollen clitoris, unhurriedly, remembering everything I had felt on the bench and everything I hadn’t allowed myself. The fantasy returned, and this time I let it come all the way.

I imagined a mouth between my legs. A tongue that didn’t ask, that knew. A broad, hot tongue licking me from bottom to top, slipping inside me, curling around my clitoris and refusing to let it go. I lowered my own head as if I were going to watch it, and with my free hand I spread my lips so the imaginary tongue would have more to eat.

I imagined a second person behind me, holding my arms crossed over my chest, squeezing my tits, pinching my nipples without mercy. I imagined a hard cock pressed against my back, wetting me with drops of precum, searching for the cleft between my buttocks. I imagined being completely exposed, given, offered, on a park bench that was no longer empty, with one tongue on my cunt, another cock waiting between my ass cheeks, and a third waiting in my mouth.

I shoved in three fingers and started fucking myself fast, my palm smacking my clitoris with every thrust. I heard them—my fingers and my cunt—making obscene sounds in the silence of the living room, splash after splash. With my other hand I grabbed one breast and pinched the nipple hard, so hard it hurt, and that little pain was exactly what I needed. I imagined the eyes of the one watching from the other side of the hedge and the smile of the one licking me, all at once, everything possible, everything there inside my head.

I came right there, my thighs clenched against my own hand and a scream swallowed between my teeth. I felt the walls of my cunt close again and again around my fingers, sucking them in, and a hot discharge surge from my belly to the nape of my neck. My body folded forward, my forehead almost touching the rug, my ass in the air, and I stayed trembling for a long while, my fingers still inside because any movement triggered another small spasm. My fingertips kept throbbing. So did my thighs. My clitoris pulsed so hard that accidentally brushing it with the back of my wrist made me moan again.

***

When I managed to move, I sat on the floor with my back against the sofa. My legs were still spread, my fingers sticky and shining up to the wrist, my hair stuck to my forehead, and I had an idiotic smile I couldn’t get rid of. I brought them to my mouth one by one, sucking them slowly, tasting myself.

I thought about going back to bed. I thought that tomorrow I would remember this every time I passed near the park, every time I crossed the entrance, every time I opened the drawer where I kept the black nightshirt. I thought I would probably do it again. Probably not anytime soon. And that next time maybe I would wait a little longer on the bench, legs spread and nightshirt raised, until someone really did pass by and find me like that, fingers buried to the hilt, unable to stop.

I got up carefully, still naked, still feeling on the brink of something. I walked to the kitchen and drank water again. Moonlight entered through the window in a long strip across the tiles and lit up my tits, my belly, and the shiny triangle of hair between my thighs. I stood there for a minute, looking at that patch of light over my bare skin, my whole body humming on a low note.

In the end I laughed quietly to myself. And I knew I wouldn’t tell anyone about that night, and that was precisely why it was entirely mine.