Strangers

I arrived at two in the morning with a dry mouth and one idea in my head: that night I wasn’t going to set any limits, no matter what happened among the pavilions.

I had tried it before and felt nothing but pain. That night, in a hotel room with a stranger, I discovered how wrong I had been.

I liked being watched, desired, chosen above everyone else. That night, a country man took me from the dance floor to a place there was no turning back from.

I walked to the park sucking on a lollipop, my skirt so short the cool air brushed me, knowing anyone who passed by could see me.

He’d been sneaking looks at my feet from the bus stop for ten minutes. What he didn’t know was that I planned to bring him upstairs and put him on his knees before nightfall.

I followed her out into the street convinced it would be just another night. I had no idea what she was hiding under that tight dress or how far she would take me.

I opened the door wearing almost nothing but a robe. When I saw him on the landing, I knew that Saturday in February would be memorable for a very different reason than the heat.

I saw him in the rearview mirror: sporty, with a hard bulge under his Lycra, waiting for my signal. I rolled down the windows and I still don’t know why.

I only wanted sun and silence. I wasn’t looking for anyone, least of all a man who waited for me on the shore just to tell me he wasn’t letting me go.

She stepped out of the bathroom, saw me half-dressed in my uniform, and said: “you’ve got strong legs.” That’s when I knew the afternoon wasn’t going to end like the others.

I asked her to open her legs at the gas station, and the attendant’s eyes nearly popped out. That morning we learned that being watched got us hotter than anything.

I left work without underwear and with my blouse half-open. I only wanted to feel the air between my legs. I had no idea who I’d find in the train car.

That night I put on the red thong, fishnet stockings, and wig in front of the hotel mirror—and for the first time, I didn’t recognize the same old boy.

Nobody knows. Not even the person I sleep with every night. But when I close my eyes I see myself in front of the mirror, transformed into someone else, ready for him.

I was on all fours, shaking, ass up, my own cock dripping on its own. He’d barely put the tip in and I was already begging him to break me completely.

“Patience is a virtue,” he said, without lifting his eyes from the coffee. And I, who had gone a month without permission to finish, knew the test began right then.

I got into the car thinking about my flight. Three days later, when I got off the plane, he was already waiting with an offer that made me sweat before I even shut the car door.

No one in that house knew what I was hiding under the black dress. No one except him, the masked stranger I handed it to in a dark hallway.

In the darkness of my room, nobody could see me. Or so I thought, until he came to his window and kept looking toward me longer than he should have.

I rolled down the window, exchanged a few words with her, and invited her in. I had no idea that the dark-haired girl on the unlit corner was waiting for me with a surprise between her legs.