I Discovered That Being Watched by Strangers Turned Me On

My boyfriend taught me to enjoy the things that used to embarrass me, and even now, whenever I remember them, I feel something rising to my face. The things I’m going to tell you happened over the course of five years together, from the time I met him until we broke up. When we started dating, I was nineteen, a virgin, and he was twenty-four, in his final year of college.

We met in the humanities department. I was the typical bookworm, quiet, with my shoulders hunched forward because since I was fourteen I’d been carrying tits far too big for my skinny body. I spent my time hiding them, folded inward, with one hand always ready to close any neckline that dared to open a little more than it should.

The first party I went to with him was his graduation party. My mom had picked out a tight red dress for me, with a neckline that was “elegant” to her and a nightmare to me. I spent the whole night with my hand over my chest, holding the fabric as if it were going to open by itself. Adrián and his friends didn’t say anything. They just saw a big-titted girl who barely lifted her eyes from the floor.

That night, in the car, while we were driving back to my house, Adrián told me something that stayed on my mind for weeks.

—Why do you hide so much? If you could see yourself the way they see you.

I didn’t answer. I looked at him for a second and turned my face toward the window. But the phrase lodged inside me, like a stone in my shoe. Three months later, everything had changed.

***

One Friday night, after midnight, Adrián picked me up at my apartment. I came downstairs wearing what he’d asked me for in a message: a denim miniskirt, a little spaghetti-strap blouse with no bra, and a little black button-up sweater over it. A thong, the kind you could barely feel. I’d showered, shaved my entire body, my pussy smooth as a doll’s, and my legs were still trembling a little when I climbed into the passenger seat.

—Let’s go to the old quarter —he said as soon as I closed the door—. I want to walk around for a while.

I didn’t ask him why. Things between us had been changing for a month, and I’d started letting myself go without asking questions.

He parked two blocks from the old Santa Bárbara church, where the cobblestone streets narrowed and the lamplight turned yellow and uncertain. He opened the door for me as he always did, with that courtesy that melted me. As soon as I stepped onto the sidewalk, he slipped the little sweater off my shoulders and folded it over his arm.

The air was freezing. I had nothing on top but the little blouse, and my nipples grew so hard they showed through the fabric like two buttons. I felt as though the whole street could see them. I crossed my arms instinctively, but he gently lowered them.

—Leave them. Let those tits show.

I wanted to put the sweater and my purse in the back seat. I opened the passenger-side door and leaned in to reach the other end. Since I couldn’t reach it, I climbed onto the seat on all fours, my skirt riding up on its own, without thinking too much about it.

I didn’t have time to let go of anything. Adrián climbed in behind me and, with one movement, yanked my thong off. The string snapped at the side, and the fabric hung between my legs until he tore it off completely and tucked it into his pants pocket like a trophy.

—My love, what the… —I began to say, but his tongue was already between my legs.

He spread my buttocks with both hands, roughly, and licked me from back to front, long and wet, ending every stroke with the tip of his tongue pressed into my clitoris. I was soaked before he even started. I felt my juices running down the inside of my thigh while he gathered them with his mouth, sucking, swallowing, breathing hard against my pussy. Then he pushed his whole tongue inside, buried it in me, twisted it, and went back up to my asshole and licked that too, all of it, without disgust, with that way he had of eating me as though I were the only thing he’d had for dinner in three days.

—You’re so delicious, you slut —he murmured against my flesh—. All wet for me.

He pushed in two fingers and started pumping while he sucked my clitoris with his lips. The street was only yards away, there was a streetlamp glowing on the other side, and I didn’t care. I pressed my forehead against the leather seat and bit the back of my hand to keep from screaming. His fingers went in and out with a wet, pornographic sound that filled the car. I felt my whole body curl, my tits hanging beneath the blouse and striking the seat with every thrust. A quick, filthy, almost violent orgasm came over me. I felt it rise from inside and burst in waves while he kept working his tongue and fingers without warning, wringing out every last drop. I came in his mouth, over his fingers, onto the leather seat, and he kept sucking until I began trembling from the sensitivity and had to push his head away.

He left me like that. Half-come, my face flushed, my thighs trembling with spasms and my pussy throbbing in the open air. He pulled out his glistening fingers, ran them over my lips, and made me suck them.

—Taste yourself. Look how delicious you are.

I sucked my own juices from his fingers, still breathing unevenly. I got out of the car as best I could, straightened my mini, cupped my blouse so my tits sat centered and clearly outlined, and started walking beside him as if nothing had happened, my thighs sticky and my pussy bare beneath my skirt.

—Are you all right? —he asked, laughing.

—I’m trembling.

—Let’s get something to drink. It’ll pass.

***

We walked down the street beside the church. I felt the cold air rising directly beneath my skirt, licking me where the thong had been, drying the juices still running from me. Every time a car went by, I looked up to see who was inside. It wasn’t fear. It was something else, something I still didn’t know how to name.

At a corner, Adrián chuckled and squeezed my arm.

—That car.

—Which one?

—The one that just went by. It’s gone past twice. Two guys. They’re looking at you.

I felt a blow to my stomach, but it wasn’t fear. I was afraid of the fear I didn’t feel. Adrián always carried a pistol on his belt, I knew that, and it wasn’t the first time someone had followed us in a car. But this time I understood why, and that made me more uncomfortable than the pursuit itself.

—Did they see you when…? —I asked, leaving the sentence unfinished.

—They were at the corner, with their lights off. They saw all of you. They saw your pussy open while I was eating you.

—It was dark.

—There was a streetlamp overhead. They saw you come, sweetheart. They saw you and stayed to watch. They’re probably jerking off thinking about you right now.

I didn’t know what to say. We kept walking. The car went by again on the parallel street, slowly. I didn’t turn my head, but I knew they were there. And I knew, with a strange clarity, that it didn’t bother me at all. That I liked imagining those two strangers with their cocks out, jerking themselves off while thinking about my shaved pussy.

***

Café Atenas, in the main square of the old quarter, was almost empty at that hour. There was only an older couple in the back, a waiter wiping glasses behind the bar, and a man in a blue security uniform standing near the stairs leading down to the bathrooms.

—Come with me —Adrián said.

The Atenas staircase is famous among the neighborhood locals. It’s a wooden spiral staircase with an open wrought-iron railing, without any panels, so from the floor below you can see absolutely everything that comes up. Adrián went down first, through the middle. I followed along the right side, holding the banister as if I were going to get dizzy.

Before the second step, I saw him out of the corner of my eye: the security guard had quickened his pace toward the side, directly beneath the opening in the staircase. He wasn’t looking at Adrián. He was waiting for me to come down.

I descended. Slowly. Feeling every step. My skirt rose just a little, only enough. And I knew, with a clarity that left me dazed, that the man had just seen what I had underneath. My shaved pussy, still swollen and glistening with saliva and my own orgasm, open between my thighs, showing me completely beneath the warm light of the lamps. I saw his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed, his heavy breathing, and, out of the corner of my eye, the bulge beginning to show in the blue uniform pants.

I reached the bathroom with my face burning. I leaned against the sink and looked at myself in the mirror. It was me. The same girl who, a year earlier, had covered her neckline with her hand. The same girl whose open pussy a stranger had just looked at—and who had just liked it.

I pulled my blouse down for a moment and looked at my tits in the mirror. My nipples were still rock-hard, standing out as if asking for a mouth. I pinched them lightly and felt a jolt shoot straight down to my clitoris. I wiped myself with paper between my legs, wet again, and pulled my skirt down as far as I could. I left the bathroom, and Adrián was already gone. The waiter must have called him, or he’d gone outside to smoke. I didn’t care. I climbed the stairs again, slowly, knowing the security guard was still at his post.

Halfway up, I crossed paths with a young couple coming down. He went first. She followed. When she passed beside me, she looked up and held my gaze for a second too long. Then she looked at her boyfriend, touched his shoulder, and the two of them leaned over the opening in the spiral staircase while I continued upward.

I knew perfectly well what they were doing. I knew he was whispering in her ear, “Look at her ass, look at her shaved pussy,” and that she was looking too, getting wet as well. And I kept climbing, even more slowly, spreading my legs just a little on every step so they could see better.

***

Adrián didn’t show up. I went straight to the magazine section, in the corner of the café, where there were low shelves filled with used books and a long table with the day’s newspapers. Three or four people were silently leafing through things. An older man with frameless glasses. A young man in sweatpants, and I could already see the outline of his bulge beneath the gray fabric from a distance. Two girls giggling quietly over something on a screen.

I crouched down to look for a magazine on the lowest shelf. I bent my knees just slightly. Once again, I felt that icy air passing over my legs and entering me completely, slipping through the slit of my pussy and drying the fresh juices. The skin on my thighs prickled.

I picked up the magazine, pretended to read the cover, and put it down. I took another one from the shelf below. I bent down again. I held the pose a second too long. The young man in sweatpants had moved closer to the next shelf and was no longer pretending: he adjusted his cock through the fabric, staring between my legs. The older man turned his head only slightly, as if he were looking at something on the wall, but his eyes were fixed on my naked pussy.

I repeated it three times. On the fourth, I deliberately let a magazine fall and crouched to pick it up, my knees spread wide, offering them my shaved pussy, my swollen pink lips, the entrance still wet. I felt the air enter me, felt the gazes of three people at once licking every fold, felt blood fill my clitoris again and a drop escape and run down my thigh. I didn’t wipe it away. Let them see it dripping. I felt something rise from my stomach to my throat. It wasn’t embarrassment. It was power. For the first time in my life, I was the one deciding what they would see and how much, and how many cocks I would make hard that night without even touching them.

How many people must have seen my pussy tonight, I thought. And how many jerk-offs will I be in these assholes’ heads tomorrow.

When I stood up, Adrián was standing at the entrance to the section. His hands were in his pockets and he wore a crooked smile. I could see his bulge too, hard and outlined, pressing against his fly.

—There are tits, sweetheart.

—What?

—Every time you bend over, they can see everything. All of you. Your shaved little pussy, your lips, your little ass. Everything. And you’re dripping, slut.

—That’s not true —I lied, without looking at him.

He laughed. I calmly put the magazine back on the shelf. We left the café holding hands. At the door, I locked eyes with the security guard. He lowered his eyes for a second, then raised them again, and I held his gaze until we crossed each other completely. I saw the mark in his pants, hard and contained, and I knew he was going to end up in the café bathroom jerking off while thinking about me.

In the car, Adrián started the engine without saying anything. I let myself drop into the seat. My skirt rode up on its own, and this time I didn’t pull it down. I spread my legs and showed him my open pussy, still wet, while he drove.

—How many do you think saw me tonight? —I asked, sliding two fingers along my slit, playing.

—Five. Six. More, if you count the guys in the car.

—Fuck me —I said. —Now. Pull over anywhere and fuck me.

Adrián turned onto the first dark street, switched off the engine, pulled his pants down to his knees, and threw me onto the reclined passenger seat. I grabbed his cock with both hands—it was already rock-hard—and put it in my mouth. I sucked the tip first, circling it with my tongue, tasting the salty fluid gathered on his glans. Then I swallowed it whole, until it hit the back of my throat and brought tears to my eyes. I sucked him hard, noisily, sucking and salivating, while he held my hair and set the pace.

—That’s it, slut, suck it like that, just like they watched you on the stairs.

He yanked it out of my mouth, turned me around, and put me on all fours on the seat, my ass raised toward the window. He drove his cock into me in one thrust, all the way in, without gentleness, and began fucking me hard while he grabbed one tit beneath my blouse and squeezed the whole thing.

—Look how wet you are, you fucking slut. Look how your pussy’s dripping because those guys watched you.

—Yes, harder, fuck me harder —I begged, gritting my teeth.

He shoved it all the way in, and I felt the tip pounding inside me, felt the sound of his balls slapping against my ass filling the car. He ran a finger over my asshole, wet with my own juices, and began pushing it inside while he kept fucking my pussy. My vision began to blur. Another orgasm rose through me, longer than the first, deeper, and I came screaming against the window, the mist from my own breath fogging the glass.

—I’m coming, I’m coming inside you —he growled, then drove his cock all the way in and unloaded right there in waves, filling me while he squeezed my tits and bit the nape of my neck.

He stayed inside me for a long while, breathing heavily over my back. When he pulled out, I felt his semen run hot down my thighs, dripping onto the leather seat. I didn’t clean myself. I stayed like that, my skirt up and my pussy full of his milk, looking through the window at the dark street.

I closed my eyes. I smiled. A part of me—the part that for years had hidden beneath a neckline closed by my hand—had died that night on the spiral staircase at Café Atenas. And the new girl who was emerging liked being watched by strangers on staircases and between magazine shelves; she liked having her shaved pussy and hard tits seen; she liked imagining how many people were jerking off in her name.

That night was the first. Many more followed, in plazas, cinemas, department-store dressing rooms, and hotel balconies with the curtains open, each time with less clothing and more eyes upon me. But that one, in the old quarter with the torn thong, was the night I learned that shame is a habit, not a truth, and that my pussy and my tits belonged to me to show to whoever I wanted.