I Let Them Watch Her All Night on the Dance Floor

Told by both of us, her and him.

I liked the night, I liked fucking Rodrigo, and yet I didn’t feel even a hint of guilt. Seeing him still asleep in the first light of dawn, his body firm and broad, I understood that I liked him the way I like a sports car, a dress that falls perfectly, or a painting that stops you dead in your tracks. I liked him; I didn’t love him. They were different things, and I was perfectly clear about that.

I had never been with another man besides my husband. It had never even occurred to me to find myself a lover, nor had I thought anything like that could happen. But there was no doubt I had enjoyed it, and not so much because of the act itself, which had been rather animalistic—him on top of me, spreading my legs until they were almost in a cross, his hard cock driving into me in a single thrust all the way to the back, without any delicacy, while I clung to his shoulders as he fucked me in silence, biting his lip so he wouldn’t scream—but because of what it meant: breaking out of a mold, doing something forbidden, paying Esteban back for his own insistence on pushing me toward Rodrigo. I could still feel the stinging between my legs, my pussy swollen and sticky with the cum he had left inside me, and instead of disgust, what rose up in me was a loose, satisfied laugh.

Deep down, all it takes is provoking a man a little. Show him a patch of skin, do something unexpected at exactly the right moment, and you’ve got him. A woman knows instinctively when and how to make him fall, when to open her legs just enough to make his mouth go dry, when to run her tongue over his ear so his cock goes stiff against his trousers.

When he turned over and found me watching him naked, he smiled and took my hand again, without trying anything else. But what he said to me after we ate left me thinking all day.

Was it true that I was an exhibitionist?

***

I opened my eyes and found her beside me, naked, the low sun setting her skin aglow in golden tones heightened by her summer tan. Watching her wake, in that intimate moment, almost made me believe there could be something more between us. I still had the smell of her pussy in my mouth and the taste of her orgasm on my tongue from eating her before fucking her; the night before, I had made her come twice with my tongue buried between the lips of her cunt before fucking her, and she had come with quiet screams, pulling my hair and pushing my face against her wet pubis. But I held myself back and waited for her to make the first move.

I liked the way she got out of bed with complete naturalness, her back to me, unintentionally showing me her firm buttocks and that perfect slit I had explored with my fingers the night before, and the way she put on only the T-shirt from the previous day. The fabric covered her body but left the small of her back exposed, a detail more effective than complete nudity. We went out onto the terrace to drink coffee and look at the valley, and there I don’t know whether I put my foot in it or whether some things became clear.

She was almost facing me, slightly turned to one side. When she put one foot up on the chair, her shorts rode up so far that they stopped covering what they were supposed to cover: the pink fold of her pussy was perfectly visible, still somewhat swollen from the night before, along with a short, dark tuft clinging to her brown skin. She didn’t cover herself when she realized where I was looking, nor did she change position. She kept chatting and drinking her coffee as if nothing had happened.

“Do you like being watched?” I asked her.

“I don’t care. It doesn’t bother me, if that’s what you want to know.”

“Those skirts you wore the last couple of nights, without underwear, in the village… that’s exhibitionist behavior.”

“You didn’t like how I dressed?”

“I loved it. But that doesn’t change the fact that you like showing yourself, having someone watch, knowing they desire you or at least admire your body.”

There was a long silence. It seemed the conversation had thrown her off: she remained thoughtful, without looking at me, and lowered her foot from the chair, although she didn’t pull down her shorts, which still revealed much of what was underneath.

“Put that way, maybe,” she said at last. “Maybe I do things other women don’t because they’re ashamed of their bodies. That’s not my case. And if someone looks too much, I don’t care what they think.”

“And do you usually go around with nothing underneath?”

“Friday was the first time,” she laughed.

She told me how she had come to show herself without shame. Esteban loved that she was daring, that she went topless at the beach, that afterward they went to nudist beaches. She had grown used to those little games because he loved them and they cost her nothing. What she had done over the past two days, she confessed, had been for my benefit, and so her husband would stop pestering her about it.

I told her I had genuinely loved it, that the night before, when she had surprised me alone, I had been thinking about her, my cock in my hand, imagining her spread-legged on top of me. And not only me: the two or three men who had spied on her from the shadows of the square had surely dreamed about the same thing that night, and more than one of them must have jerked off thinking about her.

“More people saw me? Don’t tell me… how embarrassing.”

“I think they could still draw you from memory today. Every last detail.”

“Ugh, now I won’t be able to go down to the village all summer.”

I was puzzled by the almost humorous tone she took, perhaps to hide a genuine embarrassment, perhaps so she wouldn’t seem shameless in front of me. We had only known each other for two days.

***

When the sun had lowered a little and she was still quiet, I suggested we walk through the hills, as Esteban and I did. It was relaxing, we got some gentle exercise, and the views from up high were spectacular. To my surprise, she accepted at once, without changing clothes, putting on only a pair of comfortable sneakers.

We climbed to some crags crowning the summit, where I liked to lie down and watch the clouds pass. I had to go ahead because she didn’t know the path, which was a shame, because I missed seeing her walk in front of me in those little shorts that wedged themselves between her buttocks every time she lifted a leg to climb a stone step. A couple of times I helped her climb a tall rock or avoid the brambles—and took advantage of it to slip my hand beneath her thigh, feeling the heat and dampness of her crotch through the fabric—and when we arrived, she admitted it had been worth it.

“Do people do this naked?” she asked.

“Always,” I replied.

She stood up, undressed, spread her clothes on the ground, and lay down on top of them. I imitated her immediately, my cock already half-hard from the walk, hoping that being naked would move her toward something more. But instead she asked me to take pictures of her with my phone to send to her husband. I took a whole lot. I never imagined I would end up with all the evidence of that day stored on my cell phone.

I moved closer to show them to her. She had me swipe through them two or three times and chose which ones to send. I suggested she pose, change positions so we’d have more material, and she didn’t hesitate. She got on her knees with her ass toward the camera and her back arched, spreading her buttocks with her hands until she showed her pink pussy and dark asshole; then she lay on her back with her legs open and two fingers separating her wet lips; and even one of those fingers pushed in to the knuckle, shiny with fluid, looking at the camera with her mouth half open. It made for an extremely provocative gallery, something to remember forever, but she didn’t invite anything more, no matter how much I hinted. It all ended with a good hard-on and some eloquent photos, my cock standing out against my thigh while she laughed at my hungry-dog expression.

“You like being watched,” I insisted. “You like feeling desired.”

“Maybe I do. Or at least I’m not embarrassed about it with you.”

“Would you like to play at that a little more? Take it one step further?”

I suggested that if she felt shy about returning to the village where people knew her, we should go to the next one, a larger place full of strangers. Something daring between the two of us, having fun, letting her show herself and feel desired. On the way down the trail, she agreed, on one condition: that I not leave her side for a moment. Esteban, she told me, left her alone during those games so they would desire her more, and that made her feel dirty, like a whore exposed to the highest bidder. With me close by, it was only a game between the two of us.

***

Getting ready to go out became a private complicity between the two of us. We laughed while imagining scenes; she tried on one garment, discarded it, sought my approval, and pulled out another. It would have been almost innocent if she hadn’t done everything in her underwear—a tiny white thong that sank into the crack of her ass and a strip of lace over her tits that barely covered her nipples—two feet from me, while I sat on the bed giving my opinion with my cock already showing through my trousers.

I thought she would dress elegantly from the clothes she was pulling out, but in the end she chose something simple: very short denim shorts and a loose button-up shirt she could tie in front, leaving her navel bare. Without makeup, her hair tied back at the nape of her neck, she looked like a cheerful, capable woman, mistress of her free night. And I beside her, almost like her bodyguard, a role very far from my intentions.

There was still daylight when we reached the neighboring village. I wanted to buy a few things. Her little shorts, bunched up when she sat in the car, left her entire thigh exposed, and only my willpower—well, and my left hand clamped around the steering wheel—kept us from crashing on the road; with my other hand, at a traffic light, I caressed the inside of her thigh until my thumb brushed the wet fabric of her thong, and she let out a long sigh without moving my hand away. Walking behind her through the shops was a sweet torture: the sway of her hips, her brown skin, her smile. There were other girls in skimpy outfits, but she was a magnet and I saw nothing else.

We had a drink on a terrace, our legs exposed again.

“Am I provocative?” she asked.

“You wore underwear this time, huh?”

“With these pants, I had no choice. Is it very noticeable?”

“No, but when you bend over, a little of the white fabric shows. And the crack of your pussy is outlined.”

“That’s what you like, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But we haven’t even started yet. We’ll see if you go along with everything I suggest.”

***

At nightfall we found a place with music and a bar, and went in holding hands like a couple. There were plenty of people, but it wasn’t too crowded. We ordered two drinks and began strolling around while they prepared them. I led her toward groups of single men, wherever I noticed they were watching her, to see how she felt. And I understood her husband: I liked watching them follow her with their eyes, watching them talk among themselves afterward, imagining everything they were thinking—what they would do to her, how they would spread her legs, where they would put their cocks.

The bartender signaled us, and I told her it was her turn to go into the group and get the drinks. Smiling and keeping her eyes fixed on me with her back to them, she undid two buttons of her shirt, which remained fastened by only one nearly at the bottom. She walked to the bar through the circle forming around her, her tits swinging freely beneath the fabric, her hard nipples outlined against the cotton. Everyone behaved properly and only looked—though more than one man discreetly adjusted his bulge—but it was the beginning, and I realized she was genuinely having fun.

We sat down to drink. I asked whether she would dance with any of the men who couldn’t take their eyes off her, whether she would let them watch something more, whether she would let them touch her. She didn’t answer. She drank slowly and watched the room, I suppose measuring how far she wanted to go. When I saw her sitting there silently, questioning, I didn’t hesitate: I put my hand on her chest, lowered it to the last button holding her shirt closed with any decency, and opened it almost all the way.

Her brown breast was exposed, the entire curve visible almost to the tip. A darker patch hinted that one more movement would leave everything bare, and I lightly pinched her nipple before withdrawing my hand; it went hard as stone and she bit her lip. She went out onto the dance floor to dance alone, and the men soon began approaching, almost pressed against her, rubbing themselves against her ass from behind, reaching for her tits beneath the open fabric.

I went out when the music slowed and took her hand to dance together. She leaned against me, her head on my shoulder, sweaty and breathing hard. I could still feel another guy’s cock outlined against her hip when she pressed herself against me, and I felt her erect nipples against my chest through the partly open shirt.

“Are you having a good time?” I asked her.

In response, she took my hand and slipped it behind her pants, bypassing the thong and placing my fingers directly on her bare, sweaty buttocks; I slid my middle finger downward and found her pussy soaked, dripping with arousal, and pushed my finger in to the knuckle while she kept dancing pressed against me as if nothing were happening, squeezing me with her inner walls every time I applied pressure. She kept dancing until she caught her breath, my finger inside her while she barely rocked against it. Then someone tapped my shoulder: one of the men was asking for permission to dance with her. I assumed that was how things worked in the villages and stepped aside, slowly withdrawing my finger and sucking it in front of him with complete calm; the guy stared at me, and she let out a little laugh.

From my seat, drink in hand, I watched her dance happily. He had put his hand where mine had been before, grabbing her ass without a care, slipping his fingers between her buttocks over the fabric and, with a certain slyness, tugging her shirt farther open. Her face was glowing; her entire tits were now visible, bouncing to the rhythm of the music, and I decided I had to rescue her, because the guy was going too far—he had moved his hand to the front, undone her button, and was searching for her pussy inside her thong—and I no longer knew whether she was still playing along or being carried away without realizing it.

The man resisted giving me my place back until he understood I was serious. His advances had been quick: the shirt was completely open, her bare breasts moving with the dance, her nipples shining with the guy’s saliva, and the button of her pants was loose, about to give way, with the white thong already showing. A little more and he would have left her naked in the middle of the dance floor, with his cock buried all the way inside her.

We left holding up the back of her pants, already halfway down her hips, half her ass bare, and decided to go back. Throughout the journey to the car, her shirt remained half open, one nipple sticking out every two steps, making the few people we passed turn their heads.

***

I was on my way to my room when she called to me from the terrace.

“Hey, you’re not going to bed without one last drink…”

It was clear we were going to fuck that night, alone and in peace, and I wasn’t in any hurry. I found her sitting on the porch, lit by the diffuse outdoor light, naked, her skin wearing a matte sheen and her underwear tossed on the table where she had propped her feet. Her legs were spread, one hand resting between her thighs, her fingers idly brushing her pussy, as if she were caressing herself without noticing. I said nothing. I returned with two glasses, a bottle of whiskey, and a bucket of ice, poured the drinks, and sat beside her.

“Did you like showing yourself at the club and on the way back?”

“Very much. I liked being watched, seeing men’s desire on my body and the disgust of some women. And I liked that guy fingering me in front of everyone.”

“You would have liked to show yourself completely, wouldn’t you? To have him pull down your thong right there and put it inside you?”

“I think so. I felt excited and desired. My pussy’s still wet, look.”

She spread her legs and took my hand so I could check. She was dripping. I ran two fingers along her slit, up and down, and she let out a soft moan, squeezing my wrist so I wouldn’t pull away.

I suggested another game. In that dim light with the night behind us, she could show herself on one of those live-streaming sites, before anonymous voyeurs who logged in to watch, and find out what she felt then. To my surprise, she agreed. I placed the laptop on a small table, framing only the area where she was—from the waist down, her legs spread toward the camera, her shaved pussy glistening with fluid—leaving her face in shadow, opened one of those websites, and turned on the camera.

Within minutes, dozens of viewers began writing, excitedly asking her for any wild thing that crossed their minds. One asked her to touch herself. And she did: she separated her lips with two fingers, showing the pink, wet interior, and began rubbing her clitoris slowly in circles with the tip of her middle finger. Another asked her to finger herself, and she pushed two fingers in all the way, pulling them out glistening with juice and sucking them one by one. Another asked her to spread her ass, and she turned slightly, arched her back, and used both hands to pull her buttocks apart, showing the camera her dark, wrinkled asshole. She kept obeying the strangers on the other side of the screen—putting in three fingers, biting one nipple, spitting on her pussy and rubbing the saliva in with her palm—until they were all begging her to say where she was, the message bar transformed into a torrent of cocks and offers of money.

I had undressed to one side, watching her, my cock in my hand as I slowly jerked myself off, aroused by how eager she was to follow every suggestion. When she signaled to me, I moved closer. She took me firmly, gave me a deep kiss with her tongue inside, and from then on I took the initiative.

I grabbed her head and lowered it to the level of my crotch. She opened her mouth without saying anything and took my entire cock inside, gagging, with a wet sound that must have carried through all the viewers’ speakers. She sucked me deeply, holding my balls with one hand and pumping the base with the other, sticking out her tongue to lick my glans every time she came up for air, leaving strands of saliva hanging between her mouth and the tip. I fucked her face slowly, never taking my eyes off her, and when I felt I was going to come too soon, I pulled her up by the hair.

I laid her back on the table, face up, her legs hanging over the edge, and knelt between them. I ate her pussy hungrily, sucking her lips one by one, pushing my tongue as deep inside as I could, barely biting her swollen clitoris, until she began to tremble and grab my hair, pressing my face against her wet pubis. She came like that, in my mouth, with a hot, sour gush that I swallowed whole, squeezing her legs against my ears and screaming without caring about the camera anymore.

When she relaxed, I stood between her thighs, gripped my cock in one hand, and rubbed it against her pussy lips, up and down, soaking it. She was ready, dripping, and I entered slowly, all the way, in one long thrust, feeling her squeeze every inch of me. I began fucking her like that, standing against the table, her legs spread and hanging, holding her by the hips so I could drive into her balls-deep every time. She clung to the edges of the table, her tits bouncing with every thrust, moaning louder and louder, whispering filthy things in my ear between strokes—harder, yes, break me, give me that whole cock, you son of a bitch.

I turned her over and put her face down on the table, her feet still on the floor, her pert ass toward me. I spread her buttocks with my thumbs and pushed back inside her with more fury, the loud slaps of my pelvis against her ass, while she thrust backward, taking my cock all the way in and rubbing her face against the wood. I ran a finger through her saliva and pushed it into her asshole in rhythm with my thrusts, and she let out a long, filthy moan as her pussy began contracting around my cock in waves.

We forgot everything: the viewers were far away, virtual beings who no longer mattered. We stopped doing it so they could watch. We were doing it for ourselves, and the end came quickly. She writhed and screamed, struggling to contain herself, squeezing her pussy like a fist around my cock; I sped up when I felt her trembling beneath me, her moans growing louder and louder, until I couldn’t hold back anymore, pulled out, turned her over, and emptied my load over her—a thick spray across her tits, neck, open mouth, and cheek—while she rubbed it in with her hands and licked her fingers, looking into my eyes. We ended up embracing, breathless and happy, our skin sticky and cum still running between her breasts.

I closed the laptop when we went off to sleep, amid the silent applause of viewers we would never see again.