I Went Out Without Underwear and He Noticed Everything

I woke up one ordinary Tuesday with an idea lodged in my head that wouldn’t let me go back to sleep. I’d been turning it over for weeks, but that morning, with the white light coming through the window, I knew I was going to do it. I was going to go out into the street with nothing underneath.

It’s not that I consider myself a repressed woman. I’m twenty-nine, I work at a travel agency, and my sex life is no desert. What was happening was something else. A curiosity that had settled inside me like a splinter.

I wanted to know what it feels like to cross a square, climb a staircase, sit down in a café, knowing that any breeze could leave me exposed. I wanted that fear. I wanted that vertigo.

I showered unhurriedly. I shaved slowly, watching my reflection in the tile, feeling like every movement was part of a ritual. I ran the razor over the lips of my cunt, leaving them perfectly smooth, and I stayed there for a while touching myself, feeling the naked skin, the clit already stirring a little, the wetness beginning to show on its own. I dried off, put on lotion. And then I opened the underwear drawer, looked at it for a few seconds, and closed it without taking anything out.

That’s it. Today’s the day.

I chose a navy blue skirt, light cotton, that fell just above my knees. It’s not indecent. It doesn’t draw attention. But it’s the kind that flies up with the slightest gust, and that was exactly what I needed.

Up top I put on a white blouse with thin straps, fitted, with no bra. My breasts aren’t large, so the effect is subtle. Just implied. Just suspected. My nipples, though, pressed hard against the fabric, two little points that said everything.

I looked at myself in the hallway mirror. An ordinary woman. One more among the thousands who were going to leave that morning to run errands, have coffee, waste time in a mall. No one could guess what was boiling inside me.

I went out onto the street and the air was the first caress. It climbed up my legs like an invisible hand, slipped under my skirt, and licked my naked cunt directly. I walked to the bus stop clutching my purse against my side, feeling every step as if it were the first of my life.

The skirt’s fabric swayed against my bare thighs, and I tried not to smile. It was a new sensation, almost childish, having a huge secret between my legs while the world kept walking around without knowing a thing.

“Good morning,” the driver said when I got on.

“Good morning,” I answered in the most neutral voice I could manage.

I sat by the window, crossed my legs carefully, and watched the city go by. A woman with two produce bags sat down beside me and noticed nothing. Of course she didn’t. How could she notice anything?

That was the part I liked most. It was an absolute secret and, at the same time, a silent declaration. I knew it, and that was enough to have my heart racing.

***

The Las Acacias mall is always half empty on Tuesday mornings. That’s why I chose it. I didn’t want crowds, I didn’t want shoving, I didn’t want my first time to be among sweaty bodies at peak hour. I wanted space. I wanted time to feel everything.

I came in through the parking entrance and the air conditioning hit me. Cold. Direct. For a second the skirt stuck to my thighs and then lifted away again. The icy air climbed my legs and touched my naked cunt with delicious cruelty. I stood near a storefront pretending to look at handbags just to get used to the sensation. I felt my inner lips swelling, opening against nothing, slowly wetting the inside of my thighs.

A store employee asked if I needed help. I told her I was just looking. I smiled with the most innocent face in the world. If you only knew I’m dripping in the middle of the aisle.

I wandered the ground floor aimlessly. I passed the shoe store, the perfume shop, a lingerie boutique that amused me. Inside, a girl was trying on a lace set in front of the mirror. I, standing in the aisle, thought my situation was infinitely more obscene than hers: she had something on, I didn’t.

In the shoe store I bent down to look at some sandals on the bottom shelf. And that’s when I felt it. The skirt lifted just a little, but enough for the cold air to touch me directly between the legs, directly on my open, wet cunt.

I stayed there a second longer than necessary, bent over, pretending to read a price I’d already read. My whole head was one thought cutting through my skull: is someone seeing my ass and cunt right now?

I slowly lifted my gaze. There was no one nearby. Just the saleswoman, busy with another customer. I straightened up slowly, my legs a little shaky, and understood I couldn’t keep walking without doing something. I was soaked. So soaked I could feel the wetness running down the inside of my thigh, a hot thread sliding slowly until it nearly touched my knee.

***

I took the escalator up to the first floor. It’s silly, I know, but I stood against the handrail and let the people coming up behind me see whatever they wanted to see. I didn’t look back. I didn’t want to know. That part of the game was not knowing. I did feel the current of air rising through the stairwell opening and lifting the skirt a few centimeters higher than it should’ve been.

I reached the top with hot cheeks. The ice cream shop was at the end of the corridor, next to a coffee place with round tables scattered through the common area. I went to the counter and ordered a pistachio and lemon cone. The girl behind the glass smiled at me with the mechanical kindness of someone repeating the same sentence a hundred times. I paid her, trying to keep my voice steady.

And then I saw him.

He was sitting alone at one of the tables, with a light gray jacket hanging on the back of the chair and a cup of coffee in front of him. Sixty-something, I guessed. White hair, neat, combed back. Thin metal-framed glasses resting on his nose.

The kind of face that doesn’t belong in a mall on a Tuesday morning. A boardroom face, a study lined with books, the face of a man used to being listened to when he speaks.

He looked at me.

He didn’t look at me the way other men had that morning, sideways, measuring, calculating. He looked straight at me, without hiding it and without being rude. A look that took its time.

It dropped to my sandals, climbed my skirt, paused half a second too long at my hips, kept going, passed over the blouse—where my nipples were betraying me under the cotton—and settled on my eyes. I held his gaze for a moment, I don’t know why. Then I looked away and walked to the nearest table, two places down from his.

I sat down with the ice cream in my hand, offering him my profile. I crossed my legs. The skirt shifted. When I crossed them, my naked cunt brushed against the inside of the other thigh and the contact sent a tremor through me that I could barely hide.

He knows. He’s figuring it out right now.

He had no way of knowing. It was impossible. And yet, in my head, that was the only thing happening. That that man in the gray jacket, with his coffee going cold, was silently reconstructing the fact that I had absolutely nothing on underneath, that I was soaked, that if he slid a hand under the table he’d find my lips open and throbbing.

I licked the ice cream slowly. I stuck my whole tongue out and ran the tip over the pistachio, then took it into my mouth and sucked it like it was something else. I was secondhand embarrassed by myself. It was a scene from a cheap script, and still I couldn’t stop. I dipped the spoon, brought it to my mouth, closed my lips around it, and from the other side I felt his eyes return for a second. I changed which leg was crossed. The skirt moved up another two centimeters. I knew that little adjustment had given him one more clue: the bare skin of my inner thigh, higher than any woman with panties would ever show.

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. He was still there. He hadn’t moved. He had the cup in his hand and was looking elsewhere with that air of a man who knows how to pretend. But the bulge in the crotch of his dress pants was clearly visible, even with the drape of the cashmere, and that made me clamp my thighs hard because I realized he was as hard as I was wet.

When he turned his head, his eyes found me again. This time it was shorter. Barely a second. And then he looked away again, as if nothing had ever happened.

My pulse throbbed in my neck. I was still there with the ice cream, sitting like a little lady, pretending it was just another ordinary morning. But inside I was so close to the edge it almost hurt. I could feel my clit beating against the seam of the skirt every time I moved, a small desperate pulse begging for attention.

***

The most unbearable thing was that he did nothing. He didn’t come closer. He didn’t speak to me. He didn’t send a waiter with a little note. He just stayed there, sipping his coffee as if he were a visitor in a museum and I were the exhibit of the month.

That stillness, that kind of polite patience, was driving me insane. I would have preferred almost anything else: a dirty word, a clumsy invitation, a hand lingering too long as it passed. Anything. Something I could say yes or no to. But he wasn’t giving me anything to decide on. He was only looking at me. And with that look he was fucking me from a distance, without touching me, as if he knew exactly what to do to me if I let him.

At some point I leaned forward to adjust a sandal. It wasn’t calculated. Or maybe it was, I don’t know. I leaned forward and the blouse opened a little at the neckline, showing my tits hanging loose, braless, with the pink nipples standing up and pointing at the floor. When I straightened up again, his eyes were elsewhere, too fast. I’d done it again. And as if that weren’t enough, when I bent forward the skirt rode up in back and I’m absolutely sure I gave him a whole piece of my bare ass.

I felt a hot liquid running down the inside of my thigh. A thick little stream, impossible to hide. I had to squeeze my legs together and pray the skirt wouldn’t stain. I could barely breathe. My clit was throbbing so hard that if I ran a finger over the fabric I’d come right there, in front of him, in front of the café woman, in front of the girl at the ice cream stand. If I stayed at that table ten more minutes, I was going to end up moaning alone in an iron chair with a melting cone in my hand and my hand buried deep between my legs.

I stood up abruptly. I tossed the ice cream in the trash without finishing it. I walked past his table without looking at him, but close enough for the hem of my skirt to brush his knee. I swear I felt the heat of his leg through the fabric. And I swear he inhaled sharply as I passed, as if scenting the smell of wet cunt I was leaving behind.

“Have a nice day,” I said without slowing down.

“You too, miss,” he replied in a low voice, with a smile I never got to see in full.

I left the mall almost running. I ordered a car through the app, waited at the curb clutching my purse against my stomach. When the driver stopped in front of me and I opened the door, a gust lifted my skirt for a second. I didn’t look at who was around. I didn’t care.

For the whole ride I kept my legs pressed together and my right hand tucked between my thighs, squeezing the skirt fabric against my cunt so I could feel even a little pressure. The driver looked at me once in the mirror and I think he realized, because he lowered his eyes and didn’t lift them again until he stopped at my door.

***

I got home with sticky legs and a sweat-soaked blouse. I slammed the door shut, threw my purse onto the couch, and before I even reached the bedroom I was already pulling off my skirt. It fell to the hallway floor. I yanked the blouse over my head without unbuttoning it and ended up completely naked, my nipples so hard they hurt and my cunt dripping in two thick streams down the inside of my thighs.

I lay down on the bed and spread my legs wide open. I looked at myself in the wardrobe mirror across from me. The lips of my cunt were red, swollen, shiny, open like a dirty flower. My clit was peeking out from its hood, hard, visibly throbbing.

I put two fingers in my mouth, really wet them, and ran them over my clit in slow circles. The first touch tore a moan out of me, a guttural sound I didn’t recognize as mine. I was so sensitive that every pass made my back arch against the mattress.

I lowered my hand and shoved one whole finger inside all at once. It went in like butter, with no resistance. I pushed in the second. Both of them to the base, until I felt my palm bump my clit. I started fucking myself furiously, with no tenderness at all, pulling my fingers in and out with a splashing sound filling the bedroom.

I closed my eyes and went back to the instant he kept looking at me around hip level. I went back to the second I bent to adjust the sandal and showed him my tits and ass without meaning to. I went back to his “You too, miss,” said with that half smile of a man who knows.

In my head it was no longer a polite fantasy. In my head the old man grabbed my hair, hauled me up from the café chair, and dragged me into a mall bathroom. He pinned me against the tile, yanked my skirt up, and shoved two thick fingers into my cunt to check how wet I was. “You’re soaked, little slut,” he whispered in my ear with that polite voice, and he unzipped his pants to pull out a hard cock, thick, veined, the purple head ready to burst.

I imagined myself kneeling in front of him in the bathroom, my skirt wrinkled up at my waist and my tits out, and taking him into my throat. I sucked him in my head hungrily, tasting every inch, squeezing his balls with one hand and masturbating with the other. I licked his head, swallowed him whole until my eyes watered, felt his hands gripping my hair and setting the rhythm for me.

Then I imagined myself on my back against the cold tile, one leg lifted and his cock forcing its way into my swollen cunt. He shoved it in with one thrust and tore a scream out of me that he swallowed with his mouth. He fucked me slowly at first, looking into my eyes with that polite calm, and then harder, with deep thrusts that made the back of my head bang against the wall. His balls slapped against my ass, my wrinkled skirt dangled from my waist, and I dug my nails into the shoulders of his gray jacket.

“That’s how you like it, isn’t it?” he said. “Going out into the street without panties so some old man can find you and fuck you the way you deserve.” And I told him yes, yes, harder, deeper, fill me with cum.

On the bed, with two fingers buried to the base and my thumb pressing my clit, I brought my other hand up to my chest and pinched a nipple hard. I imagined the old man’s load filling my cunt, spilling down my thighs, mixing with mine, and that thought was what finally broke me.

I came so hard I had to bite the back of my other hand to keep from screaming. The orgasm surged up from the soles of my feet, shook my stomach, bent me in half. I felt my cunt clench against my own fingers in long spasms, one after another, while a hot stream came out of me and stained my palm. It was long, it was dirty, it was mine.

When my breathing finally settled, I stayed there staring at the ceiling fan turning slowly, with my fingers still inside, feeling the last contractions squeezing me. I was smiling. I was naked, with my hair plastered to my forehead and a dark patch of wetness under my ass, and I couldn’t stop smiling.

I thought about him, his light gray jacket, his thin-framed glasses. I thought about how he had looked at me without touching me, how he had kept everything inside like a gentleman who was never taught how desire gives itself away.

And I also thought about the next time. Because there was going to be a next time, I already knew that. Maybe a lighter skirt. Maybe a different hour. Maybe a little less pretense and a little more boldness. Maybe next time I’ll sit right across from him and spread my legs until he sees everything. What do you think?