I Went to the Park Naked, Hoping Someone Would See Me

I couldn’t sleep. It was one of those February nights in Puerto Sabal when the heat doesn’t let up even after the sun has been gone for hours, and the air comes in through the window thick with salt and something else, a vibration that clings to your body and won’t go away with fresh sheets or glasses of water. I’d been tossing and turning for two hours, listening to the ceiling fan spin like a giant mosquito, and nothing was able to calm what I had inside me. My cunt was throbbing. As simple as that. It throbbed like I had a second heart between my legs, swollen, wet, begging for someone to open it up already.

I was wearing a short black cotton nightgown, tight, with nothing underneath. I’d put it on without thinking when I came back from the bathroom, and now, stretched out on the sheets, I could feel the fabric pulling at my nipples every time I breathed. They’d been hard for a while, so hard they hurt, and every time I turned the cloth scraped them and sent a jolt straight up to my clit. My whole body wanted something that wasn’t in the bed, something that couldn’t be fixed by my own hand under the covers like so many other nights. I’d put two fingers in a while ago, almost for sport, and pulled them out soaked, shining with slick, and I’d understood that tonight my own hand in my dark bedroom wasn’t going to be enough.

I checked the time on my phone. Three fifteen. The little square at the end of my street would be completely empty at that hour. I told myself that first like a whim, then like a possibility, then like a plan. Just to feel the air. Just for a few minutes.

I went down the stairs barefoot, keys in one hand and my heart already beating somewhere else. The building door creaked a little when it shut behind me. I stood on the step outside, breathing, waiting for some dog to bark or some light to go on. Nothing. Just the hum of a streetlamp flickering on the corner and the distant sound of waves three blocks away.

I walked slowly toward the square, feeling with every step how little the nightgown covered me. The hem brushed the tops of my thighs. If I took a long stride, the air slipped up underneath, cool against the heat already soaking me between the legs. I could feel a thread of slick running down the inside of my thigh, warm, sticky, and I forced myself not to wipe it away. I’d never gone out like this, not even in dreams, and the mere idea that I was doing it for real made my mouth go dry.

The square was small, with four palm trees and a couple of green-painted iron benches. The streetlights were yellow, tired, and left patches of shadow between the benches and the dry fountain in the center. I sat on the farthest one, the one facing a three-story building with almost all the windows shut. The iron was cold against the half of my ass left bare under the nightgown, and that contrast made me arch my back. I crossed my legs tight, as if I were trying to hold myself in, and the nightgown rode up without meaning to until it was at my hip.

***

I took a deep breath. The air smelled like jasmine. Someone, on some nearby balcony, had a jasmine plant that had been blooming for weeks and perfumed the whole block after midnight. I slid my hand over my thigh, not with any real intention yet, just touching, feeling the skin hot and damp above the knee. Then a little higher. My fingers hit the wetness before they reached my cunt, as if the slick had spilled halfway down my leg. I was already drenched before I left; I didn’t need to check, but I checked anyway. I parted my lips with my index and middle fingers, felt my clit jutting out, swollen, throbbing, and my fingers slid inside without effort. I pushed in one, then two, to the knuckles, and clenched my teeth not to make a sound. The wet, filthy sound came through loud and clear in the silence of the square.

What turned me on most wasn’t touching myself. It was knowing where I was.

I was in a square. In view of any window. With two fingers buried deep in my cunt, on an iron bench, my nightgown bunched at the waist and my tits almost out. In view of any insomniac who might step out to smoke, any neighbor coming home late from a shift, any stranger crossing on their way home. Anyone could turn the corner and find me spread open, my hand sunk between my legs, fucking myself on the public street. Anyone could already be watching, hidden behind a curtain, cock in hand, without my knowing.

The thought left me almost breathless.

I made myself pull my fingers out. They came free with a sticky sound and I lifted them up to my face. They gleamed all over, with strings of slick between them, and without really thinking I brought them to my mouth and sucked them slowly, tasting myself, feeling my own sour, salty flavor on my tongue. I wanted to stretch the moment. I wanted to feel the edge and not cross it right away. I leaned back against the bench, opened my legs a little, and let the nightgown do whatever it wanted. It rode up. Of course it did. I was left with my cunt bare, open, exposed to the breeze and whatever else. The breeze, soft and warm, touched me where no one else was touching me that night, slid over my swollen clit, and I let out a sigh so long it startled me to hear it.

On the third floor of the building across from me, a window lit up.

It was only a moment. A yellow light behind a white curtain. A silhouette, maybe, leaning forward. Maybe not. Maybe a reflection, maybe a shift in the air. But I saw it and my throat closed. I didn’t move. I didn’t pull down my nightgown. I stayed exactly as I was, my legs spread wide, my feet barely touching the ground, looking at that window and breathing very slowly. With my free hand I pulled down the neckline of the nightgown and slipped one breast out, offered that too to the window, and pinched my nipple between two fingers until the sharp sting tore a short moan out of me.

“Let them see me,” I whispered, not recognizing my own voice. “Let them see all of me. Let them grab their cock and watch me.”

The curtain moved. Or maybe it didn’t. I wasn’t sure of anything anymore. The only certain thing was that my body had made the decision for both of us: for the cautious girl who went home every night at eleven and for the other one, the three-a.m. girl, the one who was there, exposed, with one tit out and my cunt leaking, ready for anything.

I put my hand back down. This time without hiding it. Two fingers, slowly, drawing circles over my clit, while I kept my eyes fixed on that third-floor window. I sped up. Faster. Then I slid my fingers lower, drove them in again, and started fucking my hand hard, moving my hips against my palm, thrusting forward, feeling the bench’s iron scrape my ass every time I arched. If there was someone behind the curtain, let them look. If there was some stranger with his cock hard in his hand, watching me fuck myself in the square, even better. If there was no one, it didn’t matter: I was doing it for that possible silhouette, for that possible eye, for that night that no longer belonged only to me.

Pleasure came over me in soft waves. Every thrust of my fingers pulled a longer moan than the one before, and I had to bite my lip not to wake up the whole block. I didn’t want to finish yet. I didn’t want to finish there, on the bench, in thirty seconds, like an impatient little girl. I wanted it to last long enough that I’d never forget it, long enough that I could go home with my head full of images and my skin still hot and my cunt still throbbing.

I pulled my hand out. I looked at my fingers shining under the yellow streetlight, soaked to the wrist. I licked them again, one by one, staring hard at the third-floor window, just in case whoever was behind it wanted to see that part too. I smiled to myself like an idiot, my own slick painting my lips.

***

A noise to my left. A dull thud, like a door shutting. I looked without moving. It was the entrance to the building across from me, the one with the balcony and the jasmine plant. A man came out carrying a trash bag, in shorts and a T-shirt, hair mussed, looking like he hadn’t slept. He walked over to the dumpster half a block away and didn’t turn around.

I was still sitting on the bench, my nightgown hiked to my waist, my left breast still out and my cunt open and shining. Anyone who turned their head would see me all at once. My heart was in my throat. And, though I don’t want to fully admit it, I didn’t pull the fabric down. I squeezed my legs together, yes, but I didn’t cover myself. I left it in his hands: whether he looked or not.

He tossed the bag into the dumpster. He came back walking slowly, looking at the ground. Three meters from the entrance, he lifted his head and saw me.

He froze. So did I. It was one second, maybe two. We didn’t say anything. He didn’t come closer, didn’t smile, didn’t make any obscene gesture. He just looked at me, all of me, from my feet to my breast to my open cunt and then to my face, the way someone looks at something they didn’t expect to find and knows they shouldn’t be looking at. I saw his gaze drop to the bulge beginning to show in his shorts, and he realized I’d seen that too. Then he went inside the building. The door made that same dry noise when it shut.

I was left trembling.

Not from fear. From the opposite.

***

I went home fast, almost running, with the nightgown clinging to my skin and my thighs sliding against each other, soaked with myself. Every step was a new rub of the swollen clit against the seam. Every corner, a possibility of running into someone else. I didn’t run into anyone. The street stayed empty all the way to my building’s entrance, as if the whole city had agreed to leave that stretch to me alone.

I took the stairs two at a time. I shut the door and didn’t turn on the light. The kitchen still smelled like afternoon coffee. I leaned against the hallway wall and stood there for a few seconds, listening to my own breathing, feeling my heart batter against my ribs and the slick still running down the inside of my thigh.

Then I let myself fall to the living room floor, onto the rug that smelled like sun and dust.

I yanked the nightgown over my head and threw it to the side. I was left naked on the rug, tits out and nipples so hard they seemed to point at the ceiling. I spread my legs as wide as I could, until I felt the pull in my groin, and stayed like that for a moment, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the image to come back on its own. And it did.

The man from the entrance, standing three meters from me. The way he had stopped. The bulge showing in his shorts. The idea that now, while I touched myself on the floor of my house, he could be across the street with his cock in his hand, jerking off thinking about me, maybe asking himself the same question: what was that bitch on the bench?, what was she going to do when she got home?, was she still there with her legs open?

I touched myself with both hands. The right one went straight to my cunt, three fingers this time, sliding in at once because I was so wet there was no resistance at all. The left one climbed to my chest and squeezed a whole breast, hard, digging my nails around the nipple until pain and pleasure mixed in my stomach. I fucked my hand hard, moving my hips against my fingers, listening to the wet sound fill the empty living room. With my thumb I tapped my clit on every thrust, and I could feel the orgasm building at the base of my spine, still far off but already on its way.

I imagined going back to the square. I imagined he came down again, this time without the trash bag, this time with his cock already out. I imagined he crossed the street without saying a word, stood in front of the bench, grabbed my hair with one hand and shoved his cock into my mouth with the other, and I sucked him all the way there, kneeling in the square, while he looked up at the third-floor window so the silhouette could see exactly how I was eating his dick. I imagined that afterward he turned me around against the bench backrest, spread my ass cheeks with his thumbs, and drove his cock into my cunt in one thrust, all the way to the base, until his balls hit my clit. I imagined him fucking me there, folded over the green iron, not speaking, not asking my name, not holding back, until he came inside me and left his semen dripping between my legs while he went home as if nothing had happened.

I imagined the third-floor window too. The white curtain. The possible silhouette with a hand on his cock. Two strangers with no names, one jerking off and one fucking me, the three of us bound together by that square at three-thirty in the morning, and me in the middle, sucking, being stuffed, coming like a stray dog with no owner.

I came right there on the rug, with three fingers buried deep and my palm hammering my clit, biting my arm so I wouldn’t scream. The orgasm shot through me from bottom to top, made my whole back arch, squeezed the walls of my cunt around my fingers in spasms that wouldn’t stop. I let out a muffled cry that stayed inside the house, and I felt a warm gush soak my hand and drip onto the rug. I kept moving my fingers until the second orgasm caught me almost on top of the first, shorter but sharper, and only then did I pull my hand out because I couldn’t take any more.

After that I stayed on the floor for a very long time, still naked, still breathing in broken gasps, with my fingers shining and stuck to my hip. I felt my body slowly cooling, my skin becoming just skin again, my desire folding itself away somewhere hidden, waiting for the next impossible night.

Before getting up, I crawled to the living room window and pulled the curtain aside just a little, still in the nude, my tits resting on the frame. The square could be seen in the distance, empty again, with the same streetlamp flickering on the same corner and the green benches in place, as if no one had been there with her legs open twenty minutes earlier. On the third floor of the building across from me, the light was still on.

I smiled in the dark and promised myself I’d never ask who lived there. Some nights work better if you don’t know.