My New Year’s Eve Secret Beneath the Black Dress
Hi. This is the first time I’ve worked up the nerve to tell something that really happened to me, so I’ll start with the basics so you can get an idea. I’m twenty-one, brunette, cinnamon-skinned, not skinny, and not what you’d call busty either; my assets have always been lower down, in hips that show when I walk and an ass that takes up space, round and heavy, the kind that bounces as I walk and shows beneath any fabric. That, and a poorly concealed curiosity that has gotten me into more than a few strange situations. Like the one on that New Year’s Eve.
To understand what happened that night, we have to go back a little. I grew up in the years when the internet was practically a lawless territory, with no parental filters and no one checking what I typed on my old tablet. YouTube video thumbnails were already bait: tits promised on the cover, ridiculous titles, and in the end some YouTuber shouting about anything at all. I was left with a strange sensation in my body, an uncomfortable heat between my legs, my pussy throbbing beneath my underwear, which disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. Frustration was what finally pushed me, one ordinary afternoon, to type the two words that seemed the most forbidden in the world.
“Naked girls.”
What came up changed the way I thought. Not because of the thrill of seeing other people’s bodies, but because of something it took me a long time to explain: what turned me on wasn’t looking at those women with their tits bare and their shaved pussies spread wide. What turned me on was imagining myself inside them, occupying that place, feeling what they seemed to feel when they undressed in front of a camera or someone who wasn’t supposed to see them. The difference matters. I didn’t want to look; I wanted to be looked at, with my legs spread, my wet pussy on display, even though I didn’t know how to name that fantasy yet.
The first time I touched myself, I was sitting on the lid of the toilet in the small bathroom of my old house. I crossed my legs tightly, squeezing my thighs until my clitoris throbbed against the seam of my pants, until something heated up inside me and scared me so badly that I stopped. But I went back. I came back every two or three days with the stupidest excuse I could think of, and each time I lasted a little longer before standing up. It was my first secret discipline.
Soon my searches on the tablet escalated. I went from “naked girls” to “naked women dancing,” and from there to “women touching their pussies,” and from there to the one that ended up defining me: “naked women in public.” I watched those girls lift their skirts in an empty train station with nothing underneath, cross a park topless at five in the morning with their tits bare, sit with their legs spread wide on a bench in a provincial town square where no one passed by, displaying their pink pussies as if it were nothing. I imagined myself in their place. I learned to rub myself properly over my clitoris, in slow circles, without inserting my fingers. I was afraid of hurting myself and, above all, afraid of taking something that was worth so much in my head away from myself.
I’m the kind of person who, once I sets my mind to something, doesn’t rest until I’ve done it. And after months of watching videos of girls daring to do things out in the street, at some point I understood that watching them wasn’t going to be enough. I needed to try. Even if it was a small-scale version, in a backyard, without a real audience. The opportunity came on New Year’s Eve.
***
That afternoon I got dressed the way any daughter of a mother gets dressed for a family dinner. A black dress with gold details on the sleeves, a modest neckline, and a hem four fingers above my knees. Soft makeup. Earrings my aunt had given me two Christmases earlier. The house hosting the party was my grandparents’ house, less than a meter from mine; in my old neighborhood, all the doors opened onto the same narrow street and everyone knew everyone. Half my family was already there, warming themselves with wine before midnight.
Me, still fairly introverted, stayed in the living room of my own house until the last possible moment. My mother had warned me: as soon as I called you, cross over. In the meantime, everything was dim. Only two streetlights were on, the usual ones, the ones that flickered a little. My neighbors were famous for being stingy with electricity, and that night it worked in my favor.
The plan wasn’t exactly a plan. It was more of a tingling between my legs, an idea that had slipped between my ribs and gone straight down to my pussy, and wouldn’t leave. I thought about that girl in the video who walked around beneath a dress identical to mine with nothing underneath, her naked ass beneath the fabric. I thought about all the times I’d promised myself that one day I’d dare. I thought about how that night, through some strange conjunction of circumstances, I had my entire family less than a meter away and, at the same time, completely outside my house.
I turned off the living-room lights.
Behind my house was a roofed-over lot we called “the shed,” a mixture of garage and storage room, and at the back was my grandfather Hernán’s old carpentry workshop, abandoned for years. The shed faced the street, but was partly concealed by a waist-high wall, and the window of the nearest neighbor, Mrs. Lidia, was blocked by a jasmine plant that had been growing since before I was born. If anyone wanted to see me, they’d have to make a real effort. And even so, part of me wanted someone to make that effort, someone to press their face to the glass to see my pussy up close.
I crossed the service patio barefoot so I wouldn’t make any noise. The floor was freezing. When I reached the shed, I dragged an old wicker rocking chair to the center and left it facing the street, toward the darkness. Then, standing beside the seat, I did what I’d been rehearsing in my head for weeks.
I lifted the skirt of my dress. I pulled my panties down to my ankles with both hands, feeling the cotton peel away from my pussy with a little wet tug—I was already wet, long before touching myself—then I took them off and hid them inside my bra, against the left side of my chest, where the bulge was barely noticeable. Before lowering my dress, I ran two fingers over my pussy lips, slowly, just to confirm what I already knew: I was soaked, the pubic hairs stuck to my skin, my clitoris swollen like a hard pearl. The dress fell back into place and, for a second, nothing happened. The next second, it did. The warm fabric brushing against my naked pussy, with nothing between us, sliding between my buttocks at the slightest movement, was a current that reached all the way to the nape of my neck. I laughed to myself, with that nervous laugh you have when you’ve done something naughty.
I walked around the shed with the affected calm of someone going out to look at the garden. I made one complete circuit. Every step reminded me that there was nothing beneath me: my thighs rubbed against each other, slick with my own juices, and the fabric of my dress clung to the crack of my ass with every stride. I stopped near the door, where the streetlight entered in a thin beam, and lifted my dress from behind until my buttocks were bare. The January cold raised gooseflesh on my skin and drew a sigh from me. With my free hand I spread one ass cheek, slowly, exposing my asshole as well as my wet pussy slit toward the street. If Mrs. Lidia had gone out into the patio at that moment, all she would have seen between the vines were two dark curves moving slowly and, in the middle, a wet gleam that gave me away. I liked imagining her watching, her mouth open, her hand under her skirt. I liked imagining even more that she wasn’t doing it and that I was still there anyway, exposing myself with my ass spread for an empty street.
As I said, I’m one of those people who finishes what she starts. I pretended to drop something and bent down to pick it up without bending my knees, offering everything I had to a nonexistent audience: my ass high in the air, my legs straight and apart, my pussy hanging between my thighs, swollen and dripping. I stayed like that for a few seconds too long, barely moving my hips from side to side, as if offering the view to someone standing behind me, as if I were asking permission for him to fuck me. I felt ridiculous and powerful at the same time.
This is what they feel, I thought. This is what they wanted me to understand.
I went back to the rocking chair. I sat down with my dress still lowered, pretending to be modest for two more seconds, as if the audience that didn’t exist deserved a little theater. And then, slowly, I began lifting my skirt to my thighs. To my hips. To my waist. Until my pussy was exposed, open to the cold air of the shed, my swollen lips shining in the gloom. It smelled of old wood from Grandpa’s workshop, of dust, of the end of the year, and now also of my own sex, that warm, sour scent escaping between my legs.
I was wet. Wetter than I had ever been while touching myself in the bathroom. A thread of moisture slipped between my buttocks and stained the wicker of the rocking chair. It wasn’t the cold, and it wasn’t alcohol—I hadn’t had anything to drink yet—it was the exact combination of knowing where my family was and knowing where I was, with my pussy exposed to the open air forty meters from my uncle, my mother, and my cousins toasting with cheap champagne. I lifted my feet off the floor and rested them on the rocking chair’s armrests, spreading my legs like a cheap offering, my pink pussy completely open, my inner lips separating on their own because I was so soaked. With two fingers I spread myself even wider, displaying myself to nothingness, displaying the glistening hole no one had ever entered. If someone came looking for me at my house, they’d see the empty, dark living room first. They’d have to turn right, reach the patio, and look into the shed. That gave me, at most, thirty seconds. Plenty of time.
I started with my clitoris, as always. Two fingers, small circles, just the right pressure. I felt the little button swell beneath my fingertip, harder and slicker with every moment. The difference this time wasn’t what I was doing but where I was doing it. Every creak of the rocking chair was a new risk. Every distant dog bark made me hold my breath and, instead of stopping, made me move faster, squeezing my clitoris between my index and middle fingers, giving it the slightest tug. With my free hand I pulled down my neckline and slipped one breast out over the dress; my nipple hardened instantly, painfully contracted by the cold. I pinched it hard, with my nails, until a jolt shot straight down to my pussy and I felt a fresh drop escape and roll to my asshole.
I lowered my fingers to the entrance of my pussy. I had never inserted anything, but that night I could. That night everything was allowed. I placed the tip of my middle finger against the hole, wet and slippery, and pushed just a little. The flesh yielded slightly, hot and tight, pulling a low moan from me that I had to smother against my shoulder. I inserted only as far as the first knuckle, and even so I felt the inner walls closing around my finger, pulsing with every heartbeat. I pulled it out, wet and shining, and went back to my clitoris with that extra moisture, spreading it over myself, sliding across it as if I had lubricant.
I closed my eyes and, to take myself to the edge, imagined that someone really was watching me. Not anyone specific. A shadow. A curious neighbor with his fly open and his cock in his hand, slowly jerking off behind the jasmine. A stranger standing on the other side of the fence, holding his breath so he wouldn’t give himself away, soaking his pants over what he was seeing: a twenty-one-year-old girl spread-legged in a rocking chair, one tit out, two fingers buried halfway inside her, her pussy squelching in her own juices. I imagined him making up his mind. Pushing the gate open slowly, crossing the shed without a sound, standing between my legs, and driving his cock all the way inside me without saying a word, covering my mouth with his hand so I wouldn’t scream and give myself away to the family.
The fantasy undid me. I felt the orgasm rise from my feet, tense my thighs, and clamp down on my stomach. I came without making a sound, biting my lip until I tasted blood so I wouldn’t release the scream climbing up my throat. It was short and fierce, a convulsion that made me clamp my legs around my own hand, my pussy contracting in waves around the finger still inside me, squirting out a warm little stream that soaked my palm and dripped onto the shed floor. I stayed like that for half a minute, my feet still on the armrests and my exposed pussy throbbing, one tit out, my fingers shining with juices, listening to my heart and the distant sounds from my grandparents’ house: music, a laugh I recognized as my uncle’s, someone opening a bottle.
***
When I was finally able to move, the first thing I thought of was my mother. That at any moment she was going to call for me from the door. I lowered my feet, tucked my breast back inside the dress—the nipple still hard and scraping against the fabric—smoothed down my skirt, took my panties out of my bra, and put them back on with clumsy hands. The elastic dug into my waist as I stretched it, and I felt the cotton cling instantly to my soaked pussy, sucking up all the moisture, warm and sticky, as if it were keeping the evidence between my legs. I returned the rocking chair to its corner, checked that I hadn’t left a stain on the wicker, turned on only the light at the back of the shed so it would look as if I’d gone down there to fetch something, and crossed the house silently to the living room.
Just as I sat down on the sofa, I heard my mother’s voice from the front door.
—Camila! Come on, we’re sitting down already!
Camila isn’t my name, but I’ll call them that from here on out. Just in case.
I crossed over to the party as if nothing had happened, my panties growing wetter and wetter and the smell of pussy rising beneath my dress, certain that someone was going to notice at any moment. I toasted at midnight. I ate. I danced to a couple of songs with my cousin, pressing against her just enough to feel the friction awaken my swollen clitoris again. No one noticed that I wasn’t the same person who had left the house an hour earlier. No one could have noticed. But every time I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, I felt the evidence: panties a little wetter than was reasonable, the elastic digging into my flesh, and a heat between my thighs that hadn’t completely died down, a persistent throb in my pussy that stayed with me all night.
That was my first exhibitionist experience, if you can call something that happened in front of an empty street that. To me, it counts, and it counts for a lot. Because it was the first time I understood, in my body and not on a screen, that what I liked wasn’t looking: it was being watched with my pussy spread open, my tits out, my fingers buried inside myself. Even if the only person watching me that night was me from the inside, hidden behind my eyes, observing myself do what I’d imagined for years.
Everything that happened afterward began on that New Year’s Eve, but that part—if you’re brave enough to read it—I’ll tell you another day.