The Afternoon I Decided to Go for a Walk with Nothing Under My Dress

This message is for those of you who wrote to me by email after my last story, especially the couple who sent me their photo. I know you know who you are.

It was a Sunday in September, one of those mild days when it’s neither cold nor hot, and the whole city seemed to have emptied out. Diego had gone to Mendoza for work on Friday and wasn’t coming back until Tuesday. Four days alone in the apartment, my head full of ideas I didn’t dare tell anyone. Four days without a cock inside me, without a mouth on my neck, without hands squeezing my ass. And I, who get worse when I’m alone than when I’m with someone, had already been cooking up my horniness since Saturday night, when I’d made myself come twice with my fingers while thinking about the scene that eventually happened.

By five in the afternoon, I couldn’t stand the silence in the living room anymore. I stepped onto the balcony, saw the air rising gently from the sea, and decided I needed to walk. But not just any kind of walk. I wanted to walk in that way of mine that only I know.

I opened the dresser drawer and, after thinking about it for twenty seconds, closed it without taking anything out. No underwear. No bra, either. I took a terracotta-colored shirt dress from the closet, falling to mid-calf, made of a light fabric that moved by itself in the air. I put it on over my naked skin and felt the cotton brushing my nipples with every breath. I looked at myself in the mirror and laughed to myself. The two hard points showed through the fabric, and when I turned around and looked at my ass over my shoulder, I saw the fabric sticking to the cleft between my cheeks every time I walked. I slipped my hand between my legs, under the dress, and I was already wet. My fingers came out sticky. I brought them to my mouth and sucked my own taste off them before leaving.

I know what you’re doing, Camila. And you’re going to do it anyway.

I called a taxi and told the driver to drop me near the lighthouse, on the rise leading to the boardwalk. It’s my favorite place in the city. There’s a broad path along the cliff, with wooden benches every twenty yards and a low stone wall separating the sidewalk from the road. There are always people there in the afternoon: couples, runners, old people walking their dogs, tourists taking pictures with their phones. It’s busy, but not crowded. Exactly the balance I needed.

I got out of the taxi and started walking slowly, my hands in the dress pockets. The first gust of wind hit me from the side and lifted my skirt to my thighs. I had to hold it down with one hand. The guy riding past on a bicycle turned to look and nearly crashed into a railing. I smiled. I’d seen his eyes go wide: he’d managed to see half my pussy from below, I was sure of it.

“Easy, Camila,” I said softly to myself. “You’re just getting started.”

I walked another hundred yards and began to feel the fabric rubbing against my nipples, hardening them. It wasn’t gradual; it happened immediately. The friction of the cotton with every step, together with the cool air slipping in through the dress’s neckline, made them hard as two buttons. And they showed. They showed far too much. I looked down for a second and saw the two perfect marks outlined against the fabric, as if I had two thimbles pointing outward. I felt a warm trickle running down the inside of my left thigh. Wet pussy, no panties, right there on the sidewalk. The thought alone made me squeeze my thighs together to hold back another gush.

A couple was coming toward me. The woman looked at my face first, then my chest, then back at my face with that tight smile women wear when they see another woman doing something they wouldn’t dare do themselves. Her husband pretended to look out at the sea, but I saw his neck turn once we’d passed, and I also saw the bulge beginning to show in his pants. His cock got hard just from crossing paths with me. That finished getting me hot.

The wind kept pushing. I knew it was lifting the fabric from behind too, though I couldn’t see it. I knew that at some point someone behind me was looking at my naked ass, my cheeks exposed, maybe even my entire crack. I knew that if the wind blew hard and I widened my stride a little, everyone would see it all: my hairless pussy, my swollen lips, the wet shine between them. That idea—the fact that I couldn’t fully control what was being seen—set me on fire inside.

I picked up my pace slightly. They say shame and arousal get confused, and at that moment I didn’t know which was stronger. I only knew that my skin was burning, my pussy was dripping, and every yard I walked was a vote in favor of not turning back.

***

I reached the bench I like best. It’s a wooden bench partly hidden behind a palm tree, with a view of the sea but also a view of the road where cars and pedestrians pass. Right across from it there’s a low stone wall where I sometimes sit if I want to watch the sunset. That afternoon I chose the wall.

I sat down with both hands braced at my sides, letting the fabric settle naturally. I tilted my head back and closed my eyes. The sun was going down and the sky had turned peach-colored. The wind was growing stronger as it came off the water.

And then I began to spread my legs. Just a little. Four inches. Eight. Twelve. The dress fabric lifted off my left thigh on its own and, with the next gust, flew to one side. I felt the air rushing straight between my thighs, cooling my pussy in a place where no one had ever cooled it before in public. I’d shaved that very morning, so my skin was smooth and sensitive. The wind felt like a cold tongue licking my lips, slipping between them, drying my wetness and making it return. I felt my pussy opening by itself from the air, my lips parting from the accumulated heat. I must have been red, shiny, swollen, with my clitoris throbbing on its own.

I didn’t open my eyes. I didn’t want to. I knew that if I opened them, something would break. The point was not to know. The point was to listen.

And I listened. I heard footsteps. Footsteps approaching, footsteps slowing as they passed in front of me, footsteps stopping for a second and continuing. I heard a low whistle a few yards away. I heard two male voices speaking under their breath, and one of them said, “Look at that crazy bitch’s pussy,” perfectly clearly, while the other answered, “She’s pretending to be asleep, the slut.” I didn’t move. On the contrary, I spread my legs one finger-width farther. Let them look. Let them get hard. Let them go home and jerk off thinking about the open pussy of the stranger on the boardwalk.

A pickup truck honked as it passed on the road. Twice. Short blasts.

The wind kept doing its work. The front of the dress flipped completely over and rose to my waist, leaving me entirely exposed from the waist down. I knew it from the air, not from sight. I knew it because I felt the cold reach my navel. I knew it because someone, somewhere, let out a nervous laugh. I knew it because I heard the unmistakable click of a phone camera to my right. One, two, three clicks. Someone was taking pictures of my shaved pussy and I didn’t care. On the contrary, it clenched inside me from pure kink.

And it was right there, at that exact moment, that I knew I wasn’t going to stop.

***

I raised my right hand and undid the dress’s first button. Then the second. Then the third. The neckline opened down to my navel, and the breeze hit me directly on my sternum, between my tits, descending to my pubis. I slipped my hand inside and caught my left nipple between my thumb and forefinger. I squeezed it. Hard. Harder than I would have dared in my own bed. I pulled it outward, twisted it a little, then let it go so it bounced back. Then I did the same with the right. Both tits exposed, both nipples red from all the pinching, and me with my head thrown back, my mouth half-open, my pussy dripping onto the stone wall.

The moan escaped before I could stop it. Low, hoarse, held between my teeth. But it came out.

I heard someone clearly stop walking to my left. Not three yards away: one, two at most. I felt someone standing there, watching, saying nothing. And I knew, without seeing him, without needing to, that he was breathing unevenly and probably had his hand inside his pants. I heard the unmistakable sound: the dull rubbing of fabric against hard flesh, the slow rhythm of a guy jerking his cock while watching me open my pussy on a public stone wall.

That finally made me let go.

I began pulling and releasing my nipple in a slow, almost cruel rhythm. Every squeeze sent a current down to my pussy. And down there, the wind was still the only thing touching me. I didn’t bring my hand down. I didn’t want to. I was leaving that part to the air, to the strangers’ eyes, to the situation. But I spread my legs farther. And I arched my hips forward. And I know that from that angle, with the wind lifting my skirt completely, anyone within fifteen feet was seeing my pussy wide open, my inner lips shining, the pink little hole of my ass peeking out beneath it. I was a walking exhibition, and I was coming inside just from knowing it.

The second moan was longer. More mine. Less disguised. A hoarse “oh, God” came out between my teeth, making two more people stop.

“My God,” said a voice to my left. A man. Young, I guessed. In his thirties. And then, more quietly, almost to himself: “What a fucking beautiful pussy.”

I didn’t answer him. I didn’t open my eyes. I just continued. On the contrary, with my left hand I grabbed an entire tit and lifted it toward my mouth. I stuck out my tongue and licked my nipple. Then I sucked it hard, letting the man who had whispered hear the wet sound of my own mouth on my own tit. I gave him that gift. I gave him that sound.

I figure I stayed like that for seven or eight minutes. Maybe ten. I lose track of time when I get into this state. The skin of my thighs had turned electric, my nipples burned from all the pinching, and my pussy throbbed with an intensity I’d never felt without being touched. Only the air. Only the looks. Only the thought of knowing there were people standing there watching, their cocks hard, without saying a word. I was so wet that I felt moisture run down my ass to the stone. I was going to leave a stain on the wall, and that thought pleased me too.

I concentrated on breathing. In through my nose, out through my mouth, trying not to clench my thighs so I wouldn’t speed up what was already inevitable. A lock of hair had stuck to my forehead with the sweat from the last sunlight. The skin of my neck was burning. Every breath of air pressed the dress fabric against my still-hard nipples, and every brush was a tiny electric shock running straight down to my clitoris.

And that was when I gave in. Just a little. My right hand moved slowly down from my tit, over my belly, to my pubis. I didn’t put my fingers inside. There was no need. I simply rested the tip of my middle finger on my clitoris, without rubbing, without moving, just applying pressure. Constant pressure. And it was enough. My thighs began trembling on their own.

The orgasm took me by surprise. It wasn’t one of those that announce themselves, the kind you build patiently. It was the kind that explodes all at once. I pressed both hands against the stone wall, arched my back, spread my legs farther without meaning to, my hips jolting against the stone three, four times, and released a long, endlessly long sigh that broke into a high-pitched moan at the end, one that anyone within thirty feet must have heard perfectly. I felt my pussy contracting in waves, squeezing down on nothing, a hot gush escaping and running all the way down the inside of my right thigh to the back of my knee. I came in public. I came in front of strangers. I came without anyone touching me, just from the air, from other people’s eyes, and from the tip of my own finger.

I heard a muffled grunt to my left, and the unmistakable sound of a guy finishing in his own hand inside his pants. He had come with me. That detail—the knowledge that I’d made a stranger come without touching him—pulled one last contraction out of me.

***

It took me a minute to open my eyes again. When I did, I didn’t move right away. I wanted to breathe first, let everything settle, take in what had just happened.

Then, with a calm I couldn’t even believe in myself, I brought my legs together, straightened my dress, buttoned the three buttons I had undone, and climbed down from the wall as if nothing had happened. As if I had simply been looking at the sea and resting. I could still feel my pussy throbbing, moisture running down my legs, and a dark, round stain had been left on the stone where I’d been sitting. My signature.

I walked toward the main path without looking anyone in the eye. But as I walked, I managed to count out of the corner of my eye. Four men to my left, standing at different points several yards apart. One still had his hand inside his pants. Another had a flushed face and was breathing through his mouth. A couple a little farther on: she had her mouth open and one hand on her husband’s neck, while he held a phone in one hand and had an obvious bulge in his jeans. And a sixth man, sitting on the bench across from me, pretending to read a book he was holding upside down, with his legs crossed to hide what he had underneath.

Six people. Six witnesses. And not one of them came over to say anything to me. None of them bothered me. They just watched, silently, as if they understood that the unwritten rule was to look and keep quiet.

I walked to the avenue and stopped the first taxi I saw. I sat in the back, gave the driver my address, and rested my head against the window. My heart was still pounding, moisture sticky between my thighs, the dress stuck to my ass from coming. I smiled despite myself.

“Did something nice happen?” the taxi driver asked, looking at me in the mirror.

“The afternoon happened,” I replied. “A very long afternoon.”

***

I got to the apartment, took off the dress as soon as I crossed the door, and left it lying on the hallway floor. I was naked, my tits still marked from the pinching and my pussy swollen and shiny. I looked at myself in the hallway mirror for a second. My inner lips were showing, red, and a thread of wetness was still running down me. I went straight to the nightstand drawer. The new vibrator—the one I’d bought online two weeks earlier and still hadn’t tried—was waiting there. Thick, black, with a curved tip.

That night I tried it out. I lay on my back, spread my legs wide, and first ran it over my nipples and my mouth, sucking it to wet it thoroughly with my saliva. Then I lowered it over my belly, rubbed it across my clitoris until the first moan escaped me, and pushed it inside in one motion, all the way down. My pussy swallowed it whole. I began moving it slowly, pulling it almost all the way out and then sinking it back in, and thought about the six of them. The one who had jerked off watching me. The woman with her mouth open. The one with the upside-down book. The two who had spoken under their breath. I sped up. The vibrator slid in and out with a wet sound that filled the room. I brought my other hand to my clitoris and began rubbing it in circles. And I came again, this time in my bed, with the lights off, without the wind, without voyeurs, but with all those eyes still fixed on me, all those hard cocks still pointing at me. I came twice more before falling asleep, the last time with the vibrator still inside me, clenching around it as if it were a real cock.

Diego came back from Mendoza on Tuesday morning. He greeted me with a kiss on the forehead, left his suitcase by the entrance, and asked what I’d done over the weekend.

“Nothing,” I told him. “I walked along the boardwalk for a while on Sunday. The sunset was beautiful.”

He looked at me a second too long, as if he knew, as if he’d detected something. But then he laughed, gave me another kiss, and went to take a shower.

I didn’t go back to the boardwalk for a whole week. Not out of guilt, not out of fear. Out of respect for the memory. I knew that if I went back too soon, I’d look for the same combination of wind, time, bench, and witnesses, and that couldn’t be repeated in the same way. Those things happen once. And once is enough to carry them inside you for the rest of your life.

Some afternoons are meant to be told. Others are meant to be kept. This one, after thinking about it for quite a while, I decided was meant to be shared with you.

If you’re going to email me, please don’t be vulgar. And to the couple in the photo, thanks again. Keep it up.

Kisses, Camila.