The Stranger on the Road Saw Me Topless

I’m writing this in secret, just as one hides the thoughts one doesn’t dare say out loud. I’ve been married for many years, I’m a mother, and I’ve always considered myself a rather discreet woman, the kind who covers up before showing herself, the kind who changes clothes after checking twice that the curtain is properly closed. My husband often tells me I’m exaggerating, that my body still drives him crazy, but one learns to look at oneself harshly when time, exhaustion, and pregnancies leave their mark.

I’m not going to give my real name. Call me Marina. Brunette, with wide hips, large, heavy breasts, dark eyes, a soft belly I never managed to make completely flat, and an ass that, according to my husband, is the best thing I have. I didn’t see myself as a provocative woman; I saw myself as an ordinary wife, a mature woman, with modesty and insecurities I’d been carrying for years.

Even so, beneath that shyness there was something else. I wouldn’t have known what to call it until that day. Curiosity, perhaps. Hunger. The kind of desire one represses for so long that it eventually comes out where one least expects it.

It all happened one summer, at the country house where we usually took refuge on weekends. The place was secluded, with a pool behind it, a few dry trees around it, and an elevated road from which, if someone stopped to look, they could see the garden without much effort. I knew that, but I’d never given it any importance because hardly anyone ever passed by.

All three of us went: my husband, our young son, and me. After lunch, the boy fell asleep with that heavy sleep hot afternoons bring. The house was quiet, the air seemed to vibrate with the heat, and my husband suggested we go out and sunbathe for a while before getting in the water.

I had my one-piece swimsuit in my suitcase, as always. It was my armor. But he, who knows me too well, looked at me with a calm smile while he searched for the towels and said:

—Put on the bikini. We’re alone, and it’s fucking hot. Besides, you’re always complaining that you never get a tan.

—I don’t like the way my belly looks in it —I replied, almost out of habit.

—I like everything that shows. And even more what you try to hide.

I laughed, uncomfortable, but in the end I gave in. I chose a simple, dark bikini, nothing flashy. When I saw myself in the mirror before going out, I noticed the same things as always: breasts that sagged a little, the soft skin of my stomach, the marks on my hips. I thought about changing. I didn’t.

We got into the pool first. The water was cool and felt wonderful. We swam a little, played at splashing each other as if we were still dating, and when we got out, we lay down in the sun. He was on a towel, while I was on a reclining lounge chair. I adjusted my dark glasses, closed my eyes, and for the first time in a long while felt that maybe showing a little more skin wasn’t so bad.

After a while I said to him:

—Look at me, I’m still white even in summer. You were right about the bikini.

He turned toward me and looked at me openly, lingering on my breasts, my belly, my thighs spread just enough for the air to pass between them.

—You need more sun and you have too much shame —he told me—. You should just take it off on top.

—Not a chance.

—Marina, there’s nobody here. And I’d give anything to see you like this, relaxed, without hiding yourself.

—You see me naked every day.

—Yes, but usually while you’re rushing to the bathroom or turning off the light. It’s not the same.

His tone wasn’t demanding, but full of pure, almost tender desire. I settled more comfortably on the lounge chair and looked around. The grounds were silent. The road above was empty. The house was closed up. The sun pressed against my skin like a warm, heavy hand.

—Everything’s going to show —I murmured.

—Let it show. They’re your tits, not a crime.

I laughed again, but I also felt a different kind of heat. One that didn’t come from summer. I sat up a little, untied the knot at my back, and after a few seconds of hesitation, took off the top of my bikini. I did it quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid. I left the garment to one side and lay back down with my breasts bare, rigid, feeling the sun full on the skin that almost never saw the light.

My husband let out a low whistle.

—That’s much better.

—Don’t look at me so much.

—Impossible.

He watched me without speaking for several seconds. I felt my nipples harden, large and dark, not only from the air but from that gaze. They had always embarrassed me. That time, however, I felt something resembling pride. A shy, awkward pride, but real.

As time passed, my body grew accustomed to it. I stopped covering myself with my hands, relaxed my shoulders, and eventually closed my eyes. I heard the distant hum of insects, the soft lapping of water against the edge of the pool, my husband’s breathing close to me. I must have dozed off for a few minutes.

I woke to the voice of our son from inside the house. My husband sat up immediately.

—I’ll go. You stay here and rest a little longer.

—Okay.

I watched him walk away toward the back door. The garden fell silent again. And then, when I barely turned my head, I noticed something strange up on the road.

At first it was only a motionless shape among the bushes. I thought it might be a log, a shadow, anything. But no. It was a person. I felt a hard blow in my chest and immediately brought my hands to my tits, covering my nipples. Behind my sunglasses, I looked more carefully without moving too much.

It was a man. An adult, perhaps in his mid-forties, wearing light-colored clothes, standing still as if he had been there for some time. He wasn’t merely passing by. He was looking. Looking down. Looking at me.

My mouth went dry.

My bikini top was too far away, hanging from the arm of the lounge chair. If I got up suddenly, he would see all of me. If I ran, it would be worse. And while I calculated how to get out of the situation, he didn’t look away. Not for a second.

The logical thing would have been to scream. Call my husband. Go inside. That’s what I still believe I should have done. But that wasn’t what happened.

Something else happened.

The certainty that this stranger had seen my naked tits went through me like a lash. Shame, yes. An enormous amount of it. But underneath that shame appeared an immediate, animal, wet heat. A strange man was spying on me. He wasn’t imagining me. He wasn’t remembering me. He was really seeing me: a mature woman, half-reclining, sweaty from the sun, with her breasts bare and her naked legs beside the pool.

I was still covering myself, but I no longer did it entirely out of modesty. I did it because I knew that if I moved my hands away, it would be a decision. And the terrible thing was realizing that I wanted to make it.

The man took a step out of the bushes. He looked toward the house, made sure no one was coming out, and then put a hand to his fly. I watched him open his pants and pull out his cock, already half-hard, thick, the same toasted color as his hands. He began to masturbate slowly without taking his eyes off me.

I felt a pulse between my legs so strong that I squeezed my thighs together. I was scandalized by myself. I was wet too. I noticed it immediately, that hot moisture pushing against the inside of my bikini bottoms.

—It can’t be —I whispered soundlessly.

But it could. There he was, jerking off while looking at me. And there I was, instead of running away, staring at his cock as if hypnotized.

My nipples were hard beneath my palms. I was breathing quickly. My heart was racing. The man kept jerking himself off, now with a faster rhythm, and tilted his head as if asking me for something without words. He didn’t need to speak. I understood.

Very slowly, as if another woman were moving my body, I took my hands away from my breasts.

They were bare again. Heavy, sun-bleached, with large, dark areolas pointing toward the sky. The man clenched his jaw. His hand moved faster around his cock. I couldn’t believe what I was doing and, at the same time, I didn’t want to stop.

I brushed one of my nipples with my fingertips, barely touching it, and a shiver ran through me. He saw it. I saw it in his face. In the way he opened his mouth a little. In how he began masturbating without any restraint, his arm moving in and out above the waistband of his pants.

That should have been enough. It really should have been enough. But the mixture of fear and arousal had loosened something inside me. I lowered one hand from my breast to my stomach and rested it on the wet fabric of my bikini bottoms. I pressed down. The contact drew a sigh from me.

The man fixed his gaze there.

I lowered mine too, as if I were seeing my own body from outside. The fabric was stuck to me, darkened by moisture. I slipped two fingers in at the side of the bikini and touched my already-swollen lips. They were slippery. So wet that I felt a stab of embarrassment when I realized just how much this was turning me on.

He kept jerking off in front of me. I spread my legs a little farther.

At first I only moved the fabric aside an inch, just enough to reveal a patch of shaved skin. Then a little more. There was no turning back: I slid my bikini bottoms to one side and exposed my pussy to the hot afternoon air.

I was completely open for a stranger.

My legs trembled. I forced them to remain apart. I slipped a finger between my lips and pulled it out glistening. I could feel the man’s gaze fixed on every movement, as if he were touching me from up there simply by watching. I inserted my finger again, this time until I found my clitoris. I rubbed it slowly. The pleasure nearly folded me in half.

—Fuck... —escaped him, though I barely heard it.

I wanted to stop looking at his cock, but I couldn’t. It was completely hard now, thicker as he gripped it tightly, the wet tip shining in the sun. His hand moved up and down desperately. Seeing him like that, so shameless, masturbating because of me, made me lose the last of my judgment.

I thrust two fingers into my pussy at once.

I let out a muffled moan and arched my back on the lounge chair. They slid in easily, soaked, and I began to fuck myself with my own hand while that man watched me. I pulled them out and plunged them in again, deeper. I felt my lips opening, the wetness running, my clitoris throbbing from sheer excess. The sound was faint but real: a wet squelch each time I pushed my fingers inside.

The man spread his legs farther to steady himself and kept jerking off at top speed. He wasn’t pretending anymore. He was an animal with his cock in his hand, watching a married woman masturbate beside her pool.

And I was that woman.

I pinched one nipple with my free hand while with the other I pushed my fingers all the way inside. Each thrust shook my stomach. I thought of my husband inside the house, only a few yards away, and that thought turned me on even more. I thought that if he came out at that moment, he would find me with my pussy open, my tits in the sun, and a stranger coming while looking at me. Far from turning me off, the possibility made me even sluttier.

I began moving my hips against my own hand. It was no longer a timid caress. I was masturbating hungrily, urgently, pushing my fingers inside and rubbing my clitoris with my palm whenever I pulled them out. My body wanted more. More pressure. More speed. More filth.

I raised one leg onto the edge of the lounge chair to open myself wider. I knew that from above he could see all of me: my wet pussy, the hole opening when I penetrated myself with my fingers, the skin gleaming with sweat, my breasts bouncing with every rapid breath. The awareness of being exposed drove me crazy.

—Yes... like that... —I murmured to myself, not knowing whether I was speaking to him or to my own body.

The man answered with an obscene gesture: he spat into his hand and kept masturbating harder. The image shook me. I pulled my fingers out, brought the moisture to my lips, and sucked it off. I did it without thinking, carried away by a filthy impulse that made me moan again. He nearly doubled over when he saw it.

I touched myself again, now directly on my clitoris, quickly, with short, clumsy circles because my legs were already trembling. The orgasm began as a deep, hot knot rising from my belly. I tried to hold it back for a while because I wanted to see what he would do, wanted to stretch that madness out for a few more seconds. But I couldn’t.

I inserted two fingers again, curled them inside me, and rubbed myself hard at the same time. Pleasure exploded through me. My throat closed. My thighs tensed. I came over my own hand with a spasm that arched my whole body on the lounge chair, letting out a hoarse moan, louder than it should have been. I felt wet pulses around my fingers and an unbearable wave of heat between my legs.

The man watched me come and couldn’t hold back any longer.

His body went rigid. He clenched his teeth. His hand worked his cock in quick jerks and, a second later, he came. I saw it clearly: thick spurts leaping onto his hand and the fabric of his pants while he kept looking at me as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. He emptied himself like that, standing on the road, masturbating in front of me like a desperate pig.

I was still panting, my pussy open, my fingers glistening, my head spinning. For several seconds neither of us moved. We only breathed. Two strangers joined by that shared filth in broad daylight.

Then I came back to myself all at once.

I pulled my hand from between my legs, adjusted my bikini bottoms into place, and searched for the top with trembling fingers. I covered my breasts in a hurry, tied the back as best I could, and when I looked up, the man was already putting his cock away. He took one step back, then another, and disappeared among the bushes along the road as if he had never been there.

I remained motionless for a few seconds, trying to catch my breath. I felt ashamed. Aroused. Frightened. Dirty. Free. All at once. I looked toward the house door, expecting it to open at any moment. It didn’t. My husband was still inside, busy with the boy’s snack, unaware that his wife had just come in front of a strange voyeur.

I went into the kitchen with my legs still weak. He glanced at me while cleaning a pair of little hands covered in cookie crumbs.

—You look strange —he said—. Did you sleep for long?

—Yes, a little —I lied.

He kissed me without suspecting anything. I felt such a strong pang of guilt that I had to look away. But alongside the guilt, the arousal continued to throb, heavy and insistent, still alive between my thighs. Every time I remembered that man’s hand moving up and down over his cock while he watched me, I felt my pussy pulse again.

***

That night, once we were in bed, my husband embraced me from behind. The boy was asleep, the house was silent, and the fan stirred the warm air in the bedroom. I was wearing a thin nightgown, without a bra, and he slipped his hand underneath it as soon as we settled down.

—You seem different today —he whispered against my neck.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The image of the road, the hidden man, my pussy open for him, was too fresh in my mind. My husband caressed one breast slowly, circling the nipple with his fingers until it hardened. Then he lowered his hand over my belly and slipped his fingers between my legs.

—You’re wet again —he said, surprised and aroused at the same time.

That finally broke me.

I turned toward him and kissed him hungrily, thrusting my tongue deep into his mouth, biting his lip as I never did. He reacted immediately. He pushed my nightgown up over my hips, grabbed my ass with both hands, and squeezed hard.

—What happened to you today? —he asked, panting.

—Fuck me —I told him, without embellishment—. Now.

His eyes changed when he heard me. He wasn’t used to hearing me talk like that. He pushed me onto my back on the bed and spread my legs. The nightgown bunched around my waist. I wasn’t wearing panties. When he saw how completely wet I was, he let out a low growl and buried his face between my thighs.

He licked my pussy hungrily, with the urgency men have when they realize a woman is already turned on from before. He ran his tongue from bottom to top, opened my lips with his fingers, and sucked my clitoris until I writhed. I clutched the sheets and thought, despite myself, of the stranger watching me from the road. The combination drove me crazy.

—Fuck, yes... —I moaned, opening myself wider for his mouth.

He inserted two fingers while continuing to suck me. They slid in easily. Too easily. I was soaked again and he noticed, because he began fucking me with his hand at the same rhythm he licked me, pushing his fingers in and out until the wet sound filled the room.

I came quickly, messily, squeezing his head between my thighs. But I didn’t want to stop. On the contrary. I wanted more, much more. When he rose with his mouth glistening, I sat up and desperately undid the buttons of his pajama pants. I pulled out his hard, hot cock and took it into my mouth without hesitation.

It had been a long time since I’d sucked him like that. All of it, deep, one hand at the base and saliva running down my chin. I looked up at him as I took him as far as I could, and was surprised to see that expression of pure, bewildered arousal on his face. As if he didn’t recognize the woman in front of him.

—Holy shit, Marina... —he gasped—. What the fuck has gotten into you?

I released him only to answer:

—I want you to wreck me.

I swallowed him again until I tore a moan from him. I licked the tip, the shaft, his balls, without any delicacy. Then I turned around and got on all fours on the bed, lifting my nightgown to my waist.

—Come here.

He needed nothing more. He positioned himself behind me, moved one cheek aside with his hand, and ran the tip of his cock over my wet opening. I pushed backward, impatient. He drove into me in a single thrust, deep and rough, and I let out a muffled cry against the pillow.

—Fuck —I said, feeling him full inside me.

He began fucking me hard from the very start. Not slowly, not romantically: hard. The bed creaked with every thrust. My breasts hung and bounced beneath my raised nightgown. He gripped my waist and drove into me again and again until I lost the rhythm of my breathing. All I could do was take him, open myself wider, push my ass back so he could get all the way inside.

And while he fucked me, the image of the man on the road touching himself appeared again. That turned me on even more. I slipped one hand beneath my body to rub my clitoris at the same time. My husband noticed and began pounding me harder, as if he understood that tonight I didn’t want tenderness but punishment.

—You like it like that, huh? —he said through his teeth.

—Yes. Yes, don’t stop. Don’t stop.

He pushed me farther downward, almost flattening me against the mattress, and kept driving into me with short, hard thrusts. Each one opened my pussy with an almost painful pleasure. I moaned without shame, louder than usual, feeling the sweat sticking to my back and the orgasm building again.

—Tell me what you want —he demanded, squeezing my hip.

I wanted to tell him the truth. I wanted to tell him I wanted him to fuck me as if another man had seen me, as if he were claiming me, as if that afternoon’s exhibition had turned me into someone else. But I couldn’t. I only said:

—I want to come with you inside me.

He growled and sped up even more. The hand holding me moved up to one breast and squeezed it hard through my nightgown. I kept rubbing myself, already at the edge. I felt his cock moving in and out, hard, heavy, exact. Pleasure rose through my belly like a discharge.

I came first, my knees trembling, a long moan escaping me that I had to bite back so I wouldn’t wake the boy. My pussy clenched around his cock, and that was enough to make him lose control. He drove into me twice more, very deeply, and came inside me with a hoarse groan, remaining buried to the hilt while his body tensed against mine.

We stayed like that for a few seconds, sweaty and silent. When he finally pulled out, I felt a warm emptiness and an unbearable mixture of relief and guilt. He embraced me from behind and kissed my shoulder.

—I don’t know what came over you today —he said—, but I hope it happens more often.

I closed my eyes.

I didn’t tell him anything. I didn’t tell him that afternoon I had let a stranger watch and touch himself because of me. I didn’t tell him that I had spread my legs for a voyeur and masturbated while watching him come. I didn’t tell him that while he fucked me, I was still seeing that distant cock, that hand, those bushes, that madness.

The only thing I knew for certain was this: that day I hadn’t merely lost my shyness. I discovered that beneath my shame lived a very different woman, one who gets wet when she is watched, one who enjoys exposing herself, one who can come with her tits bare and her pussy open for a man whose name she will never know.

And no matter how ashamed I am to admit it, ever since then, whenever I lie down beside that pool, part of me looks toward the road first.