What I Discovered by Looking Between Skirts and Curtains
There was a time in my life when I didn’t know what excited me more: seeing a woman completely naked, or catching her with only her lingerie on. Because of my almost sick obsession with lingerie, I always ended up leaning toward the second. A tiny garment, a bit of lace, a strip of fabric covering just enough: to me, all of that said more than full nudity. A cunt covered by a triangle of string made my cock harder than an open cunt ever could.
In those years there was no technology like today’s. There were no hidden cameras in pens or phones capable of recording secretly. I had to make do with what was at hand, and the most common trick was the old mirror ruse. I carried one in my briefcase, set it down under any excuse, slid it across the tiled floor, and prayed to catch, if only for a fraction of a second, the curve of some round ass wrapped in delicate lace, or better yet, the wet imprint of cunt against fabric.
That tiny fraction of a second fueled me through weeks of frantic handjobs.
Over time I got bolder. I started frequenting hallways where I knew there were women’s bathrooms, staying in the elevator when a coworker stepped in wearing a short skirt, inventing excuses to bend under a desk if a secretary wore a miniskirt. Without fully intending to, I became a methodical voyeur, with my dick always half-hard inside my pants.
***
I remember, above all, one afternoon in a downtown department store. I was in my early twenties. I walked past the restroom area and saw that the women’s bathroom door was poorly shut. I crouched down under the excuse of tying my shoelace and looked through the lower gap. A mature woman, about forty-five, was lowering her stockings and peach cotton thong to sit down. I watched her for endless seconds: thick, white thighs, stockings rolled up to her knees, and between them, when she bent, a lush cunt with dark hair and fleshy lips that hung a little from the weight of years. I thought I even saw a shiny thread of discharge hanging from her ass as she settled onto the toilet. I heard the hot stream striking the water and got rock hard instantly, to the point that I had to press myself over my pants so it wouldn’t show. She never knew.
What I did find out was that her son, a boy no older than six, was just across the hallway and had seen me crouched there, peering in with my eyes wide open. The kid looked at me without saying anything, as if trying to figure out what that man on the floor was doing. I stood up, smiled as naturally as I could, and left almost running, with my cock still hard against my thigh. He didn’t rat me out. For days I thought about it with a mix of shame, fear, and, I have to admit, a tingle that wouldn’t let me sleep: every night I jerked off remembering the stream, the thong around the ankles, and that unknown woman’s hairy cunt.
***
At the same time, I was living alone in a studio apartment. There were three parallel buildings with balconies overlooking a shared inner courtyard. One ordinary night, leaning out on my terrace to smoke, I accidentally looked toward the apartment across from mine. Elena, my neighbor, was completely naked on her bed, lying on her back with her legs slightly open and her pubic hair pointing straight at me. Her brown hair was loose over her shoulders. From where I stood I could see her small, firm tits, the pink nipples pointing up at the ceiling, and that dark triangle between her legs where her cunt was just barely open, a pink slit barely visible through the hair. She ran a hand over her belly, stroked her nipples with two fingers, and slowly slid down until one finger sank between her lips. I stood there like stone, cigarette forgotten in my hand, watching her touch herself. I stayed motionless, not blinking, until her husband appeared, walked calmly to the window, and drew the curtains shut just as she started arching her back.
I spent the rest of the night with that image fixed in my head, my dick in my hand, coming three times in a row, trying to reconstruct it detail by detail: the color of the nipples, the shine of the finger coming out wet from the cunt, the exact way her hip arched.
The strangest thing came a few weeks later. Those apartments were so small that from the front door you could see everything: the dining room, the bed, the terrace in the back. That afternoon I was coming up with shopping bags and noticed that Elena and her husband’s door was ajar, not latched. I thought they must be out. I wanted to peek in out of simple architectural curiosity, to see if they had the same furniture as I did. I pushed the door just a bit.
What I found froze me to the floor.
Elena was on top of her husband, riding him astride, moving with silent fury. She was thin, very white-skinned, almost translucent under the dim light of a table lamp. Her hair, very long, fell to her waist and moved with the rhythm of her hips. Beneath her, her husband gripped her small breasts with both hands and, every so often, dug his fingers into her hip to drive her down harder. From my angle I could see perfectly how the guy’s cock, thick and very red, went in and out of Elena’s cunt, shiny and soaked with juice, with a wet, slapping sound that bounced off the empty walls. She let herself drop all the way, swallowing him to the base, then rose slowly, showing his entire cock coated in a white film of her own slick. Her white ass opened every time she came down, and between her cheeks I could see the tight little hole of her asshole, contracting with each thrust.
I stayed in the hallway’s dimness, holding my breath, my hand already inside my pants, gripping my cock. I couldn’t stop looking. She threw her head back and a deep moan ripped through her throat, a hoarse “ah, like that, harder, fuck me harder” that went straight through me. Her husband lifted his hips and started pounding her from below, dry and hard, with sharp thrusts that made Elena’s small tits bounce. “Put it all in, you bastard, all the way, open me up good,” she gasped, and brought one hand to her clit to rub herself in fast circles while she let herself be speared. I was jerking off in the hallway, cock out, working it in the same rhythm. And then, I don’t know how, she sensed something. She stopped dead, like an animal hearing a crack. She turned her head slightly toward the door.
I didn’t wait to find out whether she’d seen me.
I shoved my cock back in as best I could, slipped away without making a sound, left the bags on the landing and ran down the stairs. In my apartment I finished the job in two hard tugs, braced against the door, and came onto the floor with the image of Elena’s cunt swallowing that cock still vivid in my mind. That same night, in front of the bathroom mirror, I shaved off the beard I’d worn for two years. I convinced myself that if either of them had caught sight of me, they wouldn’t recognize me without that very distinctive feature of my face.
We never said a word about the episode. But for months, Elena held my gaze a second longer than necessary every time we ran into each other in the elevator, and I, just by seeing her, would immediately think of the image of her soaked cunt going up and down on that cock.
***
At work, my obsession found fertile ground. I headed a small area, received a lot of people in my office, and soon learned that a clean CD-ROM, placed on the floor at the right angle, worked like a discreet mirror. My coworkers would come in with files, sit across from me with their legs crossed, and I, while pretending to review papers, would watch with my cock growing heavy inside my pants.
The director’s wife was a lanky woman with dark skin and delicate features. She always wore flared miniskirts, the kind that lift with the slightest breeze. She came by the office twice a week. I discovered she preferred fluorescent thongs: pink, neon green, electric yellow. They stood out against her cinnamon skin like carnival signs. And because she was thin, from the right angle you could clearly see the outline of her vulva, the split fold, and even the small bump of her clit pressing against the taut fabric. The whole curve of her ass remained bare, barely separated by a thread that sank between her cheeks. One afternoon, when she stood up from her chair, I saw clearly a darker little spot in the center of the fabric: fresh discharge, still wet. I spent an hour with a hard dick, unable to focus on the papers.
The comptroller’s secretary was the opposite: blonde, average height, with long muscular legs from climbing stairs in heels every day. Her ass was round, high, soft, the kind that makes you want to bite it. Curiously, her underwear was almost all worn out. More than once I saw panties with hidden holes or stretched-out elastics, and more than once, through one of those holes, I caught a glimpse of a lock of blond hair or the pink color of a labia. It amused and aroused me in equal measure: that woman who always walked in immaculate, with a perfect suit and salon-styled hair, was wearing underneath underwear any bride would have thrown in the trash, and on top of that she was giving me, without knowing it, a little piece of cunt with every visit.
The HR manager had an even stranger pattern. When she had a partner, she favored tiny thongs in bright colors, lace, and her ass practically paraded bare beneath her skirt. When she was single, she went back to support stockings and sober cotton panties that covered her up to the navel. It was as if her love life could be read through her underwear. I learned, before the rest of the office did, when a romance ended or began, and I calculated the exact days when another cock was slipping between her legs.
And always, in any meeting, there was no shortage of the coworker who, bending down to pick something up or stretching to reach a file from a high shelf, showed the famous whale tail: that strip of lace peeking over the waistband of tight pants, revealing the start of her ass crack. Some did it by accident. Others, I suspect, did it on purpose, and some even tossed me a glance over their shoulder as if to say, “yes, it’s for you.”
***
Renata was the accountant from upstairs. Brunette, tall, nearly six feet, with a porcelain doll face and hips that looked drawn with a compass. She was strangely shy for someone with that body. She dressed sexy but not provocative: fitted pants, blouses with one button undone, never a deep neckline. She went to the gym five times a week and it showed: a high, hard ass, sculpted thighs, firm tits pressing against her blouse every time she breathed deeply.
At a small party I threw at my house, when I was still married to my second wife, I ended up sitting next to Renata at the bar I’d set up in the living room. We talked about nonsense for an hour. At one point she stretched back to reach her glass, raised her arms over her head, and with that movement her jeans dropped a few centimeters and her black lace thong rode up her hip, shining under the bar’s yellow lights. I saw the string sinking between her hard cheeks, and above it, two perfect dimples at the base of her back, shining with sweat.
I couldn’t hide it. I kept staring, without blinking, my cock growing inside my pants. She, instinctively, ran a hand over her back to fix her pants and the garment. When she sat back down, she looked up and our eyes met. I was still staring at her hip, dazzled, not hiding the bulge marking my crotch.
Renata blushed to the tips of her ears. She let out an almost inaudible whimper, some embarrassed little “oops,” and lowered her head with a nervous smile. I held her gaze and smiled back, without apologizing. She wasn’t offended or put off. She stayed there, finishing her drink, her cheeks still flushed, and I think her legs were pressed together under the bar.
Nothing else happened that night. But for months there was an underground current between us made of glances and silences, and more than one night I jerked off imagining what it would be like to rip off that black lace thong with my teeth.
***
Something similar happened with Carolina. She was my wife’s friend, newly divorced, with an easy smile and a fatal habit: always wearing ultra-thin thongs that showed under her tight dresses. At a family birthday, Carolina leaned across the table to reach for a slice of cake and the black strip of her underwear showed intact above the waistband of her pants, along with the rounded swell of her ass. No one else looked. I couldn’t look at anything else, and I had to go into the bathroom to tuck my cock against my belly so the erection wouldn’t show under my shirt.
Weeks later, at another party, she was wearing a tight red jersey minidress. Everything showed: her nipples standing out against the fabric, her tits moving freely without a bra, the curve of her ass perfectly drawn, and in the back, the tiny line of a string crossing her hip. The music was loud and we were dancing in a group. At some point that night we ended up holding each other by the waist, pretending to keep time, and my fingers stayed still on the fabric. I felt the exact outline of her string thong: a thin line crossing her hip, separating the small of her back from her ass cheeks. I ran my fingers over that line again and again, under the pretense of dancing, and she didn’t pull my hand away. I kept sliding down, millimeter by millimeter, until the tips of my fingers sank between her cheeks over the dress, following the string downward. I could feel perfectly the exact point where the fabric disappeared between her ass and, lower still, the warm bulge of her cunt pressed against the jersey. She only rested her head for a second on my shoulder, as if tired of the music, and I could feel the fabric grow damp under my fingers, feel the heat rising from her crotch to my hand. My cock got so hard it pressed through the dress against my lower belly, and I noticed she felt it: she pressed her hips just a little against me, an almost imperceptible push, before pulling away with a broken laugh.
Nothing else happened that time either. But the touch of that string under the dress fabric, and the warm wetness of her cunt printed into my fingers, stayed with me for years.
***
Mariana was different. She dressed with an almost nunlike sobriety: long skirts, closed blouses, low shoes. When she talked about men, she did so with disdain, as if they all seemed clumsy to her. And yet, beneath that schoolheadmistress wardrobe, she wore exclusively string thongs, so thin they were almost nonexistent. I knew because once, sitting across from me during a visit to her house, she opened her legs without noticing and I saw everything: the black string lost between thick, very dark lips, barely covered, with pubic hair peeking out on the sides of the fabric. Her cunt glistened a little, wet, as if simply sitting there had her aroused. I stared at that forbidden triangle so long my arm went numb on the sofa.
I confirmed it fully the day she asked me to help her move and I, while straightening up the laundry room, saw her hamper. Every one of her thongs had a stained crotch: crusts of dried white discharge on some, yellowish smears on others, and on one in particular, a red lace string thong, a brownish ring still damp, as if she had taken it off only a few hours earlier. I picked that thong up with two fingers, brought it close to my nose, and inhaled deeply: it smelled like cunt, like a cunt kept shut in and sweaty, a sharp, thick smell that made my cock hard instantly. I tucked it in my pocket, finished the job as if nothing had happened, and that same night I jerked off with the thong pressed against my mouth, sucking the fabric until I got every bit of taste out of it. So many years of appearances to hide, in reality, a wildly sexual woman, her cunt always raw.
Daniela, a Ukrainian woman who had worked as a model in her youth, trusted me enough to give me the keys to her apartment so I could water the plants when she traveled. I’d go in, do my work, and when I had time left over, I’d explore carefully. In the top drawer of the dresser I found an arsenal from Victoria’s Secret: white lace, burgundy satin, unworn garters, bras that barely covered the nipples. I got hard just burying my hands in the clothes, smelling them one by one: some new, with that factory smell, others worn, with the unmistakable trace of her cunt in the crotch. In the bathroom’s second drawer, three dildos of different sizes, arranged by length: one small and pink, one gray and fairly thick, and one black monstrosity, almost twelve inches long, with veins raised in the latex. All three had dried residue at the base. I imagined Daniela spearing herself with that black one, lying on her back on the bed, moaning in her own language. And under the bed, inside a cardboard box with a lid, a professional photo album: Daniela in lingerie, Daniela in a tiny bikini, Daniela naked, barely covering her tits with one arm, Daniela on her knees with her ass lifted toward the camera showing the hole between her cheeks, Daniela looking at the camera with a smile that said exactly what it needed to say. In the last, more intimate pages, she appeared with her legs open, her shaved pink cunt parted with two fingers, her clit swollen, a thread of discharge hanging between her lips.
I pulled my pants down right there, sitting on the floor of her room, and jerked off looking at each photo. I came in a thick burst over my own hand, clenching my teeth so I wouldn’t moan out loud. Afterward I cleaned up carefully, closed the box gently, left it exactly as I’d found it, and walked out of the apartment as if nothing had happened. But that night, in my bed, I jerked off two more times, no photos this time, just the fresh memory of that shaved cunt opened wide.
***
The life of a lingerie fetish voyeur comes down, in the end, to a handful of tiny moments. Fractions of a second. Glimpses in a shop window reflection, a flash when crossing legs, a strip of lace peeking under pants, the smell of worn underwear, the wet shine in the crotch of a pair of panties. They aren’t big scenes. They’re flashes. But each flash, added to the previous ones, builds an erotic memory vaster than any porn film, and a collection of handjobs even I couldn’t count.
And there are always surprises. The most modest coworker, the one who crosses herself when entering church, turns out to be the one who wears garters under her suit and has her cunt soaked by ten in the morning. The one who dresses like a magazine model, the one who seems insatiable, wears underneath a pair of gray cotton panties from her grandmother, with the elastic shot.
Knowing a woman’s underwear is knowing a secret she doesn’t confess even to her closest friends. It’s understanding a small part of her intimacy, one she doesn’t show even when she’s being fucked with the lights off. And on more than one occasion, that knowledge helped me understand how to approach her, what to say, how to seduce her, how to end up with my cock buried to the balls in one of their cunts.
In another installment I’ll tell you what happened when technology finally started working in my favor. When phones began to have decent cameras and the advantages, and the risks, multiplied.
For now, regards.