What I Let Show in the Fitting Room Was No Accident

It happened again. And no, it wasn’t a coincidence.

People who know me already know I’m pretty filthy-minded and that I have an exhibitionist streak I find hard to hide. It’s not something I’m ashamed of; it’s just the way I am: the idea of someone looking at my cock without me having to look back gets me rock hard in a way that’s hard to explain. That morning I was bored at home, pacing around with nothing to do, until I remembered I had a pair of pants I’d been given that I still needed to exchange.

Reason and opportunity. I dressed slowly, choosing just the right amount, and of course I did it without underwear. It’s a small detail, almost a silly one, but knowing I have nothing under the fabric, that my cock hangs loose, brushing the seam with every step, stays with me all day like a low current of electricity that keeps my cock at a semi-erection. I got into the car and drove to the outlet center on the outskirts, one of those huge places with endless corridors and too many people hunting for bargains they don’t need.

The gift voucher was for a store called Vértigo, one of those young-fashion chains with loud music and cold lights. I went in, found someone on staff, and asked how to make the exchange. A short saleswoman with rounded curves helped me, not skinny at all, but with makeup so well done it made her devilishly attractive. She had tits pressed tight against her uniform, an easy smile, and a way of looking people in the eye that wasn’t entirely professional.

—Of course, no problem —she said—. Pick whatever you want and try it on at your leisure.

I grabbed a couple of random pairs of pants and went into the fitting rooms. But it was a total failure. None of them fit the way I’d expected, and worst of all: there was no one nearby, no one to show myself to, no one who could get an eyeful of the cock I had hanging loose in there. I came out, left the clothes on the rack by the entrance, and went back toward the shelves to look for something else, a little frustrated, honestly.

That was when the same saleswoman saw me wandering around and came over to offer help.

—Didn’t find anything? —she asked—. Come on, these new styles are cut better.

We spent a while rummaging through the hangers. She’d take a pair of pants, hold them up to the light, reject them, take another. In the end she put two into my hands and, with a smile that lingered a second too long, she said:

—These should fit you well. And they’ll make your ass look good.

I was stunned. I hadn’t expected that. A girl at least twenty years younger than me saying something like that to me, in the middle of the afternoon, among the racks of a store. I felt the heat rise up my neck and the blood rush straight down to my cock, which gave a tug against the fabric of my pants. I thanked her with an awkward smile and headed straight for the fitting rooms with a very different goal from exchanging a pair of pants: I was already half-hard, straining to get out.

***

I slipped into the third cubicle from the back wall, the one I always choose when I can. It’s the one that works best for me: it sits at exactly the right angle so that if I leave the curtain badly placed, someone passing in the aisle can see more than they should. And that’s what I did. I hung up the pants, started taking off my coat and shoes, unhurried, calculating each movement, leaving a finger’s-width gap between the curtain and the wall.

Then two women came in with a stroller. I heard them before I saw them. From their conversation I figured they were sisters: one of them, the one pushing the stroller, had recently had a baby and was looking for clothes to feel like herself again after the pregnancy. They talked about sizes, about what no longer fit, about how tired she was.

One went into the neighboring fitting room to try things on. The other stayed outside, standing in the aisle, waiting, with that bored look of someone tagging along on a shopping trip without buying anything. I kept doing my thing, finishing taking off my shoes, and when I looked up I caught her looking into my cubicle through the gap in the curtain.

Bingo. One of mine.

She looked like an actress whose name I never remember, a brunette with strong features, though she had a bit more weight than the actress, less sharply defined cheekbones, and a pair of much fuller tits pushing at her sweater beneath the coat. Early thirties, I guessed. She wore a thick coat that would soon be too much for her.

Time to get to it, I thought. I unbuttoned my pants, let the fly fall open, and yanked them down in one shot to my ankles. I was left completely naked from the waist down, my cock already well awake, hanging heavy between my thighs, thick, the vein standing out, the head beginning to peek from the foreskin. A couple of hip shifts to settle everything back in place, as if by accident, and the cock swung from one thigh to the other with a weight I felt too. I turned slowly toward the curtain under the excuse of taking down one of the new pants. I angled myself just enough so everything showed: the cock, hard and nearly horizontal now, the balls hanging underneath, the pubic mound. Our eyes met for a moment, and then I lowered mine, guiding hers, silently pointing out exactly where I wanted her to look.

And she looked.

It wasn’t because of the size, that much I know. It was because of how unexpected it was, because of finding a hard cock aimed at her belly button on an ordinary Tuesday among baby strollers and sale pants. Her eyes nearly popped out. They fixed on my dick, dropped to my balls, came back up to the head and stayed there for a good while. She opened her mouth a little, as if she were about to say something, and said nothing. A short breath escaped her that gave her away. She didn’t look away either.

Without either of us bothering to hide anything, I grabbed my cock with my hand, held it by the base, and with the other hand I put on one of the new pants with deliberate slowness, forcing my stiff cock into the fabric, buttoning it up in slow motion over the obscene bulge that formed at the fly. I opened the curtain all the way and went out into the aisle to check myself in the big mirror, the full-length one a few meters away. I passed so close to her that the hard bulge brushed the back of her hand. I caught her perfume, the brush of air between us, and the way her breathing cut off.

I didn’t like how they fit. And by the slight movement of her head, she didn’t either. We shared that absurd little complicity, that of jointly judging a garment neither of us cared about in the slightest. The only thing she cared about was obvious on her face: she wanted to see what was underneath again.

***

I went back into the fitting room and closed the curtain even worse than before, leaving a shameless opening, almost a handspan wide. I yanked my pants off again and, facing her, completely exposed, I grabbed my cock with my right hand and started jerking off. Slowly, very slowly, my fist sliding down to the base, up to the tip, letting the foreskin pull back fully and the glans shine swollen, already dampened by the first drop of fluid rising inside me. No theatrics, no exaggeration. Just enough for her to understand that this was no longer an accident, that I was pounding it for her and because of her, in the middle of a store, on a Tuesday at five in the afternoon, while her sister tried on sweaters on the other side of the panel.

The color started rising in the woman’s face. First her cheeks, then her neck. She brought a hand to her chest, over the coat, squeezing one breast as if to hold something in. She bit her lower lip and stayed there, rooted, eyes fixed on the slow tugging I was giving myself right in front of her. At that moment her sister spoke to her from the neighboring cubicle, asking how the thing she was trying on fit. She leaned over the panel separating the two fitting rooms to answer her, and I, without letting go of my cock, used my free hand to tell her to wait. Not to go. That it wasn’t over yet.

And she waited. She went back to her place in the aisle, leaning against the panel, while I kept working my fist up and down the full length, squeezing the base, pulling the foreskin back with the pad of my thumb so the glans looked even redder and shinier. I showed her the cock from every angle: front on, then turning a bit in profile so she could see the length, then lifting it against my stomach so she could see the swollen heavy balls stuck to my body from the heat.

When I heard her sister say, “Try on the other one,” I knew I had a few minutes. That was the signal to pick up where we’d left off. Facing her, I kept jerking off, faster now, my hand closing tighter around the shaft, skin sliding over skin with a rhythm that grew more and more marked. I held her gaze just long enough for her to know that I knew, then dropped my eyes to my own hand, forcing her to do the same. I saw her swallow. I saw her throat move as she did. She had to take off her coat, because the heat was too much for her now. She folded it over her arm, and beneath the sweater two stiff nipples pushed against the wool, two hard points she had no way to hide. She fanned herself a little with her other hand, breathing through her open mouth.

I was reaching the point of no return. I felt the tingle rise from my balls, my cock swell like crazy just before the shot, and I stopped. I let go of my cock and took a deep breath, my legs trembling. I didn’t want to come like that, not yet, not so soon. I was going to leave a puddle of cum on the fitting-room floor and everything would be over in two seconds. I breathed, waited for it to pass, and put on the second pair of pants with the same slowness as before, keeping everything on display until the very last possible instant, the stiff cock pointing at the ceiling as I pulled the fabric up leg by leg, only fastening it once there was nothing left to show. I repeated the maneuver: open the curtain, step out into the aisle, walk to the mirror.

And then something happened I hadn’t anticipated, not even with all my dirtiness.

While I was looking at myself in the mirror, pretending to assess the cut of the pants, she came up behind me. I felt her hand slide over the fabric, first over my ass, squeezing one cheek brazenly, then forward, covering the entire bulge with her open palm, pressing my hard cock through the pants, measuring it from top to bottom with her fingers, a brief, firm, outrageously shameless caress. A low gasp escaped me. She squeezed once more and her hand pulled away.

—These fit you much better —she whispered in my ear, and went back to her place as if nothing had happened.

Her sister, from inside, asked:

—What did you say?

—Nothing, nothing. My own stuff. I’ll tell you later.

I went wide-eyed. Later she’ll tell her? She’s going to tell her sister she just groped my cock through my pants? The mere idea that it might turn into a story whispered between the two of them, in the car on the way home, with the word “cock” spoken between low laughs, finished turning me on. I went back into the fitting room, pulled my pants down for the third time, and repeated the operation one last time: the curtain badly closed, me facing forward, the cock out again, harder than it had been all afternoon, the tip already wet with pre-cum dripping a transparent thread that hung from the glans. I grabbed it again, this time without the slightest attempt to hide it, spat into my palm to lubricate, and started pumping it fast, no longer able to stand the slowness from before.

She, on the other side of the gap, opened her coat all the way, pulled her skirt up a little over her thigh, and pressed her thighs together, rubbing them one against the other with a slow, obscene motion that fooled no one. She was rubbing her cunt against her own clothes, pressing down there with her hand over her panties, and showing it to me. She bit her lip and never took her eyes off my cock. I watched her wrist move, watched her press herself through the fabric, watched her start panting silently with her mouth open.

We held out like that, staring at each other, both of us on the edge. Me with my cock in my hand, pumping hard, squeezing the glans every couple of strokes, feeling my balls tighten and my load rise with no way to stop it. She with her hand between her thighs, rubbing her cunt over her clothes, panting softly, making the face of someone who was coming too. I saw her close her eyes for a second, clench her lips, tremble. She came right there standing up, without touching herself underneath, only from the friction of her own clothes and with my cock in front of her. And seeing her come dragged me under. I clenched my fist one last time, very hard, around the base, and let the whole load go: the first spurt shot out and landed on the carpet, the second hit my own hand, and the third and fourth streamed down my fingers to my wrist. I left my hand full of warm semen, my cock still throbbing, still spitting the last drops.

Without being able or wanting to touch each other any more than we already had with our eyes and with our clothes. Until we heard her sister gathering her things. The moment closed itself, the way these things do: without goodbye, without names, without promises.

***

I wiped my hand and my cock with a tissue as best I could, finished dressing, barely put back together, and we came out almost at the same time into the fitting-room corridor, her pushing the baby stroller, me with the pants hanging from my arm and the underwear I wasn’t wearing still making me feel, in every brush of the seam against my soft, sensitive cock. I headed to the checkout. There the same saleswoman from the beginning helped me, the short one with the easy smile.

—I’m sure they fit you well —she said as she processed the exchange, in a tone I couldn’t tell was innocent or the exact opposite.

At that moment the two sisters passed behind us, on their way out. And mine, the one who had groped my cock in front of the mirror, without slowing her pace and without looking back, said:

—I’m sure they did.

The saleswoman raised an eyebrow. I looked down at the counter and said nothing, because there was nothing to say that wouldn’t give me away. I took my bag, thanked her, and stepped out into the cold parking-lot air with my cock still sensitive inside my pants, my heart racing, and a smile I couldn’t fit on my face.

What an entertaining afternoon. I drove back replaying every detail: the hand on the bulge in front of the mirror, the “I’ll tell you later,” the thighs rubbing and the cunt coming on the other side of the curtain, my own cum on the carpet of fitting room three. I wondered if she really would tell her sister, if that afternoon would become one of those anecdotes told in low voices between laughs, with the words “cock,” “hard,” “come” spoken softly so no one else could hear them.

I hope she reads this someday and recognizes me. I hope she writes me. Or anyone who reads it and understands what this is about, that silent game of looking and letting yourself be looked at, of jerking off in full view of the other without actually touching, that pleasure of knowing yourself observed without having to ask permission. Because in the end, I confess, I didn’t go to exchange any pants. I went so someone would look at my cock and so I could come while looking her in the eye. And look did she. And come did I.