What I Saw Behind the Fitting Room Curtain

As my nickname on the forums says, what I’m into is watching and being watched. Or even better, watching my wife while I’m fucking her. I’ve carried that attraction inside me for as long as I can remember, but there was one afternoon in particular when I understood it was more than just a passing curiosity.

I was twenty-two and working door-to-door, selling insurance in the small shops of the neighborhoods. It was a hot July afternoon, suffocatingly hot, and my coworker Damián and I went into a beachwear boutique to make our usual pitch.

The owner served us from behind the counter, an older man with a bored face. Behind him were the two fitting rooms, separated from the shop by red curtains that didn’t reach the floor. I was standing right in front, notebook balanced on the counter, taking leaflets out of the briefcase while Damián fed the man figures and percentages.

Then the door opened.

A young couple of about twenty came in. He was tall and lanky, with a cap pulled low over his eyes. She was petite, dark-haired, with her hair tied up in a high ponytail and a very thin strappy dress. They started moving among the racks without paying anyone any attention. He decided quickly: three T-shirts and a couple of swimsuits. She took longer. She picked out seven bikinis, counted them twice, and headed for the fitting rooms with the folded stack tucked under her arm.

He went into the left fitting room, the one facing Damián. She went into the right one, the one directly in front of me.

And that was when it started.

The curtain didn’t quite close. There was a two-finger gap through which you could see into the fitting room. Without meaning to and without being able to stop myself, I lowered my gaze for an instant. And there she was, with her back to me, her ponytail falling over her shoulder blade. Even more interesting: the mirror at the back gave me her full reflection. I saw her twice, from behind and from the front, as if someone had designed the scene just to drive me insane.

She pulled the dress over her head in one clean motion. Underneath, there wasn’t much to hide. She was wearing a white cotton sports bra, with nothing deliberately erotic about it. She took it off from the top and gave me my first glimpse: small breasts, set apart, with pink nipples already hard from the air conditioning in the shop. The areolae were delicate, almost the same shade as her skin. She pinched them herself for a moment, as if checking whether they had grown, and her nipples stiffened even more, pointing upward like two rubber tips.

I kept listening to Damián as if nothing were happening. I nodded. I took notes. I said, “Sure, sure.” But inside my neck was burning, and I was starting to feel my cock growing inside my trousers, crushed against my thigh, demanding room.

And I still hadn’t even reached the good part.

She tried on the first bikini, brown with yellow stripes. She looked at herself in profile, pursed her lips, and took it off. For the second one, she lowered her panties. And that was when I nearly dropped my pen. She had a cunt with a ridge of dark hair down the center, the lips shaved on the sides, all of it groomed as if she’d prepared it for someone. Not for me, obviously. But there it was, right in front of my eyes, and I couldn’t stop looking. Her inner lips showed a little, pinkish, and in profile you could make out the hood of her clitoris, small and glossy.

She tried the second, the third, the fourth. But something changed with the third. Before taking it off, she lifted her eyes to the mirror and, from the angle of the glass, knew I was watching her. She knew it with the certainty a woman has when she knows a man is looking at her.

She didn’t pull the curtain across. She didn’t close it. She did the opposite.

She sat for a moment on the bench in the fitting room, spread her legs wide toward the mirror — and therefore toward me — and brought two fingers to her mouth. She wetted them slowly with saliva, looking at her breasts in the reflection, and lowered her hand to her cunt. She parted the lips with her index and ring fingers, and with her middle finger she started rubbing her clit in small circles. I could see everything: the wet shine appearing between her fingers, her skin tightening, her nipples standing out even more. She slipped one finger halfway in, pulled it out, and showed it to me — yes, showed it to me, glancing sideways at the mirror — wet and shining. She pushed it in again, this time all the way, and twisted her wrist twice, eyes half-closed and mouth open. A sigh escaped her that I couldn’t hear but could see, because her breasts rose and fell with her broken breathing.

Then she got up as if nothing had happened, put on the next bikini, and repeated the gesture between each fitting: sit down, spread herself open, touch herself, show me the wet finger. With one of the last ones she put two fingers in at once and moved them in and out for a long while, with her thumb brushing over her clit. I was sweating under my shirt, my cock rock hard and pressed against my fly, and Damián, in his own world, kept going on about commission tables.

She came out of the fitting room with all the bikinis hanging off one arm and the face of someone who had just come out of mass. Her boyfriend was waiting for her, leaning against a column. She walked past me on her way to the counter, left two bikinis on the register, paid, and when she shook my hand to say goodbye she pressed something into my fingers. A little scrap of paper with a landline number written on it in pen. When I let go of her hand I realized she had also left two fingers’ worth of moisture in my palm — the same moisture she had just taken from her cunt.

I never called. I was twenty-two and deathly afraid of getting into trouble with her boyfriend. But that afternoon I understood that watching turned me on like almost nothing else in the world, and that I was going to chase that feeling whenever I could.

***

I’ve accumulated several fitting-room episodes since then, but there’s one that always comes back when I masturbate. It was a few years ago, in a shop in central Seville that no longer exists. A cheap fashion chain whose fitting rooms were on the ground floor, while the upper floor was for accessories. The special thing was the layout: the fitting rooms were low partitions, open at the top. From the upper floor, leaning over the railing, you could see the entire inside of each one as if they were theater boxes.

I had gone with Marina, a coworker, who was crazy about that store. Marina and I had always flirted a little, without ever taking it further. It was one of those friendships where you know sooner or later you’re going to end up fucking, but neither of you makes the first move.

That afternoon she had picked out six or seven items. She told me to wait, that she was going to try them on. I told her I preferred to go up to the floor above and have a look at the sunglasses, that the air downstairs was heavy. I went up.

And then I found it.

From the upper-floor railing you could see all the fitting rooms. All of them. Five women at once, in different states of undress, completely unaware that a guy leaning over the rail was watching them as if they were in an aquarium.

The first thing I saw was a tall blond girl in black underwear, trying on a fitted jumpsuit. She had a very beautiful back, those dimples above the sacrum that drive anyone crazy, and a high round ass, outlined by a lace thong that disappeared between her cheeks. She pulled up the zipper and stood admiring herself. She slipped her hand under the jumpsuit to readjust her left breast and for a second I saw her whole chest, white, with a dark nipple and a large areola. I was already starting to feel my breathing shorten.

Then I looked for Marina.

She was in the back fitting room. She had just taken off her dress and was taking off her shoes. She was wearing burgundy underwear I would never have imagined. She picked up the first item, a green wrap dress, and tried it on with her underwear still on. She came out to look at herself in the outside mirror, turned around, pursed her lips. Then she went back in and took it off.

She picked up a white jumpsuit, tight to the body. She tried to get into it with her bra on, saw the strap showing under the fabric, and clicked her tongue. And then she did what I wasn’t expecting: she took off her bra and panties. Both items hit the floor, and she started stepping into the jumpsuit completely naked.

Marina had a body I had imagined many times, but never with the certainty of what I was seeing. Big round breasts, much bigger than the clothes she wore to the office made them seem. The tips were hard and projected forward, with wide dark areolae, the size of a two-euro coin. A flat stomach. And, what finished me off, a completely shaved cunt, smooth, with lips almost childlike in how flat they were, and a thin pronounced slit you could make out even from above.

I stayed leaning on the railing for fifteen minutes. I watched her try on four more items, two of them using the trick of taking off her underwear. Every time she bent over to pull something up, her breasts hung for an instant with that heaviness real breasts have, weighted, with the nipples pointing toward the floor. Every time she straightened up, they returned to place, trembling a little before settling. During one of the fittings she spread her legs to slip her foot through the leg opening of the pants, and from above I saw her cunt open for two seconds: the inner lips pink, the moisture shining in the center. She was getting herself hot just from seeing herself naked in the mirror, and it was killing me.

I couldn’t touch myself. I was in the middle of the shop, among other customers, beside the sunglasses display. But I also couldn’t stop looking. I kept pressing my hip against the metal railing, trying to find an angle where my erection wouldn’t show over the belt. My legs hurt. My jaw hurt from clenching it. My cock was so hard it hurt my glans to rub against the seam of my briefs.

When I realized she was almost done, I went downstairs slowly. I reached the ground floor just as she came out of the fitting room with two items in her hand and the rest hanging from her arm.

“In the end I’m taking the white jumpsuit and the blue skirt,” she said, as if nothing were happening. “Do you think they suit me?”

“The jumpsuit looked better on you,” I replied, my voice rough.

She paid. We left. We walked to the corner without speaking. At the traffic light she glanced at me sideways.

“Did you like what I showed you outside the fitting room more, or what I showed you inside?”

I lost my breath. There was no way to spin the question.

“Both,” I said. And after a silence I added, “But it left me wanting more.”

She smiled like someone who has just won a poker hand.

“Come back to my place. I live three blocks away.”

I went up. I don’t know how I went up, but I did. The apartment was shared student housing, and her roommate was away for the weekend. In her room, without wasting any time, she opened the bag, took out the white jumpsuit and the blue skirt, and started trying everything on again, just like in the shop, but this time without curtains and without a railing in the middle.

She sat me in the desk chair and stood in front of me, less than a meter away. She took off her dress with the same clean gesture she had used in the fitting room, but this time with no bra or panties underneath. She stood naked in front of me, hands on her hips, letting herself be looked at.

“Look at all you want,” she said. “Now you can.”

She ran her hands over her breasts, lifted them from below, pinched her nipples until they were hard as stones. She lowered one hand to her cunt and spread the lips with two fingers, showing me the pink inside, already glistening. She inserted her middle finger, pulled it out, and ran it over my lips.

“Suck,” she ordered.

I sucked her finger, wet, salty and sweet at once, and my vision went blurry. She pulled the white jumpsuit on naked, as in the shop, only to slide it back down a second later to her waist. She straddled me on the desk chair, her breasts hanging in front of my face. She clearly saw the bulge pressing against the fly, that hard cock jammed against my jeans that had been asking to come out for half an hour.

“You’ve been watching the whole time, haven’t you?”

“The whole time.”

“Did you get hard while you were looking at me from above?”

“Like a rock.”

“And now?”

“Even more.”

She laughed, leaned forward, and stuffed one nipple into my mouth. I sucked it, bit it slowly, and she arched her back to drive it deeper. She switched to the other, gave me that one too, and ran her hands over my neck to press me against her chest. I could feel her heavy breasts against my face, warm, with that smell of clean skin mixed with body lotion. I grabbed her ass with both hands and pulled her against me. She moved over me, rubbing her bare cunt against my fly, and I felt my jeans getting damp from how wet she already was.

“Now it’s my turn.”

She got down from the chair and opened my pants. She yanked my jeans and briefs down to my knees. My cock sprang free, swollen, red, the vein throbbing and a drop of pre-cum already showing at the tip. She stared at it for a second, smiled, and licked her lips.

“You’re in quite a state.”

She knelt between my legs. She took my cock in her right hand and squeezed it at the base, making the veins stand out even more. She leaned in and licked the drop from the tip with the point of her tongue, slowly, looking me in the eyes. Then she opened her mouth and took it all the way in, until I felt the back of her throat against the head. She held it there for a few seconds, working me with her tongue, and came back out with a long string of saliva hanging from her chin.

“I’ve been imagining this for two years,” she told me, and took me back in.

She started sucking me hard, bobbing her head up and down while she squeezed my balls with her hand. Every time she reached the glans she ran a circle around it with her tongue, and every time she came down she squeezed me with her throat. I held her ponytail and watched her work, her breasts hanging in front of me and swaying with the rhythm of her head. I could see her trained tongue, her open mouth giving in centimeter by centimeter, and I was nearly about to come twice.

“Stop, stop,” I told her. “Or I’m going to come already.”

She pulled my cock out of her mouth with a wet pop and laughed.

“Not yet. First I want something else.”

She arranged those two enormous breasts around me, squeezing them together with her hands from the sides. She started moving up and down, slowly at first, never taking her eyes off mine. My cock appeared and disappeared between the soft hot flesh, and the tip would emerge above, right in front of her mouth. Every time it came up, she stuck out her tongue and licked the head. When she needed it, she spat a little between her breasts and squeezed me again. Saliva ran down her cleavage and lubricated my whole shaft.

“Do you like that, you pig?” she whispered. “Do you like fucking my tits after staring at them from the railing?”

“Fuck, yes.”

“Say it. Say you were watching me.”

“I was watching you, Marina. I saw you strip completely naked. I saw your cunt open when you lifted your leg.”

“Dirty bastard. Come. Come on my tits, I want to see it properly.”

It was the first time in my life someone had done something like that to me, and the feeling of warm skin wrapping around me, mixed with the image of that body I had been secretly watching for twenty minutes and the filthy things she was saying to me, finished me off sooner than I would have liked. I felt the pull in my balls, my cock swelling even more, and the first jet shot out hard and landed between her breasts, near her neck. She squeezed tighter and kept moving. The second jet hit her chin and ran down to her left breast. The third and fourth stayed between her breasts, forming a thick pool that ran down her cleavage toward her navel.

I came between her tits without warning.

She laughed, ran a finger over her right nipple collecting some of the cum, brought it to her mouth, and showed me as she swallowed it slowly. Then she stood up and walked to the bathroom, moving her hips as if she were still showing me off, with semen still shining on her chest.

I have more stories of fitting rooms, balconies, windows with the blind half-down. But that afternoon in Marina’s apartment I understood something definitive: for me, watching was never going to be a whim or a minor vice, but the doorway to everything else.