What I Show Behind the Fitting-Room Curtain

Hello again. Today I want to tell you about a habit that has become almost a ritual whenever I have a free afternoon and happen to be in a very busy shopping district downtown in Córdoba, about forty minutes from where I live. It’s an area with dozens of clothing stores, lots of fitting rooms with thin curtains, saleswomen of every age, and, above all, a huge number of people coming and going, looking at shop windows, grabbing hangers, distracted—or not so much.

Let me make one thing clear from the start: almost everything I’m going to tell you about is just exhibitionism. Five of the six cases end with the stranger’s gaze and the wank I give myself afterward at home while thinking about her face. But the sixth, the last one, got completely out of hand, and I’m going to tell it exactly as it happened, in lavish detail. If explicit content bothers you, don’t make it to the end. Fair warning.

It all started about eleven years ago, when I was eighteen. I went into a small store to try on a pair of jeans, and the fitting-room curtain was barely a scrap of fabric that covered nothing. The saleswoman was my age, brunette, with a slim waist and a smile that looked like permission. While I was struggling with the button on the jeans, I felt her spying on me from the side. When she came over to offer me another size, she opened the curtain a little farther than necessary and looked at me in my underwear for a couple of seconds. That night I went home and masturbated like never before, thinking about the expression on her face.

From that day on, I understood that I got turned on by feeling watched by a stranger in that moment of vulnerability. I made it into a routine. I started visiting stores in different cities, always doing the same thing. At first I kept mental notes of every situation and went home to replay them, but I lost count after the thirtieth attempt. Now, at twenty-eight, I still do it whenever I can get away.

In an earlier story I already mentioned trying it with my girlfriend, but the idea didn’t excite her very much, so I went back to doing it alone. I’ve had dozens of experiences: many where nobody paid any attention to me, others where the saleswoman barely glanced at me while handing me a garment, and a few that were burned into my memory. Those are the ones that follow.

I have a trick I adopted over the years: whenever I go around trying on clothes, I always wear tight briefs instead of boxer shorts. They show the bulge more, make me feel more exposed, and if someone decides to look, my cock is outlined inch by inch beneath the fabric. It’s a personal preference, but it always works for me.

***

First case. I arrived one Saturday afternoon at a store on the second floor. It was run by a woman of about forty, tall, thin, with straight black hair and that helpful attitude of women who choose your clothes before you’ve made up your mind. I asked for a classic pair of jeans and went into the fitting room. Inside, I did what I always did: stripped down to my briefs, touched myself a little so my briefs looked full, and opened the curtain just enough for it to be noticeable from outside. She was alone in that section, with no customers. She came over and asked what size I needed. I told her they felt too small, my favorite excuse. She pulled the curtain open without asking and looked me up and down with a professional expression.

“Oh, yes, they’re small. I’ll bring you another pair,” she said, and left.

She came back with a pair of pants whose buttonhole was sewn shut, a factory defect. I told her I couldn’t button them. She went to find a pair of scissors. During the minute she was gone, I pulled the jeans down to my knees, leaving my briefs in full view, waiting for her to open the curtain again without asking. And that’s exactly what she did. I pretended to be surprised; she stepped almost all the way into the fitting room and crouched in front of me to cut the thread in the buttonhole. Her face was inches from my crotch. She brushed me twice with the back of her hand, accidentally—or deliberately. It took less than a minute, but it was enough.

I bought the jeans and went home to finish what she had started. Months later, when I figured she had forgotten me, I went back. This time I was the one who deliberately chose pants with a sewn-shut buttonhole. The routine played out the same way, but when she went for the scissors, I pulled my briefs down a couple of inches farther, just enough for my cock to slip out at the first movement. She flung the curtain open and found me like that. I pretended to be adjusting myself.

“Sorry, everything came out,” I mumbled, putting on an embarrassed face.

“No problem. Sorry for opening it without warning,” she replied, without denying it.

That sentence confirmed that she had seen exactly what I wanted her to see. I went back to that store several times, but she no longer worked there. What a shame.

***

Second case. Another one I remember well was with a young, plump saleswoman with flushed cheeks and a very cheerful smile. I asked for some black shorts, but they didn’t have my size, so she grabbed a sand-colored pair that I wasn’t convinced about. When she came to ask how they fit, I opened the curtain all the way to show her, in my briefs, with the red fabric outlining me clearly. She blushed all the way to her ears but told me they looked good on me. I asked to see some other styles.

While she was bringing them, I touched myself for a couple of seconds so the bulge would grow. When she came back, I opened the curtain as if I were covering myself, but knowing that the mirror showed her everything from where she stood. She gave me a sideways smile. I tried on another pair of shorts and pulled the zipper up over my briefs, deliberately catching the fabric in it. I called her over in a tone of feigned embarrassment.

“You won’t believe what happened. My underwear got caught in the zipper.”

She covered her mouth so she wouldn’t laugh, handed me a pair of scissors, and stayed nearby, supposedly to take them back. In the mirror, I watched her position herself for a better look. I took advantage of it and pulled my briefs and the shorts down almost to my knees, pretending it was the only way to cut the fabric without hurting myself. I took a full two minutes. When I came out, I apologized with an utterly mortified expression. She laughed softly and told me it was no big deal.

I still wonder whether she remembers. They remodeled the entire store the following year, and I never saw her again.

***

Third case. A woman in her sixties, with a salon-styled haircut and reading glasses hanging around her neck. One of those saleswomen who treat you like a grandson. I was trying on a pair of track pants, and every time I asked her something, she opened the curtain without warning. I left my pants around my knees and my briefs stretched tight, my hard cock outlining everything. I asked her a silly question about the rise. She opened the curtain, let out a small cry, covered her mouth with her hand, and yanked it shut.

I came out of the fitting room wearing the most innocent expression in the world.

“How embarrassing, ma’am. Forgive me.”

“Don’t worry about it, dear. I could be your grandmother.” She patted me on the shoulder.

But you’re nothing like my grandmother, I thought on my way home, the look on her face when she drew back the fabric burned into my mind.

***

Fourth case. I’m numbering them in case this gets long. A store run by a mother and daughter, both Colombian—you could tell from their lilting accents. The mother was friendly; the daughter was gorgeous: short, wide-hipped, wearing short dresses that showed off her firm thighs. I asked to try on a pair of shorts. The fitting room was makeshift and backed onto a storage area. I left the curtain partly open and positioned myself to find the mirror’s angle. The girl was sitting on a little stool and looked inside every so often. I adjusted the shorts so my briefs were stretched tight and visible.

I asked for another size. The mother told me she had to pass by my fitting room to reach the stockroom. I told her to go ahead. I stood there in my briefs, my cock half-hard, and she crossed in front of me without looking directly. But when she returned with the shorts, she glanced at the bulge and said with a laugh:

“If my daughter sees you like that, she’ll die of embarrassment.”

I laughed too. What she didn’t know was that her daughter already had a perfect view of me in the mirror.

Months later I went back and the girl was alone. She was even prettier than the last time. I asked her opinion on three different pairs of shorts and always stood in profile so she could see my outline. I changed with the curtain almost open. She stayed outside, pretending to arrange hangers, but every time I looked at her in the mirror, her eyes were on me. My cock hard, her biting her lip, both of us pretending nothing was happening. I went back to look for her some time later, but she was gone.

***

Fifth case. In a store at the new shopping promenade, a woman in her forties who was Asian worked alongside a younger girl who turned out to be her employee, not a relative. Perfect. I asked to try on a pair of dress pants and opened the curtain slightly on the side where the employee had a clear view of the mirror. She was shy, looking and lowering her eyes, but then looking again.

From the other side, I asked the owner to bring me another size. As soon as the woman went toward the back of the store, I pulled my briefs down to my knees and left my cock standing in front of the mirror. I moved just enough to draw the girl’s attention. I watched her look, blush, look away, look back, and blush even more deeply. She didn’t lower her eyes until she had taken in the whole picture. I pulled my underwear back up, finished trying on the pants, and gave her a smile as I came out. She returned it, barely perceptibly—half complicity, half nerves. I still remember that smile.

In between, dozens of similar but less memorable cases passed. Maybe one day I’ll start writing them down in a notebook.

***

Sixth case. The last one. The one that knocked me off the track of merely watching and, without my planning it, pulled me into something else. It happened three months ago. A large store, with lots of fitting rooms in a row, all with lightweight curtains that never quite closed properly at the sides. The saleswoman was a brunette in her thirties, plump, with large breasts visible beneath a tight black blouse, a round ass outlined by a short denim skirt, and long nails painted blood red. From the moment I came in, she looked at me in a way that wasn’t entirely professional.

Once again I used the sewn-shut buttonhole trick. That day I was wearing black boxer briefs made of very thin Lycra, which I pulled up at the sides until they looked like tight briefs. I touched myself for a while so my cock would become full, almost completely hard, every line of my dick showing beneath the fabric.

I called her over. She came with the scissors, entered the fitting room without asking, and closed the curtain behind her. She crouched in front of me, at the level of the bulge, and put one hand over my cock while arranging the denim with the other, supposedly to get a better angle with the scissors.

“Oh, everything’s showing,” I said softly, with my usual feigned embarrassment.

“Don’t worry. People come in here and take everything off. I’m used to it,” she replied, and this time she raised her eyes. She fixed me with her dark gaze without taking her hand away. She kept tugging at the thread, and every time she moved her fingers, her long nails slowly scratched the elastic of my boxer briefs.

I became fully hard within seconds. The Lycra stretched, and the tip of my cock began to poke over the waistband, leaving my swollen glans exposed. She cut the thread, set the scissors on the stool, and didn’t stand up. She looked at the exposed cock as if it were a dish served up for her, ran her tongue over her upper lip, and left a shiny trail on her lipstick.

“It came out,” she whispered.

“Sorry,” I murmured, but I didn’t put it away.

With two fingers, her middle and index fingers, she pulled my boxer briefs down a handspan, freeing my entire cock. It stood in front of her face, the tip inches from her mouth. She blew warm air over my glans before saying anything, and my entire lower belly clenched.

“You have a nice cock,” she said, as casually as if she were commenting on the color of a shirt.

And without any further preamble, she put it all the way into her mouth. All of it at once. I felt my glans strike her palate and then the back of her throat, felt her painted lips close around the shaft as she began sucking me with a technique that wasn’t amateur. She sucked slowly, drawing me out to the tip and then sinking me all the way back in, her tongue winding around the crown. The sounds of saliva could be heard throughout the fitting room, and I was certain they carried outside.

I took hold of her head with both hands and began setting the pace. She closed her eyes and let me do it. I pushed her face against my groin, and she accepted each thrust into her throat without resisting. When I released her for a second to catch my breath, she took me out of her mouth, spat a thick strand of saliva onto my glans, and put me all the way back in. My cock slid in and out dripping wet, and she kept sucking it as if she had a hunger to make up for.

“Be quiet and don’t make any noise,” she whispered during a pause, stroking my balls with her red nails. “My coworker is at the register on the other side. If she comes closer, we’ll hear her heels.”

She went back to sucking me. She swallowed my balls one by one, sucking them with her mouth open while jerking me off with her hand covered in saliva. Then she went back up, licked the entire underside from the base to the tip, and wrapped her lips around my glans again, squeezing it until I felt my orgasm rising.

Before I came, she stood up. She licked her fingers, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and shoved me around against the wall of the fitting room. She hiked her denim skirt up to her waist. Underneath, she wore a tiny black panty, already pulled to one side, and a shaved pussy glistening with wetness. She had been touching herself outside before coming in. She had planned all of this from the moment she saw me ask for the jeans.

“Put it in me. Quickly, before someone comes.”

I grabbed her by the waist and drove into her with one thrust. Her pussy squeezed me so tightly I almost came right there. She was hot inside and smooth as velvet. She bit her forearm to smother her moan and pushed her ass backward, asking for more. I slipped one hand beneath her blouse, yanked her bra up to her neck, and pinched her hard nipple between my fingers. Her other breast bounced free beneath the fabric with every thrust.

I started fucking her against the wall of the fitting room. Slowly at first, so no one would hear. Then faster, burying myself to the balls, pulling almost all the way out, and driving back in hard. She held on to the bar where the hangers were kept so she wouldn’t lose her balance. The curtain moved only slightly with every thrust, and through the gap at the bottom we could see my bare feet and her red heels between mine.

“Harder, come on, fuck me harder,” she panted quietly, her forehead pressed against the wood.

I grabbed her hair with one hand and wound it around my fist. With the other, I covered her mouth. I fucked her pussy with everything I had. Her ass bounced against my groin with a wet, slapping sound that mingled with the muffled moans escaping despite my palm. My cock slid in and out shining with her juices, and each time I pulled out completely I saw her pussy stay open for a second before I filled it again.

I felt her coming. Everything inside her contracted, her pussy closing like a fist around my cock, and she let out a rough moan that stuck to my palm. She kept trembling for several seconds while I continued fucking her slowly, feeling the walls squeeze me with every wave of her orgasm.

When she recovered, she pulled herself off me, turned around, and knelt in front of me again. She put my cock, dripping with her own juices, into her mouth. She began sucking it as if it were a melting candy, looking up at me with eyes swollen from the effort and smeared mascara. She weighed my balls in her palm, squeezed them slowly, and kept sucking until I felt her throat tighten around my tip.

“I’m going to come,” I warned her through clenched teeth.

She didn’t take me out. On the contrary, she pushed me deeper and sped up her sucking, closing her lips more firmly around the shaft. I exploded in her throat, jet after jet of semen that she swallowed without taking me from her mouth. I felt her contract to take it all, her tongue searching for the last drops on my glans, her lips cleaning the edge of my foreskin so no trace would remain.

She stood up, adjusted her denim skirt, pulled her bra back into place, and ran her fingers over the corners of her mouth to wipe away a little thread of saliva mixed with semen. She picked up the scissors from the stool as if nothing had happened.

“Get changed at your leisure. And take the jeans—they look great on you,” she said, her voice slightly hoarse.

She left the fitting room and closed the curtain behind her. I stayed leaning against the wall, my cock still dripping and my legs trembling, trying to believe what had just happened.

I was sure I would leave that afternoon with only one memory, but another appeared almost immediately. I hadn’t even finished getting dressed when a young woman entered the fitting room next to mine, Bolivian judging by her accent. Her friend stayed outside, holding garments over her arm while she waited. I took advantage of the saleswoman having gone to the register and opened the curtain on the side facing the girls. I pretended to be distracted, tried on a ridiculous pair of pants, and let the curtain move every time I turned around. The friend outside gave me three consecutive looks while speaking to the other girl inside. I understood that she was paying attention now.

I pulled my boxer briefs all the way down, left them hanging around my ankle, and pretended to search for another garment on the stool. When I bent over, I felt the curtain open another handspan at the bottom. The girl outside wasn’t pretending anymore. I turned sideways so she would have a better view, bent over, stood up slowly, and touched myself casually. My cock became hard again, still shining with the brunette’s saliva. I stayed like that for a few minutes, speaking to her with my body without ever looking directly at her. The other girl came out of the fitting room and they left together, the Bolivian girl who had been outside wearing a flushed face and an escaping smile. I got dressed and left with my boxer briefs clinging to me, the smell of another woman’s pussy still on my fingers. I didn’t buy anything again.

***

You already know how it ends. Home, a shower, and filing away the afternoon’s memories: the brunette with the red nails kneeling in front of me, the nosy Bolivian woman spying through the gap. Both of them joined the others I keep for when I have time to go back over them.

I’m going to keep doing it. I’ve tried taking it to places other than fitting rooms—pools, shopping-mall bathrooms, locker rooms—and I’ll tell about some of those cases in another, more specific story. I hope you enjoyed it and, above all, that it gave you the same thrill I get whenever a stranger discovers, accidentally or deliberately, that I’m waiting for her to look.

Until next time.

Best wishes.

— Matías