There had been so many aspects of my experience at the theater that had aroused and thrilled me. The watching, and the being watched. The precariousness of being in public, and the presence of strangers.
At first, I thought about going back to the theater to try to repeat the experience, but that just didn’t feel right. I sensed I should sort things out a little before returning to act out the half-formed fantasy that rolled around the back of my mind. It was too outrageous, and truth, it scared me - when I really knew what I was doing, and had control, then maybe I would return.
But for now, it was one step at a time. Exhibitionism. That word I knew, and knew too that I had a healthy streak of it. Problem was, I didn’t have any good clothes. Well, nothing sexy, at least. I had plenty of nice pants, some ankle-length skirts from the gypsy-look I’d once gone for. Wasted effort, that.
I’d thought the style would give me a mysterious-stranger air, and that it would compliment my straight black hair. Plus, I could wear the flat shoes that went with, and maybe disguise the fact that I was as tall, or taller, than most guys. Yeah, it hid my height. Made me invisible - or at least no one ever cared to look twice at the girl with the drab colors and lonely eyes.
Well, I was going to get someone to take a second look now, wasn’t I? There was a thought that had me grinning with delight and wanting to pull my clothes off if I hadn’t already. In the weeks after going to the theater, I’d taken to going naked whenever I was in my apartment.
It was a small studio apartment on the third floor of a walkup. Not much, but close to the office where I worked as a receptionist. I left the curtains open to its single, full-length window so someone could pretty much see everywhere from the kitchenette to my bed. It would have helped if there was anything within five hundred yards besides the empty lot where they were going to build a strip mall one of these days.
Still, just having the open window made my skin tingle. And there were always imaginary strangers peering in. Eyes out there somewhere as I strode about the apartment nude. I just loved it. Loved the idea, loved the feeling. Amazing how many little excuses I found to get up from the TV - another sip of water, a check of the thermostat, anything really.
I’d also turned my reading chair towards the window a few feet away. Sometimes at night, I would sit in the chair for an hour and more. Just sit with my legs draped over the armrests, staring at my fully exposed pussy in the darkened glass. I wouldn’t touch myself, but drift in the idea of someone watching me and enjoying the subtler sensations as my pussy lips swelled in anticipation or the cool air caressed my wetness.
Sometimes, too, I would touch myself. Ok, most times. I mean, I was damp all the time, and more often than not, I was hot enough for my clit to start peeking out from under its hood. God, I was constantly horny, and I fucked myself in that chair with anything that came to hand, yessiree.
But those were private pleasures. No one really watching, or if there was, I couldn’t see them, which was something I very much wanted to do. I would have to leave my apartment to get that, though, only my wardrobe was ill-suited to the task.
I experimented with a pair of tight shorts a little, pulling them up to get the seam wedged in my slit; or I’d sit with one foot up on the seat so my mound was plainly outlined. It worked, sorta. I mean, I drew some stares, but it wasn’t like they were really seeing me - not as though my pussy was actually exposed or my titties revealed any more than half the other women who walked around with no bra. I’d have to do something totally blatant like lifting up my shirt if I wanted to truly bare myself. Of course, that was exactly what I wanted to do, but not at all subtle. What I needed, I knew, was a special wardrobe. Something that made it easy to show off.
The clothes boutique a few blocks from my apartment would be perfect, I thought. It was in a small shopping center, next to a supermarket so it didn’t get the heavy flow of casual customers that a mall store received. I didn’t necessarily want to be constantly checking over my shoulder while trying out the clothes.
I arrived at the boutique shortly after it opened, and except for the two salespeople, I was the only one in the store. One girl, my age or a little older, was behind the counter rearranging earrings and other accessories. The older woman, probably the owner, I thought, waited at the edge of the small open area near the door. I say older, but she was at most thirty-five with a well-toned body and smooth, high cheeks. She wore a muted-blue print dress with simple lines that fell below her knees, looking the picture of friendly service.
She greeted me pleasantly and offered her assistance. Not what I’d planned, so I said I’d let her know later if I needed help and headed deeper into the store. After a bit of browsing, I picked out a thin, white linen blouse and a black miniskirt.
The dressing room was so tiny I could not even put my elbows out without bumping the wall. Worse, there was no mirror. Well, there was the set of large, angled mirrors just outside the dressing room. They would be better anyway, I realized, giving me several simultaneous views; nor was I unconscious of the fact that they were out in the open where anyone might see. Mmmm.... delicious thought, that.
I quickly pealed off my pants and top, dropping them on the molded plastic chair along with my bra and underwear. When I had pulled on the skirt and blouse I’d chosen, I stood a moment to soak in the sensations. ‘Kinda breezy,’ I thought, unable to contain a ticklish grin, nor the flush of warmth in my groin.
I slipped through the dressing room curtain to stand before the three tall mirrors that formed its own shallow alcove. The miniskirt was definitely short. My legs seemed to rise up from the ground forever - long, straight shins and the smooth curving of my entire thigh. Almost. The hem did extend about three inches down from my crotch. I lifted its edge to unveil a delta of wispy black pubes; like the delicate feather fans Victorian women hid their faces behind, mine harbored secrets too.
It was choice view, I thought, and I played with the hem a few more times. Yes, this would work very well, thank you. The blouse was disappointing at first, though. The material was loose and stiff, so it hung away and left my tits as only vague shadows concealed behind its curtain. I just didn’t have the big boobs that could turn any shirt into a well-upholstered loveseat. No, mine were more like throw pillows, compact and decorous.
I rolled my shoulders back to pull the fabric tighter across my chest. No problem seeing my titties now. The thin cotton tinged peach where it curved over my breasts while the dark circles of my aureoles stood out in contrast. Maybe I could contrive a way of spilling some water on myself. Then the material would be all but transparent. Many ideas flashed in my mind.
Imagining a slutty position to take, I turned my back to the mirrors and bent over to grab my ankles, peering around my legs to see into the mirrors. The miniskirt rode right up over my ass cheeks. I was pleased to see my slit opening up and the hump between my legs that was made by my pubis with its puff of dark, curly hair. Lordy, but I was tempted to frig myself right there.
I straightened up just in time, though. The older saleslady appeared around a rack of clothes just as I was pulling the hem down from where it had stuck on top of my ass.
“Are you finding everything you need?”
“Uh huh,” I said, still a little lost in my own thoughts. “I mean, yes, I think so... thank you.” I tried to sound casual, like I knew what I was doing.
Still, she hovered. She probably thought I was trying to shoplift. Whatever, it put a damper on me practicing ways to reveal myself in the miniskirt. I picked absently at the pants in a nearby rack, hoping she’d go away.
“Perhaps I could help with a few suggestions,” she said, drawing closer. “Were you shopping for a special look?”
‘Oh, you bet I am,’ I thought. She was obviously determined to keep an eye on me, and I considered just going ahead with the miniskirt, but I didn’t want to just buy the first outfit I tried on without at least comparing it to one or two others. Then I thought, ‘Well, if she isn’t going to leave me alone, at least she can make herself useful.’
“I was looking for something, well, you know, sexy.”
“Ah.” She smiled. “The miniskirt is certainly sexy. But with such long legs, I think it is a little out of proportion. You want something with a longer line.” Her arms crossed over her breasts, eyes sliding down as they took me in. “And your narrow waist and rounded hips are shapely enough to carry a fuller skirt. May I show you an outfit that I think will do justice to your lovely body?”
“What the heck,” I said. “I mean, yes, that would be nice of you, ma’am.”
“Please. Call me Helen.”
“Oh, like in the myth - the beautiful Helen of Troy.” Well, she was very pretty with her wavy, light brown hair and slim figure.
“You’re too sweet, Honey,” she said, lightly touching my shoulder. A touch that felt intimate despite its only momentary contact.
“Anna... my name is Anna.”
The saleslady smiled tenderly as she retreated into the maze of clothes racks. I glanced around. The other salesperson was still at the register, and another woman was looking through shirts on the far wall. I could only see her blonde hair over the racks. Alone again, I flipped up the hem of the miniskirt a few times, getting a kick out of flashing myself.
“Here you go, Anna.”
I jumped half out of my skin. She’d appeared out of nowhere. I stammered a thank you as I escaped into the dressing room with the clothes she’d held out. How much had she seen? I couldn’t convince myself that she’d seen nothing. My mind was a frantic jumble. Exhilarated. Abashed. Aroused. Lordy, yes, aroused. I hardly knew what I was putting on. Completely forgot my bra and panties.
Taking a deep breath, which did nothing to calm my thumping heart, I stepped out of the dressing room, moving in front of the mirrors under the saleslady’s appraising eye.
The skirt was a dark, almost black, maroon with a satin lining more lightly shaded which whispered with my legs as I walked. The waistband was high, crossing at my navel so the material hugged the full curve of my hips and lay smooth across the flat of my tummy before being drawn into a slight flare by the slit than ran off-center all the way down to the hem, just inches above my knees. The top she had given was a modest, long-sleeved blouse with tapering side panels made of a light, creamy green silk that set my black hair to glowing. I had to admit that the outfit was beautiful.
The silk blouse was not in the least transparent, though, and the skirt covered my thighs entirely. ‘Helen must have a prudish idea of sexy clothing,’ I thought. Then I twisted my torso at the waist to get half a side view, and the silk blouse pulled close, conforming to every slope and uplift of my breast.
