Inaccurately Attired

Inaccurately Attired

Or...

Observations of a Female Flasher

A demure woman explains the distinctive etiquette of her contrary displays.

The writing is intentionally verbose, given that the character tells the tale. I hope that you will find some humour in her grandiloquent style.

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Can a woman be a shy exhibitionist, are they not contradictory? Well, consider me, normally sensible and reserved but occasionally I become my antithesis: shameless. Unashamed enough even to enjoy the occurrence. The pervert responsible is named libido. Probably a trait of my upbringing, I am sexually repressed tho my appetite is hearty. But, certainly in my instance, the oppressed overcomes. Therefore, I have a peculiarity, every now and then I am inconsiderately required to submit to the coercion of my libido's commanding authority... I shall elaborate shortly... first, let me tell you a little more about myself. People who know me deem me timid and this is generally true; I am well-educated, articulate, professional, introvert, serene, cautious and reserved. I have long auburn hair, you will learn of my body soon enough unless you already have had the privilege of being present at one of my, um, presentations.

So, you now know a little about me, that at persistent intervals I submit to my unyielding libido that makes demands I am not at liberty to deny. When I succumb, I find both body and mind are seduced, so I become libidinous and for the duration, unchained from the modesty of my other self. I am assigned audaciousness and obligatory relish of my behaviour for the duration. I must dutifully obey compulsion and visit locations where I am not known to surrender to salaciousness by means of the display of my body. Some miles away there is a large town, it serves me well. As required by my lust I find I am inordinately excited in my duty and take pleasure in distressing (dis-dressing?) my subjugated self. I have developed a style that involves dressing in a manner that appears conservative while easy to manipulate. I am proficient in offering a view, often to an intended man. After fulfilling the day's exhibitionist requirements and the passion so aroused, sated, I merely revert to my former character and resume my routine with no consequence of guilt or remorse.

My abandoned character has little influence for the duration but does flavour the tone of the deed. The criteria are that my displays have the mask of seeming unintentional, or, I am naively ignorant of the titillating effect that, say, of my going braless would have on an observant man. I benefit from appearing unlikely to be engaged in this sort of behaviour. Overtly crude exhibitionism seems repellent to me, I am subtle, seeming naïvely bland, (tho not unattractive) but then, you would notice what I wanted you to, the sudden conspicuous jiggle of my unencumbered breasts or, on those steep stairs, no panties in this hot breezy weather. Did you like my generously corrugated labia? I hope you saw clearly. I assume you did if they moisten. I am a bit careless don't you know, or, I am a child of nature forgoing underwear for no other reason. Not for sexual arousal sir, how could you think such a thing of such an innocent as I! My desire is to bestow a fortuitous erotic experience by explicit revelation, I relish its achievement.

I finished with my last boyfriend about a year ago. Looking back, I cannot fathom why I was so sexually hesitant with him. I had no aspiration of exhibitionism then. I believe this is an impulsive consequence of regular masturbatory fantasy, a breakdown of my customary restraint. I think this particular inclination may have developed from a weakness I have for ogling what is within a man's trouser. I have very rewarding imaginings pertaining to men's crotches. I take pleasure in looking at and hunting for pictures of cocks noticeable or delineated within trousers, sometimes underpants... mmm. The image should have the suggestion of being able to reach in to gather... I look at men's crotches, for instance, when I shop... in fact, whatever and whenever! I am enthused by conspicuous bulges. The sight of a delineated cock in tight trousers is a rare sight these days since chinos are the popular current mode of confinement. To compensate for this lack I have a stash of fine images in reserve for masturbation. A superior cock noticeable within its confinement will quicken my heart and if deemed feasible I might well aim to please with my presence whilst inaccurately attired. Ergo I am an exhibitionist. 'Exhibitionist' is perhaps not the best description of my decadent character; I think flasher is most appropriate. Let me illustrate...

A display involves planning. As my usual clothing would not be appropriate to attempt it, spontaneous ones would most likely be defective; therefore my libido and I devise them thoughtfully. I find the planning an additional source of pleasure; I get quite slithery from designing a libidinous venture. Sometimes I have several days to envisage it. Once a mission is anticipated my libido forbids masturbation so to strengthen our motivation by which time I am rather keen for the concluding outcome to the day's adventure. I recollect a most pleasant instance...

While I must shop for the tedious everyday necessities it is always an opportunity to browse for the more interesting, that which serves the libido's interest. I spot a blatantly motivating proposal while shopping. On my list is a new hairdryer. In the town's department store's electrical section, I note an appealing man serving, about twice my age but rather well preserved. He is busy with a customer and so I take the opportunity to appraise him by aligning myself to observe his crotch surreptitiously. Magnificent! It being summer his trousers are thin and his obvious appendage is tucked forward into a crease of the cloth, when its owner shifts stance it considerately waves for my attention. I watch him as best I can without making myself obvious for as long as I possible. I have decided not to purchase a hairdryer but to return tomorrow, prepared.

Summertime, hot weather, many women of my age bare much of their bodies by wearing little clothing but that is not my craft of exhibition. I choose a loose, lightweight, flowery, wrap-around dress, a belt at its waist, matching brooches pinned to the dress lay on each breast near the nipple, comfortable shoes, and handbag, nothing else.

When I arrive at his department it is too busy so I decide to cruise town a while. The dress is so light I feel naked, but being one in a crowd of women so lightly dressed I scarcely catch a glance, not a meaningful one anyhow. My breasts are so calm within their shroud it seems as if I am wearing a bra and I am sure that is the assumption from the fleeting glances they receive, conversely, movement catches the eye. My breasts are unusually taut and protuberant. My jealous girlfriends comment on this when I shyly strip in the changing room of our gym. Moreover, they fill a D-cup. Coincidently when the weather is not as hot as today, one of my most erotic devices is a precisely fitting cashmere sweater. The jollity of my breasts inside such sumptuous material must be breathtaking to observe, and to feel I can confirm.

My libido insists I be noticed. If I stride slightly out of balance with them, my breasts dislike it and show their displeasure by altering their behaviour from distinctly calm to disorderly boisterousness and misbehave continuously. My alternate gait makes them fidget as I walk down the street. Promptly my uninhibited breasts incite interest. Brooches bounce too, a breast each, occasionally hitting the nipple as if a finger prods my breasts pointing them out indelicately, flicking at my nipples in the high street... mmm. Men regard me and my breasts, except the unfortunate ones who are looking in an incorrect direction or exit a shop just after I parade past the entrance, they appear inquisitive to the stares of other men who are enjoying the spectacle.

All these men's eyes aimed at me, all together. I am their focus. Their lewd attention has me moist. I can feel my labia slithering together as I walk. I wish I could show this as well but I feel it and try to express it through my breasts' dance. I do not look at anyone directly; I walk as if the street is deserted. I ignore any comments, whistling, I do not hear them. I disregard female jealousy but appreciate some warm regard from one or two. The leering men I certainly perceive but not acknowledge. I sense every precious view, focusing on reflections in shop windows and with my adept peripheral vision I capture the appreciation of masculine observation to amass their regard of my oblivious display.

My nipples protrude into the dress' light cloth and gather caresses that rigidify. This alters the impression of my breasts within the cloth as the point of nipples rather than the weight of full breast now contact the cloth. I have done this before but the thrill does not diminish. I am not sure if I do or imagine but I experience my fingertips tweak a nipple apiece. The cotton gently abrades my sensitised buds, synchronously arousing with each noticed bounce. Lust urges me to here and now, open my dress and masturbate to orgasm, now! to restrain my fervour... but am I not just an innocent young lady who has an ungainly walk, much too hot for any underwear that I innocently forgo... I absorb the fervour, consequently my libido glows crimson. So too my chest, which is not seemly for an innocent such as I, unless it be mistaken for sunburn, I do hope so. I turn a corner into another street and regain a calm amble, to ease all else. I stroll passively a while for my nipples to moderate, by which time I am again at the door of the department store.

My vulva, as I would call it in polite conversation, is now most decidedly my creamy, mucky, cunt. My sap's abundance is relative to stimulation, I am familiar with the generous, pungent glut, pleasantly so. Even tho I am outside in the open I can discern the aroma that accompanies all my masturbatory activity and it ought to persist upon my fingers, they perform there repeatedly. It is a pleasing aroma; it smells of me and passion, pleasure and indulgence. My lewd perfume. How can innocence smell thus, would not a man be confused. So again I must contradict, a virtuous air with a carnal bouquet.

Calmness somewhat restored, I enter the store, climb the stairs to his floor and am very pleased to see it so quiet. He is there. In an instant I see he wears the same or identical trousers. Even from here I can confirm his cock's placement, positioned considerately I'm sure, perhaps with the desire of entertaining a woman such as I.

As I am the only potential customer, he is aware of my presence but I give him absolutely no sign of attention in my well-practiced routine of wasting time browsing blandly. But I am planning, I assess carefully.

Voyeur, a name best reserved for the astute observer, he can become an accomplice, he discerns tacitly and an understanding develops. These perceptive men are wonderful but somewhat rare. I treasure them. I may go further in their company.

I adjust my clothing. A sly pull here a practiced tug there the removal of the left brooch and I am ready. I approach him, he is behind a counter, studying a catalogue and writing something.

"Excuse me, do you have any hairdryers?"

Engrossed with his order, he is somewhat startled. He looks up, startles some more as he becomes aware. I holding myself differently, tho still appropriately covered up for a respectable customer; I proudly present my breasts to him. The gap at the front of my dress is enough to confirm that I am not wearing anything underneath. That is a preparatory treat. Simple but powerful, a fine pair of breasts he is trying not to stare at are definitely unencumbered within a somewhat lax summer dress, that does something to a man I find, he conceives the possibility.

"Yes, we certainly do" he offers, having regained composure. His eyes are quite adept at surveying me without being obvious about it.

He leads me to a shelf burdened with an assortment. I make sure I stand correctly in relation to him and observe him while listening to his brief enlightenment on hairdryers. Without his notice I detect his cock is slightly more protrusive which I regard as an inducement. I listen to his dialogue while resolving fine details, using the feedback from my clitoris as a gauge of probable effect. From his cock I deem he is optimistic, or easily pleased. I can again detect my perfume stimulated by the sight of his turgidity. The crux is imminent; accordingly, my clitoris is distended firmly beyond its soft furrow, its sensitivity emphasized by sap dehydrating off the surface. Am I imagining it, or can I picture the vapour derived on my clitoris, waft upward and aim at my salesman's nostril. When it enters, I'm sure he snuffles, hesitates, then continues. I consider that a sexual encounter of a most intimate nature. I detect cunt-cream auspiciously seep in a descending glob to accumulate precariously, low-mid labia. He concludes his spiel. A shock tingles in my clitoris. I scan the shelves just long enough to make him aware of what I am about to do.

I perform my intention.

I reach for the most beneficial product. Because of the burden of the brooch, one side of my dress falls open to allow sight of one full naked breast for perusal. This initial revelation discharges an exhilarating surge of stimulus within my body that settle into my cunt. The effect is creamy eroticism; an atmosphere evoking a session of masturbation.

My tit is genuinely fascinating. Two-thirds blemish-free, smooth-soft skin, the generous final third is a spectacular diversity of extravagant form. I have not seen decorative areolae such as mine, perhaps in part, but not all together. They delighted me being so special to observe. The nipple is transitional, it and the areola is lurid in colour amid outstanding texture with numerous small nodules to tempt fingertips' touch. Such a sight demands a long, long, gawp from a man... I offer him approximately four seconds, that's as long as I can make the hairdryer's collection appear appropriate. These brief moments are so significant for me they saturate me in effervescent orgasm fuel for setting alight later. The stashed orgasm fizzes pleasantly underneath my calm facade.

The flash has my pleasingly dressed man agitated, mouth slightly ajar, and not able to help it, stares at my dress where the spectacle was. Despite the electric stir in my erogenous locations I calmly ask him what is the wattage of the 'dryer I am holding. He manages to point out the large 2000W on the box and I laugh at my stupidity. I laugh from my shoulders and my tits shake. I continue giggling at my foolishness and while the jiggle compels study, I manage a shrewd peek at his crotch. I think I would call that more than a semi, it is nicely noticeable, mmm, enormously noticeable. I acquire an indelible impression to recall. I study the back of the hairdryer's box aware he waits expectantly for me to replace it. An intoxicating pause, I know he anticipates a replay of what he has just seen: my erogenous breast. He is expectant, he still presumes I am not aware, my cunt would tell him otherwise.

As I replace it, I fumble its placement upon the shelf to prolong his second perusal. My nipple is stiff; its structure seethes with a subtly different colour.

I engage him in conversation concerning the attributes of various dryers while assessing his state. Slightly flushed, commendably controlled with his distended bulge. He notices none of my scrutiny. I reach for another 'dryer he pointed out as I felt it necessary to expose myself to him again. I am certain my demeanour gave away no hint of intent. Due to my manoeuvring, my dress has parted conspicuously. I am content to leave it showing half of each breast. My pointed nipples seem able to prevent further movement. The curvaceous softness in front of him must be so intoxicating, especially if the significant attributes of my breasts are almost not covered, I presume, he glances constantly. I do not usually entertain this way, this boldly, but he is worthy.

Eventually, I decide on my purchase and hand it over to him with an expressive smile that I hope articulated my gratitude for his attention. I consider that this smile -this one- is one of my most rewarding attributes. I ask if it is OK to pay by cheque, he consents and I bow in front of him while I write two cheques, the first having some errors. I am confident both tits are clear for him; they sway nicely as I write. I look up the once to ask him the date, his face expresses appreciation. Oops, a nipple is free and brushes its tip on the counter while I conclude writing the cheque. Now I am so very eager to get home. I am afraid an excessively lush glob's hold on my cunt looses to gravity and escapes from my discreetly spread thighs previously trailed from my cunt by caked expression. My heady odour is plainly evident in his department. First, I hand him the cheque then adjust my clothing for the street as if he is not here. I thank him politely and leave so he can consider his erection, which I appreciate conspicuously as I leave.

The half-hour or so it takes me to drive home does not dampen my state. I reflect intermittently to keep my arousal at its limit, even though wary of my looming climax, riding the wave all the way home to my bedroom where I franticly open the belt and buttons of my dress, lie on my bed and view the monitor in my mind to relive the sensation of the initial exposure of my breast, I immediately feel the onset of orgasm. I can come by the imagery alone but for added physical intensity I apply no more than four or five strokes to the right of my gooey clit hood to collide severely with an orgasm to begin the satisfaction of my libido. I know I writhe and exclaim dramatically, I forgot to check if my sight or sound is contained by a secure window, as I do not wish to give any acquainted passer-by knowledge of my masturbation. I would have enjoyed the salesman's audience tho; I have to make do with his virtual presence. My urgent need alleviated, I secure my bedroom and settle down to a more elaborate bout of masturbatory indulgence, until my libido relinquishes its grip over me. I settle down in the cinema of my imagination to scrutinize thoroughly the effects of my clothing's betrayal. This might take a while...

I might need a different appliance soon, when my libido next prevails. What to wear tho, perhaps my floaty bra & blouse, they permit notice of my gorgeous areolae so pleasingly ...mmm... then again would I need that bra...? what if I first visit with, then a little later without, that would be exhilarating. So much to consider...